Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel

CHAPTER XVIII. THE DROP

The morning was already far advanced and the sun high when Gerald awoke. The heavy dews had penetrated his frail clothing and chilled him, while the hot gleam of the sun glowed fiercely on his face and temples. He was so confused besides, by his dream and by the objects about him, that he sat vainly endeavouring to remember how and why he had come there.

One by one, like stragglers falling into line, his wandering faculties came back, and he bethought him of the poet’s house, Alfieri himself, the Duchess, and lastly, of his quarrel with Marietta – an incident which, do what he might, seemed utterly unaccountable to him. If he felt persuaded that he was in the right throughout, the persuasion gave him no pleasure – far from it. It had been infinitely easier for him now, if he had wronged her, to seek her forgiveness, than forgive himself for having offended her. She, so devoted to him! She, who had taken such pains to teach him all the excellences of the poets she loved; who had stored his mind with Petrarch, and filled his imagination with Ariosto; who taught him to recognise in himself feelings, and thoughts, and hopes akin to those their heroes felt, and thus elevated him in his own esteem. And what a genius was hers! – how easily she adapted herself to each passing mood, and was gay or sorrowful, volatile or passionate, as fancy inclined her. How instinctively her beautiful features caught up the expression of each passion; how wild the transports of her joy; how terrible the agonies of her hatred!

With what fine subtlety, too, she interpreted all she read, discovering hidden meanings, and eliciting springs of action from words apparently insignificant; and then her memory, was it not inexhaustible? An image, a passing simile from a poet she loved, was enough to bring up before her whole cantos; and thus, stored with rich gems of thought, her conversation acquired a grace and a charm that were actual fascination. And was he now to tear himself away from charms like these, and for ever, too? But why was she displeased with him? how had he offended her? Surely it was not the notice of the great poet had awakened her jealousy; and yet, when she thought over her own great gifts, the many attractions she herself possessed – claims to notice far greater than his could ever be – Gerald felt that she might well have resented this neglect.

‘And how much of this is my own fault?’ cried he aloud. ‘Why did I not tell the poet of her great genius? Why not stimulate his curiosity to see and hear her? How soon would he have recognised the noble qualities of her nature!’

Angry with himself, and eager to repair the injustice he had done, he arose and set out for the city, resolved to see Alfieri, and proclaim all Marietta’s accomplishments and talents.

‘He praised me last night,’ muttered he, as he went along; ‘but what will he say of her? She shall recite for him the “Didone,” the lines beginning,

If his heart does not thrill as he listens, he is more or less than man! He shall hear, too, his own “Cleopatra” uttered in accents that he never dreamed of. And then she shall vary her mood, and sing him one of ter Sicilian barcarolles, or dance the Tiranna. Ah, Signor Poeta,’ said he aloud, * even thy lofty imagination shall gain by gazing upon one gifted and beautiful as she is.’

When Gerald reached the Roman gate he found a large cavalcade making its exit through the deep archway, and the crowd, falling back, made way for the mounted party. Upward of twenty cavaliers and ladies rode past, each mounted and followed by a numerous suite, whose equipment proclaimed the party to be of rank and consideration. As Gerald stood aside to make place for them to pass, a pair of dark eyes were darted keenly toward him, and a deep voice called out:

‘There’s my Cerretano, that I was telling you about! Gherardi, boy, what brings thee here?’

Gerald looked up and saw it was the poet who addressed him; but before he could summon courage to answer, Alfieri said:

‘Thou didst promise to be with me this morning early, and hast forgotten it all, not to say that thou wert to equip thyself in something more suitable than this motley. Never mind, come along with us. Cesare, give him your pony; he is quiet and easy to ride. Fair ladies all,’ added he, addressing the party, ‘this youth declaims the verse of Alfieri as such a great poet merits. Gherardi mio, this is a public worthy of thy best efforts to please. Get into the saddle; it’s the surest, not to say the pleasantest, way to jog toward Parnassus!’

Gerald was not exactly in the mood to like this bantering; he was ill at ease with himself, and not over well satisfied with the world at large, and he had half turned to decline the poet’s invitation, when a gentle voice addressed him, saying:

‘Pray be my cavalier, Signorino; you see I have none.’

‘Not ours the fault, Madame la Marquise,’ quickly retorted Alfieri; ‘you rejected us each in turn. Felice was too dull, Adriano too lively, Giorgio was vain, and I – I forget what I was.’

‘Worst of all, a great genius in the full blaze of his glory. No; I ‘ll take Signor Gherardi – that is, if he will permit me.’

Gerald took off his cap and bowed deeply in reply; as he lifted his head he beheld for the first time the features of her who addressed him. She was a lady no longer young, past even the prime of life, but retaining still something more than the traces of what had once been great beauty: fair brown hair, and blue eyes shaded by long dark lashes, preserved to her face a semblance of youthfulness; and there was a coquetry in her riding-dress – the hat looped up with a richly jewelled band, and the front of her habit embroidered in gold – which showed that she maintained pretensions to be noticed and honoured.

As Gerald rode along at her side, she drew him gradually and easily into conversation, with the consummate art of one who had brought the gift to high perfection. She knew how to lead a timid talker on, to induce him to venture on opinions, and even try and sustain them. She understood well, besides, when and how, and how far, to offer a dissent, and at what moments to appear to yield convictions to another. She possessed all that graceful tact which supplies to mere chit-chat that much of epigram that elevates, without pedantry; a degree of point that stimulates, yet never wounds.

‘The resemblance is marvellous!’ whispered she to Alfieri, as he chanced to ride up beside her; ‘and not only in look, but actually in voice, and in many a trick of gesture.’

‘I knew you ‘ll see it!’ cried the poet triumphantly.

‘And can nothing be known about his history? Surely we could trace him.’

‘I like the episode better as it is,’ said he carelessly. ‘Some vulgar fact might, like a rude blow, demolish the whole edifice one’s fancy had nigh completed. There he stands now, handsome, gifted, and a mystery. What could add to the combination?’

‘The secret of an illustrious birth,’ whispered the Marquise.

‘I lean to the other view. I ‘d rather fancy nature had some subtle design of her own, some deep-wrought scheme to work out by this strange counterfeit.’

‘Yes, Gherardi,’ as the youth looked suddenly around; ‘yes, Gherardi,’ said she, ‘we were talking of you, and of your likeness to one with whom we were both acquainted.’

‘If it be to that prince whose picture I saw last night,’ replied he, ‘I suspect the resemblance goes no further than externals. There can be, indeed, little less like a princely station than mine.’

‘Ah, boy!’ broke in the poet, ‘there will never be in all your history as sad a fate as has befallen him.’

‘I envy one whose fortune admits of reverses!’ said Gerald peevishly. ‘Better be storm-tossed than never launched.’

‘I declare,’ whispered the Marquise, ‘as he spoke there, I could have believed it was Monsieur de Saint George himself I was listening to. Those little wayward bursts of temper – ’

‘Summer lightnings,’ broke in Alfieri.

‘Just so: they mean nothing, they herald nothing:

‘True,’ said the poet; ‘but, harmless as these elemental changes seem, we forget how they affect others – what blights they often leave in their track:

‘It was Fabri wrote that line,’ said Gerald, catching at the quotation.

‘Yes, Madame la Marquise,’ said Alfieri, answering the quickly darted glances of the lady’s eyes, ‘this youth has read all sorts of authors. A certain Signor Gabriel, with whom he sojourned months long in the Maremma, introduced him to Voltaire, Diderot, and Rousseau: his own discursive tastes added others to the list.’

‘Gabriel! Gabriel! It could not be that it was – ’ and here she bent over and whispered a word in Alfieri’s ear.

A sudden start and an exclamation of surprise burst from the poet.

‘Tell us what your friend Gabriel was like.’

‘I can tell you how he described himself,’ said Gerald. ‘He said he was:

‘Oh, then, it was he!’ exclaimed the Marquise. ‘Tell us, I pray you, how fortune came to play you so heartless a trick as to make you this man’s friend?’

Half reluctantly, almost resentfully, Gerald replied to this question by relating the incidents that had befallen him in the Maremma, and how he had subsequently lived for months the companion of this strange associate.

‘What marvellous lessons of evil, boy, has he not instilled into you! Tell me frankly, has he not made you suspectful of every one – distrusting all friendship, disowning all obligations, making affection seem a mockery, and woman a cheat?’

‘I have heard good and bad from his lips. If he spoke hastily of the world at times, mayhap it had not treated him with too much kindness. Indeed he said as much to me, and that it was not his fault that he thought so meanly of mankind.’

‘What poison this to pour into a young heart!’ broke in Alfieri. ‘The cattle upon the thousand hills eat not of noxious herbage; their better instincts protect them, even where seductive fruits and flowers woo their tastes. It is man alone is beguiled by false appearances, and this out of the very subtlety of his own nature. The plague-spot of the heart is distrust!’

‘These are better teachings, boy, than Signor Gabriel’s,’ said the lady.

‘You know him, then?’ asked Gerald.

‘I have little doubt that we are speaking of the same person; and if so, not I alone, but all Europe knows him.’

Gerald burned to inquire further, to know who and what this mysterious man was, how he had earned the terrible reputation that attended him, and what charges were alleged against him. He could not dare, however, to put questions in such a presence, and he sat moodily thinking over the issue.

Diverging from the high-road, they now entered a pathway which led through the vineyards and the olive groves, and, being narrow, Gerald found himself side by side with the Marquise, without any other near. Here, at length, his curiosity mastered all reserve, and plucking up courage for the effort, he said —

‘If my presumption were not too bold, madame, I would deem it a great favour to be permitted to ask you something of this Signor Gabriel. I know and feel that, do what I will, reason how I may, reject what I can, yet still his words have eaten down deep into my heart; and if I cannot put some antidote there against their influence, that they will sway me even against myself,’

‘First, let me hear how he represented himself to you. Was he as a good man grossly tricked and cheated by the world, his candour imposed on, his generosity betrayed? Did he picture a noble nature basely trifled with?’

‘No, no,’ broke in Gerald; ‘he said, indeed, at first he felt disposed to like his fellow-men, but that the impulse was unprofitable; that the true philosophy was unbelief. Still he avowed that he devoted himself to every indulgence; that happiness meant pleasure, pleasure excess; that out of the convulsive throes of the wildest debauchery, great and glorious sensations, ennobling thoughts spring – just as the volcano in full eruption throws up gold amid the lava: and he bade me, if I would know myself, to taste of this same existence.’

‘Poor boy, these were trying temptations,’

‘Not so,’ broke in Gerald proudly; ‘I wanted to be something better and greater than this,’

‘And what would you be?’ asked the Marquise, as she turned a look of interest on him.

‘Oh, if a heart’s yearning could do it,’ cried Gerald warmly, ‘I would be like him who rides yonder; I would be one whose words would give voice to many an unspoken emotion – who could make sad men hopeful, and throw over the dreariest waste of existence the soft, mild light of ideal happiness.’