London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1881
_Printed by_ R & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.
*JOHN INGLESANT.*
*CHAPTER I.*
Inglesant travelled to Marseilles, and by packet boat to Genoa. The
beauty of the approach by sea to this city, and the lovely gardens and
the country around gave him the greatest delight. The magnificent
streets of palaces, mostly of marble, and the thronged public places,
the galleries of paintings, and the museums, filled his mind with
astonishment; and the entrance into Italy, wonderful as he had expected
it to be, surpassed his anticipation. He stayed some time in Genoa, to
one or more of the Jesuit fathers in which city he had letters. Under
the guidance of these cultivated men he commenced an education in art,
such as in these days can be scarcely understood. From his coming into
Italy a new life had dawned upon him in the music of that country.
Fascinated as he had always been with the Church music at London and
Oxford, for several years he had been cut off from all such enjoyment,
and, at its best, it was but the prelude to what he heard now. For
whole hours he would remain on his knees at mass, lost and wandering in
that strange world of infinite variety, the mass music--so various in
its phases, yet with a monotone of pathos through it all. The musical
parties were also a great pleasure. He played the violin a little in
England, and rapidly improved by the excellent tuition he met with here.
He became, however, a proficient in what the Italians called the viola
d'amore, a treble viol, strung with wire, which attracted him by its
soft and sweet tone. Amid a concord of sweet sounds, within hearing of
the splash of fountains, and surrounded by the rich colours of an
Italian interior, the young Englishman found himself in a new world of
delight. As the very soul of music, at one moment merry and the next mad
with passion and delightful pain, uttered itself in the long-continued
tremor of the violins, it took possession in all its power of
Inglesant's spirit. The whole of life is recited upon the plaintive
strings, and by their mysterious effect upon the brain fibres, men are
brought into sympathy with life in all its forms, from the gay promise
of its morning sunrise to the silence of its gloomy night.
From Genoa he went to Sienna, where he stayed some time--the dialect
here being held to be very pure, and fit for foreigners to accustom
themselves to. He spoke Italian before with sufficient ease, and
associating with several of the religious in this city he soon acquired
the language perfectly. There can be nothing more delightful than the
first few days of life in Italy in the company of polished and congenial
men. Inglesant enjoyed life at Sienna very much; the beautiful clean
town, all marble and polished brick, the shining walls and pavement
softened and shaded by gardens and creeping vines, the piazza and
fountains, the cool retired walks with distant prospects, the Duomo,
within and without of polished marble inexpressibly beautiful, with its
exceeding sweet music and well-tuned organs, the libraries full of
objects of the greatest interest, the statues and antiquities everywhere
interspersed.
The summer and winter passed over, and he was still in Sienna, and
seemed loth to leave. He associated mostly with the ecclesiastics to
whom he had brought letters of introduction, for he was more anxious at
first to become acquainted with the country and its treasures of art and
literature than to make many acquaintances. He kept himself so close
and studious that he met with no adventures such as most travellers,
especially those who abandon themselves to the dissolute courses of the
country, meet with,--courses which were said at that time to be able to
make a devil out of a saint. He saw nothing of the religious system but
what was excellent and delightful, seeing everything through the medium
of his friends. He read all the Italian literature that was considered
necessary for a gentleman to be acquainted with; and though the learning
of the Fathers was not what it had been a century ago, he still found
several to whom he could talk of his favourite Lucretius and of the
divine lessons of Plato.
When he had spent some time in this way in Italy, and considered himself
fitted to associate with the inhabitants generally, the Benedictines
took Inglesant to visit the family of Cardinal Chigi, who was afterwards
Pope, and who was a native of Sienna. The cardinal himself was in Rome,
but his brother, Don Mario, received Inglesant politely, and introduced
him to his son, Don Flavio, and to two of his nephews. With one of
these, Don Agostino di Chigi, Inglesant became very intimate, and spent
much of his time at his house. In this family he learnt much of the
state of parties in Rome, and was advised in what way to comport himself
when he should come there. The Cardinal Panzirollo, who with the
Cardinal-Patron (Pamphilio), had lately been in great esteem, had just
died, having weakened his health by his continued application to
business, and the Pope had appointed Cardinal Chigi his successor as
first Secretary of State. The Pope's sister-in-law, Donna Olympia
Maldachini, was supposed to be banished, but many thought this was only
a political retreat, and that she still directed the affairs of the
Papacy. At any rate she soon returned to Rome and to power. This
extraordinary woman, whose loves and intrigues were enacted on the stage
in Protestant countries, was the sister-in-law of the Pope, and was said
to live with him in criminal correspondence, and to have charmed him by
some secret incantation--the incantation of a strong woman over a weak
and criminal man. For a long time she had abused her authority in the
most scandalous manner, and exerted her unbounded ascendency over the
Pope to gratify her avarice and ambition, which were as unbounded as her
power. She disposed of all benefices, which she kept vacant till she
was fully informed of their value; she exacted a third of the entire
value of all offices, receiving twelve years' value for an office for
life. She gave audience upon public affairs, enacted new laws,
abrogated those of former Popes, and sat in council with the Pope with
bundles of memorials in her hands. Severe satires were daily pasted on
the statue of Pasquin at Rome; yet it seemed so incredible that Cardinal
Panzirollo, backed though he was by the Cardinal-Nephew, should be able
to overthrow the power of this woman by a representation he was said to
have made to the Pope, that when Innocent at length, with great
reluctance banished Olympia, most persons supposed it was only a
temporary piece of policy.
The Chigi were at this time living in Sienna, in great simplicity, at
their house in the Strada Romana, and in one or two small villas in the
neighbourhood; but they were of an ancient and noble family of this
place, and were held in great esteem, and were all of them men of
refinement and carefully educated. They had made considerable figure in
Rome during the Pontificate of Julius II.; but afterwards meeting with
misfortunes, were obliged to return to Sienna, where they had continued
to reside ever since. At this time there was no idea that the Cardinal
of this house would be the next Pope, and though well acquainted with
the politics of Rome, the family occupied themselves mostly with other
and more innocent amusements--in the arrangement of their gardens and
estates, in the duties of hospitality, and in artistic, literary, and
antiquarian pursuits. The University and College of Sienna had produced
many excellent scholars and several Popes, and the city itself was full
of remains of antique art, and was adorned with many modern works of
great beauty--the productions of that school which takes its name from
the town. Among such scenes as these, and with such companions,
Inglesant's time passed so pleasantly that he was in no hurry to go on
to Rome.
The country about the city was celebrated for hunting, and the wild boar
and the stag afforded excellent and exciting, if sometimes dangerous
sport. Amid the beautiful valleys, rich with vineyards, and overlooked
by rocky hills and castled summits, were scenes fitted both for pleasure
and sport; and the hunting gave place, often and in a moment, to _al
fresco_ banquets, and conversations and pleasant dalliance with the
ladies, by the cool shade near some fountain, or under some over-arching
rock. Under the influence of these occupations, so various and so
attractive both to the mind and body, and thanks to so many novel
objects and continual change of scene, Inglesant's health rapidly
improved, and his mind recovered much of the calm and cheerfulness which
were natural to it. He thought little of the Italian, and the terrible
thoughts with which he had connected him were for the time almost
forgotten, though, from time to time, when any accident recalled the
circumstances to his recollection, they returned upon his spirits with a
melancholy effect.
The first time that these gloomy thoughts overpowered him since his
arrival at Sienna was on the following occasion. He had been hunting
with a party of friends in the valley of Montalcino one day in early
autumn. The weather previously had been wet, and the rising sun had
drawn upward masses of white vapour, which wreathed the green foliage
and the vine slopes, where the vintage was going on, and concealed from
sight the hills on every side. A pale golden light pervaded every
place, and gave mystery and beauty to the meanest cottages and
farm-sheds. The party, having missed the stag, stopped at a small
osteria at the foot of a sloping hill, and Inglesant and another
gentleman wandered up into the vineyard that sloped upwards behind the
house. As they went up, the vines became gradually visible out of the
silvery mist, and figures of peasant men and women moved about--vague
and half-hidden until they were close to them; pigeons and doves flew in
and out. Inglesant's friend stopped to speak to some of the peasant
girls; but Inglesant himself, tempted by the pleasing mystery that the
mountain slope--apparently full of hidden and beautiful life--presented,
wandered on, gradually climbing higher and higher, till he had left the
vintage far below him, and heard no sound but that of the grasshoppers
among the grass and the olive trees, and the distant laugh of the
villagers, or now and then the music of a hunting horn, which one of the
party below was blowing for his own amusement. The mist was now so
thick that he could see nothing, and it was by chance that he even kept
the ascending path. The hill was rocky here and there, but for the most
part was covered with short grass, cropped by the goats which Inglesant
startled as he came unexpectedly upon them in the mist. Suddenly, after
some quarter of an hour's climbing, he came out of the mist in a moment,
and stood under a perfectly clear sky upon the summit of the hill. The
blue vault stretched above him without a cloud, all alight with the
morning sun; at his feet the grassy hill-top sparkling in dew, not yet
dried up, and vocal with grasshoppers, not yet silenced by the heat.
Nothing could be seen but wreaths of cloud. The hill-top rose like an
island out of a sea of vapour, seething and rolling round in misty
waves, and lighted with prismatic colours of every hue. Out of this
sea, here and there, other hill-tops, on which goats were browsing, lay
beneath the serene heaven; and rocky points and summits, far higher than
these, reflected back the sun. He would have seemed to stand above all
human conversation and walks of men, if every now and then some break in
the mist had not taken place, opening glimpses of landscapes and
villages far below; and also the sound of bells, and the music of the
horn, came up fitfully through the mist. Why, he did not know, but as
he gazed on this, the most wonderful and beautiful sight he had ever
seen, the recollection of Serenus de Cressy returned upon his mind with
intense vividness; and the contrast between the life he was leading in
Italy, amid every delight of mind and sense, and the life the
Benedictine had offered him in vain, smote upon his conscience with
terrible force. Upon the lonely mountain top, beneath the serene
silence, he threw himself upon the turf, and, overwhelmed with a sudden
passion, repented that he had been born. Amid the extraordinary
loveliness, the most gloomy thoughts took possession of him, and the
fiend seemed to stand upon the smiling mount and claim him for himself.
So palpably did the consciousness of his choice, worldly as he thought
it, cause the presence of evil to appear, that in that heavenly solitude
he looked round for the murderer of his brother. The moment appeared to
him, for the instant, to be the one appointed for the consummation of
his guilt. The horn below sounding the recall drew his mind out of this
terrible reverie, and he came down the hill (from which the mist was
gradually clearing) as in a dream. He rejoined his company, who remarked
the wild expression of his face.
His old disease, in fact, never entirely left him; he walked often as in
a dream, and when the fit was upon him could never discern the real and
the unreal. He knew that terrible feeling when the world and all its
objects are slipping away, when the brain reels, and seems only to be
kept fixed and steady by a violent exertion of the will; and the mind is
confused and perplexed with thoughts which it cannot grasp, and is full
of fancies of vague duties and acts which it cannot perform, though it
is convinced that they are all important to be done.
The Chigi family knew of Inglesant's past life, and of his acquaintance
with the Archbishop of Fermo, the Pope's Nuncio, and they advised him to
make the acquaintance of his brother, the Cardinal Rinuccini, before
going to Rome.
"If you go to Rome in his train, or have him for a patron on your
arrival, you will start in a much better position than if you enter the
city an entire stranger,--and the present is not a very favourable time
for going to Rome. The Pope is not expected to live very long. Donna
Olympia and the Pamphili, or pretended Pamphili (for the Cardinal-Nephew
is not a Pamphili at all), are securing what they can, using every
moment to enrich themselves while they have the power. The moment the
Pope dies they fall, and with them all who have been connected with
them. It is therefore useless to go to Rome at present, except as a
private person to see the city, and this you can do better in the suite
of the Cardinal than in any other way. You may wonder that we do not
offer to introduce you to our uncle the Cardinal Chigi; but we had
rather that you should come to Rome at first under the patronage of
another. You will understand more of our reasons before long;
meanwhile, we will write to our uncle respecting you, and you may be
sure that he will promote your interests as much as is in his power."
The Cardinal Rinuccini was at that time believed to be at his own villa,
situated in a village some distance from Florence to the north, and Don
Agostino offered to accompany Inglesant so far on his journey.
This ride, though a short one, was very pleasant, and endeared the two
men to each other more than ever. They travelled simply, with a very
small train, and did not hurry themselves on the route. Indeed, they
travelled so leisurely that they were very nearly being too late for
their purpose. On their arrival at the last stage before reaching
Florence, they stopped for the night at a small osteria, and had no
sooner taken up their quarters than a large train arrived at the inn,
and on their inquiry they were informed it was the Cardinal Rinuccini
himself on his way to Rome. They immediately sent their names to his
Eminence, saying they had been coming to pay their respects to him, and
offering to resign their apartment, which was the best in the house.
The Cardinal, who travelled in great state, with his four-post bed and
furniture of all kinds with him, returned a message that he could not
disturb them in their room; that he remembered Mr. Inglesant's name in
some letters from his brother; and that he should be honoured by their
company to supper.
The best that the village could afford was placed on the Cardinal's
table, and their host entertained the two young men with great courtesy.
He was descended from a noble family in Florence, which boasted among
its members Octavio Rinuccini the poet, who came to Paris in the suite
of Marie de Medicis, and is said by some to have been the inventor of
the Opera. Besides the Pope's Legate another brother of the Cardinal's,
Thomas Battista Rinuccini, was Great Chamberlain to the Grand Duke of
Tuscany. All the brothers had been carefully educated, and were men of
literary tastes; but while the Archbishop had devoted himself mostly to
politics, the Cardinal had confined himself almost entirely to literary
pursuits. He owed his Cardinal's hat to the Grand Duke, who was
extremely partial to him, and promoted his interests in every way. He
was a man of profound learning, and an enthusiastic admirer of
antiquity, but was also an acute logician and theologian, and perfectly
well-read in Church history, and in the controversy of the century, both
in theology and philosophy. Before the end of supper Inglesant found
that he was acquainted with the writings of Hobbes, whom he had met in
Italy, and of whom he inquired with interest, as soon as he found
Inglesant had been acquainted with him.
The following morning the Cardinal expressed his sorrow that the
business which took him to Rome was of so important a nature that it
obliged him to proceed without delay. He approved of the advice that
Inglesant had already received, and recommended him to proceed to
Florence with Don Agostino, as he was so near; so that he might not have
his journey for nothing, and might see the city under very favourable
circumstances. Inglesant was the more ready to agree to this as he
wished to see as much of Italy as he could, unshackled by the company of
the great, which, in the uncertain state of health both of his body and
mind, was inexpressibly burdensome to him. He had already seen in this
last journey a great deal of the distress and bad government which
prevailed everywhere; and he wished to make himself acquainted, in some
measure, with the causes of this distress before going to Rome. As he
rode through the beautiful plains he had been astonished at the few
inhabitants, and at the wretchedness of the few. Italy had suffered
greatly in her commerce by the introduction of Indian silks into Europe.
Some of her most flourishing cities had been depopulated, their nobles
ruined; and long streets of neglected palaces, deserted and left in
magnificent decay, presented a melancholy though romantic spectacle.
But bad government, and the oppression and waste caused by the
accumulated wealth and idleness of the innumerable religious orders, had
more to do in ruining the prosperity of the country than any commercial
changes; and proofs of this fact met the traveller's eye on every hand.
It seemed to Inglesant that it was very necessary that he should satisfy
himself upon some of these points before becoming involved in any
political action in the country; and he shrank from entering Rome at
present, and from attaching himself to any great man or any party. In a
country where the least false step is fatal, and may plunge a man in
irretrievable ruin, or consign him to the dungeons of the Holy Office,
it is certainly prudent in a stranger to be wary of his first steps.
Having communicated these resolutions to his friend, the two young men,
on their arrival at Florence, took lodgings privately in the Piazza del
Spirito Santo; and occupied their time for some days in viewing the
city, and visiting the churches and museums, as though they had been
simply travellers from curiosity.
Inglesant believed the Italian to be in Rome, which was a further reason
for delaying his journey there. He believed that he was going to engage
in some terrible conflict, and he wished to prepare himself by an
acquaintance with every form of life in this strange country. The
singular scenes that strike a stranger in Italy--the religious
processions, the character and habits of the poorer classes, their ideas
of moral obligation, their ecclesiastical and legal government--all
appeared to him of importance to his future fate.
As he was perfectly unacquainted with the person of his enemy, there was
a sort of vague expectation--not to say dread--always present to his
mind; for, though he fancied that it would be in Rome that he should
find the Italian, yet it was not at all impossible that at any
moment--it might be in Florence, or in the open country--he might be the
object of a murderous attack. His person was doubtless known to the
murderer of his brother, and he thus walked everywhere in the full
light, while his enemy was hidden in the dark.
These ideas were seldom absent from his mind, and the image of the
murderer was almost constantly before his eyes. Often, as some marked
figure crossed his path, he started and watched the retreating form,
wondering whether the object of his morbid dread was before him. Often,
as the uncovered corpse was borne along the streets, the thought struck
him that perhaps his fear and his search were alike needless, and that
before him on the bier, harmless and strewn with flowers, lay his
terrible foe. These thoughts naturally prevented his engaging
unrestrainedly in the pursuits of his age and rank, and he often let Don
Agostino go alone into the gay society which was open to them in
Florence.
In pursuit of his intention Inglesant took every opportunity, without
incurring remark, of associating with the lower orders, and learning
their habits, traditions, and tone of thought. He chose streets which
led through the poorer parts of the town in passing from one part to
another, and in this way, and in the course of his visits to different
churches and religious houses, he was able to converse with the common
people without attracting attention. In excursions into the country,
whether on parties of pleasure or for sport, he was also able to throw
himself in the same way among the peasantry. Under the pretence of
shooting quails he passed several days in more than one country village,
and had become acquainted with several of the cures, from whom he gained
much information respecting the habits of the people, and of their ideas
of crime and of lawful revenge.
One of these cures--a man of penetration and intellect--strongly advised
him to see Venice before he went to Rome.
"Venice," he said to him, "is the sink of all wickedness, and as such it
is desirable that you should see the people there, and mix with them;
besides, as such, it is not at all unlikely that the man you seek may be
found there."
"What is the cause of this wickedness?" asked Inglesant.
"There are several causes," replied the priest. "One is that the Holy
Office there is under the control of the State, and is therefore almost
powerless. Wickedness and license of all kinds are therefore
unrestrained."
Inglesant mentioned this advice to Don Agostino, and his desire to
proceed to Venice; but as the other was unwilling to leave Florence till
the termination of the Carnival, which was now approaching, he was
obliged to postpone his intention for some weeks.
On one of the opening days of the Carnival, Inglesant had accompanied
Don Agostino to a magnificent supper given by the Grand Duke at his
villa and gardens at the Poggia Imperiale, some distance outside the
Romana gate.
Inglesant had succeeded in throwing off for a time his gloomy thoughts,
and had taken his share in the gaiety of the festival; but the effort
and the excitement had produced a reaction, and towards morning he had
succeeded in detaching himself from the company, many of whom--the
banquet being over--were strolling in the lovely gardens in the cool air
which preceded the dawn, and he returned alone to the city. As this was
his frequent custom, his absence did not surprise Don Agostino, who
scarcely noticed his friend's eccentricities.
When Inglesant reached Florence, the sun had scarcely risen, and in the
miraculously clear and solemn light the countless pinnacles and marble
fronts of the wonderful city rose with sharp colour and outline into the
sky. It lay with the country round it studded with the lines of cypress
and encompassed by the massy hills--silent as the grave, and lovely as
paradise; and ever and anon, as it lay in the morning light, a breeze
from the mountains passed over it, rustling against the marble facades
and through the belfries of its towers, like the whisper of a God. Now
and again, clear and sharp in the liquid air, the musical bells of the
Campanili rang out the time. The cool expanse of the gardens, the
country walk, the pure air, and the silent city, seemed to him to chide
and reprove the license and gaiety of the night. Excited by the events
of the Carnival, his mind and imagination were in that state in which,
from the inward fancy, phantoms are projected upon the real stage of
life, and, playing their fantastic parts, react upon the excited sense,
producing conduct which in turn is real in its result.
As Inglesant entered the city and turned into one of the narrow streets
leading up from the Arno, the market people were already entering by the
gates, and thronging up with their wares to the Piazze and the markets.
Carpenters were already at work on the scaffolds and other preparations
for the concluding festivals of the Carnival; but all these people, and
all their actions, and even the sounds that they produced, wore that
unreal and unsubstantial aspect which the very early morning light casts
upon everything.
As Inglesant ascended the narrow street, between the white stone houses
which set off the brilliant blue above, several porters and
countrywomen, carrying huge baskets and heaps of country produce,
ascended with him, or passed him as he loitered along, and other more
idle and equivocal persons, who were just awake, looked out upon him
from doorways and corners as he passed. He had on a gala dress of silk,
somewhat disordered by the night and by his walk, and must have appeared
a suitable object for the lawless attempts of the ladroni of a great
city; but his appearance was probably not sufficiently helpless to
encourage attack.
Half-way up the street, at the corner of a house, stood an image of the
Virgin, round which the villagers stopped for a moment, as much to rest
as to pay their devotions. As Inglesant stopped also, he noticed an old
man of a wretched and abject demeanour, leaning against the wall of the
house as though scarcely able to stand, and looking eagerly at some of
the provisions which were carried past him. True to his custom,
Inglesant--when he had given him some small coin as an alms--began to
speak to him.
"You have carried many such loads as these, father, I doubt not, in your
time, though it must be a light one now."
"I am past carrying even myself," said the other, in a weak and whining
voice; "but I have not carried loads all my life. I have kept a shop on
the Goldsmith's Bridge, and have lived at my ease. Now I have nothing
left me but the sun--the sun and the cool shade."
"Yours is a hard fate."
"It is a hard and miserable world, and yet I love it. It has done me
nothing but evil, and yet I watch it and seek out what it does, and
listen to what goes on, just as if I thought to hear of any good fortune
likely to come to me. Foolish old man that I am! What is it to me what
people say or do, or who dies, or who is married? and why should I come
out here to see the market people pass, and climb this street to hear of
the murder that was done here last night, and look at the body that lies
in the room above?"
"What murder?" said Inglesant. "Who was murdered, and by whom?"
"He is a foreigner; they say an Inglese--a traveller here merely. Who
murdered him I know not, though they do say that too."
"Where is the body?" said Inglesant. "Let us go up." And he gave the
old man another small coin.
The old man looked at him for a moment with a peculiar expression.
"Better not, Signore," he said; "better go home."
"Do not fear for me," said Inglesant; "I bear a charmed life; no steel
can touch me, nor any bullet hurt me, till my hour comes; and my hour is
not yet."
The old man led the way to an open door, carved with tracery and
foliaged work, and they ascended a flight of stairs. It was one of those
houses, so common in Italian towns, whose plain and massive exterior,
pierced with few and narrow windows, gives no idea of the size and
splendour of the rooms within. When they reached the top of the stairs,
Inglesant saw that the house had once, and probably not long before,
been the residence of some person of wealth. They passed through
several rooms with carved chimney-pieces and cornices, and here and
there even some massive piece of furniture still remained. From the
windows that opened on the inner side Inglesant could see the tall
cypresses of a garden, and hear the splash of fountains. But the house
had fallen from its high estate, and was now evidently used for the
vilest purposes. After passing two or three rooms, they reached an
upper hall or dining-room of considerable length, and painted in fresco
apparently of some merit. A row of windows on the left opened on the
garden, from which the sound of voices and laughter came up.
The room was bare of furniture, except towards the upper end, where was
a small and shattered table, upon which the body of the murdered man was
laid. Inglesant went up and stood by its side.
There was no doubt whose countryman he had been. The fair English boy,
scarcely bordering upon manhood--the heir, probably, of bright
hopes--travelling with a careless or incompetent tutor, lay upon the
small table, his long hair glistening in the sunlight, his face peaceful
and smiling as in sleep. The fatal rapier thrust, marked by the stain
upon the clothes, was the sole sign that his mother--waking up probably
at that moment in distant England, with his image in her heart--was
bereaved for ever of her boy. Inglesant stood silent a few moments,
looking sadly down; that other terrible figure, upon the white
hearthstone, was so constantly in his mind, that this one, so like it,
scarcely could be said to recall the image of his murdered brother; but
the whole scene certainly strengthened his morbid fancy, and it seemed
to him that he was on the footsteps of the murderer, and that his fate
was drawing near.
"His steps are still in blood," he said aloud; "and it is warm; he
cannot be far off."
He turned, as he spoke, to look for the old man, but he was gone, and in
his place a ghastly figure met Inglesant's glance.
Standing about three feet from the table, a little behind Inglesant, and
also looking fixedly at the murdered boy, was the figure of a corpse.
The face was thin and fearfully white, and the whole figure was wrapped
and swathed in grave-clothes, somewhat disordered and loosened, so as to
give play to the limbs. This form took no notice of the other's
presence, but continued to gaze at the body with its pallid ghastly
face.
Inglesant scarcely started. Nothing could seem more strange and unreal
to him than what was passing on every side. That the dead should return
and stand by him seemed to him not more fearful and unreal than all the
rest.
Suddenly the corpse turned its eyes upon Inglesant, and regarded him
with a fixed and piercing glance.
"You spoke of the author of this deed as though you knew him," it said.
"I am on the track of a murderer, and my fate is urging me on. It seems
to me that I see his bloody steps."
"This was no murder," said the corpse, in an irritated and impatient
voice. "It was a chance melee, and an unfortunate and unhappy thrust;
we do not even know the name of the man who lies there. Are you the
avenger of blood, that you see murder at every step?"
"I am in truth the avenger of blood," said Inglesant in a low and
melancholy voice; "would I were not."
The corpse continued to look at Inglesant fixedly, and would have
spoken, but the voices which had been heard in the garden now seemed to
come nearer, and hurried steps approached the room. The laughter that
Inglesant had heard was stilled, and deep and solemn voices strove
together, and one above the rest said, "Bring up the murderer."
The corpse turned round impatiently, and the next moment from a small
door, which opened on a covered balcony and outside staircase to the
garden, there came hurriedly in a troop of the most strange and
fantastic figures that the eye could rest upon. Angels and demons, and
savage men in lions' skins, and men with the heads of beasts and birds,
swarmed tumultuously in, dragging with them an unfortunate being in his
night-clothes, and apparently just out of bed, whom they urged on with
blows. This man, who was only half-awake, was evidently in the
extremity of terror, and looked upon himself as already in the place of
eternal torment. He addressed now one and now another of his
tormentors, as well as he could find breath, in the most abject terms,
endeavouring, in the most ludicrous manner, to choose the titles and
epithets to address them most in accordance with the individual
appearance that the spectre he entreated wore to his dazzled
eyes--whether a demon or an angel, a savage or a man-beast. When he saw
the murdered man, and the terrible figure that stood by Inglesant, he
nearly fainted with terror; but, on many voices demanding loudly that he
should be brought in contact with the body of his victim, he recovered a
little, and recognizing in Inglesant, at least, a being of an earthly
sphere, and by his dress a man of rank, he burst from his tormentors,
and throwing himself at his feet, he entreated his protection, assuring
him that he had been guilty of no murder, having just been dragged from
a sound sleep, and being even ignorant that a murder had been committed.
Inglesant took little notice of him, but the corpse interposed between
the man and the fantastic crew. It was still apparently in a very bad
humour, especially with Inglesant, and said imperiously,--"We have
enough and too much of this foolery. Have not some of you done enough
mischief for one night? This gentleman says he is on the track of a
murderer, and will have it that he sees his traces in this unfortunate
affair."
At these words the masquers crowded round Inglesant with wild and
threatening gestures, apparently half earnest and half the result of
wine, and as many of them were armed with great clubs, the consequences
might have seemed doubtful to one whose feelings were less excited than
Inglesant's were.
He, however, as though the proceeding were a matter of course, merely
took off his hat, and addressed the others in explanation.
"I am indeed in pursuit of a murderer, the murderer of my brother--a
gallant and noble gentleman who was slain foully in cold blood. The
murderer was an Italian, his name Malvolti. Do any of you, signori,
happen to have heard of such a man?"
There was a pause after this singular address, but the next moment a
demon of terrific aspect forced his way to the front, saying in a tone
of drunken consequence,--
"I knew him formerly at Lucca; he was well born and my friend."
"He was, and is, a scelerat and a coward," said Inglesant fiercely. "It
would be well to be more careful of your company, sir."
"Have I not said he was my friend, sir?" cried the demon, furious with
passion. "Who will lend me a rapier?"
A silent and melancholy person, with the head of an owl, who had several
under his arm, immediately tendered him one with a low bow, and the
masquers fell back in a circle, while the demon, drawing his weapon,
threw himself into an attitude and attacked Inglesant, who, after
looking at him for a moment, also drew his rapier and stood upon his
guard. It soon appeared that the demon was a very moderate fencer; in
less than a minute his guard was entered by Inglesant's irresistible
tierce, and he would have been infallibly run through the body had he
not saved himself by rolling ignominiously on the ground.
This incident appeared to restore the corpse to good humour; it laughed,
and turning to the masquers said,--
"Gentlemen, let me beg of you to disperse as quickly as possible before
the day is any farther advanced. You know of the rendezvous at one
o'clock. I will see the authorities as to this unhappy affair. Sir,"
he continued, turning to Inglesant, "you are, I believe, the friend of
Don Agostino di Chigi, whom he has been introducing into Florentine
society; if it will amuse you to see a frolic of the Carnival carried
out, of which this is only the somewhat unfortunate rehearsal, and will
meet me this afternoon at two o'clock, at the Great Church in the Via
Larga, I shall be happy to do my best to entertain you; a simple domino
will suffice. I am the Count Capece."
Inglesant gave his name in return. He apologized for not accepting the
Count's courtesy, on the plea of ill-health, but assured him he would
take advantage of his offer to cultivate his acquaintance. They left
the house together, the Count covering himself with a cloak, and
Inglesant accompanied him to the office of police, from whence he went
to his lodging and to his bed.
He arose early in the afternoon, and remembering the invitation he had
received, he went out into the Via Larga. The streets formed a strange
contrast to the stillness and calm of the cool morning. The afternoon
was hot, and the city crowded with people of every class and rank. The
balconies and windows of the principal streets were full of ladies and
children; trophies and embroideries hung from the houses and crossed the
street. Strings of carriages and country carts, dressed with flowers
and branches of trees, paraded the streets. Every variety of fantastic
and grotesque costume, and every shade of colour, filled and confused
the eye. Music, laughter, and loud talking filled the ear. Inglesant,
from his simple costume and grave demeanour, became the butt of several
noisy parties; but used as he was to great crowds, and to the confused
revelries of Courts, he was able to disentangle himself with mutual
good-humour. He recognized his friends of the morning, who were
performing a kind of comedy on a country cart, arched with boughs, in
imitation of the oldest form of the itinerant theatre. He was
recognized by them also, for, in a pause of the performance, as he was
moving down a bye-street, he was accosted by one of the company,
enveloped in a large cloak. He had no difficulty in recognizing beneath
this concealment his antagonist of the morning, who still supported his
character of demon.
"I offer you my apologies for the occurrences of this morning, signore,"
he said, "having been informed by my friends more closely concerning
them than I can myself recollect. I am also deeply interested in the
person of whom you spoke, who formerly was a friend of mine; and I must
also have been acquainted with the signore, your brother, of which I am
the more certain as your appearance every moment recalls him more and
more to my mind. I should esteem it a great favour to be allowed to
speak at large with you on these matters. If you will allow me to pay
my respects at your lodgings, I will conduct you to my father's house,
il Conte Pericon di Visalvo, where I can show you many things which may
be of interest to you respecting the man whom I understand you seek."
Inglesant replied that he should gladly avail himself of his society,
and offered to come to the Count's house early the next day.
He found the house, a sombre plain one, in a quiet street, with a tall
front pierced with few windows. At the low door hung a wine-flask, as a
sign that wine was sold within; for the sale of wine by retail was
confined to the gentry, the common people being only allowed to sell
wholesale. The Count was the fortunate possessor of a very fine
vineyard, which made his wine much in request, and Inglesant found the
whole ground-floor of his house devoted to this retail traffic. Having
inquired for the Count, he was led up the staircase into a vestibule,
and from thence into the Count's own room. This was a large apartment
with windows looking on to the court, with a suite of rooms opening
beyond it. It was handsomely furnished, with several cages full of
singing birds in the windows. Outside, the walls of the houses forming
the courtyard were covered with vines and creeping jessamine and other
plants, and a fountain splashed in the centre of the court, which was
covered with a coloured awning.
The old Count received Inglesant politely. He was a tall, spare old
man, with a reserved and dignified manner, more like that of a Spaniard
than of an Italian. Rather to Inglesant's surprise he introduced him to
his daughter, on whom, as she sat near one of the windows, Inglesant's
eyes had been fixed from the moment he had entered the room. The
Italians were so careful of the ladies of their families, and it was so
unusual to allow strangers to see them, that his surprise was not
unnatural, especially as the young lady before him was remarkably
beautiful. She was apparently very young, tall and dark-eyed, with a
haughty and indifferent manner, which concentrated itself entirely upon
her father.
The Count noticed Inglesant's surprise at the cordiality of his
reception, and seemed to speak as if in explanation.
"You are no stranger to us, signore," he said; "my son has not only
commended you to me, but your intimacy with Count Agostino has endeared
you already to us who admire and love him."
As Agostino had told him the evening before that he knew little of these
people, though he believed the old Count to be respectable, this rather
increased Inglesant's surprise; but he merely said that he was fortunate
in possessing a friend whose favour procured him such advantages.
"My son's affairs," continued the old man, "unavoidably took him abroad
this morning, but I wait his return every moment."
Inglesant suspected that the Cavaliere, who appeared to him to be a
complete debauchee, had not been at home at all that night; but if that
were the case, when he entered the room a few moments afterwards, his
manner was completely self-possessed and quiet, and showed no signs of a
night of revelry.
As soon as they were seated the Cavaliere began to explain to Inglesant
that both his father and himself were anxious to see him, to confer
respecting the unfortunate circumstances which, as they imagined, had
brought him to Italy upon a mission which they assured him was madly
imprudent.
"Our nation, signore," said the Cavaliere, "is notorious for two
passions--jealousy and revenge. Both of these, combined with
self-interest, induced Malvolti to commit the foul deed which he
perpetrated upon your brother. While in Italy your brother crossed him
in some of his amours, and also resented some indiscretions, which the
manners of our nation regard with tolerance, but which your discreeter
countrymen resent with unappeasable disgust. Our people never forgive
injuries; nay, they entail them on their posterity. We ourselves left
our native city, Lucca, on account of one of these feuds, which made it
unsafe for us to remain; and I could show you a gentleman's house in
Lucca whose master has never set foot out of doors for nine years, nay,
scarcely looked out of window, for fear of being shot by an antagonist
who has several times planted ambushes to take away his life. It is
considered a disgrace to a family that one of its members has forgiven
an injury; and a mother will keep the bloody clothes of her murdered
husband, to incite her young sons to acts of vengeance. You will see,
signore, the evil which such ideas as these winds about our lives; and
how unwise it must be in a stranger to involve himself needlessly in
such an intrigue, in a foreign country, unknown and comparatively
without friends. Italy swarms with bravos hired to do the work of
vengeance; merchants are assaulted in their warehouses in open day; in
the public streets the highest personages in the land are not safe. What
will be the fate then of a stranger whose death is necessary to the
safety of an Italian?"
"I understand you, signore," said Inglesant, "and I thank you for your
good-will, but you are somewhat mistaken. I am not seeking the man of
whom we speak, though, I confess, I came to Italy partly with the
expectation of meeting him, when it is the will of God, or the will of
the Devil whom He permits to influence the affairs of men, that this man
and I should meet. I shall not attempt to avoid the interview; it would
be useless if I did. The result of that meeting who can tell! But as I
said yesterday to the Count Capece, till my hour comes I bear a charmed
life that cannot be taken, and any result I regard with supreme
indifference, if so be I may, by any means, escape in the end the snares
of the Devil, who seeks to take me captive at his will."
The two gentlemen regarded Inglesant with profound astonishment as he
uttered these words; and the young lady in the window raised her eyes
towards him as he was speaking (he spoke very pure Italian) with some
appearance of interest.
After a pause Inglesant went on, "I also venture to think, signore," he
said, "that you are unaware of the position of this man, and of the
condition to which his crimes have brought him. I am well informed from
sure sources that he is without friends, and that his crimes have raised
him more enemies in this country even than elsewhere; so that he is
afraid to appear openly, lest he fall a victim to his own countrymen.
He is also in abject poverty, and is therefore to a great extent
powerless to do evil."
The Cavaliere smiled. "You do not altogether know this country,
signore," he said; "there are always so many different factions and
interests at work that a daring useful man is never without patrons, who
will support and further his private interests in return for the service
he may render them; and (though you may not be fully aware of it) it is
because it is notorious that you are yourself supported and protected by
a most powerful and widely spread faction, that your position in this
country is as assured and safe as it is."
His words certainly struck Inglesant. The idea that he was already a
known and marked man in this wonderful country, and playing an
acknowledged part in its fantastic drama, was new to him, and he
remained silent.
"From all ordinary antagonists," continued the Cavaliere, "this
knowledge is sufficient to secure you; no man would wish, unless ruined
and desperate, to draw on his head the swift and certain punishment
which a hand raised against your life would be sure to invoke. But a
reckless despairing man stops at nothing; and should you, by your
presence even, endanger this man's standing in the favour of some
new-found patron, or impede the success of some freshly planned
scheme--perhaps the last hope of his ruined life--I would not buy your
safety at an hour's rate."
While the Cavaliere was speaking it was evident that his sister was
listening with great attention. The interest that she manifested, and
the singular attraction that Inglesant felt towards her, so occupied his
thoughts that he could scarcely attend to what the other was saying,
though he continued speaking for some time. It is possible that the
Cavaliere noticed this, for Inglesant was suddenly conscious that he was
regarding him fixedly and with a peculiar expression. He apologized for
his inattention on the ground of ill-health, and soon after took his
leave, having invited the Cavaliere to visit him at his lodgings.
As Inglesant walked back through the streets of the city, he was
perplexed at his own sensations, which appeared so different from any he
had previously known. The attraction he experienced towards the lady he
had just seen was quite different from the affection he had felt for
Mary Collet. That was a sentiment which commended itself to his reason
and his highest feelings. In her company he felt himself soothed,
elevated above himself, safe from danger and from temptation. In this
latter attraction he was conscious of a half-formed fear, of a sense of
glamour and peril, and of an alluring force independent of his own
free-will. The opinion he had formed of her brother's character may
have had something to do with these feelings, and the sense of perpetual
danger and insecurity with which he walked this land of mystery and
intrigue no doubt increased it. He half resolved not to visit the old
nobleman again; but even while forming the resolution he knew that he
should break it.
The circumstances in which he was placed, indeed, almost precluded such
a course. The very remarkable beauty of the young lady, and the
extraordinary unreserve with which he had been introduced to
her--unreserve so unusual in Italy--while it might increase the
misgiving he felt, made it very difficult for him to decline the
acquaintance. The girl's beauty was of a kind unusual in Italy, though
not unknown there, her hair being of a light brown, contrasting with her
magnificent eyes, which were of the true Italian splendour and
brilliancy. She had doubtless been kept in the strictest seclusion, and
Inglesant could only wonder what could have induced the old Count to
depart from his usual caution.
The next day, being Ash Wednesday, Inglesant was present at the Duomo at
the ceremony of the day, when the vast congregation received the
emblematic ashes upon their foreheads. The Cavaliere was also present
with his sister, whose name Inglesant discovered to be Lauretta. Don
Agostino, to whom Inglesant had related the adventure, and the
acquaintance to which it had led, was inclined to suspect these people
of some evil purpose, and made what inquiries he could concerning them;
but he could discover nothing to their discredit, further than that the
Cavaliere was a well-known debauchee, and that he had been involved in
some intrigue, in connection with some of the present Papal family,
which had not proved successful. He was in consequence then in disgrace
with Donna Olympia and her faction,--a disappointment which it was said
had rendered his fortunes very desperate, as he was very deeply involved
in debts of all kinds. Don Agostino, the Carnival being over, was
desirous of returning to Sienna, unless Inglesant made up his mind to go
at once to Venice, in which case he offered to accompany him. His
friend, however, did not appear at all desirous of quitting Florence, at
any rate hastily, and Don Agostino left him and returned home, the two
friends agreeing to meet again before proceeding to Venice.
His companion gone, Inglesant employed himself in frequenting all those
churches to which Lauretta was in the habit of resorting during the Holy
Season; and as every facility appeared to be given him by her friends,
he became very intimate with her, and she on her part testified no
disinclination to his society. It will probably occur to the reader
that this conduct was not consistent with the cautious demeanour which
Inglesant had resolved upon; but such resolutions have before now proved
ineffectual under similar circumstances, and doubtless the like will
occur again. Lauretta looked round as a matter of course, as she came
out of the particular church she had that day chosen, for the handsome
cavalier who was certain to be ready to offer the drop of holy water;
and more than one rival whom the beautiful devotee had attracted to the
service, noticed with envy the kindly look of the masked eyes which
acknowledged the courtesy; and, indeed, it is not often that ladies'
eyes have rested upon a lover more attractive to a girl of a refined
nature than did Lauretta's, when, in the dawn of the March mornings, she
saw John Inglesant waiting for her on the marble steps. It is true that
she thought the Cavaliere Inglese somewhat melancholy and sad, but her
own disposition was reserved and pensive; and in her presence
Inglesant's melancholy was so far charmed away that it became only an
added grace of sweetness of manner, and of tender deference and
protection. The servant of the polished King of England, the companion
of Falkland and of Caernarvon, the French Princess's favourite page,
trained in every art that makes life attractive, that makes life itself
the finest art, with a memory and intellect stored with the poetry and
learning of the antique world,--it would have been strange if, where
once his fancy was touched, Inglesant had not made a finished and
attractive lover.
The familiar streets of Florence, the bridges, or the walks by the Arno,
assumed a new charm to the young girl, when she saw them in company with
her pleasant and courteous friend; and whether in the early morning it
was a few spring flowers that he brought her, or a brilliant jewel that
he placed upon her finger as he parted in the soft Italian night, it was
the giver, and the grace with which the gift was made, that won the
romantic fancy of the daughter of the south. Their talk was not of the
kind that lovers often use. He would indeed begin with relating stories
of the English Court, in the bright fleeting days before the war, of the
courtly refined revels, of the stately dances and plays, and of the
boating parties on the wooded Thames; but most often the narrative
changed its tone instinctively, and went on to speak of sadder and
higher things; of self-denial and devotion of ladies and children, who
suffered for their King without complaint; of the Ferrars and their holy
life; of the martyred Archbishop and of the King's death; and sometimes
perhaps of some sight of battle and suffering the narrator himself had
seen, as when the evening sun was shining upon the glassy slope of
Newbury, and he knelt beside the dying Caernarvon, unmindful of the
bullets that fell around.
"You have deserved well of the King," he whispered: "have you no request
that I may make to him, nothing for your children, or your wife?"