NATALIE SPEAKS.
It was about five in the morning, and as yet dark, when George Brand
arrived in Naples. He wrote a note asking Calabressa to call on him, and
left it to be despatched by the porter of the hotel; then he lay down
for an hour or two, without undressing, for he was somewhat fatigued
with his continuous travelling.
On going down to breakfast he got Calabressa's answer, saying he was
very sorry he could not obey the commands of his dear friend Monsieur
Brand, because he was on duty; but that he could be found, if Monsieur
Brand would have the goodness to seek out the wine-vaults of one
Tommaso, in the Vicolo Isotta. There, also, Monsieur Brand would see
some others.
Accordingly, after breakfast Brand set out, leisurely and observantly,
for he did not think there was any great hurry. It was a beautiful,
brisk, breezy morning, though occasionally a squall of rain swept across
the roughened sea, blotting out Capri altogether. There were crisp
gleams of white on the far plain, and there was a dazzling mist of
sunlight and sea-foam where the waves sprung high on the rocks of the
citadel; and even here in the busy streets there was a fresh sea-odor as
the gusts of the damp wind blew along. Naples was alive and busy, but
Brand regarded this swarming population with but little interest. He
knew that none of his friends would be out and abroad so early.
In due time he found out the gloomy little court and the wine-vaults.
Moreover, he had no trouble with the ghoul-like Tommaso, who had
apparently received his instructions. No sooner had Brand inquired for
Calabressa than he was invited to follow his guide, who waddled along,
candle in hand, like some over-grown orang-outang. At length they
reached the staircase, where there was a little more light, and here he
found Calabressa waiting to receive him. Calabressa seemed overjoyed.
"Yes, yes, my dear Monsieur Brand, you have arrived opportunely. You
also will remonstrate with that beautiful child for having fallen out
with her old friend Calabressa. Think of it! one who would wear his
knees out to serve her; and when I go to the hotel--"
"One word, Calabressa," said Brand, as he followed him into a small
empty room. "Tell me, is Lind in Naples?"
"Assuredly. He has petitioned for a year's grace: he wishes to join the
Montenegrins."
"He will have more than a year's grace," said Brand, gravely. "Something
has happened. You remember the man Kirski? Well, he has killed himself
to release Lind."
"Just Heaven!" Calabressa exclaimed; but the exclamation was one of
astonishment, not in the least of regret. On the contrary, he began to
speak in tones of exultation.
"Ah, let us hear now what the beautiful child will say! For who was it
that reclaimed that savage animal, and taught him the beautifulness of
self-sacrifice, and showed him how the most useless life could be made
serviceable and noble? Who but I? He was my pupil: I first watched the
light of virtue beginning to radiate through his savage nature. That is
what I will ask the beautiful Natalushka when I see her. Perhaps she
will not again turn away from an old friend--"
"You seem to forget, Calabressa, that your teaching has brought this man
to his death," Brand said.
"Why not?" said Calabressa, with a perfectly honest stare. "Why not? Was
it not well done? Was it not a fitting end? Why I, even I, who watched
him long, did not expect to see that: his savagery falling away from him
bit by bit; himself rising to this grand height, that he should give his
life to save another: I tell you it is a beautiful thing; he has
understood what I taught him; he has seen clear."
Calabressa was much excited, and very proud. It seemed to him that he
had saved a soul as he remarked in his ornate French.
"Perhaps it has all happened for the best," Brand said; "perhaps it was
the best that could have befallen that poor devil, too. But you are
mistaken, Calabressa, about his reasons for giving up his life like
that. It was not for the sake of a theory at all, admirable as your
teachings may have been; it was for the sake of Natalie Lind. He heard
she was in trouble, and he learned the cause of it. It was gratitude to
her--it was love for her--that made him do this."
Calabressa changed his ground in an instant.
"Assuredly--assuredly, my dear friend: do you think I fail to understand
that--I, who perceived that he worshipped that beautiful child as if she
were a saint, and more than all the saints--do you think I cannot mark
that--the sentiment of love, the fervor of worship, growing brighter and
purer day by day until it burst into the beautiful flame of
self-sacrifice? My faith! this must be told at once. Remain here a few
moments, my dear Mr. Brand. This is news indeed."
"Wait a bit, Calabressa. I came to you to get the name of Natalie's
hotel: and where is Lord Evelyn?"
"One moment--one moment," said the old albino, as he went out and shut
the door behind him.
When Calabressa ceased to talk in French, he ceased to use roundabout
literary sentimental metaphors; and his report, delivered in the next
room, would appear to have been brief enough; for almost immediately he
returned, accompanied by Von Zoesch, to whom Brand was introduced.
"I am honored in making your acquaintance," the tall soldier said, in a
pleasant way. "I have heard much of you; you are a good worker; likewise
you do not flinch when a duty is demanded of you. Perhaps, if you would
only condescend to re-enforce the treasury sometimes, the Council would
be still further grateful to you. However, we are not to become beggars
at a first interview--and that a short one, necessarily--for to-day we
start for Genoa."
"I am sorry for that," Brand said, simply. "There were some
representations I wished to lay before the Council--some very serious
representations."
"Perhaps some other time, then. In the meanwhile, our hands are full.
And that reminds me that the news you bring makes one of my tasks to-day
a pleasant one. Yes, I remember something of that maniac-fellow babbling
about a saint and an angel--I heard of it. So it was your beautiful Miss
Lind who was the saint and the angel? Well, do you know that I was
about to give that young lady a very good scolding to-day?"
Brand flushed quickly. The authority of the Council had no terrors for
him where Natalie was concerned.
"I beg to remind you," he said, respectfully but firmly, "that the fact
of Miss Lind's father being connected with the Society gives no one the
right to intermeddle in her private affairs--"
"Oh, but, my dear sir," said Von Zoesch laughing. "I have ample right.
Her mother Natalie and I are very old friends indeed. You have not seen
the charming young lady, then, since your arrival?"
"No."
"Excellent--excellent! You shall come and hear the scolding I have to
give her. Oh, I assure you it will not harm her much. Calabressa will
bring you along to the Villa Odelschalchi, eleven sharp. We must not
keep a lady--two ladies, indeed--waiting, after making an appointment."
He rose from the plain wooden chair on which he had been sitting; and
his visitor had to rise also. But Brand stood reluctant to go, and his
brows were drawn down.
"I beg your pardon," said he, "but if you are so busy, why not depute
some friend of the young lady to carry her a message? A girl is easily
frightened."
"No, no, my dear sir; having made an appointment, must we not keep it?
Come, I shall expect you to make one of the party; it will be a pleasant
little comedy before we go to more serious matters. _Au revoir!_" He
bowed slightly, and withdrew.
Some little time afterward Brand, Evelyn, and Calabressa were driving
along the rough streets in an open carriage. The presence of Lord Evelyn
had been a last concession obtained from General von Zoesch by
Calabressa.
"Why not?" Von Zoesch had said, good-naturedly; "he is one of us.
Besides, there is nothing of importance at Portici. It is a little
family party; it is a little comedy before we go to Genoa."
As they rattled along, Lord Evelyn was very talkative and joyous. He had
seen Natalie the evening before, within an hour after his arrival. He
was laughing at Brand for fearing she might have been induced to go to
some wretched inn.
"I myself, did I not say to you it was a beautiful hotel?" said
Calabressa, with a hurt air. "The most beautiful view in Naples."
"I think, after what she will hear to-day," said Evelyn, "she ought to
ask us to dine there. That would be an English way of finishing up all
her trials and troubles." But he turned to Calabressa with a graver
look. "What about Lind? Will they reinstate him now? Will they send him
back to England?"
"Reinstate him in office?" said Calabressa, with a scornful smile. "My
faith, no! Neither him nor Beratinsky. They will give them letters to
Montenegro: isn't it enough?"
"Well, I think so. And Reitzei?"
"Reitzei has been stationed at Brindisi--one of our moral police; and
lucky for him also."
When they arrived at the Villa Odelschalchi they were shown into a
little anteroom where they found Granaglia, and he was introduced to the
two strangers.
"Who have come?" Calabressa said, in a low voice.
The little sallow-faced Secretary smiled.
"Several Brothers of the Council," he said. "They wish to see this young
lady who has turned so many heads. You, for example, my Calabressa, are
mad with regard to her. Well, they pay her a compliment. It is the first
time any woman has been in the presence of the Council."
At this moment Von Zoesch came in, and hastily threw aside his
travelling-cloak.
"Come, my friends," said he, and he took them with him, leaving
Granaglia to receive the ladies when they should arrive.
The lofty and spacious apartment they now entered, on the other side of
the corridor, was apparently one of a suite of rooms facing the sea. Its
walls were decorated in Pompeian fashion, with simulated trellis-work,
and plenty of birds, beasts, and fishes about; but the massive curtains
and spreading chandeliers were all covered over as if the house had not
been inhabited for some time. All that was displayed of the furniture of
the chambers were some chairs of blue satin, with white and gold backs
and legs; and these looked strange enough, seeing that they were placed
irregularly round an oblong, rough deal table, which looked as if it had
just come from the workshop of some neighboring carpenter. At or near
this table several men, nearly all elderly, were sitting, talking
carelessly to each other; one of them, indeed, at the farthermost
corner, was a venerable patriarch, who wore a large soft wide-awake over
his snow-white hair. At the head of the table sat the handsome,
pale-faced, Greek-looking man who has been mentioned as one Conventz. He
was writing a letter, but stopped when Brand and Evelyn were introduced
to him. Then Calabressa drew in some more of the gilt and blue chairs,
and they sat down close by.
Brand kept anxiously looking toward the door. He had not long to wait.
When it opened, Granaglia appeared, conducting into the room two figures
dressed in black. These dark figures looked impressive in the great,
white, empty room.
For a second Natalie stood bewildered and irresolute, seeing all these
faces turned to her; and when her eyes fell on her lover, she turned
deadly pale. But she went forward, along with her mother, to the two
chairs brought for them by Granaglia, and they sat down. The mother was
veiled. Natalie glanced at her lover again; there was a strange look in
his face, but not of pain or fear.
"My dear young lady," said Von Zoesch, in his pleasantest way, "we have
nothing but good news to communicate to you, so you must not be alarmed.
You are among friends. We are going away to-day; we all wish to say
good-bye to you, and wish you a happy journey back to England; that is
all. But I will tell you that my first object in asking you to come here
was to give you a good rating; when you and I should have been alone
together I would have asked you if you had no consideration for old
friends, that you should have turned away from my colleague, Calabressa,
and wounded him grievously. I would have reminded you that it was not
he, but you yourself, who put the machinery in motion which secured your
father's righteous conviction."
"I ask you to spare me, signore," the girl said, in a low and trembling
voice.
"Oh, I am not now going to scold you, my dear young lady. I intended to
have done so. I intended to have shown you that you were wrong, and
exceedingly ungrateful, and that you ought to ask pardon of my friend
Calabressa. However, it is all changed. You need not fear him any more;
you need not turn away from him. Your father is pardoned, and free!"
She looked up, uncertain, as if she had not heard aright.
"I repeat: your father is pardoned, and free. You shall learn how and
why afterward. Meanwhile you have nothing before you, as I take it, but
to reap the reward of your bravery."
She did not hear this last sentence. She had turned quickly to her
mother.
"Mother, do you hear?" she said in a whisper.
"Yes, yes, child: thank God!"
"Now, you see, my dear young lady," Von Zoesch continued, "it is not a
scolding, but good news I have given you; and nothing remains but that
you should bid us good-bye, and say you are not sorry you appealed to us
when you were in trouble, according to the advice of your good friend
Calabressa. See, I have brought here with me a gentleman whom you know,
and who will see you safe back to Naples, and to England; and another,
his companion, who is also, I understand, an old friend of yours: you
will have a pleasant party. Your father will be sent to join in a good
cause, where he may retrieve his name if he chooses; you and your
friends go back to England. So I may say that all your wishes are
gratified at last, and we have nothing now but to say good-bye!"
The girl had been glancing timidly and nervously at the figures grouped
round the table, and her breast was heaving. She rose; perhaps it was to
enable herself to speak more freely; perhaps it was only out of
deference to those seated there.
"No," she said, in a low voice, but it was heard clearly enough in the
silence. "I--I would say a word to you--whom I may not see again. Yes, I
thank you--from my heart; you have taken a great trouble away from my
life. I--I thank you; but there is something I would say."
She paused for a second. She was very pale. She seemed to be nerving
herself for some effort; and, strangely enough, her mother's hand,
unseen, was stretched up to her, and she clasped it and held it tight.
It gave her courage.
"It is true, I am only a girl; you are my elders, and you are men; but I
have known good and brave men who were not ashamed to listen to what a
woman thought was right; and it is as a woman that I speak to you," she
said; and her voice, low and timid as it was, had a strange, pathetic
vibration in it, that went to the heart. "I have suffered much of late.
I hope no other woman will ever suffer in the same way."
Again she hesitated, but for the last time.
"Oh, gentlemen, you who are so powerful, you who profess to seek only
mercy and justice and peace, why should you, also, follow the old, bad,
cruel ways, and stain yourselves with blood? Surely it is not for you,
the friends of the poor, the champions of the weak, the teachers of the
people, to rely on the weapon of the assassin! When you go to the world,
and seek for help and labor, surely you should go with clean hands--so
that the wives and the sisters and the daughters of those who may join
you may not have their lives made terrible to them. It is not a reign
of terror you would establish on the earth! For the sake of those who
have already joined you--for the sake of the far greater numbers who may
yet be your associates--I implore you to abandon these secret and
dreadful means. Surely, gentlemen, the blessing of Heaven is more likely
to follow you and crown your work if you can say to every man whom you
ask to join you, 'You have women-folk around you. They have tender
consciences, perhaps; but we will ask of you nothing that your sister or
your wife or your daughter would not approve.' Then good men will not be
afraid of you; then brave men will not have to stifle their conscience
in serving you; and whether you succeed or do not succeed, you will have
walked in clear ways."
Her mother felt that she was trembling; but her voice did not
tremble--beyond that pathetic thrill in it which was always there when
she was deeply moved.
"I have to beg your pardon, sir," she said, addressing herself more
particularly to Von Zoesch, but scarcely daring to lift her eyes.
"But--but do not think that, when you have made everything smooth for a
woman's happiness, she can then think only of herself. She also may
think a little about others; and even with those who are nearest and
dearest to her, how can she bear to know that perhaps they may be
engaged in something dark and hidden, something terrible--not because it
involves danger but because it involves shame? Gentlemen, if you choose,
you can do this. I appeal to you. I implore you. If you do not seek the
co-operation of women--well, that is a light matter; you have our
sympathy and love and gratitude--at least you can pursue ways and means
of which women can approve; ways and means of which no one, man or
woman, needs be ashamed. How otherwise are you what you profess to
be--the lovers of what is just and true and merciful?"
She sat down, still all trembling. She held her mother's hand. There was
a murmur of sympathy and admiration.
Brand turned to Von Zoesch, and said, in a low voice,
"You hear, sir? These are the representations I had wished to lay before
the Council. I have not a word to add."
"We will consider by-and-by," said Von Zoesch, rising. "It is not a
great matter. Come to me in Genoa as you pass through."
But the tall old gentleman with the long white hair had already risen
and gone round to where the girl sat, and put his hand on her shoulder.
"My noble child, you have spoken well," said he, in a quavering, feeble
voice, "Forgive me that I come so near; my eyes are very weak now; and
you--you do not recognize me any more?"
"Anton!" said the mother.
"Child," said he, still addressing Natalie, "it is old Anton Pepczinski
who is speaking to you. But you are disturbed; and I have greatly
changed, no doubt. No matter. I have travelled a long way to bring you
my blessing, and I give it to you now: I shall not see you again in this
world. You were always brave and good; be that to the end; God has given
you a noble soul."
She looked up, and something in her face told him that she had
recognized him, despite the changes time had made.
"Yes, yes," he said, in great delight; "you remember now that you used
to bring me tobacco for my pipe, and ask if I would fight for your
country; I can see it in your eyes, my child: you remember, then, the
old Anton Pepczinski who used to bring you sweet things? Now come and
take me to the English gentleman; I wish to speak to him. Tell me, does
he love you--does he understand you?"
She was silent, and embarrassed.
"No! you will not speak?" the old man said, laughing; "you cast your
eyes down again. See, now, how one changes! for in former days you made
love openly enough--oh yes!--to me, to me myself--oh, my dear, I can
remember. I can remember very well. I am not so old that I cannot
remember."
Brand rose when he saw them coming. She regarded him earnestly for a
brief second or two, and said something to him in English in an
undertone, not understood by those standing round.