Notes

Глава 5

В это утро Артуру хотелось погулять подольше. Он оставил вещи знакомому студенту и пешком отправился в Ливорно.
День был сырой и облачный, но не холодный; низкая, ровная долина казалась ему на редкость живописным местом. Было так приятно шагать по упругой влажной траве и любоваться первыми робкими весенними цветочками у обочины. На кусте колючей акации у края маленького лесочка птица свивала гнездо, и вспорхнула, когда он проходил мимо, с испуганным криком, и затрепетала коричневыми крыльями.
Он старался сосредоточиться на благочестивых мыслях, присущих кануну Святой Пятницы. Но - то Монтанелли, то Джемма столь часто возникали перед глазами, что в конце концов он оставил попытки этих упражнений и позволил своей фантазии унестись к чудесам и славе грядущего мятежа и к той роли, которую он предоставлял своим кумирам.
В его воображении Падрэ был предводителем, апостолом, пророком, перед священным гневом которого падут силы тьмы и у ног которого юные защитники Свободы будут заново постигать древние учения, и прежние истины предстанут в новом и неизвестном значении.
А Джемма? O, Джемма будет сражаться на баррикадах. Он рождена, чтобы стать героиней; она станет верным товарищем, девой без страха и упрека, о которой грезило так много поэтов. Она встанет рядом с ним, плечом к плечу, ликуя, под крылатым смертельным вихрем; и они умрут вместе, может, даже в миг победы--ведь победа обязательно наступит. О своей любви он ничего ей не скажет; ни скажет ни слова, чтобы не нарушить мир ее души или запятнать высокое чувство товарищества. Она - его святыня, непорочная жертва, что возляжет на алтарь для сожжения во имя человеческой свободы; и кто он такой, чтобы посметь нарушить чистую святость души, не знавшей иной любви, кроме Бога и Италии?
Бог и Италия----Капля дождя прервала его мысли, когда он всходил на крыльцо большого мрачного особняка на Дворцовой улице, и дворецкий Джулии, безупречно опрятный, бесстрастный и вежливо-недоброжелательный, как всегда, встретил его на лестнице.
"Добрый вечер, Гиббонс; мои братья у себя?"
"Только мистер Томас, сэр; и миссис Бёртон. Они в гостиной."
Артур вошел с тяжёлым сердцем. Что за мрачный дом! Жизнь словно текла мимо него, не оставляя здесь своего следа. Здесь никогда ничего не менялось-- ни люди, ни семейные портреты, ни тяжёлая мебель и уродливая посуда, ни грубая кичливость богатством, ни безжизненность всего вокруг. Даже цветы на своих медных подставках казались фальшивыми, словно никогда в них теплой весной не бродил молодой сок. Джулия, переодевшаяся к обеду, ждала гостей в гостиной, что была цeнтром ее бытия, - словно с модной картинки, - со своей деревянной улыбкой, ярко-жёлтыми локонами и комнатной собачкой на коленях.
"Как поживаешь, Артур?" сухо сказала она, сунув ему на секунду кончики пальцев, и тотчас перенеся их к более приятной шелковистой шерсти собачонки. "Надеюсь, у тебя всё хорошо и в жизни и с учёбой."
Артур пробормотал что-то общепринятое - первое, что пришло в голову, - и воцарилось неловкое молчание. The arrival of James, in
his most pompous mood and accompanied by a stiff, elderly shipping-agent,
did not improve matters; and when Gibbons announced that dinner was served,
Arthur rose with a little sigh of relief.
"I won't come to dinner, Julia. If you'll excuse me I will go to my
room."
"You're overdoing that fasting, my boy," said Thomas; "I am sure you'll
make yourself ill."
"Oh, no! Good-night."
In the corridor Arthur met the under housemaid and asked her to knock
at his door at six in the morning.
"The signorino is going to church?"
"Yes. Good-night, Teresa."
He went into his room. It had belonged to his mother, and the alcove
opposite the window had been fitted up during her long illness as an
oratory. A great crucifix on a black pedestal occupied the middle of the
altar; and before it hung a little Roman lamp. This was the room where she
had died. Her portrait was on the wall beside the bed; and on the table
stood a china bowl which had been hers, filled with a great bunch of her
favourite violets. It was just a year since her death; and the Italian
servants had not forgotten her.
He took out of his portmanteau a framed picture, carefully wrapped up.
It was a crayon portrait of Montanelli, which had come from Rome only a few
days before. He was unwrapping this precious treasure when Julia's page
brought in a supper-tray on which the old Italian cook, who had served
Gladys before the harsh, new mistress came, had placed such little
delicacies as she considered her dear signorino might permit himself to eat
without infringing the rules of the Church. Arthur refused everything but a
piece of bread; and the page, a nephew of Gibbons, lately arrived from
England, grinned significantly as he carried out the tray. He had already
joined the Protestant camp in the servants' hall.
Arthur went into the alcove and knelt down before the crucifix, trying
to compose his mind to the proper attitude for prayer and meditation. But
this he found difficult to accomplish. He had, as Thomas said, rather
overdone the Lenten privations, and they had gone to his head like strong
wine. Little quivers of excitement went down his back, and the crucifix swam
in a misty cloud before his eyes. It was only after a long litany,
mechanically repeated, that he succeeded in recalling his wandering
imagination to the mystery of the Atonement. At last sheer physical
weariness conquered the feverish agitation of his nerves, and he lay down to
sleep in a calm and peaceful mood, free from all unquiet or disturbing
thoughts.
He was fast asleep when a sharp, impatient knock came at his door. "Ah,
Teresa!" he thought, turning over lazily. The knock was repeated, and he
awoke with a violent start.
"Signorino! signorino!" cried a man's voice in Italian; "get up for the
love of God!"
Arthur jumped out of bed.
"What is the matter? Who is it?"
"It's I, Gian Battista. Get up, quick, for Our Lady's sake!"
Arthur hurriedly dressed and opened the door. As he stared in
perplexity at the coachman's pale, terrified face, the sound of tramping
feet and clanking metal came along the corridor, and he suddenly realized
the truth.
"For me?" he asked coolly.
"For you! Oh, signorino, make haste! What have you to hide? See, I can
put----"
"I have nothing to hide. Do my brothers know?"
The first uniform appeared at the turn of the passage.
"The signor has been called; all the house is awake. Alas! what a
misfortune--what a terrible misfortune! And on Good Friday! Holy Saints,
have pity!"
Gian Battista burst into tears. Arthur moved a few steps forward and
waited for the gendarmes, who came clattering along, followed by a shivering
crowd of servants in various impromptu costumes. As the soldiers surrounded
Arthur, the master and mistress of the house brought up the rear of this
strange procession; he in dressing gown and slippers, she in a long
peignoir, with her hair in curlpapers.
"There is, sure, another flood toward, and these couples are coming to
the ark! Here comes a pair of very strange beasts!"
The quotation flashed across Arthur's mind as he looked at the
grotesque figures. He checked a laugh with a sense of its jarring
incongruity--this was a time for worthier thoughts. "Ave Maria, Regina
Coeli!" he whispered, and turned his eyes away, that the bobbing of Julia's
curlpapers might not again tempt him to levity.
"Kindly explain to me," said Mr. Burton, approaching the officer of
gendarmerie, "what is the meaning of this violent intrusion into a private
house? I warn you that, unless you are prepared to furnish me with a
satisfactory explanation, I shall feel bound to complain to the English
Ambassador."
"I presume," replied the officer stiffly, "that you will recognize this
as a sufficient explanation; the English Ambassador certainly will." He
pulled out a warrant for the arrest of Arthur Burton, student of philosophy,
and, handing it to James, added coldly: "If you wish for any further
explanation, you had better apply in person to the chief of police."
Julia snatched the paper from her husband, glanced over it, and flew at
Arthur like nothing else in the world but a fashionable lady in a rage.
"So it's you that have disgraced the family!" she screamed; "setting
all the rabble in the town gaping and staring as if the thing were a show?
So you have turned jail-bird, now, with all your piety! It's what we might
have expected from that Popish woman's child----"
"You must not speak to a prisoner in a foreign language, madam," the
officer interrupted; but his remonstrance was hardly audible under the
torrent of Julia's vociferous English.
"Just what we might have expected! Fasting and prayer and saintly
meditation; and this is what was underneath it all! I thought that would be
the end of it."
Dr. Warren had once compared Julia to a salad into which the cook had
upset the vinegar cruet. The sound of her thin, hard voice set Arthur's
teeth on edge, and the simile suddenly popped up in his memory.
"There's no use in this kind of talk," he said. "You need not be afraid
of any unpleasantness; everyone will understand that you are all quite
innocent. I suppose, gentlemen, you want to search my things. I have nothing
to hide." The gendarmes, meanwhile, had finished their search, and the
officer in charge requested Arthur to put on his outdoor clothes. He obeyed
at once and turned to leave the room; then stopped with sudden hesitation.
It seemed hard to take leave of his mother's oratory in the presence of
these officials.
"Have you any objection to leaving the room for a moment?" he asked.
"You see that I cannot escape and that there is nothing to conceal."
"I am sorry, but it is forbidden to leave a prisoner alone."
"Very well, it doesn't matter."
He went into the alcove, and, kneeling down, kissed the feet and
pedestal of the crucifix, whispering softly: "Lord, keep me faithful unto
death."
When he rose, the officer was standing by the table, examining
Montanelli's portrait. "Is this a relative of yours?" he asked.
"No; it is my confessor, the new Bishop of Brisighella."
On the staircase the Italian servants were waiting, anxious and
sorrowful. They all loved Arthur for his own sake and his mother's, and
crowded round him, kissing his hands and dress with passionate grief. Gian
Battista stood by, the tears dripping down his gray moustache. None of the
Burtons came out to take leave of him. Their coldness accentuated the
tenderness and sympathy of the servants, and Arthur was near to breaking
down as he pressed the hands held out to him.
"Good-bye, Gian Battista. Kiss the little ones for me. Good-bye,
Teresa. Pray for me, all of you; and God keep you! Good-bye, good-bye!"
He ran hastily downstairs to the front door. A moment later only a
little group of silent men and sobbing women stood on the doorstep watching
the carriage as it drove away.