Part 1 (1/2)
Gerald Fitzgerald.
by Charles James Lever.
NOTE
The Publishers feel that some explanation is necessary concerning the tardy publication in book form of this story. _Gerald Fitzgerald_ appeared as a serial in the _Dublin University Magazine_. The Magazine at the time was changing hands, Lever's old friend and publisher, James M'Glashan, having just died. Lever was always eager to avoid trouble, and ever readier to undertake new work than to concern himself about work already done; and possibly--for there is not sufficient evidence to speak with certainty--owing to some trouble with the new proprietors of the _Dublin University Magazine_, he decided to put aside _Gerald Fitzgerald_. When he was rearranging his novels for a fresh issue, shortly before his death, he omitted a few of his stories from the collection, but for no adequate reason which can be discovered. He was a.s.sisted in the preparation of this collected edition by his daughter, Mrs. Nevill, who died last year. Mrs. Nevill could not account, for the omission of _Gerald Fitzgerald_, and left it to the judgment of the present publishers whether the work should be issued or not. After very careful consideration, and with full respect for Lever's memory and reputation, they have decided that the novel should be issued as a substantive work. It is evident that Lever spent much pains upon the story; and though it is not to be expected that it will rival in popularity his earlier and more boisterous performances, yet the publishers believe it will not in any way damage his reputation as a story-teller.
London, March 1899.
GERALD FITZGERALD
BOOK THE FIRST
CHAPTER I. THE THIEVES' CORNER
At the foot of the hill on which stands the Campidoglio at Rome, and close beneath the ruins that now enc.u.mber the Tarpeian rock, runs a mean-looking alley, called the Viccolo D'Orsi, but better known to the police as the 'Viccolo dei Ladri,' or 'Thieves' Corner'--the epithet being, it is said, conferred in a spirit the very reverse of calumnious.
Long and straggling, and too narrow to admit of any but foot-pa.s.sengers, its dwellings are marked by a degree of poverty and dest.i.tution even greater than such quarters usually exhibit. Rudely constructed of fragments taken from ancient temples and monuments, richly carved architraves and finely cut friezes are to be seen embedded amid ma.s.ses of crumbling masonry, and all the evidences of a cultivated and enlightened age mingled up with the squalor and misery of present want.
Not less suggestive than the homes themselves are the population of this dreary district; and despite rags, and dirt, and debas.e.m.e.nt, there they are--the true descendants of those who once, with such terrible truth, called themselves 'Masters of the World.' Well set-on heads of ma.s.sive mould, bold and prominent features, finely fas.h.i.+oned jaws, and lips full of vigour and sensual meaning, are but the base counterfeits of the traits that meet the eye in the Vatican. No effort of imagination is needed to trace the kindred. In every gesture, in their gait, even in the careless ease of their ragged drapery, you can mark the traditionary signs of the once haughty citizen.
With a remnant of their ancient pride, these people reject all hired occupation, and would scorn, as an act of slavery, the idea of labour; and, as neither trade nor calling prevails among them, their existence would seem an inscrutable problem, save on the hypothesis which dictated the popular t.i.tle of this district. But without calling to our aid this explanation, it must be remembered how easily life is supported by those satisfied with its meanest requirements, and especially in a land so teeming with abundance. A few roots, a handful of chestnuts, a piece of black bread, a cup of wine, scarcely more costly than so much water, these are enough to maintain existence; and in their gaunt and famished faces you can see that little beyond this is accomplished.
About the middle of the alley, and over a doorway of sculptured marble, stands a small statue of Vesta, which, by the aid of a little paint, a crown of gilt paper, and a candle, some pious hands had transformed into a Madonna. A little beneath this, and on a black board, scrawled with letters of unequal size, is the word 'Trattoria' or eating-house.
Nothing, indeed, can be well further from the ordinary aspect of a tavern than the huge vaulted chamber, almost dest.i.tute of furniture, and dimly lighted by the flame of a single lamp; a few loaves of coa.r.s.e black bread, some wicker-bound flasks of common wine, and a wooden bowl containing salad, laid out upon a table, const.i.tuting all that the place affords for entertainment. Some benches are ranged on either side of the table, and two or three more are gathered around a little iron tripod, supporting a pan of lighted charcoal, over which now two figures are to be seen cowering down to the weak flame, while they converse in low whispers together.
It is a cold and dreary night in December; the snow has fallen not only on the higher Apennines, but lies thickly over Albano, and is even seen in drifts along the Campagna. The wailing wind sighs mournfully through the arches of the Colosseum and among the columns of the old Forum, while at intervals, with stronger gusts, it sweeps along the narrow alley, wafting on high the heavy curtain that closes the doorway of the Trattoria, and leaving its occupants for the time in total darkness.
Twice had this mischance occurred; and now the ma.s.sive table is drawn over to the door, to aid in forming a barricade against the storm.
''Tis better not to do it, Fra Luke,' said a woman's voice, as the stout friar arranged his breastwork. 'You know what happened the last time there was a door in the same place.'
'Never mind, Mrs. Mary,' replied the other; they 're not so ready with their knives as they used to be, and, moreover, there's few of them will be out to-night.'
Both spoke in English, and with an accent which told of an Irish origin; and now, as they reseated themselves beside the brazier, we have time to observe them. The woman is scarcely above forty years of age, but she looks older from the effects of sorrow: her regular features and deeply-set eyes bear traces of former beauty. Two braids of rich brown hair have escaped beneath her humble widow's cap and fallen partly over her cheeks, and, as she tries to arrange them, her taper and delicately formed fingers proclaim her of gentle blood: her dress is of the coa.r.s.est woollen stuff worn by the peasantry, but little cuffs of c.r.a.pe show how, in all her poverty, she had endeavoured to maintain some semblance to a garb of mourning. The man, whose age might be fifty-seven or eight, is tall, powerfully built, and although enc.u.mbered by the long dress of a friar, shows in every motion that he is still possessed of considerable strength and activity. The closely cut hair over his forehead and temples gives something of coa.r.s.eness to the character of his round full head; but his eyes are mild and gentle-looking, and there is an unmistakable good-nature in his large and thick-lipped mouth.
If there is an air of deference to his companion in the way he seats himself a little distance from the 'brazier,' there is, more markedly still, a degree of tender pity in the look that he bestows on her.
'I want to read you the pet.i.tion, Mrs. Mary,' said he, drawing a small scroll of paper from his pocket, and unfolding it before the light.
''Tis right you'd hear it, and see if there's anything you 'd like different--anything mispleasing you, or that you 'd wish left out.' She sighed heavily, but made no answer. He waited for a second or two, and then resumed: ''Tisn't the like of me--a poor friar, ignorant as I am--knows well how to write a thing of the kind, and, moreover, to one like _him_; but maybe the time's coming when you 'll have grander and better friends.'
'Oh, no! no!' cried she pa.s.sionately; 'not better, Fra Luke--not better; that they can never be.'
'Well, well, better able to serve you,' said he, as though ashamed that any question of himself should have intruded into the discussion; 'and that they may easily be. But here's the writing; and listen to it now, for it must be all copied out to-night, and ready for to-morrow morning.
The cardinal goes to him at eleven. There's to be some grandees from Spain, and maybe Portugal, at twelve. The Scottish lords come after that; and then Kelly tells me he 'll see any that likes, and that has letters or pet.i.tions to give him. That's the time for us, then; for ye see, Kelly doesn't like to give it himself: he doesn't know what the Prince would say, and how he 'd take it; and, natural enough, he 'd not wish to lose the favour he's in by any mistake. That's the word he said, and sure enough it sounded a strange one for helping a friend and a countrywoman; so that I must contrive to go myself, and G.o.d's my judge, if I wouldn't rather face a drove of the wild cattle out there on the Campagna, than stand up before all them grand people!' The very thought of such an ordeal seemed too much for the poor friar, for he wiped his forehead with the loose cuff of his robe, and for some minutes appeared to be totally lost in reflection.