In this age of the world, when everybody has been everywhere, seen everything, and talked with everybody, it may savor of an impertinence if we ask of our reader if he has ever been at Massa. It may so chance that he has not, and, if so, as assuredly has he yet an untasted pleasure before him.
Now, to be sure, Massa is not as it once was. The little Duchy, whose capital it formed, has been united to a larger state. The distinctive features of a metropolis, and the residence of a sovereign prince, are gone. The life and stir and animation which surround a court have subsided; grass-grown streets and deserted squares replace the busy movement of former days; a dreamy weariness seems to have fallen over every one, as though life offered no more prizes for exertion, and that the day of ambition was set forever. Yet are there features about the spot which all the chances and changes of political fortune cannot touch. Dynasties may fall, and thrones crumble, but the eternal Apennines will still rear their snow-clad summits towards the sky. Along the vast plain of ancient olives the perfumed wind will still steal at evening, and the blue waters of the Mediterranean plash lazily among the rocks, over which the myrtle and the arbutus are hanging. There, amidst them all, half hid in clustering vines, bathed in soft odors from orange-groves, with plashing fountains glittering in the sun, and foaming streams gushing from the sides of marble mountains,—there stands Massa, ruined, decayed, and deserted, but beautiful in all its desolation, and fairer to gaze on than many a scene where the tide of human fortune is at the flood.
As you wander there now, passing the deep arch over which, hundreds of feet above you, the ancient fortress frowns, and enter the silent streets, you would find it somewhat difficult to believe how, a very few years back, this was the brilliant residence of a court,—the gay resort of strangers from every land of Europe,—that showy equipages traversed these weed-grown squares, and highborn dames swept proudly beneath these leafy alleys. Hard, indeed, to fancy the glittering throng of courtiers, the merry laughter of light-hearted beauty, beneath these trellised shades, where, moodily and slow, some solitary figure now steals along, “pondering sad thoughts over the bygone!”
But a few, a very few years ago, and Massa was in the plenitude of its prosperity. The revenues of the state were large,—more than sufficient to have maintained all that such a city could require, and nearly enough to gratify every caprice of a prince whose costly tastes ranged over every theme, and found in each a pretext for reckless expenditure. He was one of those men whom Nature, having gifted largely, “takes out” the compensation by a disposition of instability and fickleness that renders every acquirement valueless. He could have been anything,—orator, poet, artist, soldier, statesman; and yet, in the very diversity of his abilities there was that want of fixity of purpose that left him ever short of success, till he himself, wearied by repeated failures, distrusted his own powers, and ceased to exert them.
Such a man, under the hard pressure of a necessity, might have done great things; as it was, born to a princely station, and with a vast fortune, he became a reckless spendthrift,—a dreamy visionary at one time, an enthusiastic dilettante at another. There was not a scheme of government he had not eagerly embraced and abandoned in turn. He had attracted to his little capital all that Europe could boast of artistic excellence, and as suddenly he had thrown himself into the most intolerant zeal of Papal persecution,—denouncing every species of pleasure, and ordaining a more than monastic self-denial and strictness. There was only one mode of calculating what he might be, which was, by imagining the very opposite to what he then was. Extremes were his delight, and he undulated between Austrian tyranny and democratic licentiousness in politics, just as he vacillated between the darkest bigotry of his church and open infidelity.
At the time when we desire to present him to our readers (the exact year is not material), he was fast beginning to weary of an interregnum of asceticism and severity. He had closed theatres, and suppressed all public rejoicings; and for an entire winter he had sentenced his faithful subjects to the unbroken sway of the Priest and the Friar,—a species of rule which had banished all strangers from the Duchy, and threatened, by the injury to trade, the direst consequences to his capital. To have brought the question formally before him in all its details would have ensured the downfall of any minister rash enough for such daring. There was, indeed, but one man about the court who had courage for the enterprise; and to him we would devote a few lines as we pass. He was an Englishman, named Stubber. He had originally come out to Italy with horses for his Highness, and been induced, by good offers of employment, to remain. He was not exactly stable-groom, nor trainer, nor was he of the dignity of master of the stables; but he was something whose attributes included a little of all, and something more. One thing he assuredly was,—a consummately clever fellow, who could apply all his native Yorkshire shrewdness to a new sphere, and make of his homespun faculties the keen intelligence by which he could guide himself in novel and difficult circumstances.
A certain freedom of speech, with a bold hardihood of character, based, it is true, upon a conscious sense of honor, had brought him more than once under the notice of the Prince. His Highness felt such pleasure in the outspoken frankness of the man that he frequently took opportunities of conversing with him, and even asking his advice. Never deterred by the subject, whatever it was, Stubber spoke out his mind; and by the very force of strong native sense, and an unswerving power of determination, soon impressed his master that his best counsels were to be had from the Yorkshire jockey, and not from the decorated and gilded throng who filled the antechambers.
To elevate the groom to the rank of personal attendant, to create him a Chevalier, and then a Count, were all easy steps to such a Prince. At the time we speak of, Stubber was chief of the Cabinet,—the trusted adviser of his master in knottiest questions of foreign politics, the arbiter of the most difficult points with other states, the highest authority in home affairs, and the absolute ruler over the Duke's household and all who belonged to it. He was one of those men of action who speedily distinguish themselves wherever the game of life is being played. Smart to discern the character of those around him, prompt to avail himself of their knowledge, little hampered by the scruples which conventionalities impose on men bred in a higher station, he generally attained his object before others had arranged their plans to oppose him. To these qualities he added a rugged, unflinching honesty, and a loyal attachment to the person of his Prince. Strong in his own conscious rectitude, and in the confiding regard of his sovereign, Stubber stood alone against all the wiles and machinations of his formidable rivals.
Were we giving a history of this curious court and its intrigues, we could relate some strange stories of the mechanism by which states are ruled. We have, however, no other business with the subject than as it enters into the domain of our own story, and to this we return.
It was a calm evening of the early autumn, as the Prince, accompanied by Stubber alone, and unattended by even a groom, rode along one of the alleys of the olive wood which skirts the sea-shore beneath Massa. His Highness was unusually moody and thoughtful, and as he sauntered carelessly along, seemed scarcely to notice the objects about him.
“What month are we in, Stubber?” asked he, at length.
“September, Altezza,” was the short reply.
“Per Bacco! so it is; and in this very month we were to have been in Bohemia with the Archduke Stephen,—the best shooting in all Europe, and the largest stock of pheasants in the whole world, perhaps; and I, that love field-sports as no man ever loved them! Eh, Stubber?” and he turned abruptly round to seek a confirmation of what he asserted. Either Stubber did not fully agree in the judgment, or did not deem it necessary to record his concurrence; but the Prince was obliged to reiterate his statement, adding, “I might say, indeed, it is the one solitary dissipation I have ever permitted myself.”
Now, this was a stereotyped phrase of his Highness, and employed by him respecting music, literature, field-sports, picture-buying, equipage, play, and a number of other pursuits not quite so pardonable, in each of which, for the time, his zeal would seem to be exclusive.
A scarcely audible ejaculation—a something like a grunt—from Stubber, was the only assent to this proposition.
“And here I am,” added the Prince, testily, “the only man of my rank in Europe, perhaps, without society, amusement, or pleasure, condemned to the wearisome details of a petty administration, and actually a slave,—yes, sir, I say, a slave—What the deuce is this? My horse is sinking above his pasterns. Where are we, Stubber?” and with a vigorous dash of the spurs he extricated himself from the deep ground.
“I often told your Highness that these lands were ruined for want of drainage. You may remark how poor the trees are along here; the fruit, too, is all deteriorated,—all for want of a little skill and industry. And, if your Highness remarked the appearance of the people in that village, every second man has the ague on him.”
“They did look very wretched. And why is it not drained? Why isn't everything done as it ought, Stubber, eh?”
“Why is n't your Highness in Bohemia?”
“Want of means, my good Stubber; no money. My man, Landelli, tells me the coffer is empty; and until this new tax on the Colza comes in, we shall have to live on our credit or our wits,—I forget which, but I conclude they are about equally productive.”
“Landelli is a ladro,” said Stubber. “He has money enough to build a new wing to his château in Serravezza, and to give fifty thousand scudi of fortune to his daughter, though he can't afford your Highness the common necessaries of your station.”
“Per Bacco! Billy, you are right; you must look into these accounts yourself. They always confuse me.”
“I have looked into them, and your Highness shall have two hundred thousand francs to-morrow on your dressing-table, and as much more within the week.”
“Well done, Billy! you are the only fellow who can unmask these rogueries. If I had only had you with me long ago! Well! well! well! it is too late to think of it. What shall we do with this money? Bohemia is out of the question now. Shall we rebuild the San Felice? It is really too small; the stage is crowded with twenty people on it. There's that gate towards Carrara, when is it to be completed? There's a figure wanted for the centre pedestal. As for the fountain, it must be done by the municipality. It is essentially the interest of the townspeople. You 'd advise me to spend the money in draining these low lands, or in a grant to that new company for a pier at Marina; but I 'll not; I have other thoughts in my head. Why should not this be the centre of art to the whole Peninsula? Carrara is a city of sculptors. Why not concentrate their efforts here—by a gallery? I have myself some glorious things,—the best group Canova ever modelled; the original Ariadne too,—far finer than the thing people go to see at Frankfort. Then there's Tanderini's Shepherd with the Goats.—Who lives yonder, Stubber? What a beautiful garden it is!” And he drew up short in front of a villa whose grounds were terraced in a succession of gardens down to the very margin of the sea. Plants and shrubs of other climates were mingled with those familiar to Italy, making up a picture of singular beauty, by diversity of color and foliage. “Isn't this the 'Ombretta,' Stubber?”
“Yes, Altezza; but the Morelli have left it. It is let now to a stranger,—a French lady. Some call her English, I believe.”
“To be sure; I remember. There was a demand about a formal permission to reside here. Landelli advised me not to sign it,—that she might turn out English, or have some claim upon England, which was quite equivalent to placing the Duchy, and all within it, under that blessed thing they call British protection.”
“There are worse things than even that,” muttered Stubber.
“British occupation, perhaps you mean; well, you may be right. At all events, I did not take Landelli's advice, for I gave the permission, and I have never heard more of her. She must be rich, I take it. See what order this place is kept in; that conservatory is very large indeed, and the orange-trees are finer than ours.”
“They seem very fine indeed,” said Stubber.
“I say, sir, that we have none such at the Palace. I'll wager a zecchino they have come from Naples. And look at that magnolia: I tell you, Stubber, this garden is very far superior to ours.”
“Your Highness has not been in the Palace gardens lately, perhaps. I was there this morning, and they are really in admirable order.”
“I'll have a peep inside of these grounds, Stubber,” said the Duke, who, no longer attentive to the other, only followed out his own train of thought. At the same instant he dismounted, and, without giving himself any trouble about his horse, made straight for a small wicket which lay invitingly open in front of him. The narrow skirting of copse passed, the Duke at once found himself in the midst of a lovely garden, laid out with consummate skill and taste, and offering at intervals the most beautiful views of the surrounding scenery. Although much of what he beheld around him was the work of many years, there were abundant traces of innovation and improvement. Some of the statues were recently placed, and a small temple of Grecian architecture seemed to have been just restored. A heavy curtain hung across the doorway; drawing back which, the Duke entered what he at once perceived to be a sculptor's studio. Casts and models lay carelessly about, and a newly begun group stood enshrouded in the wetted drapery with which artists clothe their unfinished labors. No mean artist himself, the Duke examined critically the figures before him; nor was he long in perceiving that the artist had committed more than one fault in drawing and proportion. “This is amateur work,” said he to himself; “and yet not without cleverness, and a touch of genius too. Your dilettante scorns anatomy, and will not submit to drudgery; hence, here are muscles incorrectly developed, and their action ill expressed.” So saying, he sat down before the model, and taking up one of the tools at his side, began to correct some of the errors in the work. It was exactly the kind of task for which his skill adapted him. Too impatient and too discursive to accomplish anything of his own, he was admirably fitted to correct the faults of another, and so he worked away vigorously,—totally forgetting where he was, how he had come there, and as utterly oblivious of Stubber, whom he had left without. Growing more and more interested as he proceeded, he arose at length to take a better view of what he had done, and, standing some distance off, exclaimed aloud, “Per Bacco! I have made a good thing of it—there 's life in it now!”
“So indeed is there,” cried a gentle voice behind him; and, turning, he beheld a young and very beautiful girl, whose dress was covered by the loose blouse of a sculptor. “How I thank you for this!” said she, blushing deeply, as she courtesied before him. “I have had no teaching, and never till this moment knew how much I needed it.”
“And this is your work, then?” said the Duke, who turned again towards the model. “Well, there is promise in it. There is even more. Still, you have hard labor before you, if you would be really an artist. There is a grammar in these things, and he who would speak the tongue must get over the declensions. I know but little myself—”
“Oh, do not say so!” cried she, eagerly; “I feel that I am in a master's presence.”
The Duke started, partly struck by the energy of her manner, in part by the words themselves. It is often difficult for men in his station to believe that they are not known and recognized; and so he stood wondering at her, and thinking who she could be that did not know him to be the Prince. “You mistake me,” said he, gently, and with that dignity which is the birthright of those born to command. “I am but a very indifferent artist. I have studied a little, it is true; but other pursuits and idleness have swept away the small knowledge I once possessed, and left me, as to art, pretty much as I am in morals,—that is, I know what is right, but very often I can't accomplish it.”
“You are from Carrara, I conclude?” said the young girl, timidly, still curious to hear more about him.
“Pardon me,” said he, smiling; “I am a native of Massa, and live here.”
“And are you not a sculptor by profession?” asked she, still more eagerly.
“No,” said he, laughing pleasantly; “I follow a more precarious trade, nor can I mould the clay I work in so deftly.”
“At least you love art,” said she, with an enthusiasm heightened by the changes he had effected in her group.
“Now it is my turn to question, Signorina,” said he, gayly. “Why, with a talent like yours, have you not given yourself to regular study? You live in a land where instruction should not be difficult to obtain. Carrara is one vast studio; there must be many there who would not alone be willing, but even proud, to have such a pupil. Have you never thought of this?”
“I have thought of it,” said she, pensively, “but my aunt, with whom I live, desires to see no one, to know no one;—even now,” added she, blushing deeply, “I find myself conversing with an utter stranger, in a way—” She stopped, overwhelmed with confusion, and he finished her sentence for her.
“In a way which shows how naturally a love of art establishes a confidence between those who profess it.” As he spoke, the curtain was drawn back, and a lady entered, who, though several years older, bore such a likeness to the young girl that she might readily have been taken for her sister.
“It is at length time I should make my excuses for this intrusion, madame,” said he, turning towards her; and then in a few words explained how the accidental passing by the spot, and the temptation of the open wicket, had led him to a trespass, “which,” added he, smiling, “I can only say I shall be charmed if you will condescend to retaliate. I, too, have some objects of art, and gardens which are thought worthy of a visit.”
“We live here, sir, apart from the world. It is for that reason we have selected this residence,” replied she, coldly.
“I shall respect your seclusion, madame,” answered he, with a deep bow, “and only beg once more to tender my sincere apologies for the past.” He moved towards the door as he spoke, the ladies courtesied deeply, and, with a still lowlier reverence, he passed out.
The Duke lingered in the garden, as though unwilling to leave the spot. For a while some doubt as to whether he had been recognized passed through his mind, but he soon satisfied himself that such was not the case, and the singularity of the situation amused him.
“I am culling a souvenir, madame,” said he, plucking a moss-ross as the lady passed.
“I will give you a better one, sir,” said she, detaching one from her bouquet, and handing it to him. And so they parted.
“Per Bacco! Stubber, I have seen two very charming women. They are evidently persons of condition; find out all about them, and let me hear it to-morrow.” And so say-ing, his Highness rode away, thinking pleasantly over his adventure, and fancying a hundred ways in which it might be amusingly carried out. The life of princes is rarely fertile in surprises; perhaps, therefore, the uncommon and unusual are the pleasantest of all their sensations.
Stubber knew his master well. There was no need for any “perquisitions” on his part; the ladies, the studio, and the garden were totally forgotten ere nightfall. Some rather alarming intelligence had arrived from Carrara, which had quite obliterated every memory of his late adventure. That little town of artists had long been the resort of an excited class of politicians, and it was more than rumored that the “Carbonari” had established there a lodge of their order. Inflammatory placards had been posted through the town—violent denunciations of the Government—vengeance, even on the head of the sovereign, openly proclaimed, and a speedy day promised when the wrongs of an enslaved people should be avenged in blood. The messenger who brought the alarming tidings to Massa carried with him many of the inflammatory documents, as well as several knives and poniards, discovered by the activity of the police in a ruined building at the sea-shore. No arrests had as yet been made, but the authorities were in possession of information with regard to various suspicious characters, and the police prepared to act at a moment's notice.
It was an hour after midnight when the Council met; and the Duke sat, pale, agitated, and terrified, at the table, with Landelli, the Prime Minister, Caprini, the Secretary for Foreign Affairs, and General Ferrucio, the War Minister; a venerable ecclesiastic, Monsignore Abbati, occupying the lowest place, in virtue of his humble station as confessor of his Highness. He who of all others enjoyed his master's confidence, and whose ready intelligence was most needed in the emergency, was not present; his title of Minister of the Household not qualifying him for a place at the Council.
Whatever the result, the deliberation was a long one. Even while it continued, there was time to despatch a courier to Carrara, and receive the answer he brought back; and when the Duke returned to his room, it was already far advanced in the morning. Fatigued and harassed, he dismissed his valet at once, and desired that Stubber might attend him. When he arrived, however, his Highness had fallen off asleep, and lay, dressed as he was, on his bed.
Stubber sat noiselessly beside his master, his mind deeply pondering over the events which, although he had not been present at the Council, had all been related to him. It was not the first time he had heard of that formidable conspiracy, which, under the title of the Carbonari, had established themselves in every corner of Europe.
In the days of his humbler fortune he had known several of them intimately; he had been often solicited to join their band; but while steadily refusing this, he had detected much which to his keen intelligence savored of treachery to the cause amongst them. This cause was necessarily recruited from those whose lives rejected all honest and patient labor. They were the disappointed men of every station, from the highest to the lowest. The ruined gentleman, the beggared noble, the bankrupt trader, the houseless artisan, the homeless vagabond, were all there; bold, daring, and energetic, fearless as to the present, reckless as to the future. They sought for any change, no matter what, seeing that in the convulsion their own condition must be bettered. Few troubled their heads how these changes were to be accomplished; they cared little for the real grievances they assumed to redress: their work was demolition. It was to the hour of pillage alone they looked for the recompense of their hardihood. Some, unquestionably, took a different view of the agencies and the objects; dreamy, speculative men, with high aspirations, hoped that the cruel wrongs which tyranny inflicted on many a European state might be effectually curbed by a glorious freedom, when each man's actions should be made comformable to the benefit of the community, and the will of all be typified in the conduct of each. There was, however, another class, and to these Stubber had given deep attention. It was a party whose singular activity and energy were always in the ascendant,—ever suggesting bold measures whose results could scarcely be more than menaces, and advocating actions whose greatest effect could not rise above acts of terror and dismay. And thus while the leaders plotted great political convulsions, and the masses dreamed of sack and pillage, these latter dealt in acts of assassination,—the vengeance of the poniard and the poison-cup. These were the men Stubber had studied with no common attention. He fancied he saw in them neither the dupes of their own excited imaginations, nor the reckless followers of rapine, but an order of men equal to the former by intelligence, but far transcending the last in crime and infamy. In his own early experiences he had perceived that more than one of these had expatriated themselves suddenly, carrying away to foreign shores considerable wealth, and, that, too, under circumstances where the acquisition of property seemed scarcely possible. Others he had seen as suddenly, throwing off their political associates, rise into stations of rank and power; and one memorable case he knew where the individual had become the chief adviser of the very state whose destruction he had sworn to accomplish. Such a one he now fancied he had detected among the advisers of his Prince; and deeply ruminating on this theme, he sat at the bedside.
“Is it a dream, Stubber, or have we really heard bad news from Carrara? Has Fraschetti been stabbed, or not?”
“Yes, your Highness, he has been stabbed exactly two inches below where he was wounded in September last,—then, it was his pocket-book saved him; now, it was your Highness's picture, which, like a faithful follower, he always carried about him.”
“Which means, that you disbelieve the whole story.”
“Every word of it.”
“And the poniards found at the Bocca di Magra?”
“Found by those who placed them there.”
“And the proclamations?”
“Blundering devices. See, here is one of them, printed on the very paper supplied to the Government offices. There 's he water-mark, with the crown and your own cipher on it.”
“Per Bacco!so it is. Let me show this to Landelli.”
“Wait awhile, your Highness; let us trace this a little farther. No arrests have been made?”
“None.”
“Nor will any. The object in view is already gained; they have terrified you, and secured the next move.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply, that they have persuaded you that this state is the hotbed of revolutionists; that your own means of security and repression are unequal to the emergency; that disaffection exists in the army; and that, whether for the maintenance of the Government or your safety, you have only one course remaining.”
“Which is—”
“To call in the Austrians.”
“Per Bacco! it is exactly what they have advised. How did you come to know it? Who is the traitor at the Council-board?”
“I wish I could tell you the name of one who was not such. Why, your Highness, these fellows are not your Ministers, except in so far as they are paid by you. They are Metternich's people; they receive their appointments from Vienna, and are only accountable to the cabinet held at Schönbrunn. If wise and moderate counsels prevailed here, if our financial measures prospered, if the people were happy and contented, how long, think you, would Lombardy submit to be ruled by the rod and the bayonet? Do you imagine that you will be suffered to give an example to the Peninsula of a good administration?”
“But so it is,” broke in the Prince; “I defy any man to assert the opposite. The country is prosperous, the people are contented, the laws justly administered, and, I hesitate not to say, myself as popular as any sovereign of Europe.”
“And I tell your Highness, just as distinctly, that the country is ground down with taxation, even to export duties on the few things we have to export; that the people are poor to the very verge of starvation; that if they do not take to the highways as brigands, it is because some traditions as honest men yet survive amongst them; that the laws only exist as an agent of tyranny, arrest and imprisonment being at the mere caprice of the authorities. Nor is there a means by which an innocent man can demand his trial, and insist on being confronted with his accuser. Your jails are full, crowded to a state of pestilence with supposed political offenders, men that, in a free country, would be at large, toiling industriously for their families, and whose opinions could never be dangerous, if not festering in the foul air of a dungeon. And as to your own popularity, all I say is, don't walk in the Piazza at Carrara after dusk. No, nor even at noonday.”
“And you dare to speak thus to me, Stubber!” said the Prince, his face covered with a deadly pallor as he spoke, and his white lips trembling, but less in passion than in fear.
“And why not, sir? Of what value could such a man as I am be to your service, if I were not to tell you what you 'll never hear from others,—the plain, simple truth? Is it not clear enough that if I only thought of my own benefit, I 'd say whatever you'd like best to hear?—I'd tell you, like Landelli, that the taxes were well paid, or say, as Cerreccio did t'other day, that your army would do credit to any state in Europe, when he well knew at the time that the artillery was in mutiny from arrears of pay, and the cavalry horses dying from short rations!”
“I am well weary of all this,” said the Duke, with a sigh. “If the half of what I hear of my kingdom every day be but true, my lot in life is worse than a galley-slave's. One assures me that I am bankrupt; another calls me a vassal of Austria; a third makes me out a Papal spy; and you aver that if I venture into the streets of my own town, in the midst of my own people, I am almost sure to be assassinated!”
“Take no man's word, sir, for what, while you can see for yourself, it is your own duty to ascertain,” said Stubber, resolutely. “If you really only desire a life of ease and indolence, forgetting what you owe to yourself and those you rule over, send for the Austrians. Ask for a brigade and a general. You 'll have them for the asking. They 'd come at a word, and try your people at the drum-head, and flog and shoot them with as little disturbance to you as need be. You may pension off the judges; for a court-martial is a far speedier tribunal, and a corporal's guard is quite an economy in criminal justice. Trade will not, perhaps, prosper with martial law, nor is a state of siege thought favorable to commerce. No matter. You 'll sleep safe so long as you keep within doors, and the band under your window will rouse the spirit of nationality in your heart, as it plays, 'God preserve the Emperor!'”
“You forget yourself, sir, and you forget me!” said the Duke, sternly, as he drew himself up, and threw a look of insolent pride at the speaker.
“Mayhap I do, your Highness,” was the ready answer; “and out of that very forgetfulness let your Highness take a warning. I say, once more, I distrust the people about you; and as to this conspiracy at Carrara, I'll wager a round sum on it that it was hatched on t 'other side of the Alps, and paid for in good florins of the Holy Roman Empire. At all events, give me time to investigate the matter. Let me have till the end of the week to examine into it, and, if I find nothing to confirm my views, I 'll say not one word against all the measures of precaution that your Council are bent on importing from Austria.”
“Take your own way; I promise nothing,” said the Duke, haughtily; and, with a motion of his hand, dismissed his adviser.
To all the luxuriant vegetation and cultivated beauty of Massa, glowing in the “golden glories” of its orange-groves,—steeped in the perfume of its thousand gardens,—Carrara offers the very strongest contrast. Built in a little cleft of the Apennines, it is begirt with great mountains,—wild, barren, and desolate. Some, dark and precipitous, have no traces in their sides but those of the torrents which are formed by the melting snows; others show the white caves, as they are called, of that pure marble which has made the name of the spot famous throughout Europe. High in the mountain sides, escarped amidst rocks, and zig-zagging over many a dangerous gorge and deep abyss, are the rough roads trodden by the weary oxen,—trailing along their massive loads and straining their stout chests to drag the great white blocks of glittering stone. Far down below, crossed and recrossed by splashing torrents, sprinkled with the spray of a hundred cataracts, stands Carrara itself,—a little marble city of art, every house a studio, every citizen a sculptor. Hither are sent all the marvellous conceptions of genius,—the models which mighty imaginations have begotten,—to be converted into imperishable stone. Here are the grand conceptions gathered for every land and clime, treasures destined to adorn the great galleries of nations, or the splendid palaces of kings.
Some of these studios are of imposing size and vast proportions, and not devoid of a certain architectural pretension,—a group, a figure, or a bas-relief usually adorning the space over the door, and by its subject giving some indication of the tastes of the proprietor. Thus, Madonnas and saints are of frequent occurrence; and the majority of the artists display their faith by an image of the saint whose patronage they claim. Others exhibit some ideal conception; and a few denote their nationality by the bust of their sovereign, or some prince of his house.
One of these buildings, a short distance from the town, and so small as to be little more than a mere crypt, was distinguished by the chaste and simple elegance of its design, and the tasteful ornament with which its owner had decorated the most minute details of the building. He was a young artist who had arrived in Carrara friendless and unknown, but whose abilities had soon obtained for him consideration and employment. At first, the tasks intrusted to him were the humbler ones of friezes and decorative art; but at length, his skill becoming acknowledged, to his hands were confided the choicest conceptions of Danneker, the most rare creations of Canova. Little or nothing was known of him; his habits were of the strictest seclusion,—he went into no society, he formed no friendships. His solitary life, after a while, ceased to attract any notice; and men saw him pass, and come and go, without question,—almost without greeting; and, save when some completed work was about to be packed off to its destination, the name of Sebastian Greppi was rarely heard in Carrara.
His strict retirement had not, however, exempted him from the jealous suspicions of the authorities; on the contrary, the seeming mystery of his life had sharpened their curiosity and aroused their zeal; and more than once was he summoned to the Prefecture to answer some frivolous questions about his passport or his means of subsistence.
It was on one of these errands that he stood one morning in the antechamber of the Podestà's court, awaiting his turn to be called and interrogated. The heat of a crowded chamber, the wearisome delay,—perhaps, too, some vexation at the frequency of these irritating calls,—had partially excited him; and when he was at length introduced, his manner was confused, and his replies vague and almost wandering.
Two strangers, whose formal permission to reside were then being filled up by a clerk, were accommodated with seats in the room, and listened with no slight interest to a course of inquiry so strange and novel to their ears.
“Greppi!” cried the harsh voice of the President, “come forward;” and a youth stood up, dressed in the blue blouse of a common workman, and wearing the coarse shoes of the very humblest laborer; but yet, in the calm dignity of his mien and the mild character of his sad but handsome features, already proclaiming that he came of a class whose instincts denote good blood.
“Greppi, you have a servant, it would seem, whose name is not in your passport. How is this?”
“He is an humble friend who shares my fortunes, sir,” said the artist. “They asked no passport from him when we crossed the Tuscan frontier; and he has been here some months without any demand for one.”
“Does he assist you in your work?”
“He does, sir, by advice and counsel; but he is not a sculptor. Poor fellow! he never dreamed that his presence here could have attracted any remark.”
“His tongue and accent betray a foreign origin, Greppi?”
“Be it so,—so do mine, perhaps. Are we the less submissive to the laws?”
“The laws can make themselves respected,” said the Podestà, sternly. “Where is this man,—how is he called?”
“He is known as Guglielmo, sir. At this moment he is ill; he has caught the fever of the Campagna, and is confined to bed.”
“We shall send to ascertain the fact,” was the reply.
“Then my word is doubted!” said the youth haughtily.
The Podestà started, but more in amazement than anger. There was, indeed, enough to astonish him in the haughty ejaculation of the poorly clad boy.
“I am given to believe that you are not—as your passport would imply—a native of Capri, nor a Neapolitan born,” said the Podestà.
“If my passport be regular and my conduct blameless, what have you or any one to do with my birthplace? Is there any charge alleged against me?”
“You are forgetting where you are, boy; but I may take measures to remind you of it,” said the Podestà, whispering to a sergeant of the gendarmes at his side.
“I hope I have said nothing that could offend you,” said the boy, eagerly; “I scarcely know what I have said. My wish is to submit myself in all obedience to the laws; to live quietly and follow my trade. If my presence here give displeasure to the authorities, I will, however sorry, take my departure, though I cannot say whither to.” The last words were uttered falteringly, and in a kind of soliloquy, and only overheard by the two strangers, who now, having received their papers, arose to withdraw.
“Will you call at our inn and speak with us? That's my card,” said one, as he passed out, and gave a visiting-card into the youth's hand.
He took it without a word; indeed, he was too deeply engaged in his own thoughts to pay much attention to the request.
“The sergeant will accompany you, my good youth, to your lodgings, and verify what you have stated as to your companion. To-morrow you will appear here again, to answer certain questions we shall put to you as to your subsistence, and the means by which you live.”
“Is it a crime to have wherewithal to subsist upon?” asked the boy.
“He whose means of living are disproportionate to his evident station may well be an object of suspicion,” said the other, with a sneer.
“And who is to say what is my station, or what becomes it? Will you take upon you to pronounce upon the question?” cried the boy, boldly.
“Mayhap it is what I shall do very soon!” was the calm answer.
“Then let me have done with this. I'll leave the place as soon as my friend be able to bear removal.”
“Even that I 'll not promise for.”
“Why, you 'll not detain me here by force?” exclaimed the youth. \
A cold, ambiguous smile was the only reply he received to this speech.
“Well, let us see when this restraint is to begin,” cried the boy, passionately, as he moved towards the door; but no impediment was offered to his departure. On the contrary, the servant, at a signal from the Prefect, threw wide the two sides of the folding-doors, and the youth passed out, down the stairs, and into the street.
His mind obscured by passion, his heart bursting with indignation, he threaded his way through many a narrow lane and alley, till he reached a small rustic bridge, crossing over which he ascended a narrow flight of steps cut in the solid rock, and gained a little terrace, on which stood a small cottage of the humblest kind.
As usual in Italy, during the summer-time, the glass sashes of the windows had been removed, and the shutters closed. Opening one of these gently with his hand, he peeped in, and as suddenly a voice cried out, “Are you come back? Oh, how my heart was aching to see you here again! Come in quickly, and let me touch your hand.”
The next moment the boy was seated by the bed, where lay a man greatly emaciated by sickness, and bearing in his worn features the traces of a severe tertian.
“It's going off now,” said he, “but the fit was a long one. This morning it began at eight o'clock; but I 'm throwing it off now, and I 'll soon be better.”
“My poor fellow,” said the boy, caressing the cold fingers within his own hands, “it was in these midnight rambles of mine you caught the terrible malady. As it ever has been, your fidelity is fatal to you. I told you a thousand times that I was born to hard luck, and carried more than enough to swamp all who might try to succor me.
“And don't I say, as the ould heathen philosopher did of fortune, 'Nullum numen habes, si sit prudentia'?” Is it necessary to say that the speaker was Billy Traynor, and the boy his pupil?
“Prudentia,” said the youth, scoffingly, “may mean anything, from trickery to downright meanness; since, by such acts as these, men grow great in life. Prudentia is thrift and self-denial; but it is more too,—it is a compromise between a man's dignity and his worldly success—it is the compact that says, Bear this that that may happen; and so I 'll none of it.”
“Tell me how you fared with the Prefect,” asked Billy.
“You shall hear, and judge for yourself,” said the other; and related, as well as his memory would serve him, the circumstances of his late interview.
“Well, well!” said Billy, “it might be worse.”
“I knew you 'd say so, poor fellow!” said the youth, affectionately; “you accept the rubs of life as cheerfully as I take them with impatience. But, after all, this is matter of temperament too. You can forgive,—I love better to resist.”
“Mine is the better philosophy, though,” said Billy, “since it will last one's lifetime. Forgiveness must dignify old age, when your virtue of resistance be no longer possible.”
“I never wish to reach the time when I may be too old for it,” said the boy, passionately.
“Hush! don't say that. It's not for you to determine how long you are to live, nor in what frame of mind years are to find you.” He paused, and there was a long unbroken silence between them.
“I have been at the post,” said the youth, at last, “and found that letter, which, by the Neapolitan postmark, must have been despatched many weeks since.”
Billy Traynor took up the letter, whose seal was yet unbroken, and having examined it carefully, returned it to him, saying, “You did n't answer his last, I think?”
“No; and I half hoped he might have felt offended, and given up the correspondence. What have we to do with ambassadors or great ministers, Billy? Ours is not the grand highway in life, but the humble path on the mountain side.”
“I'm content if it only lead upwards,” said the sick man; and the words were uttered firmly, but with the solemn fervor of prayer.
As young Massy—for so we like best to call him—sat with the letter in his hand, a card fell to the ground from between his fingers, and, taking it up, he read the name “Lord Selby.”
“What does this mean, Billy?” asked he; “whom can it belong to? Oh, I remember now. There were some strangers at the Podestà's office this morning when I was there; and one of them asked me to call at this inn, and speak with them.”
“He has seen the 'Alcibiades,'” exclaimed Billy, eagerly. “He has been at the studio?”
“How should he?” rejoined the youth. “I have not been there myself for two days: here is the key!”
“He has heard of it then,—of that I'm certain; since he could not be in town here an hour without some one telling him of it.” Massy smiled half sadly, and shook his head. “Go and see him, at all events,” said Billy; “and be sure to put on your coat and a hat; for one would n't know what ye were at all, in that cap and dirty blouse.”
“I'll go as I am, or not at all,” said the other, rising. “I am Sebastian Greppi, a young sculptor. At least,” added he, bitterly, “I have about the same right to that name that I have to any other.” He turned abruptly away as he spoke, and gained the open air. There for a few moments he stood seemingly irresolute, and then, wiping away a heavy tear that had fallen on his cheek, he slowly descended the steps towards the bridge.
When he reached the inn, the strangers had just dined, but left word that when he called he should be introduced at once, and Massy followed the waiter into a small garden, where, in a species of summer-house, they were seated at their wine. One of them arose courteously as the youth came forward, and placing a chair for him, and filling out a glass of wine, invited him to join them.
“Give him one of your cigars, Baynton,” said the other; “they are better than mine.” And Massy accepted, and began smoking without a word.
“That fellow at the police-office gave you no further trouble, I hope,” said my lord, in a half-languid tone, and with that amount of difficulty that showed he was no master of Italian.
“No,” replied Massy; “for the present, he has done nothing more. I 'm not so certain, however, that to-morrow or next day I shall not be ordered away from this.”
“On what grounds?”
“Suspicion,—Heavens knows of what!”
“That's infamous, I say. Eh, Baynton?”
“Detestable,” muttered the other.
“And whereto can you go?”
“I scarcely know as yet, since the police are in communication throughout the whole Peninsula, and they transmit your character from state to state.”
“They 'd not credit this in England, Baynton!”
“No, not a word of it!” rejoined the other.
“You 're a Neapolitan, I think I heard him say.”
“So my passport states.”
“Ah, he won't say that he is one, though,” interposed his Lordship, in English. “Do you mind that, Baynton?”
“Yes, I remarked it,” was the reply.
“And how came you here originally?” asked Selby, turning towards the youth.
“I came here to study and to work. There is always enough to be had to do in this place, copying the works of great masters; and at one's spare moments there is time to try something of one's own.”
“And have you done anything of that kind?”
“Yes, I have begun. I have attempted two or three.”
“We should like to see them,—eh, Baynton?”
“Of course, when we 've finished our wine. It's not far off, is it?”
“A few minutes' walk; but not worth even that, when the place is full of things really worth seeing. There's Danneker's 'Bathing Nymph,' and Canova's 'Dead Cupid,' and Rauch's 'Antigone,' all within reach.”
“Mind that, Baynton; we must see all these to-morrow. Could you come about with us, and show us what we ought to see?”
“Who knows if I shall not be on the road to-morrow?” said the youth, smiling faintly.
“Oh, I think not, if there's really nothing against you; if it's only mere suspicion.”
“Just so!” said the other, and drank off his wine.
“And you are able to make a good thing of it here,—by copying, I mean?” asked his Lordship, languidly.
“I can live,” said the youth; “and as I labor very little and idle a great deal, that is saying enough, perhaps.”
“I 'm not sure the police are not right about him, after all, Baynton,” said his Lordship; “he doesn't seem to care much about his trade;” and Massy was unable to repress a smile at the remark.
“You don't understand English, do you?” asked Selby, with a degree of eagerness very unusual to him.
“Yes, I am English by birth,” was the answer.
“English! and how came you to call yourself a Neapolitan? What was the object of that?”
“I wished to excite less notice and less observation here, and, if possible, to escape the jealousy with which Englishmen are regarded by the authorities; for this I obtained a passport at Naples.”
Baynton eyed him suspiciously as he spoke, and as he sipped his wine continued to regard him with a keen glance.
“And how did you manage to get a Neapolitan passport?”
“Our Minister, Sir Horace Upton, managed that for me.”
“Oh, you are known to Sir Horace, then?”
“Yes.”
A quick interchange of looks between my lord and his friend showed that they were by no means satisfied that the young sculptor was simply a worker in marble and a fashioner in modelling-clay.
“Have you heard from Sir Horace lately?” asked Lord Selby.
“I received this letter to-day, but I have not read it;” and he showed the unopened letter as he spoke.
“The police may, then, have some reasonable suspicions about your residence here,” said his Lordship, slowly.
“My Lord,” said Massy, rising, “I have had enough of this kind of examination from the Podestà himself this morning, not to care to pass my evening in a repetition of it. Who I am, what I am, and with what object here, are scarcely matters in which you have any interest, and assuredly were not the subjects on which I expected you should address me. I beg now to take my leave.” He moved towards the garden as he spoke, bowing respectfully to each.
“Wait a moment; pray don't go,—sit down again,—I never meant,—of course I could n't mean so,—eh, Baynton?” said his Lordship, stammering in great confusion.
“Of course not,” broke in Baynton; “his Lordship's inquiries were really prompted by a sincere desire to serve you.”
“Just so,—a sincere desire to serve you.”
“In fact, seeing you, as I may say, in the toils.”
“Exactly so,—in the toils.”
“He thought very naturally that his influence and his position might,—you understand,—for these fellows know perfectly well what an English peer is,—they take a proper estimate of the power of Great Britain.”
His Lordship nodded assentingly, as though any stronger corroboration might not be exactly graceful on his part, and Baynton went on:—
“Now you perfectly comprehend why,—you see at once the whole thing; and I 'm sure, instead of feeling any soreness or irritation at my lord's interference, that in point of fact—”
“Just so,” broke in his Lordship, pressing Massy into a seat at his side,—“just so; that's it!”
It requires no ordinary tact for any man to reseat himself at a table from which he has risen in anger or irritation, and Massy had far too little knowledge of life to overcome this difficulty gracefully. He tried, indeed, to seem at ease, he endeavored even to be cheerful; but the efforts were all unsuccessful. My lord was no very acute observer at any time; he was, besides, so constitutionally indolent that the company which exacted least was ever the most palatable to him. As for Baynton, he was only too happy whenever least reference was made to his opinion, and so they sat and sipped their wine with wonderfully little converse between them.
“You have a statue, or a group, or something or other, have n't you?” said my lord, after a very long interval.
“I have a half-finished model,” said the youth, not without a certain irritation at the indifference of his questioner.
“Scarcely light enough to look at it to-night,—eh, Baynton?”
“Scarcely!” was the dry answer.
“We can go in the morning though, eh?”
The other nodded a cool assent.
My lord now filled his glass, drank it off, and refilled, with the air of a man nerving himself for a great undertaking,—and such was indeed the case. He was about to deliver himself of a sentiment, and the occasion was one to which Baynton could not lend his assistance.
“I have been thinking,” said he, “that if that same estate we spoke of, Baynton,—that Welsh property, you know, and that thing in Ireland,—should fall in, I 'd buy some statues and have a gallery!”
“Devilish costly work you'd find it,” muttered Baynton.
“Well, I suppose it is,—not more so than a racing stable, after all.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Besides, I look upon that property—if it does ever come to me—as a kind of windfall; it was one of those pieces of fortune one could n't have expected, you know.” Then, turning towards the youth, as if to apologize for a discussion in which he could take no part, he said, “We were talking of a property which, by the eccentricity of its owner, may one day become mine.”
“And which doubtless some other had calculated on inheriting,” said the youth.
“Well, that may be very true; I never thought about that,—eh, Baynton?”
“Why should you?” was the short response.
“Gain and loss, loss and gain,” muttered the youth, moodily, “are the laws of life.”
“I say, Baynton, what a jolly moonlight there is out there in the garden! Would n't it be a capital time this to see your model, eh?”
“If you are disposed to take the trouble,” said the youth, rising, and blushing modestly; and the others stood up at the same moment.
Nothing passed between them as they followed the young sculptor through many an intricate by-way and narrow lane, and at last reached the little stream on whose bank stood his studio.
“What have we here!” exclaimed Baynton as he saw it; “is this a little temple?”
“It is my workshop,” said the boy, proudly, and produced the key to open the door.
Scarcely had he crossed the threshold, however, than his foot struck a roll of papers, and, stooping down, he caught up a large placard, headed, “Morte al Tiranno,” in large capitals. Holding the sheet up to the moonlight, he saw that it contained a violent and sanguinary appeal to the wildest passions of the Carbonari,—one of those savage exhortations to bloodshedding which were taken from the terrible annals of the French Revolution. Some of these bore the picture of the guillotine at top, others were headed with cross poniards.
“What are all these about?” asked Baynton, as he took up three or four of them in his hand; but the youth, overcome with terror, could make no answer.
“These are all sans-culotte literature, I take it,” said his Lordship; but the youth was stupefied and silent.
“Has there been any treachery at work here?” asked Baynton. “Is there a scheme to entrap you?”
The youth nodded a melancholy and slow assent.
“But why should you be obnoxious to these people? Have you any enemies amongst them?”
“I cannot tell,” gloomily muttered the youth.
“And this is your statue?” said Baynton, as, opening a large shutter, he suffered a flood of moonlight to fall on the figure.