Complete works of hall c.., p.348
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 348
“Angry!” he cried, and at the sound of his voice as he said the word their love for each other went thrilling through and through them.
The rain had begun to fall, and it was beating with smart strokes on the window panes.
“You can’t go now,” he said, “and since you are never to come here again there is something you ought to hear.”
She took a seat immediately, unfastened her coat, and slipped it back on to her shoulders.
The thick-falling drops were drenching the piazza, and its pavement was bubbling like a lake.
“The rain will last for some time,” said Rossi, looking out, “and the matter I speak of is one of some urgency, therefore it is better that you should hear it now.”
Taking the pins out of her hat, Roma lifted it off and laid it in her lap, and began to pull off her gloves. The young head with its glossy hair and lovely face shone out with a new beauty.
Rossi hardly dared to look at her. He was afraid that if he allowed himself to do so he would fling himself at her feet. “How calm she is,” he thought. “What is the meaning of it?”
He went to the bureau by the wall and took out a small round packet.
“Do you remember your father’s voice?” he asked.
“That is all I do remember about my father. Why?”
“It is here in this cylinder.”
She rose quickly and then slowly sat down again.
“Tell me,” she said.
“When your father was deported to the Island of Elba, he was a prisoner at large, without personal restraint but under police supervision. The legal term of domicilio coatto is from one year to five, but excuses were found and his banishment was made perpetual. He saw prisoners come and go, and in the sealed chamber of his tomb he heard echoes of the world outside.”
“Did he ever hear of me?”
“Yes, and of myself as well. A prisoner brought him news of one David Rossi, and under that name and the opinions attached to it he recognised David Leone, the boy he had brought up and educated. He wished to send me a message.”
“Was it about....”
“Yes. The letters of prisoners are read and copied, and to smuggle out by hand a written document is difficult or impossible. But at length a way was discovered. Some one sent a phonograph and a box of cylinders to one of the prisoners, and the little colony of exiled ones used to meet at your father’s house to hear the music. Among the cylinders were certain blank ones. Your father spoke on to one of them, and when the time came for the owner of the phonograph to leave Elba, he brought the cylinder back with him. This is the cylinder your father spoke on to.”
With an involuntary shudder she took out of his hands a circular cardboard-box, marked in print on the outside: “Selections from Faust,” and in pencil on the inside of the lid: “For the hands of D. L. only — to be destroyed if Deputy David Rossi does not know where to find him.”
The heavy rain had darkened the room, but by the red light of a dying fire he could see that her face had turned white.
“And this contains my father’s voice?” she said.
“His last message.”
“He is dead — two years dead — and yet....”
“Can you bear to hear it?”
“Go on,” she said, hardly audibly.
He took back the cylinder, put it on the phonograph, wound up the instrument, and touched the lever. Through the strokes of the rain, lashing the window like a hundred whips, the whizzing noise of the machine began.
He was standing by her side, and he felt her hand on his arm.
Then through the sound of the rain and of the phonograph there came a clear, full voice:
“David Leone — your old friend Doctor Roselli sends you his dying message....”
The hand on Rossi’s arm clutched it convulsively, and, in a choking whisper, Roma said:
“Wait! Give me one moment.”
She was looking around the darkening room as if almost expecting a ghostly presence.
She bowed her head. Her breath came quick and fast.
“I am better now. Go on,” she said.
The whirring noise began again, and after a moment the clear voice came as before:
“My son, the promise I made when we parted in London I fulfilled faithfully, but the letter I wrote you never came to your hands. It was meant to tell you who I was, and why I changed my name. That is too long a story now, and I must be brief. I am Prospero Volonna. My father was the last prince of that name. Except the authorities and their spies, nobody in Italy knows me as Roselli and nobody in England as Volonna — nobody but one, my poor dear child, my daughter Roma.”
The hand tightened on Rossi’s arm, and his head began to swim.
“Little by little, in this grave of a living man, I have heard what has happened since I was banished from the world. The treacherous letter which called me back to Italy and decoyed me into the hands of the police was the work of a man who now holds my estates as the payment for his treachery.”
“The Baron?”
Rossi had stopped the phonograph.
“Can you bear it?” he said.
The pale young face flushed with resolution.
“Go on,” she said.
When the voice from the phonograph began again it was more tremulous and husky than before.
“After he had betrayed the father, what impulse of fear or humanity prompted him to take charge of the child, God alone, who reads all hearts, can say. He went to England to look for her, found her in the streets to which she had been abandoned by the faithlessness of the guardians to whom I left her, and shut their mouths by buying them to the perjury of burying the unknown body of an unfortunate being in the name of my beloved child.”
The hand on Rossi’s arm trembled feebly, and slipped down to his own hand. It was cold as ice. The voice from the phonograph was growing faint.
“She is now in Rome, living in the name that was mine in Italy, amid an atmosphere of danger and perhaps of shame. My son, save her from it. The man who betrayed the father may betray the daughter also. Take her from him. Rescue her. It is my dying prayer.”
The hand in Rossi’s hand was holding it tightly, and his blood was throbbing at his heart.
“David,” the voice from the phonograph was failing rapidly, “when this shall come to your hands the darkness of the grave will be over me.... In my great distress of mind I torture myself with many terrors.... Do not trifle with my request. But whatever you decide to do ... be gentle with the child.... I dream of her every night, and send my heart’s heart to her on the swelling tides of love.... Adieu, my son. The end is near. God be with you in all you do that I did ill or left undone. And if death’s great sundering does not annihilate the memory of those who remain on earth, be sure you have a helper and an advocate in heaven.”
The voice ceased, the whirring of the instrument came to an end, and an invisible spirit seemed to fade into the air. The pattering of the rain had stopped, and there was the crackle of cab wheels on the pavement below. Roma had dropped Rossi’s hand, and was leaning forward on her knees with both hands over her face. After a moment, she wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and began to put on her hat.
“How long is it since you received this message?” she said.
“On the night you came here first.”
“And when I asked you to come to my house on that ... that useless errand, you were thinking of ... of my father’s request as well?”
“Yes.”
“You have known all this about the Baron for a month, yet you have said nothing. Why have you said nothing?”
“You wouldn’t have believed me at first, whatever I had said against him.”
“But afterwards?”
“Afterwards I had another reason.”
“Did it concern me?”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“Now that I have to part from you I am compelled to tell you what he is.”
“But if you had known that all this time he has been trying to use somebody against you....”
“That would have made no difference.”
She lifted her head, and a look of fire, almost of fierceness, came into her face, but she only said, with a little hysterical cry, as if her throat were swelling:
“Come to me to-morrow, David! Be sure you come! If you don’t come I shall never, never forgive you! But you will come! You will! You will!”
And then, as if afraid of breaking out into sobs, she turned quickly and hurried away.
“She can never fall into that man’s hands now,” he thought. And then he lit his lamp and sat down to his work, but the light was gone, and the night had fallen on him.
XII
Next morning David Rossi had not yet risen when some one knocked at his door. It was Bruno. The great fellow looked nervous and troubled, and he spoke in a husky whisper.
“You’re not going to Donna Roma’s to-day, sir?”
“Why not, Bruno?”
“Have you seen her bust of yourself?”
“Hardly at all.”
“Just so. My case, too. She has taken care of that — locking it up every night, and getting another caster to cast it. But I saw it the first morning after she began, and I know what it is.”
“What is it, Bruno?”
“You’ll be angry again, sir.”
“What is it?”
“Judas — that’s what it is, sir; the study for Judas in the fountain for the Municipality.”
“Is that all?”
“All?... But it’s a caricature, a spiteful caricature! And you sat four days and never even looked at it! I tell you it’s disgusting, sir. Simply disgusting. It’s been done on purpose, too. When I think of it I forget all you said, and I hate the woman as much as ever. And now she is to have a reception, and you are going to it, just to help her to have her laugh. Don’t go, sir! Take the advice of a fool, and don’t go!”
“Bruno,” said Rossi, lying with his head on his arm, “understand me once for all. Donna Roma may have used my head as a study for Judas — I cannot deny that since you say it is so — but if she had used it as a study for Satan, I would believe in her the same as ever.”
“You would?”
“Yes, by God! So now, like a good fellow, go away and leave her alone.”
The streets were more than usually full of people when Rossi set out for the reception. Thick groups were standing about the hoardings, reading a yellow placard, which was still wet with the paste of the bill-sticker. It was a proclamation, signed by the Minister of the Interior, and it ran:
“ROMANS, — It having come to the knowledge of the Government that a set of misguided men, the enemies of the throne and of society, known to be in league with the republican, atheist, and anarchist associations of foreign countries, are inciting the people to resist the just laws made by their duly elected Parliament, and sanctioned by their King, thus trying to lead them into outbreaks that would be unworthy of a cultivated and generous race, and would disgrace us in the view of other nations — the Government hereby give notice that they will not allow the laws to be insulted with impunity, and therefore they warn the public against the holding of all such mass meetings in public buildings, squares, and streets, as may lead to the possibility of serious disturbances.”
XIII
The little Piazza of Trinità de’ Monti was full of carriages, and Roma’s rooms were thronged. David Rossi entered with the calmness of a man who is accustomed to personal observation, but Roma met him with an almost extravagant salutation.
“Ah, you have come at last,” she said in a voice that was intended to be heard by all. And then, in a low tone, she added, “Stay near me, and don’t go until I say you may.”
Her face had the expression that had puzzled him the day before, but with the flushed cheeks, the firm mouth and the shining eyes, there was now a strange look of excitement, almost of hysteria.
The company was divided into four main groups. The first of them consisted of Roma’s aunt, powdered and perfumed, propped up with cushions on an invalid chair, and receiving the guests by the door, with the Baron Bonelli, silent and dignified, but smiling his icy smile, by her side. A second group consisted of Don Camillo and some ladies of fashion, who stood by the window and made little half-smothered trills of laughter. The third group included Lena and Olga, the journalists, with Madame Sella, the modiste; and the fourth group was made up of the English and American Ambassadors, Count Mario, and some other diplomatists.
The conversation was at first interrupted by the little pauses that follow fresh arrivals; and after it had settled down to the dull buzz of a beehive, when the old brood and her queen are being turned out, it consisted merely of hints, giving the impression of something in the air that was scandalous and amusing, but could not be talked about.
“Have you heard that” ... “Is it true that” ... “No?” “Can it be possible?” “How delicious!” and then inaudible questions and low replies, with tittering, tapping of fans, and insinuating glances.
But Roma seemed to hear everything that was said about her, and constantly broke in upon a whispered conversation with disconcerting openness.
“That man here!” said one of the journalists at Rossi’s entrance. “In the same room with the Prime Minister!” said another. “After that disgraceful scene in the House, too!”
“I hear that he was abominably rude to the Baron the other day,” said Madame Sella.
“Rude? He has blundered shockingly, and offended everybody. They tell me the Vatican is now up in arms against him, and is going to denounce him and all his ways.”
“No wonder! He has made himself thoroughly disagreeable, and I’m only surprised that the Prime Minister....”
“Oh, leave the Prime Minister alone. He has something up his sleeve.... Haven’t you heard why we are invited here to-day? No? Not heard that....”
“Really! So that explains ... I see, I see!” and then more tittering and tapping of fans.
“Certainly, he is an extraordinary man, and one of the first statesmen in Europe.”
“It’s so unselfish of you to say that,” said Roma, flashing round suddenly, “for the Minister has never been a friend of journalists, and I’ve heard him say that there wasn’t one of them who wouldn’t sell his mother’s honour if he thought he could make a sensation.”
“Love?” said the voice of Don Camillo in the silence that followed Roma’s remark. “What has marriage to do with love except to spoil it?” And then, amidst laughter, and the playful looks of the ladies by whom he was surrounded, he gave a gay picture of his own poverty, and the necessity of marrying to retrieve his fortunes.
“What would you have? Look at my position! A great name, as ancient as history, and no income. A gorgeous palace, as old as the pyramids, and no cook!”
“Don’t be so conceited about your poverty, Gi-gi,” said Roma. “Some of the Roman ladies are as poor as the men. As for me, Madame Sella could sell up every stick in my house to-morrow, and if the Municipality should throw up my fountain....”
“Senator Palomba,” said Felice’s sepulchral voice from the door.
The suave, oily little Mayor came in, twinkling his eyes and saying:
“Did I hear my name as I entered?”
“I was saying,” said Roma, “that if the Municipality should throw up my fountain....”
The little man made an amusing gesture, and the constrained silence was broken by some awkward laughter.
“Roma,” said the testy voice of the Countess, “I think I’ve done my duty by you, and now the Baron will take me back. Natalina! Where’s Natalina?”
But half-a-dozen hands took hold of the invalid chair, and the Baron followed it into the bedroom.
“Wonderful man!” “Wonderful!” whispered various voices as the Minister’s smile disappeared through the door.
The conversation had begun to languish when the Princess Bellini arrived, and then suddenly it became lively and general.
“I’m late, but do you know, my dear,” she said, kissing Roma on both cheeks, “I’ve been nearly torn to pieces in coming. My carriage had to plough its way through crowds of people.”
“Crowds?”
“Yes, indeed, and the streets are nearly impassable. Another demonstration, I suppose! The poor must always be demonstrating.”
“Ah! yes,” said Don Camillo. “Haven’t you heard the news, Roma?”
“I’ve been working all night and all day, and I have heard nothing,” said Roma.
“Well, to prevent a recurrence of the disgraceful scene of yesterday, the King has promulgated the Public Security Act by royal decree, and the wonderful crisis is at an end.”
“And now?”
“Now the Prime Minister is master of the situation, and has begun by proclaiming the mass meeting which was to have been held in the Coliseum.”
“Good thing too,” said Count Mario. “We’ve heard enough of liberal institutions lately.”
“And of the scandalous speeches of professional agitators,” said Madame Sella.
“And of the liberty of the press,” said Senator Palomba. And then the effeminate old dandy, the fashionable dressmaker, and the oily little Mayor exchanged significant nods.
“Wait! Only wait!” said Roma, in a low voice, to Rossi, who was standing in silence by her side.
“Unhappy Italy!” said the American Ambassador. “With the largest array of titled nobility and the largest army of beggars. The one class sipping iced drinks in the piazzas during the playing of music, and the other class marching through the streets and conspiring against society.”
“You judge us from a foreign standpoint, dear friend,” said Don Camillo, “and forget our love of a pageant. The Princess says our poor are always demonstrating. We are all always demonstrating. Our favourite demonstration is a funeral, with drums beating and banners waving. If we cannot have a funeral we have a wedding, with flowers and favours and floods of tears. And when we cannot have either, we put up with a revolution, and let our Radical orators tell us of the wickedness of taxing the people’s bread.”
