In the course of his solitary meditations, after Ludovico’s departure,
Charney was compelled to admit that, in his relations with the jailer,
the man of genius and education had fallen below the level of the man of
the people. To what wretched subterfuges had he descended, in order to
practice upon the feelings of this kind-hearted and simple being! He had
even soiled his noble lips with an untruth.
He was startled to discover the services recently rendered by Ludovico to
the “_povera picciola_.” The boor, the jailer, morose only when invited
to a breach of duty, had actually watched him in secret, not to exult
over his weakness, but to render him a service; nay, by his obstinate
disinterestedness, the man persisted in imposing an obligation on the
Count de Charney.
In his walk next morning, the Count hastened to share, with his little
favourite, the cruise of water allotted to his use; not only watering
the roots, but sprinkling the plant itself, to refresh its leaves
from dust or insects. While thus occupied, the sky became darkened by
a thunder-cloud, suspended like a black dome over the turrets of the
fortress. Large rain-drops began to fall: and Charney was about to take
refuge in his room, when a few hail-stones mingling with the rain,
pattered down on the pavement of the court. _La povera picciola_ seemed
on the point of being uprooted by the whirlwind which accompanied the
storm. Her dishevelled branches and leaves shrinking up towards their
stalks for protection against the chilling shower, trembled with every
driving blast of wind that howled, as if in triumph, through the court.
Charney paused. Recalling to mind the reproaches of Ludovico, he looked
eagerly around for some object to defend his plant from the storm; but
nothing could be seen. The hail-stones came rattling down with redoubled
force, threatening destruction to its tender stem; and, notwithstanding
Charney’s experience of its power of resistance against such attacks,
he grew uneasy for its safety. With an effort of tenderness, worthy of
a father or a lover, he stationed himself between his protegée and the
wind, bending over her, to secure her from the hail; and, breathless with
his struggles against the violence of the storm, devoted himself, like a
martyr, to the defence of _la picciola_.
At length the hurricane subsided. But might not a recurrence of the
mischief bring destruction to his favourite at some moment when bolts
and bars divided her from her protector? He had already found cause to
tremble for her safety, when the wife of Ludovico, accompanied by a huge
mastiff, one of the guardians of the prison, occasionally traversed the
yard; for a single stroke with its paw, or a snap of its mouth, might
have annihilated the darling of the philosophical captive; and Charney
accordingly passed the remainder of the day in concocting a plan of
fortification.
The moderate portion of wood allowed him for fuel, scarcely supplied his
wants in a climate whose nights and mornings are so chilly, in a chamber
debarred from all warmth of sunshine. Yet he resolved to sacrifice his
comfort to the safety of the plant. He promised himself to retire early
to rest, and rise later; by which means, after a few days of self-denial,
he amassed sufficient wood for his purpose.
“Glad to see you have more fuel than you require,” cried Ludovico, on
noticing the little stock. “Shall I clear the room for you of all this
lumber?”
“Not for the world,” replied Charney, with a smile. “I am hoarding it to
build a palace for my lady-love.”
The jailer gave a knowing wink, which signified, however, that he
understood not a word about the matter.
Meanwhile, Charney set about splitting and pointing the uprights of his
bastions; and carefully laid aside the osier bands which served to tie
up his daily fagots. He next tore from his trunk its lining of coarse
cloth; out of which he drew the strongest threads: and his materials
thus prepared, he commenced his operations the moment the rules of the
prison and the exactitude of the jailer would admit. He surrounded his
plant with palisades of unequal height, carefully inserted between the
stones of the pavement, and secured at the base by a cement of earth,
laboriously collected from the interstices, and mortar and saltpetre
secretly abstracted from the ancient turret-walls around him. When the
labours of the carpenter and mason were achieved, he began to interlace
his scaffolding at intervals with split osiers, to screen _la picciola_
from the shock of exterior objects.
The completion of his work acquired, during its progress, new importance
in his eyes, from the opposition of Ludovico. The jailer shook his head
and grumbled when first he noticed the undertaking. But before the close
of the performance the kind-hearted fellow withdrew his disapprobation;
nay, would even smoke his pipe, leaning against the wicket of the
courtyard, and watching, with a smile, the efforts of the unpractised
mechanic; interrupting himself in the enjoyment of his favourite
recreation, however, to favour Charney with occasional counsels, the
result of his own experience.
The work progressed rapidly; but, to render it perfect, the Count was
under the necessity of sacrificing a portion of his scanty bedding;
purloining handfuls of straw from his palliasse, in order to band up
the interstices of his basket-work, as a shelter against the mountain
wind, and the fierceness of the meridian sun, which in summer would be
reflected from the flint of the adjacent wall.
One evening, a sudden breeze arose, after Charney had been locked in
for the night—and the yard was quickly strewn with scattered straws and
slips of osier, which had not been worked in with sufficient solidity.
Charney promised himself to counteract next day the ill effects of his
carelessness; but on reaching the court at the usual hour, he found
that all the mischief had been neatly repaired: a hand more expert than
his own had replaced the matting and palisades. It was not difficult to
guess to whom he was indebted for this friendly interposition. Meanwhile,
thanks to her friend—_thanks to her friends_, the plant was now secured
by solid ramparts and roofing: and Charney, attaching himself, according
to the common frailty of human nature, more tenderly to the object on
which he was conferring obligation, had the satisfaction to see the plant
expand with redoubled powers, and acquire new beauties every hour. It was
a matter of deep interest to observe the progress of its consolidation.
The herbaceous stem was now acquiring ligneous consistency. A glossy
bark began to surround the fragile stalk; and already, the gratified
proprietor of this gratuitous treasure entertained eager hopes of the
appearance of flowers among its leaves. The man of paralysed nerves—the
man of frost-bound feelings, had at length found something to wish
for! The action of his lofty intellect was at last concentrated into
adoration of an herb of the field. Even as the celebrated Quaker, John
Bartram, resolved, after studying for hours the organization of a violet,
to apply his powers of mind to the analysis of the vegetable kingdom,
and eventually acquired high eminence among the masters of botanical
science, Charney became a natural philosopher.
A learned pundit of Malabar is said to have lost his reason in attempting
to expound the phenomena of the sensitive plant. But the Count de Charney
seemed likely to be restored to the use of _his_ by studies of a similar
nature; and, sane or insane, he had at least already extracted from his
plant an arcanum sufficiently potent to dispel the weariness of ennui,
and enlarge the limit of his captivity.
“If it would but flower!” he frequently exclaimed, “what a delight to
hail the opening of its first blossom! a blossom whose beauty, whose
fragrance, will be developed for the sole enjoyment of my eager senses.
What will be its colour, I wonder! what the form of its petals?—time will
show! Perhaps they may afford new premises for conjecture—new problems
for solution. Perhaps the conceited gipsy will offer a new challenge to
my understanding? So much the better! Let my little adversary arm herself
with all her powers of argument. I will not prejudge the case. Perhaps,
when thus complete, the secret of her mysterious nature will be apparent?
How I long for the moment! Bloom, picciola! bloom—and reveal yourself in
all your beauty to him to whom you are indebted for the preservation of
your life!”
“PICCIOLA!” Such is the name, then, which, borrowed from the lips
of Ludovico, Charney has involuntarily bestowed upon his favourite!
“Picciola!” _la povera picciola_, was the designation so tenderly
appropriated by the jailer to the _poor little thing_ which Charney’s
neglect had almost allowed to perish.
“Picciola!” murmured the solitary captive, when every morning he
carefully searched its already tufted foliage for indications of
inflorescence; “when will these wayward flowers make their appearance!”
The Count seemed to experience pleasure in the mere pronunciation of a
name uniting in his mind the images of the two objects which peopled his
solitude—his jailer and his plant!
Returning one morning to the accustomed spot, and, as usual,
interrogating Picciola branch by branch, leaf by leaf, his eyes were
suddenly attracted towards a shoot of unusual form, gracing the principal
stem of the plant. He felt the beatings of his heart accelerated, and,
ashamed of his weakness, the colour rose to his cheek, as he stooped for
re-examination of the event. The spherical shape of the excrescence which
presented itself, green, bristly, and imbricated with glossy scales, like
the slates of a rounded dome surmounting an elegant kiosk, announced a
bud! Eureka! A flower must be at hand!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]