Unkown - "Vergil's Aeneid in Latin"

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A Spirit in Prison

R >> Robert Hichens >> A Spirit in Prison




"Where are Vere and the Marchesino?"

Hermione had spoken. Artois, whose imagination had been fascinated by
the instincts of the crowd, and whose intellect had been chained to
watchfulness during its strange excitement, looked sharply round.

"Vere--isn't she here?"

He saw at once that she was gone. But he saw, too, that Gaspare was no
longer with them. The watch-dog had been more faithful than he.

"They must be close by," he added. "The sudden movement separated us,
no doubt."

"Yes. Gaspare has vanished too!"

"With them," Artois said.

He spoke with an emphasis that was almost violent.

"But--you didn't see--" began Hermione.

"Don't you know Gaspare yet?" he asked.

Their eyes met. She was startled by the expression in his.

"You don't think--" she began.

She broke off.

"I think Gaspare knows his Southerner," Artois replied. "We must look
for them. They are certain to have gone with the crowd."

They followed the people into the Mercato. The burning balloon dropped
down and disappeared.

"It has fallen into the Rettifilo!" cried a young man close to them.

"Macche!" exclaimed his companion.

"I will bet you five lire--"

He gesticulated furiously.

"We shall never find them," Hermione said.

"We will try to find them."

His voice startled her now, as his eyes had startled her. A man in the
crowd pressed against her roughly. Instinctively she caught hold of
Artois' arm.

"Yes, you had better take it," he said.

"Oh, it was only--"

"No, take it."

And he drew her hand under his arm.

The number of people in the Mercato was immense, but it was possible
to walk on steadily, though slowly. Now that the balloon had vanished
the crowd had forgotten it, and was devoting itself eagerly to the
pleasures of the bar. In the tall and barrack-like houses candles
gleamed in honor of Masaniello. The streets that led away towards the
city's heart were decorated with arches of little lamps, with columns
and chains of lights, and the pedestrians passing through them looked
strangely black in this great frame of fire. From the Piazza before
the Carmine the first rocket rose, and, exploding, showered its golden
rain upon the picture of the Virgin.

"Perhaps they have gone back into the Piazza."

Hermione spoke after a long silence, during which they had searched in
vain. Artois stood still and looked down at her. His face was very
stern.

"We sha'n't find them," he said.

"In this crowd, of course, it is difficult, but--"

"We sha'n't find them."

"At any rate, Gaspare is with them."

"How do you know that?"

The expression in his face frightened her.

"But you said you were sure--"

"Panacci was too clever for us; he may have been too clever for
Gaspare."

Hermione was silent for a moment. Then she said:

"You surely don't think the Marchese is wicked?"

"He is young, he is Neapolitan, and to-night he is mad. Vere has made
him mad."

"But Vere was only gay at dinner as any child--"

"Don't think I am blaming Vere. If she has fascination, she cannot
help it."

"What shall we do?"

"Will you let me put you into a cab? Will you wait in my room at the
hotel until I come back with Vere? I can search for her better alone.
I will find her--if she is here."

Their eyes met steadily as he finished speaking, and he saw, or
thought he saw, in hers a creeping menace, as if she had the intention
to attack or to defy him.

"I am Vere's mother," she said.

"Let me take you to a cab, Hermione."

He spoke coldly, inexorably. This moment of enforced inactivity was a
very difficult one for him. And the violence that was blazing within
him made him fear that if Hermione did not yield to his wish he might
lose his self-control.

"You can do nothing," he added.

Her eyes left his, her lips quivered. Then she said:

"Take me, then."

She did not look at him again until she was in a cab and Artois had
told the driver to go to the Hotel Royal. Then she glanced at him with
a strange expression of acute self-consciousness which he had never
before seen on her face.

"You don't believe that--that there is any danger to Vere?" she said,
in a low voice. "You cannot believe that."

"I don't know."

She leaned forward, and her face changed.

"Go and bring her back to me."

The cabman drove off, and Artois was lost in the crowd.

He never knew how long his search lasted, how long he heard the swish
and the bang of rockets, the vehement music of the band, the cries and
laughter of the people, the sound of footsteps as if a world were
starting on some pilgrimage; how long he saw the dazzling avenues of
fire stretching away into the city's heart; how long he looked at the
faces of strangers, seeking Vere's face. He was excessively conscious
of almost everything except of time. It might have been two hours
later, or much less, when he felt a hand upon his arm, turned round,
and saw Gaspare beside him.

"Where is the Signora?"

"Gone to the hotel? And the Signorina?"

Gaspare looked at Artois with a sort of heavy gloom, then looked down
to the ground.

"You have lost her?"

"Si."

There was a dulness of fatalism in his voice.

Artois did not reproach him.

"Did you lose them when the balloon went up?" he asked.

"Macche! It was not the balloon!" Gaspare said, fiercely.

"What was it?"

Artois felt suddenly that Gaspare had some perfect excuse for his
inattention.

"Some one spoke to me. When I--when I had finished the Signorina and
that Signore were gone."

"Some one spoke to you. Who was it?"

"It was Ruffo."

Artois stared at Gaspare.

"Ruffo! Was he alone?"

"No, Signore."

"Who was with him?"

"His mother was with him."

"His mother. Did you speak to her?"

"Si, Signore."

There was a silence between them. It was broken by a sound of bells.

"Signore, it is midnight."

Artois drew out his watch quickly. The hands pointed to twelve
o'clock. The crowd was growing thinner, was surely melting away.

"We had better go to the hotel," Artois said. "Perhaps they are there.
If they are not there--"

He did not finish the sentence. They found a cab and drove swiftly
towards the Marina. All the time the little carriage rattled over the
stony streets Artois expected Gaspare to speak to him, to tell him
more, to tell him something tremendous. He felt as if the Sicilian
were beset by an imperious need to break a long reserve. But, if it
were so, this reserve was too strong for its enemy. Gaspare's lips
were closed. He did not say a word till the cabman drew up before the
hotel.

As Artois got out he knew that he was terribly excited. The hall was
almost dark, and the night concierge came from his little room on the
right of the door to turn on the light and accompany Artois to the
lift.

"There is a lady waiting in your room, Signore," he said.

Artois, who was walking quickly towards the lift, stopped. He looked
at Gaspare.

"A lady!" he said.

"Shall I go back to the Piazza, Signore?"

He half turned towards the swing door.

"Wait a minute. Come up-stairs first and see the Signora."

The lift ascended. As Artois opened the door of his sitting-room he
heard a woman's dress rustle, and Hermione stood before them.

"Vere?" she said.

She laid her hand on his arm.

"Gaspare!"

There was a sound of reproach in her voice. She took her hand away
from Artois.

"Gaspare?" she repeated, interrogatively.

"Signora!" he answered, doggedly.

He did not lift his eyes to hers.

"You have lost the Signorina?"

"Si, Signora."

He attempted no excuse, he expressed no regret.

"Gaspare!" Hermione said.

Suddenly Artois put his hand on Gaspare's shoulder. He said nothing,
but his touch told the Sicilian much--told him how he was understood,
how he was respected, by this man who had shared his silence.

"We thought they might be here," Artois said.

"They are not here."

Her voice was almost hard, almost rebuking. She was still standing in
the door-space.

"I will go back and look again, Signora."

"Si," she said.

She turned back into the room. Artois held out his hand to Gaspare:

"Signore?"

Gaspare looked surprised, hesitating, then moved. He took the out-
stretched hand, grasped it violently, and went away.

Artois shut the sitting-room door and went towards Hermione.

"You are staying?" she said.

By her intonation he could not tell whether she was glad or almost
angrily astonished.

"They may come here immediately," he said. "I wish to see Panacci--
when he comes."

She looked at him quickly.

"It must be an accident," she said. "I can't--I won't believe that--no
one could hurt Vere."

He said nothing.

"No one could hurt Vere," she repeated.

He went out on to the balcony and stood there for two or three
minutes, looking down at the sea and at the empty road. She did not
follow him, but sat down upon the sofa near the writing-table.
Presently he turned round.

"Gaspare has gone."

"It would have been better if he had never come!"

"Hermione," he said, "has it come to this, that I must defend Gaspare
to you?"

"I think Gaspare might have kept with Vere, ought to have kept with
Vere."

Artois felt a burning desire to make Hermione understand the Sicilian,
but he only said, gently:

"Some day, perhaps, you will know Gaspare's character better, you will
understand all this."

"I can't understand it now. But--oh, if Vere-- No, that's impossible,
impossible!"

She spoke with intense vehemence.

"Some things cannot happen," she exclaimed, with a force that seemed
to be commanding destiny.

Artois said nothing. And his apparent calm seemed to punish her,
almost as if he struck her with a whip.

"Why don't you speak?" she said.

She felt almost confused by his silence.

He went out again to the balcony, leaned on the railing and looked
over. She felt that he was listening with his whole nature for the
sound of wheels. She felt that she heard him listening, that she heard
him demanding the sound. And as she looked at his dark figure, beyond
which she saw the vagueness of night and some stars, she was conscious
of the life in him as she had never been conscious of it before, she
was conscious of all his manhood terribly awake.

That was for Vere.

A quarter of an hour went by. Artois remained always on the balcony,
and scarcely moved. Hermione watched him, and tried to learn a lesson;
tried to realize without bitterness and horror that in the heart of
man everything has been planted, and that therefore nothing which
grows there should cause too great amazement, too great condemnation,
or the absolute withdrawal of pity; tried to face something which must
completely change her life, sweeping away more than mere illusions,
sweeping away a long reverence which had been well founded, and which
she had kept very secret in her heart, replacing its vital substance
with a pale shadow of compassion.

She watched him, and she listened for the sound of wheels, until at
last she could bear it no longer.

"Emile, what are we to do? What can we do?" she said, desperately.

"Hush!" he said.

He held up his hand. They both listened and heard far off the noise of
a carriage rapidly approaching. He looked over the road. The carriage
rattled up. She heard it stop, and saw him bend down. Then suddenly he
drew himself up, turned, and came into the room.

"They have come," he said.

He went to the door and opened it, and stood by it.

And his face was terrible.



CHAPTER XXX

Two minutes later there was the sound of steps coming quickly down the
uncarpeted corridor, and Vere entered, followed, but not closely, by
the Marchesino. Vere went up at once to her mother, without even
glancing at Artois.

"I am so sorry, Madre," she said, quietly. "But--but it was not my
fault."

The Marchesino had paused near the door, as if doubtful of Vere's
intentions. Now he approached Hermione, pulling off his white gloves.

"Signora," he said, in a hard and steady voice, but smiling boyishly,
"I fear I am the guilty one. When the balloon went up we were
separated from you by the crowd, and could not find you immediately.
The Signorina wished to go back to the enclosure. Unfortunately I had
lost the tickets, so that we should not have been readmitted. Under
these circumstances I thought the best thing was to show the Signorina
the illuminations, and then to come straight back to the hotel. I hope
you have not been distressed. The Signorina was of course perfectly
safe with me."

"Thank you, Marchese," said Hermione, coldly. "Emile, what are we to
do about Gaspare?"

"Gaspare?" asked Vere.

"He has gone back to the Piazza to search for you again."

"Oh!"

She flushed, turned away, and went up to the window. Then she
hesitated, and finally stepped out on to the balcony.

"You had better spend the night in the hotel," said Artois.

"But we have nothing!"

"The housemaid can find you what is necessary in the morning."

"As to our clothes--that doesn't matter. Perhaps it will be the best
plan."

Artois rang the bell. They waited in silence till the night porter
came.

"Can you give these two ladies rooms for the night?" said Artois. "It
is too late for them to go home by boat, and their servant has not
come back yet."

"Yes, sir. The ladies can have two very good rooms."

"Good-night, Emile," said Hermione. "Good-night, Marchese. Vere!"

Vere came in from the balcony.

"We are going to sleep here, Vere. Come!"

She went out.

"Good-night, Monsieur Emile," Vere said to Artois, without looking at
him.

She followed her mother without saying another word.

Artois looked after them as they went down the corridor, watched
Vere's thin and girlish figure until she turned the corner near the
staircase, walking slowly and, he thought, as if she were tired and
depressed. During this moment he was trying to get hold of his own
violence, to make sure of his self-control. When the sound of the
footsteps had died completely away he drew back into the room and shut
the door.

The Marchesino was standing near the window. When he saw the face of
Artois he sat down in an arm-chair and put his hat on the floor.

"You don't mind if I stay for a few minutes, Emilio?" he said. "Have
you anything to drink? I am thirsty after all this walking in the
crowd."

Artois brought him some Nocera and lemons.

"Do you want brandy, whiskey?"

"No, no. Grazie."

He poured out the Nocera gently, and began carefully to squeeze some
lemon-juice into it, holding the fruit lightly in his strong fingers,
and watching the drops fall with a quiet attention.

"Where have you been to-night?"

The Marchesino looked up.

"In the Piazza di Masaniello."

"Where have you been?"

"I tell you--the Piazza, the Mercato, down one or two streets to see
the illuminations. What's the matter, caro mio? Are you angry because
we lost you in the crowd?"

"You intended to lose us in the crowd before we left the hotel
to-night."

"Not at all, amico mio. Not at all."

His voice hardened again, the furrows appeared on his forehead.

"Now you are lying," said Artois.

The Marchesino got up and stood in front of Artois. The ugly, cat-like
look had come into his face, changing it from its usual boyish
impudence to a hardness that suggested age. At that moment he looked
much older than he was.

"Be careful, Emilio!" he said. "I am Neapolitan, and I do not allow
myself to be insulted."

His gray eyes contracted.

"You did not mean to get lost with the Signorina?" said Artois.

"One leaves such things to destiny."

"Destiny! Well, to-night it is your destiny to go out of the
Signorina's life forever."

"How dare you command me? How dare you speak for these ladies?"

Suddenly Artois went quite white, and laid his hand on the
Marchesino's arm.

"Where have you been? What have you been doing all this time?" he
said.

Questions blazed in his eyes. His hand closed more firmly on the
Marchesino.

"Where did you take that child? What did you say to her? What did you
dare to say?"

"I! And you?" said the Marchesino, sharply.

He threw out his hand towards the face of Artois. "And you--you!" he
repeated.

"I?"

"Yes--you! What have you said to her? Where have you taken her? I at
least am young. My blood speaks to me. I am natural, I am passionate.
I know what I am, what I want; I know it; I say it; I am sincere. I--I
am ready to go naked into the sun before the whole world, and say,
'There! There! This is Isidoro Panacci; and he is this--and this--and
this! Like it or hate it--that does not matter! It is not his fault.
He is like that. He is made like that. He is meant to be like that,
and he is that--he is that!' Do you hear? That is what I am ready to
do. But you--you--! Ah, Madonna! Ah, Madre benedetta!"

He threw up both his hands suddenly, looked at the ceiling and shook
his head sharply from side to side. Then he slapped his hands gently
and repeatedly against his knees, and a grim and almost venerable look
came into his mobile face.

"The great worker! The man of intellect! The man who is above the
follies of that little Isidoro Panacci, who loves a beautiful girl,
and who is proud of loving her, and who knows that he loves her, that
he wants her, that he wishes to take her! Stand still!"--he suddenly
hissed out the words. "The man with the white hairs who might have had
many children of his own, but who prefers to play papa--caro papa,
Babbo bello!--to the child of another on a certain little island. Ah,
buon Dio! The wonderful writer, respected and admired by all; by whose
side the little Isidoro seems only a small boy from college, about
whom nobody need bother! How he is loved, and how he is trusted on the
island! Nobody must come there but he and those whom he wishes. He is
to order, to arrange all. The little Isidoro--he must not come there.
He must not know the ladies. He is nothing; but he is wicked. He loves
pleasure. He loves beautiful girls! Wicked, wicked Isidoro! Keep him
out! Keep him away! But the great writer--with the white hairs--
everything is allowed to him because he is Caro Papa. He may teach the
Signorina. He may be alone with her. He may take her out at night in
the boat."--His cheeks were stained with red and his eyes glittered.--
"And when the voice of that wicked little Isidoro is heard-- Quick!
Quick! To the cave! Let us escape! Let us hide where it is dark, and
he will never find us! Let us make him think we are at Nisida! Hush!
the boat is passing. He is deceived! He will search all night till he
is tired! Ah--ah--ah! That is good! And now back to the island--quick!
--before he finds out!"--He thrust out his arm towards Artois.--"And
that is my friend!" he exclaimed. "He who calls himself the friend of
the little wicked Isidoro. P--!"--He turned his head and spat on to
the balcony.--"Gran Dio! And this white-haired Babbo! He steals into
the Galleria at night to meet Maria Fortunata! He puts a girl of the
town to live with the Signorina upon the island, to teach her--"

"Stop!" said Artois.

"I will not stop!" said the Marchesino, furiously. "To teach the
Signorina all the--"

Artois lifted his hand.

"Do you want me to strike you on the mouth?" he said.

"Strike me!"

Artois looked at him with a steadiness that seemed to pierce.

"Then--take care, Panacci. You are losing your head."

"And you have lost yours!" cried the Marchesino. "You, with your white
hairs, you are mad. You are mad about the 'child.' You play papa, and
all the time you are mad, and you think nobody sees it. But every one
sees it, every one knows it. Every one knows that you are madly in
love with the Signorina."

Artois had stepped back.

"I--in love!" he said.

His voice was contemptuous, but his face had become flushed, and his
hands suddenly clinched themselves.

"What! you play the hypocrite even with yourself! Ah, we Neapolitans,
we may be shocking; but at least we are sincere! You do not know!--
then I will tell you. You love the Signorina madly, and you hate me
because you are jealous of me--because I am young and you are old. I
know it; the Signora knows it; that Sicilian--Gaspare--he knows it!
And now you--you know it!"

He suddenly flung himself down on the sofa that was behind him.
Perspiration was running down his face, and even his hands were wet
with it.

Artois said nothing, but stood where he was, looking at the
Marchesino, as if he were waiting for something more which must
inevitably come. The Marchesino took out his handkerchief, passed it
several times quickly over his lips, then rolled it up into a ball and
shut it up in his left hand.

"I am young and you are old," he said. "And that is all the matter.
You hate me, not because you think I am wicked and might do the
Signorina harm, but because I am young. You try to keep the Signorina
from me because I am young. You do not dare to let her know what youth
is, really, really to know, really, really to feel. Because, if once
she did know, if once she did feel, if she touched the fire"--he
struck his hand down on his breast--"she would be carried away, she
would be gone from you forever. You think, 'Now she looks up to me!
She reverences me! She admires me! She worships me as a great man!'
And if once, only once she touched the fire--ah!"--he flung out both
his arms with a wide gesture, opened his mouth, then shut it, showing
his teeth like an animal.--"Away would go everything--everything. She
would forget your talent, she would forget your fame, she would forget
your thoughts, your books, she would forget you, do you hear?--all,
all of you. She would remember only that you are old and she is young,
and that, because of that, she is not for you. And then"--his voice
dropped, became cold and serious and deadly, like the voice of one
proclaiming a stark truth--"and then, if she understood you, what you
feel, and what you wish, and how you think of her--she would hate you!
How she would hate you!"

He stopped abruptly, staring at Artois, who said nothing.

"Is it not true?" he said.

He got up, taking his hat and stick from the floor.

"You do not know! Well--think! And you will know that it is true. A
rivederci, Emilio!"

His manner had suddenly become almost calm. He turned away and went
towards the door. When he reached it he added:

"To-morrow I shall ask the Signora to allow me to marry the
Signorina."

Then he went out.

The gilt clock on the marble table beneath the mirror struck the half-
hour after one. Artois looked at it and at his watch, comparing them.
The action was mechanical, and unaccompanied by any thought connected
with it. When he put his watch back into his pocket he did not know
whether its hands pointed to half-past one or not. He carried a light
chair on to the balcony, and sat down there, crossing his legs, and
leaning one arm on the rail.

"If she touched the fire." Those words of the Marchesino remained in
the mind of Artois--why, he did not know. He saw before him a vision
of a girl and of a flame. The flame aspired towards the girl, but the
girl hesitated, drew back--then waited.

What had happened during the hours of the Festa? Artois did not know.
The Marchesino had told him nothing, except that he--Artois--was madly
in love with Vere. Monstrous absurdity! What trivial nonsense men
talked in moments of anger, when they desired to wound!

And to-morrow the Marchesino would ask Vere to marry him. Of course
Vere would refuse. She had no feeling for him. She would tell him so.
He would be obliged to understand that for once he could not have his
own way. He would go out of Vere's life, abruptly, as he had come into
it.

He would go. That was certain. But others would come into Vere's life.
Fire would spring up round about her, the fire of love of men for a
girl who has fire within her, the fire of the love of youth for youth.

Youth! Artois was not by nature a sentimentalist--and he was not a
fool. He knew how to accept the inevitable things life cruelly brings
to men, without futile struggling, without contemptible pretence.
Quite calmly, quite serenely, he had accepted the snows of middle age.
He had not secretly groaned or cursed, railed against destiny, striven
to defy it by travesty, as do many men. He had thought himself to be
"above" all that--until lately. But now, as he thought of the fire, he
was conscious of an immense sadness that had in it something of
passion, or a regret that was, for a moment, desperate, bitter, that
seared, that tortured, that was scarcely to be endured. It is terrible
to realize that one is at a permanent disadvantage, which time can
only increase. And just then Artois felt that there was nothing, that
there could never be anything, to compensate any human being for the
loss of youth.

He began to wonder about the people of the island. The Marchesino had
spoken with a strange assurance. He had dared to say:

"You love the Signorina. I know it; the Signora knows it; Gaspare--he
knows it. And now you--you know it."

Was it possible that his deep interest in Vere, his paternal delight
in her talent, in her growing charm, in her grace and sweetness, could
have been mistaken for something else, for the desire of man for
woman? Vere had certainly never for a moment misunderstood him. That
he knew as surely as he knew that he was alive. But Gaspare and
Hermione? He fell into deep thought, and presently he was shaken by an
emotion that was partly disgust and partly anxiety. He got up from his
chair and looked out into the night. The weather was exquisitely
still, the sky absolutely clear. The sea was like the calm that dwells
surely in the breast of God. Naples was sleeping in the silence. But
he was terribly awake, and it began to seem to him as if he had,
perhaps, slept lately, slept too long. He was a lover of truth, and
believed himself to be a discerner of it. The Marchesino was but a
thoughtless, passionate boy, headstrong, Pagan, careless of intellect,
and immensely physical. Yet it was possible that he had been enabled
to see a truth which Artois had neither seen nor suspected. Artois
began to believe it possible, as he remembered many details of the
conduct of Hermione and of Gaspare in these last summer days. There
had been something of condemnation sometimes in the Sicilian's eyes as
they looked into his. He had wondered what it meant. Had it meant--
that? And that night in the garden with Hermione--

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