coming--when that hateful word shall be expunged from the calendar; when
landed property shall be no more. What! shall the free soul of a
God-born man submit itself for ever to such trammels as that? Shall we
never escape from the clay which so long has manacled the subtler
particles of the divine spirit? Ay, yes, Mackinnon;” and then she took
him by the arm, and led him to the top of the huge steps which lead down
from the Campidoglio into the streets of modern Rome. “Look down upon
that countless multitude.” Mackinnon looked down, and saw three groups
of French soldiers, with three or four little men in each group; he saw,
also, a couple of dirty friars, and three priests very slowly beginning
the side ascent to the church of the Ara Cœli. “Look down upon that
countless multitude,” said Mrs. Talboys, and she stretched her arms out
over the half-deserted city. “They are escaping now from these
trammels,--now, now,--now that I am speaking.”
“They have escaped long ago from all such trammels as that of landed
property,” said Mackinnon.
“Ay, and from all terrestrial bonds,” she continued, not exactly
remarking the pith of his last observation; “from bonds
quasi-terrestrial and quasi-celestial. The full-formed limbs of the
present age, running with quick streams of generous blood, will no
longer bear the ligatures which past times have woven for the decrepit.
Look down upon that multitude, Mackinnon; they shall all be free.” And
then, still clutching him by the arm, and still standing at the top of
those stairs, she gave forth her prophecy with the fury of a Sybil.
“They shall all be free. Oh, Rome, thou eternal one! thou who hast bowed
thy neck to imperial pride and priestly craft; thou who hast suffered
sorely, even to this hour, from Nero down to Pio Nono,--the days of
thine oppression are over. Gone from thy enfranchised ways for ever is
the clang of the Prætorian cohorts, and the more odious drone of
meddling monks!” And yet, as Mackinnon observed, there still stood the
dirty friars and the small French soldiers; and there still toiled the
slow priests, wending their tedious way up to the church of the Ara
Cœli. But that was the mundane view of the matter,--a view not
regarded by Mrs. Talboys in her ecstasy. “O Italia,” she continued, “O
Italia una, one and indivisible in thy rights, and indivisible also in
thy wrongs! to us is it given to see the accomplishment of thy glory. A
people shall arise around thine altars greater in the annals of the
world than thy Scipios, thy Gracchi, or thy Cæsars. Not in torrents of
blood, or with screams of bereaved mothers, shall thy new triumphs be
stained. But mind shall dominate over matter; and doomed, together with
Popes and Bourbons, with cardinals, diplomatists, and police spies,
ignorance and prejudice shall be driven from thy smiling terraces. And
then Rome shall again become the fair capital of the fairest region of
Europe. Hither shall flock the artisans of the world, crowding into thy
marts all that God and man can give. Wealth, beauty, and innocence shall
meet in thy streets----”
“There will be a considerable change before that takes place,” said
Mackinnon.
“There shall be a considerable change,” she answered. “Mackinnon, to
thee it is given to read the signs of the time; and hast thou not read?
Why have the fields of Magenta and Solferino been piled with the corpses
of dying heroes? Why have the waters of the Mincio ran red with the
blood of martyrs? That Italy might be united and Rome immortal. Here,
standing on the Capitolium of the ancient city, I say that it shall be
so; and thou, Mackinnon, who hearest me, knowest that my words are
true.”
There was not then in Rome,--I may almost say there was not in Italy, an
Englishman or an American who did not wish well to the cause for which
Italy was and is still contending; as also there is hardly one who does
not now regard that cause as well-nigh triumphant; but, nevertheless, it
was almost impossible to sympathise with Mrs. Talboys. As Mackinnon
said, she flew so high that there was no comfort in flying with her.
“Well,” said he, “Brown and the rest of them are down below. Shall we go
and join them?”
“Poor Brown! How was it that, in speaking of his troubles, we were led
on to this heart-stirring theme? Yes, I have seen them, the sweet
angels; and I tell you also that I have seen their mother. I insisted on
going to her when I heard her history from him.”
“And what is she like, Mrs. Talboys?”
“Well; education has done more for some of us than for others; and there
are those from whose morals and sentiments we might thankfully draw a
lesson, whose manners and outward gestures are not such as custom has
made agreeable to us. You, I know, can understand that. I have seen her,
and feel sure that she is pure in heart and high in principle. Has she
not sacrificed herself and is not self-sacrifice the surest guarantee
for true nobility of character? Would Mrs. Mackinnon object to my
bringing them together?”
Mackinnon was obliged to declare that he thought his wife would object;
and from that time forth he and Mrs. Talboys ceased to be very close in
their friendship. She still came to the house every Sunday evening,
still refreshed herself at the fountains of his literary rills; but her
special prophecies from henceforth were poured into other ears. And it
so happened that O’Brien now became her chief ally. I do not remember
that she troubled herself much further with the cherub angels or with
their mother; and I am inclined to think that, taking up warmly, as she
did, the story of O’Brien’s matrimonial wrongs, she forgot the little
history of the Browns. Be that as it may, Mrs. Talboys and O’Brien now
became strictly confidential, and she would enlarge by the half-hour
together on the miseries of her friend’s position, to any one whom she
could get to hear her.
“I’ll tell you what, Fanny,” Mackinnon said to his wife one day,--to his
wife and to mine, for we were all together; “we shall have a row in the
house if we don’t take care. O’Brien will be making love to Mrs.
Talboys.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Mackinnon. “You are always thinking that somebody
is going to make love to some one.”
“Somebody always is,” said he.
“She’s old enough to be his mother,” said Mrs. Mackinnon.
“What does that matter to an Irishman?” said Mackinnon. “Besides, I
doubt if there is more than five years’ difference between them.”
“There, must be more than that,” said my wife. “Ida Talboys is twelve, I
know, and I am not quite sure that Ida is the eldest.”
“If she had a son in the Guards it would make no difference,” said
Mackinnon. “There are men who consider themselves bound to make love to
a woman under certain circumstances, let the age of the lady be what it
may. O’Brien is such a one; and if she sympathises with him much
oftener, he will mistake the matter, and go down on his knees. You ought
to put him on his guard,” he said, addressing himself to his wife.
“Indeed, I shall do no such thing,” said she; “if they are two fools,
they must, like other fools, pay the price of their folly.” As a rule
there could be no softer creature than Mrs. Mackinnon; but it seemed to
me that her tenderness never extended itself in the direction of Mrs.
Talboys.
Just at this time, towards the end, that is, of November, we made a
party to visit the tombs which lie along the Appian Way, beyond that
most beautiful of all sepulchres, the tomb of Cecilia Metella. It was a
delicious day, and we had driven along this road for a couple of miles
beyond the walls of the city, enjoying the most lovely view which the
neighbourhood of Rome affords,--looking over the wondrous ruins of the
old aqueducts, up towards Tivoli and Palestrina. Of all the environs of
Rome this is, on a fair clear day, the most enchanting; and here
perhaps, among a world of tombs, thoughts and almost memories of the
old, old days come upon one with the greatest force. The grandeur of
Rome is best seen and understood from beneath the walls of the Coliseum,
and its beauty among the pillars of the Forum and the arches of the
Sacred Way; but its history and fall become more palpable to the mind,
and more clearly realised, out here among the tombs, where the eyes rest
upon the mountains whose shades were cool to the old Romans as to
us,--than anywhere within the walls of the city. Here we look out at the
same Tivoli and the same Præneste, glittering in the sunshine, embowered
among the far-off valleys, which were dear to them; and the blue
mountains have not crumbled away into ruins. Within Rome itself we can
see nothing as they saw it.
Our party consisted of some dozen or fifteen persons, and as a hamper
with luncheon in it had been left on the grassy slope at the base of the
tomb of Cecilia Metella, the expedition had in it something of the
nature of a picnic. Mrs. Talboys was of course with us, and Ida Talboys.
O’Brien also was there. The hamper had been prepared in Mrs. Mackinnon’s
room, under the immediate eye of Mackinnon himself, and they therefore
were regarded as the dominant spirits of the party. My wife was leagued
with Mrs. Mackinnon, as was usually the case; and there seemed to be a
general opinion among those who were closely in confidence together,
that something would happen in the O’Brien-Talboys matter. The two had
been inseparable on the previous evening, for Mrs. Talboys had been
urging on the young Irishman her counsels respecting his domestic
troubles. Sir Cresswell Cresswell, she had told him, was his refuge.
“Why should his soul submit to bonds which the world had now declared to
be intolerable? Divorce was not now the privilege of the dissolute rich.
Spirits which were incompatible need no longer be compelled to fret
beneath the same couples.” In short, she had recommended him to go to
England and get rid of his wife, as she would, with a little
encouragement, have recommended any man to get rid of anything. I am
sure that, had she been skilfully brought on to the subject, she might
have been induced to pronounce a verdict against such ligatures for the
body as coats, waistcoats, and trowsers. Her aspirations for freedom
ignored all bounds, and, in theory, there were no barriers which she was
not willing to demolish.
Poor O’Brien, as we all now began to see, had taken the matter amiss. He
had offered to make a bust of Mrs. Talboys, and she had consented,
expressing a wish that it might find a place among those who had devoted
themselves to the enfranchisement of their fellow-creatures. I really
think she had but little of a woman’s customary personal vanity. I know
she had an idea that her eye was lighted up in her warmer moments by
some special fire, that sparks of liberty shone round her brow, and that
her bosom heaved with glorious aspirations; but all these feelings had
reference to her inner genius, not to any outward beauty. But O’Brien
misunderstood the woman, and thought it necessary to gaze into her face,
and sigh as though his heart were breaking. Indeed he declared to a
young friend that Mrs. Talboys was perfect in her style of beauty, and
began the bust with this idea. It was gradually becoming clear to us all
that he would bring himself to grief; but in such a matter who can
caution a man?
Mrs. Mackinnon had contrived to separate them in making the carriage
arrangements on this day, but this only added fuel to the fire which was
now burning within O’Brien’s bosom. I believe that he really did love
her, in his easy, eager, susceptible Irish way. That he would get over
the little episode without any serious injury to his heart no one
doubted; but then, what would occur when the declaration was made? How
would Mrs. Talboys bear it?
“She deserves it,” said Mrs. Mackinnon.
“And twice as much,” my wife added. Why is it that women are so spiteful
to each other?
Early in the day Mrs. Talboys clambered up to the top of a tomb, and
made a little speech, holding a parasol over her head. Beneath her feet,
she said, reposed the ashes of some bloated senator, some glutton of the
empire, who had swallowed into his maw the provision necessary for a
tribe. Old Rome had fallen through such selfishness as that; but new
Rome would not forget the lesson. All this was very well, and then
O’Brien helped her down; but after this there was no separating them.
For her own part she would sooner have had Mackinnon at her elbow. But
Mackinnon now had found some other elbow. “Enough of that was as good
as a feast,” he had said to his wife. And therefore Mrs. Talboys, quite
unconscious of evil, allowed herself to be engrossed by O’Brien.
And then, about three o’clock, we returned to the hamper. Luncheon under
such circumstances always means dinner, and we arranged ourselves for a
very comfortable meal. To those who know the tomb of Cecilia Metella no
description of the scene is necessary, and to those who do not, no
description will convey a fair idea of its reality. It is itself a large
low tower of great diameter, but of beautiful proportion, standing far
outside the city, close on to the side of the old Roman way. It has been
embattled on the top by some latter-day baron, in order that it might be
used for protection to the castle, which has been built on and attached
to it. If I remember rightly, this was done by one of the Frangipani,
and a very lovely ruin he has made of it. I know no castellated old
tumble-down residence in Italy more picturesque than this baronial
adjunct to the old Roman tomb, or which better tallies with the ideas
engendered within our minds by Mrs. Radcliffe and the Mysteries of
Udolpho. It lies along the road, protected on, the side of the city by
the proud sepulchre of the Roman matron, and up to the long ruined walls
of the back of the building stretches a grassy slope, at the bottom of
which are the remains of an old Roman, circus. Beyond that is the long,
thin, graceful line of the Claudian aqueduct, with Soracte in the
distance to the left, and Tivoli, Palestine, and Frascati lying among
the hills which bound the view. That Frangipani baron was in the right
of it, and I hope he got the value of his money out of the residence
which he built for himself. I doubt, however, that he did but little
good to those who lived in his close neighbourhood.
We had a very comfortable little banquet seated on the broken lumps of
stone which lie about under the walls of the tomb. I wonder whether the
shade of Cecilia Metella was looking down upon us. We have heard much of
her in these latter days, and yet we know nothing about her, nor can
conceive why she was honoured with a bigger tomb than any other Roman
matron. There were those then among our party who believed that she
might still come back among us, and with due assistance from some
cognate susceptible spirit, explain to us the cause of her widowed
husband’s liberality. Alas, alas! if we may judge of the Romans by
ourselves, the true reason for such sepulchral grandeur would redound
little to the credit of the lady Cecilia Metella herself, or to that of
Crassus, her bereaved and desolate lord.
She did not come among us on the occasion of this banquet, possibly
because we had no tables there to turn in preparation for her presence;
but, had she done so, she could not have been more eloquent of things of
the other world than was Mrs. Talboys. I have said that Mrs. Talboys’
eye never glanced more brightly after a glass of champagne, but I am
inclined to think that on this occasion it may have done so. O’Brien
enacted Ganymede, and was, perhaps, more liberal than other latter-day
Ganymedes, to whose services Mrs. Talboys had been accustomed. Let it
not, however, be suspected by any one that she exceeded the limits of a
discreet joyousness. By no means! The generous wine penetrated, perhaps,
to some inner cells of her heart, and brought forth thoughts in
sparkling words, which otherwise might have remained concealed; but
there was nothing in what she thought or spoke calculated to give
umbrage either to an anchorite or to a vestal. A word or two she said or
sung about the flowing bowl, and once she called for Falernian; but
beyond this her converse was chiefly of the rights of man and the
weakness of women; of the iron ages that were past, and of the golden
time that was to come.
She called a toast and drank to the hopes of the latter historians of
the nineteenth century. Then it was that she bade O’Brien “Fill high the
bowl with Samian wine.” The Irishman took her at her word, and she
raised the bumper, and waved it over her head before she put it to her
lips. I am bound to declare that she did not spill a drop. “The true
‘Falernian grape,’” she said, as she deposited the empty beaker on the
grass beneath her elbow. Viler champagne I do not think I ever
swallowed; but it was the theory of the wine, not its palpable body
present there, as it were, in the flesh, which inspired her. There was
really something grand about her on that occasion, and her enthusiasm
almost amounted to reality.
Mackinnon was amused, and encouraged her, as, I must confess, did I
also. Mrs. Mackinnon made useless little signs to her husband, really
fearing that the Falernian would do its good offices too thoroughly. My
wife, getting me apart as I walked round the circle distributing viands,
remarked that “the woman was a fool, and would disgrace herself.” But I
observed that after the disposal of that bumper she worshipped the rosy
god in theory only, and therefore saw no occasion to interfere. “Come,
Bacchus,” she said; “and come, Silenus, if thou wilt; I know that ye are
hovering round the graves of your departed favourites. And ye, too,
nymphs of Egeria,” and she pointed to the classic grove which was all
but close to us as we sat there. “In olden days ye did not always
despise the abodes of men. But why should we invoke the presence of the
gods,--we, who can become godlike ourselves! We ourselves are the
deities of the present age. For us shall the tables be spread with
ambrosia; for us shall the nectar flow.”
Upon the whole it was very good fooling,--for awhile; and as soon as we
were tired of it we arose from our seats, and began to stroll about the
place. It was beginning to be a little dusk, and somewhat cool, but the
evening air was pleasant, and the ladies, putting on their shawls, did
not seem inclined at once to get into the carriages. At any rate, Mrs.
Talboys was not so inclined, for she started down the hill towards the
long low wall of the old Roman circus at the bottom; and O’Brien, close
at her elbow, started with her.
“Ida, my dear, you had better remain here,” she said to her daughter;
“you will be tired if you come as far as we are going.”
“Oh, no, mamma, I shall not,” said Ida. “You get tired much quicker than
I do.”
“Oh, yes, you will; besides I do not wish you to come.” There was an end
of it for Ida, and Mrs. Talboys and O’Brien walked off together, while
we all looked into each other’s faces.
“It would be a charity to go with them,” said Mackinnon.
“Do you be charitable, then,” said his wife.
“It should be a lady,” said he.
“It is a pity that the mother of the spotless cherubim is not here for
the occasion,” said she. “I hardly think that any one less gifted will
undertake such a self sacrifice.” Any attempt of the kind would,
however, now have been too late, for they were already at the bottom of
the hill. O’Brien had certainly drunk freely of the pernicious contents
of those long-necked bottles; and though no one could fairly accuse him
of being tipsy, nevertheless that which might have made others drunk had
made him bold, and he dared to do--perhaps more than might become a man.
If under any circumstances he could be fool enough to make an avowal of
love to Mrs. Talboys, he might be expected, as we all thought, to do it
now.
We watched them as they made for a gap in the wall which led through
into the large enclosed space of the old circus. It had been an arena
for chariot games, and they had gone down with the avowed purpose of
searching where might have been the meta, and ascertaining how the
drivers could have turned when at their full speed. For awhile we had
heard their voices,--or rather her voice especially. “The heart of a
man, O’Brien, should suffice for all emergencies,” we had heard her say.
She had assumed a strange habit of calling men by their simple names, as
men address each other. When she did this to Mackinnon, who was much
older than herself, we had been all amused by it, and other ladies of
our party had taken to call him “Mackinnon” when Mrs. Talboys was not
by; but we had felt the comedy to be less safe with O’Brien, especially
when, on one occasion, we heard him address her as Arabella. She did not
seem to be in any way struck by his doing so, and we supposed,
therefore, that it had become frequent between them. What reply he made
at the moment about the heart of a man I do not know;--and then in a few
minutes they disappeared through the gap in the wall.
None of us followed them, though it would have seemed the most natural
thing in the world to do so had nothing out of the way been expected. As
it was we remained there round the tomb quizzing the little foibles of
our dear friend, and hoping that O’Brien would be quick in what he was
doing. That he would undoubtedly get a slap in the
face--metaphorically--we all felt certain, for none of us doubted the
rigid propriety of the lady’s intentions. Some of us strolled into the
buildings, and some of us got out on to the road; but we all of us were
thinking that O’Brien was very slow a considerable time before we saw
Mrs. Talboys reappear through the gap.
At last, however, she was there, and we at once saw that she was alone.
She came on, breasting the hill with quick steps, and when she drew near
we could see that there was a frown as of injured majesty on her brow.
Mackinnon and his wife went forward to meet her. If she were really in
trouble it would be fitting in some way to assist her; and of all women
Mrs. Mackinnon was the last to see another woman suffer from ill-usage
without attempting to aid her. “I certainly never liked her,” Mrs.
Mackinnon said afterwards; “but I was bound to go and hear her tale,
when she really had a tale to tell.”
And Mrs. Talboys now had a tale to tell,--if she chose to tell it. The
ladies of our party declared afterwards that she would have acted more
wisely had she kept to herself both O’Brien’s words to her and her
answer. “She was well able to take care of herself,” Mrs. Mackinnon
said; “and, after all, the silly man had taken an answer when he got
it.” Not, however, that O’Brien had taken his answer quite immediately,
as far as I could understand from what we heard of the matter
afterwards.
At the present moment Mrs. Talboys came up the rising ground all alone,
and at a quick pace. “The man has insulted me,” she said aloud, as well
as her panting breath would allow her, and as soon as she was near
enough to Mrs. Mackinnon to speak to her.
“I am sorry for that,” said Mrs. Mackinnon. “I suppose he has taken a
little too much wine.”
“No; it was a premeditated insult. The base-hearted churl has failed to
understand the meaning of true, honest sympathy.”
“He will forget all about it when he is sober,” said Mackinnon, meaning
to comfort her.
“What care I what he remembers or what he forgets!” she said, turning
upon poor Mackinnon indignantly. “You men grovel so in your ideas----”
“And yet,” as Mackinnon said afterwards, “she had been telling me that I
was a fool for the last three weeks.”--“You men grovel so in your ideas,
that you cannot understand the feelings of a true-hearted woman. What
can his forgetfulness or his remembrance be to me? Must not I remember
this insult? Is it possible that I should forget it?”
Mr. and Mrs. Mackinnon only had gone forward to meet her; but,
nevertheless, she spoke so loud that all heard her who were still
clustered round the spot on which we had dined.
“What has become of Mr. O’Brien?” a lady whispered to me.
I had a field-glass with me, and, looking round, I saw his hat as he was
walking inside the walls of the circus in the direction towards the
city. “And very foolish he must feel,” said the lady.
“No doubt he is used to it,” said another.
“But considering her age, you know,” said the first, who might have been
perhaps three years younger than Mrs. Talboys, and who was not herself
averse to the excitement of a moderate flirtation. But then why should
she have been averse, seeing that she had not as yet become subject to
the will of any imperial lord?
“He would have felt much more foolish,” said the third, “if she had
listened to what he said to her.”
“Well I don’t know,” said the second; “nobody would have known anything
about it then, and in a few weeks they would have gradually become tired
of each other in the ordinary way.”