Complete works of hall c.., p.358
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 358
“I can wait for you,” she said.
“If I am banished for life....”
“I can follow you.”
“If the worst comes to the worst, and one way or another death itself should be the fate that falls to me....”
“I can follow you there, too.”
“If we meet again we can laugh at all this, Roma.”
“Yes, we can laugh at all this,” she faltered.
“If not ... Adieu!”
“Adieu!”
She disengaged her clinging arms with one last caress; there was an instant of unconsciousness, and when she recovered herself he was gone.
At the next moment there came through the darkness the measured tramp, tramp, tramp of the patrol. With a quivering heart Roma stood and listened. There was a slight movement among the soldiers, a scarcely perceptible pause, and then the tramp, tramp, tramp as before. Rossi looked back as he turned the corner, and saw Roma, in her light cloak, gliding across the silent street like a ghost.
Three or four hundred yards inside the gate of St. John Lateran in one of the half-finished tenement houses on the outskirts of Rome, there is a cellar used as a resting-place and eating-house by the carriers from the country who bring wine into the city. This cellar was the only place that seemed to be awake when Rossi walked towards the city walls. Some eight or nine men, in the rude dress of wine-carriers, lay dozing or talking on the floor. They had been kept in Rome overnight by the closing of the gate, and were waiting for it to be opened in the morning.
Without a moment’s hesitation David Rossi stepped down and spoke to the men.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “you know who I am. I am Rossi. The police have orders to arrest me. Will you help me to get out of Rome?”
“What’s that?” shouted a drowsy voice from the smoky shadows of the cellar.
“It’s the Honourable Rossi,” said a lad who had shambled up. “The oysters are after him, and will we help him to escape?”
“Will we? It’s not will we; it’s can we, Honourable,” said a thick-set man, who lifted his head from an upturned horse-saddle.
In a moment the men were all on their feet, asking questions and discussing chances. The gate was to be opened at six, and the first train north was to go out at half-past nine. But the difficulty was that everybody in Rome knew Rossi. Even if he got through the gate he could not get on to the train within ten miles of the city without the certainty of recognition.
“I have it!” said the thick-set man with the drowsy voice. “There’s young Carlo. He got a scratch in the leg last night from one of the wet nurses of the Government, and he’ll have to lie upstairs for a week at least. Why can’t he lend his clothes to the Honourable? And why can’t the Honourable drive Carlo’s cart back to Monte Rotondo, and then go where he likes when he gets there?”
“That will do,” said Rossi, and so it was settled.
* * * * *
When the train which left Rome for Florence and Milan at 9.30 in the morning arrived at the country station of Monte Rotondo, eighteen miles out, a man in top-boots, blue trousers, a white waistband and a red-lined overcoat got into the people’s compartment. The train was crowded with foreigners who were flying from the risks of insurrection, and even the third-class carriages were filled with well-dressed strangers. They were talking bitterly of their experiences the night before. Most of them had been compelled to barricade their bedroom doors at the hotels, and some had even passed the night at the railway station.
“It all comes of letting men like this Rossi go at large,” said a young Englishman with the voice of a pea-hen. “For my part, I would put all these anarchists on an uninhabited island and leave them to fight it out among themselves.”
“Say, Rossi isn’t an anarchist,” said a man with an American intonation.
“What is he?”
“A dreamer of dreams.”
“Bad dreams, then,” said the voice of the pea-hen, and there was general laughter.
PART SIX — THE ROMAN OF ROME
I
Roma awoke next morning with a feeling of joy. The dangers of last night were over and David Rossi had escaped. Where would he be by this time? She looked at her little round watch and reckoned the hours that had passed against the speed of the train.
Natalina came with the tea and the morning newspaper. The maid’s tongue went faster than her hands as she rattled on about the terrors of the night and the news of the morning. Meantime Roma glanced eagerly over the columns of the paper for its references to Rossi. He was gone. The authorities were unable to say what had become of him.
With boundless relief Roma turned to the other items of intelligence. The journal was the organ of the Government, and it contained an extract from the Official Gazette and the text of a proclamation by the Prefect. The first announced that the riot was at an end and Rome was quiet; the second notified the public that by royal decree the city was declared to be in a state of siege, and that the King had nominated a Royal Commissioner with full powers.
Besides this news there was a general account of the insurrection. The ringleaders were anarchists, socialists, and professed atheists, determined on the destruction of both throne and altar by any means, however horrible. Their victims had been drawn, without seeing where they were going, into a vortex of disorder, and the soldiers had defended society and the law. Happily the casualties were few. The only fatal incident had been the death of a child, seven years of age, the son of a workman. The people of Rome had to congratulate themselves on the promptness of a Government which had reinstated authority with so small a loss of blood.
Roma remembered what Rossi had said about Elena— “Think of Elena when she awakes in the morning, alone with her terrible grief” — and putting on a plain dark cloth dress she set off for the Piazza Navona.
It was eleven o’clock, and the sun was shining on the melting snow. Rome was like a dead city. The breath of revolution had passed over it. Broken tiles lay on the pavement of the slushy streets, and here and there were the remains of abandoned barricades. The shops, which are the eyes of a city, were nearly all closed and asleep.
At a flower-shop, which was opened to her knock, Roma bought a wreath of white chrysanthemums. A group of men and women stood at the door in the Piazza Navona, and she received their kisses on her hands. The Garibaldian followed her up the stairs, and his old wife, who stood at the top, called her “Little Sister,” and then burst into tears.
The boy lay on the couch, just where Roma had first seen him, when David Rossi was lifting him up asleep. He might have been asleep now, so peaceful was his expression under the mysterious seal of death. The blinds were drawn, and the sun came through them with a yellow light. Four candles were burning on chairs at the head and two at the feet. The little body was still dressed in the gay clothes of the festival, and the cocked hat and gilt-headed mace lay beside it. But the chubby hands were clasped over a tiny crucifix, and the hair of the shock head was brushed smooth and flat.
“There he is,” said Elena, in a cracked voice, and she went down on her knees between the candles.
Roma, who could not speak, put the wreath of chrysanthemums on the brave little breast, and knelt by the mother’s side. At that they all broke down together.
The old Garibaldian wiped his rheumy eyes and began to talk of David Rossi. He was as fond of Joseph as if the boy had been his own son. But what had become of the Honourable? Before daybreak the police had made a domiciliary perquisition in the apartment, carried off his papers and sealed up his rooms.
“Have no fear for him,” said Roma, and then she asked about Bruno. All they knew was that Bruno had been arrested and locked up in the prison called Regina C[oe]li.
“Poor Bruno! He’ll be dying to know what is happening here,” said Elena.
“I’ll see him,” said Roma.
It was well she had come early. In the stupefaction of their sorrow the three poor souls were like helpless children and had done nothing. Roma sent the Garibaldian to the sanitary office for the doctor who was to verify the death, to the office of health to register it, and to the municipal office to arrange for the funeral. It was to be a funeral of the third category, with a funeral car of two horses and a coach with liveried coachmen. The grave was to be one of the little vaults, the Fornelli, set apart for children. The priest was to be instructed to buy many candles and order several Frati. The expense would be great, but Roma undertook to bear it, and when she left the house the old people kissed her hands again and loaded her with blessings.
II
The Roman prison with the extraordinary name, “The Queen of Heaven,” is a vast yellow building on the Trastevere side of the river. Behind it rises the Janiculum, in front of it runs the Tiber, and on both sides of it are narrow lanes cut off by high walls.
On the morning after the insurrection a great many persons had gathered at the entrance of this prison. Old men, who were lame or sick or nearly blind, stood by a dead wall which divides the street from the Tiber, and looked on with dazed and vacant eyes. Younger men nearer the entrance read the proclamations posted up on the pilasters. One of these was the proclamation of the Prefect announcing the state of siege; another was the proclamation of the Royal Commissioner calling on citizens to consign all the arms in their possession to the Chief of Police under pain of imprisonment.
In the entrance-hall there was a crowd of women, each carrying a basket or a bundle in a handkerchief. They were young and old, dressed variously as if from different provinces, but nearly all poor, untidy, and unkempt.
An iron gate was opened, and an officer, two soldiers, and a warder came out to take the food which the women had brought for their relatives imprisoned within. Then there was a terrible tumult. “Mr. Officer, please!” “Please, Mr. Officer!” “Be kind to Giuseppe, and the saints bless you!” “My turn next!” “No, mine!” “Don’t push!” “You’re pushing yourself!” “You’re knocking the basket out of my hands!” “Getaway!” “You cat! You....”
“Silence! Silence! Silence!” cried the officer, shouting the women down, and meantime the men in the street outside curled their lips and tried to laugh.
Into this wild scene, full of the acrid exhalations of human breath, and the nauseating odour of unclean bodies, but moved, nevertheless, by the finger of God Himself, the cab which brought Roma to see Bruno discharged her at the prison door.
The officer on the steps saw her over the heads of the women with their outstretched arms, and judging from her appearance that she came on other business, he called to a Carabineer to attend to her.
“I wish to see the Director,” said Roma.
“Certainly, Excellency,” said the Carabineer, and with a salute he led the way by a side door to the offices on the floor above.
The Governor of Regina C[oe]li was a middle-aged man with a kindly face, but under the new order he could do nothing.
“Everything relating to the political prisoners is in the hands of the Royal Commissioner,” he said.
“Where can I see him, Cavaliere?”
“He is with the Minister of War to-day, arranging for the military tribunals, but perhaps to-morrow at his office in the Castle of St. Angelo....”
“Thanks! Meantime can I send a message into the prison?”
“Yes.”
“And may I pay for a separate cell for a prisoner, with food and light, if necessary?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Roma undertook the expense of these privileges and then scribbled a note to Bruno.
“DEAR FRIEND, — Don’t lose heart! Your dear ones shall be cared for and comforted. He whom you love is safe and your darling is in heaven. Sleep well! These days will pass.
“R. V.”
III
That night Roma wrote the first part of a letter to David Rossi:
“David — my David! It is early days to call you by a dearer name, but the sweet word is on the tip of my pen, and I can hardly help myself from scribbling it. You wished me to tell you what is happening in Rome, and here I am beginning to write already, though when and how and where this letter is to reach you, I must leave it to Fate and to yourself to determine. Fancy! Only eighteen hours since we parted! It seems inconceivable! I feel as if I had lived a lifetime.
“Do you know, I did not go to bed when you left me. I had so many things to think about. And, tired as I was, I slept little, and was up early. The morning dawned beautifully. It was perfectly tragic. So bright and sunny after that night of slaughter. No rattle of cars, no tinkle of trams, no calls of the water-carriers and of the pedlars in the streets. It was for all the world like that awful quiet of the sea the morning after a tempest, with the sun on its placid surface and not a hint of the wrecks beneath.
“I remembered what you said about Elena, and went down to see her.
The poor girl has just parted with her dead child. She did it with a brave heart, God pity her! taking comfort in the Blessed Virgin, as the mother in heaven who knows all our sorrows and asks God to heal them. Ah, what a sweet thing it must be to believe that! Do you believe it?”
Here she wanted to say something about her great secret. She tried, but she could not do it.
“I couldn’t see Bruno to-day, but I hope to do so to-morrow, and meantime I have ordered food to be supplied to him. If I could only do something to some purpose! But five hundred of your friends are in Regina C[oe]li, and my poor little efforts are a drop of water in a mighty ocean.
“Rome is a deserted city to-day, and but for the soldiers, who are everywhere, it would look like a dead one! The steps of the Piazza di Spagna are empty, not a model is to be seen, not a flower is to be bought, and the fountain is bubbling in silence. After sunset a certain shiver passes over the world, and after an insurrection something of the same kind seems to pass over a city. The churches and the hospitals are the only places open, and the doctors and their messengers are the only people moving about.
“Just one of the newspapers has been published to-day, and it is full of proclamations. Everybody is to be indoors by nine o’clock and the cafés are to be closed at eight. Arms are to be consigned at the Questura, and meetings of more than four persons are strictly forbidden. Rewards of pardon are offered to all rioters who will inform on the ringleaders of the insurrection, and of money to all citizens who will denounce the conspirators. The military tribunals are to sit to-morrow and domiciliary visitations are already being made. Your own apartments have been searched and sealed and the police have carried off papers.
“Such are the doings of this evil day, and yet — selfish woman that
I am — I cannot for my life think it is all evil. Has it not given me you? And if it has taken you away from me as well, I can wait,
I can be patient. Where are you now, I wonder? And are you thinking of me while I am thinking of you? Oh, how splendid! Think of it! Though the train may be carrying you away from me every hour and every minute, before long we shall be together. In the first dream of the first sleep I shall join you, and we shall be cheek to cheek and heart to heart. Good-night, my dear one!”
Again she tried to say something about her secret. But no! “Not to-night,” she thought, and after switching off the light and kissing her hand in the darkness to the stars that hung over the north, she laughed at her own foolishness and went to bed.
IV
Roma awoke next day with a sense of pain. Thus far she had beaten the Baron — yes! But David Rossi? Had she sinned against God and against her husband? She must confess. There was no help for it. And there must be no hesitation and no delay.
Natalina came into the bedroom and threw open the shutters. She was bringing a telegram, and Roma almost snatched it out of her hands. It was from Rossi and had been sent off from Chiasso. “Crossed frontier safe and well.”
Roma made a cry of joy and leapt out of bed. All day long that telegram was like wings under her heels and made her walk with an elastic step.
While taking her coffee she remembered the responsibilities she had undertaken the day before — for the boy’s funeral and Bruno’s maintenance — and for the first time in her life she began to consider ways and means. Her ready money was getting low, and it was necessary to do something.
Then Felice came with a sheaf of papers. They were tradesmen’s bills and required immediate payment. Some of the men were below and refused to go away without the cash.
There was no help for it. She opened her purse, discharged her debts, swept her debtors out of the house, and sat down to count what remained.
Very little remained. But what matter? The five words of that telegram were five bright stars which could light up a darker sky than had fallen on her yet.
In this high mood she went down to the studio — silent now in the absence of the humorous voice that usually rang in it, and with Bruno’s chisels and mallet lying idle, with his sack on a block of half-hewn marble. Uncovering her fountain, she looked at it again. It was good work; she knew it was good; she could be certain it was good. It should justify her yet, and some day the stupid people who were sheering away from her now would come cringing to her feet afresh.
That suggested thoughts of the Mayor. She would write to him and get some money with which to meet the expenses of yesterday as well as the obligations which she might perhaps incur to-day or in the future.
“Dear Senator Palomba,” she wrote, “no doubt you have often wondered why your much-valued commission has not been completed before. The fact is that it suffered a slight accident a few days ago, but a week or a fortnight ought to see it finished, and if you wish to make arrangements for its reception you may count on its delivery in that time. Meantime as I am pressed for funds at the moment, I shall be glad if you can instruct your treasurer at the Municipality to let me have something on account. The price mentioned, you remember, was 15,000 francs, and as I have not had anything hitherto, I trust it may not be unreasonable to ask for half now, leaving the remainder until the fountain is in its place.”
