CHAPTER XXVIII. A NIGHT SCENE
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.
“Fine!—a work of great merit, Baynton,” broke in his Lordship, whose apathy was at last overcome by admiration. But the youth stood regardless of their comments, his eyes bent upon the ground; nor did he heed them as they moved from side to side, examining the statue in all its details, and in words of high praise speaking their approval.
“I'll buy this,” muttered his Lordship. “I'll give him an order, too, for another work,—leaving the subject to himself.”
“A clever fellow, certainly,” replied the other.
“Whom does he mean the figure to represent?”
“It is Alcibiades as he meets his death,” broke in the youth; “he is summoned to the door as though to welcome a friend, and he falls pierced by a poisoned arrow,—there is but legend to warrant the fact. I cared little for the incident,—I was full of the man, as he contended with seven chariots in the Olympic games, and proudly rode the course with his glittering shield of ivory and gold, and his waving locks all perfumed. I thought of him in his gorgeous panoply, and his voluptuousness; lion-hearted and danger-seeking, pampering the very flesh he offered to the spears of the enemy. I pictured him to my mind, embellishing life with every charm, and daring death in every shape,—beautiful as Apollo, graceful as the bounding Mercury, bold as Achilles, the lion's whelp, as Æschylus calls him. This,” added he, in a tone of depression,—“this is but a sorry version of what my mind had conceived.”
“I arrest you, Sebastiano Greppi,” said a voice from behind; and suddenly three gendarmes surrounded the youth, who stood still and speechless with terror, while a mean-looking man in shabby black gathered up the printed proclamations that lay about, and commenced a search for others throughout the studio.
“Ask them will they take our bail for his appearance, Baynton,” said my lord, eagerly.
“No use,—they 'd only laugh at us,” was the reply.
“Can we be of any service to you? Is there anything we can do?” asked his Lordship of the boy.
“You must not communicate with the prisoner, signore,” cried the brigadier, “if you don't wish to share his arrest.”
“And this, doubtless,” said the man in black, standing, and holding up the lantern to view the statue,—“this is the figure of Liberty we have heard of, pierced by the deadly arrow of Tyranny!”
“You hear them!” cried the boy, in wild indignation, addressing the Englishmen; “you hear how these wretches draw their infamous allegations! But this shall not serve them as a witness.” And with a spring he seized a large wooden mallet from the floor, and dashed the model in pieces.
A cry of horror and rage burst from the bystanders, and as the Englishmen stooped in sorrow over the broken statue, the gendarmes secured the boy's wrists with a stout cord, and led him away.
“Go after them, Baynton; tell them he is an Englishman, and that if he comes to harm they 'll hear of it!” cried my lord, eagerly; while he muttered in a lower tone, “I think we might knock these fellows over and liberate him at once, eh, Baynton?”
“No use if we did,” replied the other; “they'd overpower us afterwards. Come along to the inn; we'll see about it in the morning.”