CHAPTER VI.
A NEW PHILOSOPHY.
There had been an interval of silence, during which the count paced up and down the spacious room meditatively, each step sounding distinctly on the stone floor. The rugged look of conscious power upon his face, the far-way glance in his sombre eyes, showed that his mind was working upon what he was about to say. Presently he ceased to walk, reseated himself opposite the cavaliere, and fixed a half-absent gaze upon him.
Trenta, who would cheerfully have undergone any amount of suffering rather than listen to the abominations he felt were coming, sat with half-closed eyes, gathered into the corner of the arm-chair, the very picture of patient martyrdom.
The count contemplated him for a moment. As he did so an expression, half cynical, half melancholy, passed over his countenance, and a faint smile lurked about the corners of his mouth. Then in a voice so full and sweet that the ear eagerly drank in the sound, like the harmony of a cadence, he began:
"The Roman Catholic Church," he said, "styles itself divinely constituted. It claims to be supreme arbiter in religion and morals; supreme even in measuring intellectual progress; absolute in its jurisdiction over the state, and solely responsible to itself as to what the limit of that jurisdiction shall be. It calls itself supreme and absolute, because infallible—infallible because divine. Thus the vicious circle is complete. Now entire obedience necessarily comes into collision with every species of freedom—nay, it is in itself antagonistic to freedom—freedom of thought, freedom of action—specially antagonistic to national freedom."
"The supremacy of the pope (the Holy Father)," put in Trenta, meekly; he crossed himself several times in rapid succession, looking afterward as if it had been a great consolation to him.
"The supremacy of the pope," repeated the count, firmly, the shadow of a smile parting his lips, "is eternal. It is based as firmly in the next world as it is in this. It constitutes a condition of complete tyranny both in time and in eternity. Now I," and the count's voice rose, and his eyes glowed, "I—both in my public and private capacity—(call me Antichrist if you please)." A visible shudder passed over the poor cavaliere; his eyes closed altogether, and his lips moved. (He was repeating an Ave Maria Sanctissima). "I abhor, I renounce this slavery!—I rebel against it!—I will have none of it. Who shall control the immortality of thought?—a Pius, a Gregory? Ignorant dreamers, perjured priests!—never!"
As he spoke, the count raised his right arm, and circled it in the air. In imagination he was waving the flag of liberty over a prostrate world.
"But, alas! this slavery is riveted by the grasp of centuries; it requires measures as firm and uncompromising as its own to dislodge it. Now the pope "—Trenta did not this time attempt to correct Marescotti—"the pope is theoretically of no nation, but in reality he is of all nations; and he is surrounded by a court of celibate priests, also without nation. Observe, cavaliere—this absolute dominion is attained by celibates only—men with no family ties—no household influences." (This was spoken, as it were, en parenthèse, as a comment on the earlier portion of the conversation that had taken place between them.) "Each of these celibate priests is the pope's courtier—his courtier and his slave; his slave because he is subject to a higher law than the law of his own conscience, and the law of his own country. Without home or family, nationality or worldly interest, the priest is a living machine, to be used in whatever direction his tyrant dictates. Every priest, therefore, be he cardinal or deacon, moves and acts the slave of an abstract idea; an idea incompatible with patriotism, humanity, or freedom."
An audible and deep groan escaped from the suffering cavaliere as the count's voice ceased.
"Now, Cavaliere Trenta, mark the application." As the count proceeded with his argument, his dark eyes, lit up with the enthusiasm of his own oratory, riveted themselves on the arm-chair. (It could not properly be said that his eyes riveted themselves on Trenta, for he was stooping down, his face covered with his hands, altogether insensible to any possible appeal that might be addressed to him.) "I, Manfredi Marescotti, consecrated priest of the people"—and the count drew himself up to the full height of his lofty figure—"I am as devoted to my cause—God is my witness"—and he raised his right hand as though to seal a solemn pledge of truth—"as that consecrated renegade, the pope! My followers—and their name is legion—believe in me as implicitly as do the tonsured dastards of the Vatican."
Another ill-suppressed groan escaped from Trenta, and for a moment interrupted the count's oration. The miserable cavaliere! He had, indeed, invoked an explanation, and, cost him what it might, he must abide it. But he began to think that the explanation had gone too far. He was sitting there listening to blasphemies. He was actually imperiling his own soul. He was horrified as he reflected that he might not obtain absolution when he confessed the awful language which was addressed to him. Such a risk was really greater than his submission to etiquette exacted. There were bounds even to that, the aged chamberlain told himself.
Gracious heavens!—for him, an unquestioning papalino, a sincere believer in papal infallibility and the temporal power—to hear the Holy Father called a renegade, and his faithful servants stigmatized as dastards! It was monstrous!
He secretly resolved that, once escaped from No. 4 at the Universo Hotel—and he wondered that a thunderbolt had not already struck the count dead where he stood—he would never allow himself to have any further intercourse whatever with him.
"I have been elected," continued the count, speaking in the same emphatic manner, and in the same distinct and harmonious voice, utterly careless or unobservant of the conflict of feelings under which the cavaliere was struggling—"head pope, if you please, cavaliere, so to call me."—("God forbid!" muttered Trenta.)—"It makes my analogy the clearer—I have been elected by thousands of devoted followers. But my followers are not slaves, nor am I a tyrant. I have accepted the glorious title of Priest of the People, and nothing—nothing" the count repeated, vehemently, "shall tempt me from my duty. I am here at Lucca to establish a mission—to plant in this fertile soil the sacred banner of freedom—red as the first streaks of light that lace the eastern heavens; red as the life-blood from which we draw our being. I am here, under the protection of this glorious banner, to combat the tyranny upon which the church and the throne are based. Instead of the fetters of the past, binding mankind in loathsome trammels of ignorance—instead of the darkness that broods over a subjugated world—of terrors that rend agonized souls with horrible tortures—I bring peace, freedom, light, progress. To the base ideal of perpetual tyranny—both here and hereafter—I oppose the pure ideal of absolute freedom—freedom to each separate soul to work out for itself its own innate convictions—freedom to form its independent destiny. Freedom in state, freedom in church, freedom in religion, literature, commerce, government—freedom as boundless as the sunshine that fructifies the teeming earth! Freedom of thought necessitates freedom in government. As the soul wings itself toward the light of simple truth, so should the body politic aspire to perfect freedom. This can only be found in a pure republic; a republic where all men are equal—where each man lives for the other in living for himself—where brother cleaves to brother as his own flesh—family is knit to family—one, yet many—one, yet of all nations!"
"Communism, in fact!" burst forth the cavaliere. His piping voice, now hoarse with rage, quivered. "You are here to form a communistic association! God help us!"
"I care not what you call it," cried the count, with a rising passion. "My faith, my hope, is the ideal of freedom as opposed to the abstraction of hierarchical superstition and monarchic tyranny. What are popes, kings, princes, and potentates, to me who deem all men equal? It is by a republic alone that we can regenerate our beloved, our unfortunate Italy, now tossed between a debauched monarch—a traitor, who yielded Savoy—an effete Parliament—a pack of lawyers who represent nothing but their own interests, and a pope—the recreant of Gaeta! The sooner our ideas are circulated, the sooner they will permeate among the masses. Already the harvest has been great elsewhere. I am here to sow, to reap, and to gather. For this end—mark me, cavaliere, I entreat you—I am here, for none other."
Here the triumphant patriot became suddenly embarrassed. He stopped, hesitated, stopped again, took breath, and sighed; then turned full upon Trenta, in order to obtain some response to the appeal he had addressed to him. But again Trenta, sullenly silent, had buried himself in the depths of the arm-chair, and was, so to say, invisible.
"For this end" (a mournful cadence came into the count's voice when he at length proceeded) "I am ready to sacrifice my life. My life!—what is that? I am ready to sacrifice my love—ay, my love—the love of the only woman who fulfills the longings of my poetic soul."
The count ceased speaking. The fair Enrica, with her tender smile, and patient, chastened loveliness—Enrica, as he had imagined her, the type of the young Madonna, was before him. No, Enrica could never be his; no child of his would ever be encircled by those soft, womanly arms! With a strong effort to shake off the feeling which so deeply moved him, the count continued:
"In the boundless realms of ideal philosophy"—his noble features were at this moment lit up into the living image of that hero he so much resembled—"man grapples hand to hand with the unseen. There are no limits to his glorious aspirations. He is as God himself. He, too, becomes a Creator; and a new and purer world forms beneath his hand."
"Have you done?" asked Trenta, looking up out of the arm-chair. He was so thoroughly overcome, so subdued, he could have wept. From the very commencement of the count's explanation, he had felt that it was not given to him to combat his opinions. If he could, he was not sure that he would have ventured to do so. "Let pitch alone," says the proverb.
Now Trenta, of a most cleanly nature, morally and physically—abhorred pitch, especially such pitch as this. He had long looked upon Count Marescotti as an atheist, a visionary—but he had never conceived him capable of establishing an organized system of rebellion and communism. At Lucca, too! It was horrible! By some means such an incendiary must be got rid of. Next to the foul Fiend himself established in the city, he could conceive nothing more awful! It was a Providence that Marescotti could not marry Enrica! He should tell the marchesa so. Such sophistry might have perverted Enrica also. It was more than probable that, instead of reforming him, she might have fallen a victim to his wickedness. This reflection was infinitely comforting to the much-enduring cavaliere. It lightened also much of his apprehension in approaching the marchesa, as the bearer of the count's refusal.
To Trenta's question as to "whether he had done," Marescotti had promptly replied with easy courtesy, "Certainly, if you desire it. But, my dear cavaliere," he went on to say, speaking in his usual manner, "you will now understand why, cost me what it may, I cannot marry. Never, never, I confess, have I been so fiercely tempted! But the pang is past!" And he swept his hand over his brow. "Marriage with me is impossible. You will understand this."
"Yes, yes, I quite agree with you, count," put in Trenta—sideways, as it were. He was rejoiced to find he had any common standing-point left with Marescotti. "I agree with you—marriage is quite impossible. I hope, too," he added, recovering himself a little, with a faint twinkle in his eye, "you will find your mission at Lucca equally impossible. San Riccardo grant it!" And the old man crossed himself, and secretly fingered an image of the Virgin he wore about his neck.
"Putting aside the sacred office with which I am invested," resumed the count, without noticing Trenta's observation, "no wife could sympathize with me. It would be a case of Byron over again. What agony it would be to me to see the exquisite Enrica unable to understand me! A poet, a mystic, I am only fit to live alone. My path"—and a far-away look came into his eyes—"my path lies alone upon the mountains—alone! alone!" he added sorrowfully, and a tear trembled on his eyelid.
"Then why, may I ask you," retorted Trenta, with energy, raising himself upright in the arm-chair, "why did you mislead me by such passionate language to Enrica? Recall the Guinigi Tower, your attitude—your glances—I must say, Count Marescotti, I consider your conduct unpardonable—quite unpardonable."
Trenta's face and forehead were scarlet, his steely blue eyes were rounded to their utmost width, and, as far as such mild eyes could, they glared at the count.
"You have entirely misled me. As to your political opinions, I have, thank God, nothing to do with them; that is your affair. But in this matter of Enrica you have unjustifiably misled me. I shall not forgive you in a hurry, I can tell you." There was a rustling of anger all over the cavaliere, as the leaves of the forest-trees rustle before the breath of the coming tempest.
"My admiration for women," replied the count, "has hitherto been purely aesthetic. You, cavaliere, cannot understand the discrepancies of an artistic nature. Women have been to me heretofore as beautiful abstractions. I have adored them as I adore the works of the great masters. I would as soon have thought of plucking a virgin from the canvas—a Venus from her pedestal, as of appropriating one of them. Enrica Guinigi"—there was a tender inflection in Count Marescotti's voice whenever he named her, an involuntary bending of the head that was infinitely touching—"Enrica Guinigi is an exception. I could have loved her—ah! she is worthy of all love! Her soul is as rare as her person. I read in the depths of her plaintive eyes the trust of a child and the fortitude of a heroine. If I dared to give these thoughts utterance, it was because I knew she loved another!"
"Loved another?" screamed Trenta, losing all self-control and tottering to his feet. "Loved another?" he repeated, every feature working convulsively. "What do you mean?"
Marescotti rose also. Was it possible that Trenta could be in ignorance, he asked himself, hurriedly, as he stared at the aged chamberlain, trembling from head to foot.
"Loved another? You are mad, Count Marescotti, I always said so—mad! mad!" Trenta gasped for breath. He was hardly able to articulate.
The count bowed to him ironically.
"Calm yourself, cavaliere," he said, haughtily, measuring from head to foot the plump little cavaliere, who stood before him literally panting with rage. "There is no need for violence. You and the marchesa must have known of this. I shuddered, when I thought that Enrica might have been driven into acquiescence with your proposal against her will. I love her too much to have permitted it."
The cavaliere could with difficulty bring himself to allow Marescotti to finish. He was too furious to take in the full sense of what he said. His throat was parched.
"You must answer to me for this!" Trenta could barely articulate. His voice was dry and hoarse. "You must—you shall. You have refused Enrica, now you insult her. I demand—I demand satisfaction. No excuse—no excuse!" he shouted. And seeing that Marescotti drew back toward the window, the cavaliere pressed closer upon him, stamped his foot upon the floor, and raised his clinched fist as near to the count's face as his height permitted.
Had the official sword hung at Trenta's side, he would undoubtedly have drawn it at that moment and attacked him. In the defense of Enrica he forgot his age—he forgot every thing. His very voice had changed into a manly barytone. In the absence of his sword, Trenta was evidently about to strike Marescotti. As he advanced, the other retreated.
A hot flush overspread the count's face for an instant, then it faded out, and grew pale and rigid. He remembered the cavaliere's great age, and checked himself. To avoid him, the count retreated to the farthest limit of the room, hastily seized a chair, and barricaded himself behind it. "I will not fight you, Cavaliere Trenta," he answered, speaking with calmness.
"Ah, coward!" screamed Trenta, "would you dishonor me?"
"Cavaliere Trenta, this is folly," said the count, crossing his arms on his breast. "Strike me if you please," he added, seeing that Trenta still threatened him. "Strike me; I shall not return it. On my honor as a gentleman, what I have said is true. Had you, cavaliere, been a younger man, you must have heard it in the city, at the club, the theatre; it is known everywhere."
"What is known?" asked Trenta, hoarsely, standing suddenly motionless, the flush of rage dying out of his countenance, and a look of helpless suffering taking its place.
"That Count Nobili loves Enrica Guinigi," answered Marescotti, abruptly.
Like a shot Baldassare's words rose to Trenta's remembrance. The poor old chamberlain turned very white. He quivered like a leaf, and clung to the table for support.
"Pardon me, oh! pardon me a thousand times, if I have pained you," exclaimed the count; he left the place where he was standing, threw his arms round Trenta, and placed him with careful tenderness on a seat. His generous heart upbraided him bitterly for having allowed himself for an instant to be heated by the cavaliere's reproaches. "How could I possibly imagine you did not know all this?" he asked, in the gentlest voice.
Trenta groaned.
"Take me home, take me home," he murmured, faintly. "Gran Dio! the marchesa! the marchesa!" He clasped his hands, then let them fall upon his knees.
"But what real obstacle can there be to a marriage with Count Nobili?"
"I cannot speak," answered the cavaliere, almost inaudibly, trying to rise. "Every obstacle." And he sank back helplessly on the chair.
Count Marescotti took a silver flask from a drawer, and offered him a cordial. Trenta swallowed it with the submissiveness of a child. The count picked up his cane, and placed it in his hand. The cavaliere mechanically grasped it, rose, and moved feebly toward the door.
"Let me go," he said, faintly, addressing Marescotti, who urged him to remain. "Let me go. I must inform the marchesa, I must see Enrica. Ah! if you knew all!" he whispered, looking piteously at the count. "My poor Enrica!—my pretty lamb! Who can have led her astray? How can it have happened? I must go—go at once. I am better now. Yes—give me your arm, count, I am a little weak. I thank you—it supports me."
The door of No. 4 was at last opened. The cavaliere descended the stairs very slowly, supported by Marescotti, whose looks expressed the deepest compassion. A fiacre was called from the piazza.
"The Palazzo Trenta," said Count Marescotti to the driver, handing in the cavaliere.
"No, no," he faintly interrupted, "not there. To Casa Guinigi. I must instantly see the marchesa," whispered Trenta in the count's ear.
The fiacre containing the unhappy chamberlain drove from the door, and plunged into a dark street toward the cathedral.
Count Marescotti stood for some minutes in the doorway, gazing after it. The full blaze of a hot September sun played round his uncovered head, lighting it up as with a glory. Then he turned, and, slowly reascending the stairs to No. 4, opened his door, and locked it behind him.