“The champaign, with its endless fleece
Of feathery grasses everywhere!
Silence and passion, joy and peace,
An everlasting wash of air―
Rome’s ghost since her decease.”
THEODORE soon learned that his luckless half-brother had come to him as to a rock of safety in the midst of a sea of troubles. It was the old story of the prodigal son in its modern version: debt incurred recklessly and concealed with contemptible moral cowardice, the concealment doubling the evil, until at last a point was reached threatening absolute ruin, aggravated by terrible and deserved disgrace.
“But why did you not confide in our father, the most generous as well as the most righteous of men?” Theodore asked reproachfully.
Gaetano replied by pouring out a long, passionate, incoherent story of distrust and disunion sown between him and his father by the arts of his brother Antonio. Theodore made large allowances for prejudice and exaggeration; yet, on the whole, he believed there was some truth in the representations of Gaetano. Since his boyhood he had recognized Antonio as one of those persons who, placed, between any two others, invariably sunder them.
Gaetano pleaded earnestly with Theodore to return with him to Venice, help him to confess all to his father, and try to make peace between them. Should he refuse, he threatened to enlist immediately in a company of condottieri, and seek death on the battlefield. This was not to be thought of, both for their father’s sake, and on account of sundry young and helpless lives unhappily dependent upon the thoughtless prodigal. Therefore Theodore, with whom, as with most of his race, the bonds of family affection and sympathy were very strong, eventually yielded, and promised to accompany his brother: They started at daybreak two days afterward. During the noontide heat they stopped to rest at a desolate little wayside osteria. The place was silent and dreary. No contadini lounged on the stone bench before the door eating black bread and goat’s-milk cheese, and drinking the landlord’s sour wine; no passing wine cart made the air musical with the merry tinkle of its bells; only the landlord himself, withered, yellow, and sickly, came out to take their horses, and to offer them the shelter of his roof―he had little else to offer.
Theodore had engaged half-a-dozen stout, well-armed serving men as an escort, for the roads were infested with banditti; and the party had brought provisions with them, of which they were now glad to avail themselves. After a frugal meal the travelers wrapped their cloaks around them, and stretched themselves on the ground to enjoy a siesta.
But Theodore could not sleep. Many things made him restless. He reproached himself with having, after all, left Borne without seeking an explanation with Viola. Bitterly did he curse his own haughty reserve, which, as he now felt, had in all probability ruined his hopes forever. His mind was full of Viola; he could turn it to no other subject, not even to the business that was bringing him to Venice. Slumber was impossible, and the effort to remain quiet became every moment more insupportable. At last he rose noiselessly, and, without awakening any of his companions, left the osteria.
He stood for some time looking over the silent landscape. The mournful beauty of the Campagna appealed powerfully to his heart. In the distance his eye rested upon the ruins of the grand old Roman Aqueduct, with its miles of arches. Nearer, a wide grassy plain, broken here and there into mounds and hillocks, stretched out before him. Amid the green, patches of scarlet poppies and other bright summer flowers bloomed unheeded; or heaps of tumbled stones, half overgrown with vegetation, told that human life had once throbbed with full pulses over the scene which was now desolate, forsaken, and echoless. No sound, no cry of beast or bird, not so much as the chirp of a cicala, broke the stillness. The noontide heat had driven into hiding even the “lizards green and rare” that haunted the mouldering stones, and the “sad aziola,” whose note suits her home so well. Far away, looking purple under the cloudless azure of the Italian sky, gleamed the Sabine hills.
Close at hand a ruined doorway and pair of a wall showed where once had stood a Roman villa. It offered Theodore shelter from the sun, and perhaps the chance of finding a few rare flowers, about which he was anxious, as a keen student of nature. He reached it, gathered and examined the flowers, and then sat down in the shade to rest. It occurred to him that he had never opened a packet of letters received just before leaving Rome. He drew it out of the pocket of his doublet, untied the silk that bound it, and broke the seal. The first thing that met his eye was a letter of his own to Raymond, the last written from Montpellier, which his agent there had returned to him, not finding the expected opportunity of forwarding it. Such mischances were common enough, and Theodore put by the letter without even reflecting that it cleared Raymond of part of the blame attaching to him; since only in that letter, if at all, had he mentioned the name of Viola. Then came a communication from a friend and pupil at Montpellier full of such items of news as those who seek the peace of the city where they sojourn like to receive during a temporary absence. The most noteworthy event recorded was the death of the Greek professor, a man of considerable talents, but of strong passions and irregular life.
Whilst he read, Theodore became aware of a deeper shadow thrown across his page, and, looking up, saw a shepherd of the Campagna standing before him. There was no mistaking the short jacket of undressed sheep’s wool, the faded red waistcoat, the shaggy goat-skin trousers, even without the yellow gourd of water by his side, the long pole in his hand, and the sheep-dog at his heels.
Apparently the shepherd was in as little doubt about the calling of the doctor, who, though the heat had caused him to discard his robe, still carried his gold-headed cane, and was now making use of it to repel the rude advances of the shepherd’s dog.
“‘Scusi, Signor Doctor, ‘scusi,” said the dog’s owner. “Down, Cæsar, down! Don’t you know a Signor Eccellenza when you see him? Eh, you brute?”
“He thinks I have some food about me,” said Theodore. Then, raising his eyes from the dog to the shepherd, he observed his countenance, which was yellow, ghastly, and wrinkled. With a sentiment of compassion and an instinct of his calling, he took a broad silver coin from his purse. “Spend that on mutton collops or capon broth,” he said, “and eschew sour vine and unsound fruit, if you wish to live, my friend. Why, in the name of Saint―whatsoever saint presides over common sense―don’t you take your flock up to the mountains?”
The contadino thanked him profusely, invoked all the saints, and explained that he never went to the mountains―not he; the padrone did not wish it, for the flocks throve better on the rich grasses of the plain. Then he began again, “‘Scusi, Signor Doctor, ‘scusi.”
“Well, my man, what more do you want of me? Medicine”
“Not for myself, oh no I am not ill,” said the poor fellow, though, as he spoke, his teeth were chattering with ague. “But, oh, Signor Doctor!―’scusi.”
“Well?”
“Over yonder, in my capanno, lies a stranger very ill― dying! A priest too, signor. Come to him, Signor Doctor, for the love of God and the saints!”
“It is the fever, of course. Those who breathe poison must expect the consequences,” said Theodore. “And, in these cases medicine can do but little. Still, since you ask it, I will just look at him; but I must first tell my friends at the osteria.”
He did so; took with him some specifics with which he was always provided, and resigned himself to the guidance of the kind-hearted shepherd.
He could not help wondering, as he passed along, why a scene so fair and bright should be the lair of the pestilence “that walketh in darkness.” Practical as ever, he pondered the question with a view to finding a solution and a remedy―but in vain; the sad mystery of the malaria has been doomed to baffle investigation for many a long year after Theodore Benedetto slept with his fathers.
At last they reached the capanno, a rude hut of thick matted straw and sticks, very narrow, and not high enough for a man to stand upright. Fortunately a solitary oak stood near, and Theodore begged the shepherd, for the present, to seek its shade, as the hut, really too small for one, would be intolerable for three.
He passed in, stooping low. The sick man lay upon a heap of straw covered with a blanket. He seemed insensible, or at least unconscious of the approach of a stranger. Theodore took the burning hand in his, preparatory to a diagnosis of the case. As for this purpose he moved to his side, ceasing to block up the doorway with his own form, he saw clearly, for the first time, the face of the sufferer. It was the face of Raymond Chalcondyles.
The impulse of the moment was to give the contadino some money and some medicine, and to depart at once, before Raymond could recognize him. Theodore was not cruel, so at least he told himself; he would do what humanity demanded, oven for his enemy. Raymond was his enemy. Not that now his wrath burned fiercely against him like fire; it rather resembled frost, the frost of an Arctic winter―bands of “cold, strong, passionless,” clasped about his heart.
If thus abandoned Raymond would die. That was almost certain. His death would not lie at his door. What had induced him to wander into this haunt of foyer? He must take the consequences of his own imprudence. Raymond would die; while as for himself, he would pursue his journey to Venice, complete his business there, and return to Borne to woo and win Viola di Porcaro. There would be no obstacle now, and nothing else in the world seemed worth anything to him that hour.
Raymond would die. He turned away from him; he would not look on his face again, lest his heart should relent, and the old love return. No danger of that―not now; his heart seemed dead within him. In fact, he was not thinking of Raymond at all; only of himself, and of the consequences to himself of his own actions.
“Theodore Benedetto, you are doing the deed of a villain!” Whence came the voice? Were the words spoken by him, or were they spoken to him by another? He never knew; and yet they sounded in his ears with terrible distinctness. It flashed upon his mind with irresistible force that so to leave Raymond―his friend or his enemy, whichever he pleased to call him―would be unworthy, base, vile. To stay with him, to watch by him, to win him back to life―this was the thing he ought to do.
OUGHT? What did that mean? What word, “quick and powerful and sharper than any two-edged sword,” reached and smote the very depths of his heart, telling him that the one course was right and the other wrong―and that between moral right and wrong there was a distance infinite as between heaven and hell? Theodore knew that if he left that shed, leaving Raymond to his death, he himself would be lost. He would be a lost soul―not indeed condemned in the future world to what he traditionally called Gehenna, and in which he now no longer believed, but lost, now evermore and for evermore, to truth and right, to justice and nobleness.
He shrank appalled from the gulf of moral degradation that opened before him. “No,” he cried, “I will not be such a wretch as that. How could I dare to woo Viola di Porcaro? It would not be the old Theodore Benedetto who should offer her his heart, but a ghoul, who had slain him and taken possession of his body.”
Yet how embrace the other alternative―serve Raymond day and night like a brother, breathing for his sake this poisoned atmosphere, and using all his skill and science to win him back to life―for Viola? It seemed impossible―and yet it seemed inevitable. Almost in the same breath he said, “I cannot” and “I must.” At last he threw himself on his knees beside the couch. “God of my fathers, Jehovah!” he cried, “Thou hast so made me that I know right from wrong. Thou hast written with Thy finger on my heart that right is high as heaven and wrong deep as the abyss of hell. But I am weak. I see the right, but I cannot love it. Help me at least to do it.”
Raymond turned, and moaned feebly, “Water, water!” Theodore rose, found a gourd with some water in it, and put it to his lips. Then he felt his pulse, prepared and administered some of the medicine he had brought, arranged his rude couch as comfortably as he could, and contrived to admit sufficient air, and yet to screen him from the light. Now he no longer debated with himself what course he should pursue. He felt as one who had no choice of his own, but was simply obeying orders.
But how could he plead Gaetano’s cause with his father if he remained here with Raymond? He could send Giulio to Venice with letters and full instructions. Giulio, he knew, might be trusted to any extent. So he canal the shepherd, wrote a few words on his tablets, and asked him to take them to the osteria.
In a shorter time than he had thought possible, Giulio was at the door of the capanno. Theodore briefly explained his dilemma, announcing in a business-like tone, without note or comment, that there lay Count Raymond very sick and weak, and that he was bound to stay and see him through the Campagna fever.
Giulio’s eyes shone, and his whole face kindled with the joy that filled his heart at this change in Theodore. But he had tact enough to forbear all expressions of surprise or gratification, merely saying, “Write your pleasure to Venice, Signor Doctor. You can send it by il signor your brother; for of course I stay here with you.”
Theodore remonstrated; but Giulio with a purpose was a man of iron, and Theodore had to yield in the end. He resolved to write fully to his father, explaining Gaetano’s errors, and entreating him to forgive them, as a personal favor. He had an inward confidence that the boon thus asked would not be denied; for he knew his father’s strong affection for himself and his tenderness towards his eldest son. The only practical difficulty was that of persuading Gaetano to return to Venice without him; and to effect this purpose he found it necessary to go back to the osteria, leaving Giulio in temporary charge of his patient.
So hand was it to accomplish his object, and so many argumenta had he to use with Gaetano, that his own resolution was manifestly strengthened by the exercise. But at last he returned to the capanno. “Quick, Giulio!” he said, “come and help me. Another night here were death for him and a terrible risk for us. The miasma rises from the ground when the sun has set, and creeps damp and chill around the sleeper. You and I and the shepherd must take yonder poles, and lash them together with thongs of sheepskin into a kind of rude sitter, so as to bring him to the osteria; itself a vile, fever-haunted hole, but at least better than this.”
“If he should get a chill?”
“He may die. Left here he must die― that is all. We shall cover him well with sheepskins.”
Theodore and Giulio worked energetically, the shepherd assisting them in a nerveless, spiritless way, and yet willingly, so far as his strength went. The move was accomplished just before the sun went down, to Theodore’s great satisfaction.
Raymond was very ill, and Theodore saw that his symptoms were of the gravest. The fever, itself of an unusually malignant type, found him in a state of mental and bodily exhaustion, which rendered the case almost desperate. As he watched by him through the long hours of the night―for he esteemed his state too critical to leave him in the kind and careful, but unprofessional hands of Giulio―a change stole imperceptibly over his own mind. Raymond was no longer either his friend or his enemy, he was only his “case,” his “patient.” There awoke within him the strong passion of the physician, the enthusiasm of the knight of science, who fights to save life, and not to destroy it. And never did knight of mediæval chivalry taste―
“The stern joy which warriors feel
In foemen worthy of their steel,”
more truly than did Theodore when he braced all his powers of mind and body for mortal conflict with his unseen but terrible foe, the fever demon of the Campagna.
It is true that in ordinary cases it would have been the practice of that age―an age to which Peruvian bark and the country it comes from were alike unknown―to leave the conflict very much to what was called the “vis medicatrix” of Nature, and the malady almost to its own cure. But to Raymond this course would have been fatal. His was no ordinary case; there were complications which required special and skillful treatment; and the most incessant care and watchfulness were needed so to sustain his failing strength as to give his constitution even the chance of a rally.
For a brief interval Theodore enjoyed that kind of negative truce from inward conflict which results from an intense straining of the faculties towards some object outside of self. The first time he thought it safe to sleep for a few hours, leaving Giulio to take his place, he dreamed that Viola was praising him in her sweet, low voice, for his share in Raymond’s escape from the dungeon. When he awoke his eyes were dim with unaccustomed tears. But the dream helped him; all through the following day Viola’s face seemed to beam on him, bright with encouragement and approval.
Something else helped him far more efficiently and permanently. Once more the God of his fathers had become for him a real and living Presence. In the darkness of his soul he had cried to God, and God had answered him; therefore God was there. It was the reasoning of a child, yet it might have been also that of a philosopher.
Theodore, all his life, had chosen facts as the sustenance of his soul, refusing to believe anything that did not strike its roots down firmly into the soil of the actual and the real. But his table was made a snare to him, and the things that should have been for his health were to him an occasion of falling. For in worshipping fact he scorned and neglected truth. What the eye cannot see, the ear cannot hear, the finger cannot touch, eluded his analysis. He denied it his faith and his homage; and by that denial he turned his back upon all that is in very deed most real. Thenceforward, the more earnest his search after reality, the farther did he wander away from it, amidst ever-deepening shadows, towards “a land of darkness, as darkness itself.”
But that simple, familiar thing―a household word with every child and every peasant― “the difference between right and wrong,” could neither be seen, nor heard, nor touched. Yet was it so real that it stood like a wall of adamant between him and his dearest wishes. Not to the eye of sense alone, but also to the eye of intellect there was nothing there; yet, when he tried to cross that invisible, impalpable barrier, he was flung back, as if with the blow of a giant―flung on his face, “with his hand on his mouth and his mouth in the dust.” Why should he “let I dare not wait upon I would”? Why could he not dare to do the thing that pleased him, and for which there was no man upon earth to call him to account?
Because, so doing, he would “sin against his own soul,” in the strong, true words of his people. What was his soul that he should so regard it, should place its well-being above happiness? It was himself. He knew that righteousness was rather to be chosen than happiness, though he knew not why. He also knew that he was weak: he might choose wrongly, and destroy himself. The cry to “a Power outside of ourselves that makes for righteousness” was the irrepressible instinct of his soul, as of all the troubled, the struggling, the suffering, from the beginning to the end of time. But unless this vague “Power” be a “Person,” who hears, who cares, who helps, the cries are wasted breath, and the instinct―what Nature’s instincts never are―implanted but to deceive and betray.
Thus, in the wayside osteria, Theodore came back from the arid creed of Averroës to the better faith of the progenitor of Averroës, the poor Egyptian slave fainting in the desert― “Thou God seest me.”