“She is not unwell, I hope?”
“Not exactly—but she has had some news, some news of some friends, which has disturbed her. And, if you will excuse me, I will request your permission not to attend the dinner today, which I had hoped to have had the honor of doing. But I think our plans must be changed a little. I almost think we shall not go to Scotland after all.”
“There is not the slightest necessity for your going to the dinner. You will have plenty to keep you in countenance4 at home. Lord St. Aldegonde is not going, nor I fancy any of them. I shall take the duke with me and Lord Culloden, and, if you do not go, I shall take Mr. Putney Giles. The lord-lieutenant will meet us there. I am sorry about Mrs. Campian, because I know she is not ever put out by little things. May I not see her in the course of the day? I should be very sorry that the day should pass over without seeing her.”
“Oh! I dare say she will see you in the course of the day, before you go.”
“When she likes. I shall not go out today; I shall keep in my rooms, always at her commands. Between ourselves, I shall not be sorry to have a quiet morning and collect my ideas a little. Speech-making is a new thing for me. I wish you would tell me what to say to the county.”
Lothair had appropriated to the Campians one of the most convenient and complete apartments in the castle. It consisted of four chambers5, one of them a saloon which had been fitted up for his mother when she married; a pretty saloon, hung with pale-green silk, and portraits and scenes inlaid by Vanloo and Boucher. It was rather late in the afternoon when Lothair received a message from Theodora in reply to the wish that he had expressed of seeing her.
When he entered the room, she was not seated; her countenance was serious. She advanced, and thanked him for wishing to see her, and regretted she could not receive him at an earlier hour. “I fear it may have inconvenienced you,” she added; “but my mind has been much disturbed, and too agitated6 for conversation.”
“Even now I may be an intruder?”
“No, it is past; on the contrary, I wish to speak to you; indeed, you are the only person with whom I could speak,” and she sat down.
Her countenance, which was unusually pale when he entered, became flushed. “It is not a subject for the festive7 hour of your life,” she said, “but I cannot resist my fate.”
“Your fate must always interest me,” murmured Lothair.
“Yes; but my fate is the fate of ages and of nations,” said Theodora, throwing up her head with that tumult8 of the brow which he had once before noticed. “Amid the tortures of my spirit at this moment, not the least is that there is only one person I can appeal to, and he is one to whom I have no right to make that appeal.”
“If I be that person,” said Lothair, “you have every right, for I am devoted9 to you.”
“Yes; but it is not personal devotion that is the qualification needed. It is not sympathy with me that would authorize10 such an appeal. It must be sympathy with a cause, and a cause for which, I fear, you do not—perhaps I should say you cannot—feel.”
“Why?” said Lothair.
“Why should you feel for my fallen country, who are the proudest citizen of the proudest of lands? Why should you feel for its debasing thraldom—you who, in the religious mystification of man, have, at least, the noble privilege of being a Protestant?”
“You speak of Rome?”
“Yes, of the only thought I have, or ever had. I speak of that country which first impressed upon the world a general and enduring form of masculine virtue11; the land of liberty, and law, and eloquence12, and military genius, now garrisoned13 by monks14, and governed by a doting15 priest.”
“Everybody must be interested about Rome,” said Lothair. “Rome is the country of the world, and even the doting priest you talk of boasts of two hundred millions of subjects.”
“If he were at Avignon again, I should not care for his boasts,” said Theodora. “I do not grudge16 him his spiritual subjects; I am content to leave his superstition17 to Time. Time is no longer slow; his scythe18 mows19 quickly in this age. But when his debasing creeds20 are palmed off on man by the authority of our glorious capitol, and the slavery of the human mind is schemed and carried on in the forum21, then, if there be real Roman blood left—and I thank my Creator there is much—it is time for it to mount and move,” and she rose and walked up and down the room.
“You have had news from Rome?” said Lothair.
“I have had news from Rome,” she replied, speaking slowly in a deep voice; and there was a pause.
Then Lothair said: “When you have alluded22 to these matters before, you never spoke23 of them in a sanguine24 spirit.”
“I have seen the cause triumph,” said Theodora; “the sacred cause of truth, of justice, of national honor. I have sat at the feet of the triumvirate of the Roman Republic; men who, for virtue, and genius, and warlike skill and valor25, and every quality that exalts26 man, were never surpassed in the olden time—no, not by the Catos and the Scipios; and I have seen the blood of my own race poured, like a rich vintage, on the victorious27 Roman soil; my father fell, who, in stature28 and in mien29, was a god; and, since then, my beautiful brothers, with shapes to enshrine in temples; and I have smiled amid the slaughter30 of my race, for I believed that Rome was free; and yet all this vanished. How, then, when we talked, could I be sanguine?”
“And yet you are sanguine now?” said Lothair, with a scrutinizing31 glance; and he rose and joined her, leaning slightly on the mantel-piece.
“There was only one event that could secure the success of our efforts,” said Theodora, “and that event was so improbable, that I had long rejected it from calculation. It has happened, and Rome calls upon me to act.”
“The Papalini are strong,” continued Theodora, after a pause; “they have been long preparing for the French evacuation; they have a considerable and disciplined force of janizaries, a powerful artillery32, the strong places of the city. The result of a rising, under such circumstances, might be more than doubtful; if unsuccessful, to us it would be disastrous33. It is necessary that the Roman States should be invaded, and the papal army must then quit their capital. We have no fear of them in the field. Yes,” she added, with energy, “we could sweep them from the face of the earth!”
“But the army of Italy,” said Lothair, “will that be inert34?”
“There it is,” said Theodora. “That has been our stumbling-block. I have always known that, if ever the French quitted Rome, it would be on the understanding that the house of Savoy should inherit the noble office of securing our servitude. He in whom I alone confide35 would never credit this; but my information, in this respect, was authentic36. However, it is no longer necessary to discuss the question. News has come, and in no uncertain shape, that whatever may have been the understanding, under no circumstances will the Italian army enter the Roman state. We must strike, therefore, and Rome will be free. But how am I to strike? We have neither money nor arms. We have only men. I can give them no more, because I have already given them every thing, except my life, which is always theirs. As for my husband, who, I may say, wedded37 me on the battle-field, so fax as wealth was concerned, he was then a prince among princes, and would pour forth38 his treasure, and his life, with equal eagerness. But things have changed since Aspromonte. The struggle in his own country has entirely39 deprived him of revenues as great as any forfeited40 by their Italian princelings. In fact, it is only by a chance that he is independent. Had it not been for an excellent man, one of your great English merchants, who was his agent here, and managed his affairs, we should have been penniless. His judicious41 investments of the superfluity of our income, which, at the time, my husband never even noticed, have secured for Colonel Campian the means of that decorous life which he appreciates—but no more. As for myself, these considerations are nothing. I will not say I should be insensible to a refined life with refined companions, if the spirit were content and the heart serene42; but I never could fully43 realize the abstract idea of what they call wealth; I never could look upon it except as a means to an end, and my end has generally been military material. Perhaps the vicissitudes44 of my life have made me insensible to what are called reverses of fortune, for, when a child, I remember sleeping on the moonlit flags of Paris, with no pillow except my tambourine45; and I remember it not without delight. Let us sit down. I feel I am talking in an excited, injudicious, egotistical, rhapsodical, manner. I thought I was calm, and I meant to have been clear. But the fact is, I am ashamed of myself. I am doing a wrong thing, and in a wrong manner. But I have had a sleepless46 night, and a day of brooding thought. I meant once to have asked you to help me, and now I feel that you are the last person to whom I ought to appeal.”
“In that you are in error,” said Lothair, rising and taking her hand with an expression of much gravity; “I am the right person for you to appeal to—the only person.”
“Nay,” said Theodora, and she shook her head.
“For I owe to you a debt that I never can repay,” continued Lothair. “Had it not been for you, I should have remained what I was when we first met, a prejudiced, narrow-minded being, with contracted sympathies and false knowledge, wasting my life on obsolete47 trifles, and utterly48 insensible to the privilege of living in this wondrous49 age of change and progress. Why, had it not been for you I should have at this very moment been lavishing50 my fortune on an ecclesiastical toy, which I think of with a blush. There may be-doubtless there are—opinions in which we may not agree; but in our love of truth and justice there is no difference, dearest lady. No; though you must have felt that I am not—that no one could be-insensible to your beauty and infinite charms, still it is your consummate51 character that has justly fascinated my thought and heart; and I have long resolved, were I permitted, to devote to you my fortune and my life.”
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1
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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authorize
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| v.授权，委任；批准，认可 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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garrisoned
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| 卫戍部队守备( garrison的过去式和过去分词 )； 派部队驻防 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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mows
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| v.刈，割( mow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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exalts
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| 赞扬( exalt的第三人称单数 )； 歌颂； 提升； 提拔 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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32
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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44
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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45
tambourine
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| n.铃鼓，手鼓 | |
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46
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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48
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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49
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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50
lavishing
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的现在分词 ) | |
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51
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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