Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/708

700 The change, however, pleased me; it promised well besides for the story he was to tell me, and which I only waited supper to be over to remind him of.

I saw, too, that the priest’s courage had so far rallied that he had no longer any reluctance to approach a theme which an hour back had impressed him only with terror.

“Come to the door,” said he, “and I will show you the very spot.”

Trusting to ascertain later on to what he referred by these words, I followed him to the little arched portal by which we entered. It was a calm night, without a moon, but the sky was lit up with thousands of stars, so that after the eye became a little habituated, objects could be descried with tolerable distinctness. We walked out into the piazza and drew nigh the fountain, when turning quickly about, the priest faced the large building I have already spoken of, and said:

“There, that’s it; do you see that large window with the balcony over the gate?—it’s walled-up now, and will be for ever; that was the spot; mark it well, and come away when you think you have seen it sufficiently.”

As he said it he turned his back to the house, and bent his eyes to the ground. So far as the light permitted, I made out a large and somewhat handsome edifice. There were ornamental entablatures over the window; a richly carved armorial ensign over the entrance gate, and although only one wing of the building had been completed, along this there ran a spacious terrace, the balustrade of which was ornamented with marble urns, in which rare plants had once probably figured, but now were moulded and grass-grown.

Throughout the entire building, however, not a whole pane of glass was to be seen; all were smashed, and even the framework in some cases shared the ruin.

I drew nigh the entrance-gate, and saw that a brick wall had been built up to about the height of the lock; above this the panels, which were of massive oak thickly studded with nails, showed innumerable marks of ill usage from stones, with here and there the signs of an attempt by fire. Everything, in short, indicated that violence, even more than decay, was the cause of the ruin and dilapidation, and even to the headless trunks of two gigantic marble caryatides at the gate; all bespoke a popular vengeance.

A narrow lane flanked one end of the building, and I was about to proceed down this, and so obtain a view of the house from the back, when Don Lertora called out to me to return. His voice—whether the occasion, or the wine, the reason I cannot say—had assumed a tone so peremptory and self-assured, as actually to startle me; but fearing lest anything like resentment on my part might lose me the story, I suppressed whatever I felt on that score, and slowly walked after him to the house.

“You’ll not forget it easily, I think,” said the priest, as we resumed our seats beside the fire, and there was as much rebuke in his tone as there was approval.

I merely replied that it was a curious old building, and evidently had seen better days than those which now befel it.

To this he made no answer, but drank off a full bumper of the Gariglano, and refilled his glass.

“Better days,” muttered he, repeating my last words. “It has seen the last of its ‘better days.’ I would not live in the town it stands in to be the canonico of the ‘Dome’ Church.”

I saw that it were better to let him blow off the steam of his indignation than to control it, so I only filled my glass, and lighting my cigar, awaited the time he might think fit to open the story.

“Are you sleepy? Would you like to go to bed?” asked he, after a pause.

“Not in the least,” said I. “I am Italian enough to think that these tranquil hours of the night are the most livable of the whole four-and-twenty, the pleasantest for conversation, as they are the best for thought and reflection.”

“In that case, what if I tell you the story I spoke of?”

“With all my heart,” said I, with a half-careless compliance, for I knew enough of the Don’s countrymen to be aware that they always regard eagerness with suspicion, and seldom do with frankness what they perceive to be awaited with any interest or anxiety.

This is one feature of Italian mistrust, whoever has lived much amongst them will not hesitate to recognise.

I wish I could tell the tale as I heard it; I wish I could even approximate to the mode of Don Lertora’s narrative, full as it was of little traits of village life he was so familiar with, and to whose habits he referred from time to time as the great and world-acknowledged standards in morals as well as manners. But to attempt this, I should be led into such constant interpolations of Italian words and phrases, such borrowing of expressions not native to our ears, and such allusions to things unusual to our ordinary ways and habits, that I must fain consent to give the events simply and plainly, without any of that colouring which I am free to own gave the story its chief charm to myself, and may not improbably have misled me when I hoped to make it of interest to others.

never thought that it would come to this; How should they, while the brain and eye, and hand Were clear, and keen, and cunning? And our Land Had need of such. They ask what went amiss To throw the busy life-wheel out of gear, While life was strong and willing in the frame Of them that toiled? What raised the pallid fear In fearless hearts? What brought the crimson shame On honest brows, and hungry Death so near? Poor, stricken, patient ones! not theirs the blame: Man’s sin, man’s lust of power, wrought evil here, As ever since the first dire trouble came That cursed the world.—They justly claim our aid, Man is man’s debtor: let this debt be paid. G. R. T.