Читать книгу Mr. Misfortunate - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 4

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High Mass was being celebrated this autumn morning in the church of St Sulpice, Paris.

As it was Sunday there was a fair congregation. Mass had ceased to be fashionable on any other day of the week, but on the seventh people still attended the churches, as a concession to their lackeys, the poorer sort and the bigots, of whom there were still a few, and also to enjoy the music, which in the great churches was often as good as that of the opera, and to see the jewels and adornments, which rivalled those of the Court for splendour and value.

The vast church was filled by a gold light, which came partly from the October sun beating against the high-placed windows of painted glass and partly from the candles on the gorgeous altar. Perfumes of fresh flowers, scents, incense, and the mustiness of long-enclosed air mingled together; the atmosphere seemed charged with fine dust; in the great spaces of the chancel and aisles the figures of the congregation looked small; the only movement was the waving of the ladies' fans and the nodding of the feathers in their hair as they moved their heads. Their dresses, mostly of bright silk, were all subdued and changed in colour by the wreaths of the drowsy incense smoke and the shafts of dusky light from the gold, blue, and crimson windows.

The choir had sung Terce; the classic measures of the canonical hour were accompanied by violins, lutes, and the subdued notes of the huge organ; the procession of the Mass entered from the Sacristy; in front the thurifer, after, the cross borne high between two acolytes and glittering with diamonds in the golden shadows, then the torch-bearers carrying each a small torch of perfumed wood, followed by the master of ceremonies, and lastly the priest, whose cope was held either side by the deacon and sub-deacon. As he moved with a slow, trained step towards the altar, pausing to bow to the standing choir and to hand his biretta to the deacon, the coloured satins, raised embroideries, and gold and silver threads on his stiff and splendid vestments glittered as much as the cross that now shone from the stand in the sanctuary.

A young man placed by a large pillar near the altar watched the ceremony with the most intense interest, though it was one that had been familiar to him all his life.

In particular he gazed at the figure of the celebrant with a concentration and an earnestness that seemed to remove him far from the atmosphere of the worldly church and the frivolous congregation.

In appearance he seemed one with those with whom he consorted: his dark blue satin, his laces and powder, composed the attire of a noble, his smooth, slightly long, clear-complexioned face was dreamy and placid in expression, his large, clear brown eyes shone full of reverence and a certain subdued ardour; he followed the ceremonies with as much care as if he had been taking direct part in them.

The acolytes took their candles to the credence table and knelt, facing the sanctuary; the thurifer went to the right side of the deacon, who took the sprinkler from him, dipped it in the holy water, kissed it, and handed it to the priest, who, taking it, began to intone the antiphon, Asperges me Domine, sprinkling the altar the while, first in the middle, then on the gospel, then on the epistle side.

The choir continued the Miserere, singing the Gloria Patri and Sicut erat, and repeating the antiphon.

This music penetrated the heart of the young man kneeling by the pillar, who folded his hands tightly on his heart and pressed his knees deeper into his velvet cushion with a little tremor of emotion.

In that moment many things seemed clear to him that before had been troubled and confused, and many past disasters and disappointments appeared to melt into nothingness before the consolation of Divine comfort.

The priest, having sprinkled himself on the forehead, was now genuflecting to the choir and sprinkling them with the holy water; he then came to the entrance of the sanctuary, attended by the ministers, and sprinkled the people three times, all saying in a low voice the psalm Miserere.

The young man bent low, as if a drop of the holy water had touched his brow, and sunk his fine face in his fine hands, and remained so while the priest returned to the altar and began to recite the Confiteor.

His companion, a few years older than himself, and of an appearance far more attractive and handsome, remained kneeling a little behind him, in the shadow, taking no great trouble to stifle his yawns or to conceal his boredom at the long tedious ceremony.

His face was so charming, his bearing so manly, his attire so splendid, that all the ladies in his vicinity were looking at him and several endeavouring to engage his attention.

But this feminine flattery, to which he was but too well used, appeared to weary him as much as the mass; he took no notice of any of his admirers, his sole interest seemed to be for his young companion, whose very earnest devotions he regarded with some intolerance.

It was easy to see that these two were brothers, yet there was a vast difference between them; the younger had none of the virile, splendid, and noble qualities of the elder, none of that bright, impatient, generous and open air that made the other marked in any company.

To the gay glances of the ladies, who escaped the tedium of the mass by audacious peepings from behind their fans at the conspicuous young man, he seemed an embodiment of all that was charming and attractive, and well worthy of his extraordinary and romantic history, which made him the most talked of person in Paris and very much the fashion.

In person he was tall, elegant, and robust; his figure set off by a suit of rose-coloured velvet, a waistcoat of silver brocade with a scalloped fringe, a neck-band of black satin, and a fall of blond lace.

His bright, smooth hair was rolled, curled, and fastened with a wide bow of sapphire-coloured ribbon.

A complexion of a remarkable delicacy, firm, fine, and precisely cut features, beautiful brown eyes, and a richness of colouring distinguished an appearance that, though not effeminate, was of a delicate and slightly exotic refinement. He did not appear happy; a certain disdain of his surroundings, an impatience of this ceremonial, this confinement, was conveyed in his manner; he appeared to be unaware of both priest and congregation, followed the mass mechanically; and when he was not turning that look of half-irritated interest on his brother, he appeared entirely absorbed in some heavy personal thoughts.

Through the singing of the gospel he was standing rather indolently, his head thrown slightly back, the altar candles throwing a steady though faint glow on his face fair and striking points of light from the two stars of St Andrew and St George that shone on the broad blue ribbon across his breast.

'Credo in unum Deum!' intoned the priest, standing in the middle of the altar; the two brothers repeated the creed after him, the younger with fervour, the elder indifferently.

Yet his noble figure, standing there so negligently, might have been in the eyes of many that of a martyr to this faith to whose tenets he had sacrificed his fairest hopes and whose influence had cost his family a triple crown.

Something of this glory and passion of sacrifice touched the heart of the fervent younger brother; as he stood in this foreign church he was thinking of that fair Romish ancestress of his whose lips had kissed the block in Fotheringay, of his great-grandfather dying for his faith that January morning in Whitehall, of a priest smuggled to the death-bed of another king, of his grandfather in his flight casting the emblems of power into the Thames, casting them away from his family for ever, it seemed, and of his own father, the melancholy exile whose portion had been bitterness and despair, and whose sole comfort was in the Church of Rome.

A glow of fervour and of gratitude coursed through the youth's veins; he felt that it would be sweet to merge and lose himself in this faith which had cost his race so dear; he longed to be the priest kissing the altar between the Dominus vobiscum and the Oremus, he saw himself forgoing the ambitious schemes, the daring hopes, that had of late agitated him, and withdrawing for ever into the ease and security, the dignity and holiness, of the Church.

He glanced timidly at his elder brother, of whom he stood slightly in awe. He was glad that he was not titular Prince of Wales, Regent of England, Scotland, and Ireland, bound to an overwhelming destiny, but simply Henry of York, who was free to do as he wished with his own life...

'In spiritu humilitatus,' prayed the priest...Presently the altar became almost blotted out as the thurible swung round three times over the bread and chalice, leaving circles of sweet smoke.

Through these mists gleamed the figure of the priest being censed by the deacon, saying the lavabo while he washed his hands, and after he sang the Pater Noster and the Pax.

Slowly the twists of smoke went upwards till they were lost round the high arches that supported the vast roof; grandiose and mystic the mass continued; the most beautiful music, the uprising of the fresh and lovely voices, the taught and rhythmic movement of the gorgeous ministers round the resplendent altar, the gleam of the jewels on the chalice, the cross, the sheen of pure gold from the sanctuary, the doors of which were studded with diamonds, the flow of the rich Latin which concealed all common meaning in the words, all combined to soothe Henry of York into a half drowsy enthusiasm, as if mind and body were comforted and at ease.

Nothing in the world seemed to matter very much; what could matter if one were safe under the protection of the Church of Rome? When the opulent music ceased and the priest, bowing to the altar, dismissed the people with the Placeat tibi, when the congregation began to stir and rise and even whisper and laugh together, almost before the ministers had followed the cross to the sacristy, Prince Henry remained on his knees, so absorbed in his pleasant devotions, that his brother had touched him twice, rather impatiently, before he moved.

Together they left the church, passing gracefully through the crowds and out at the principal entrance, where the heavy portico faced the large dirty Place de St Sulpice.

The morning was one of rich sunshine, dazzling after the subdued light of the church, the sky showed an unflecked blue above the scattered houses; in the basin of the great fountain in the middle of the square market women were freshening armfuls of Southern roses, tightly bound in bundles, by dipping their stalks into the stagnant water and scattering the sparse drops that fell from the Triton's mouth over the close packed heads of bloom.

'It is good to be in the fresh air,' said Charles, pausing to look about him.

Henry sighed as if his soft, religious reverie had been too early disturbed.

'The service was very beautiful,' he returned with gentle reproach.

'I have been nearer to God,' said Charles, 'lying on the open heather, half naked under the rain, sheltered only by His mountains from a bitter death.'

The younger brother did not answer; but too often the humour of these princes clashed, especially since Charles had returned to Paris with broken hopes and a bitter heart.

Their carriage had now drawn up in front of the church door; in it was Lochiel and his old exiled father, neither of whom could attend their master farther than to the door of the Romish church.

Charles abruptly refused to enter; he would, he said, walk; Henry, surprised and hurt, for he was precise about the matter of etiquette, made some remark with reference to the Prince's attire, which was that of a ball the night before, upon which Charles took his light black cloak from the carriage, threw it over his shoulders in silence and turned away, leaving his brother to enter alone the coach with the royal arms of England painted on the side and the footmen in the royal English livery swinging on the straps behind.

Charles was followed by the glances of the passersby, most of whom knew him; he thought he discerned pity in some of their looks and his full lips took an unpleasant curl.

'There is nothing more ridiculous,' he reflected, 'than to be a landless, exiled Prince.'

He was by nature ill suited to the situation in which fortune had placed him; the meek and serene resignation of his grandfather and father was as impossible to him as the austere and cold piety of his mother.

He shuddered at the thought of the life that had been his all his youth, the life of exile, dependence, dull, aimless intrigue, endless, useless plotting, deferred hopes and ceaseless disappointments.

Hateful to him was the atmosphere of the mock Court in the dreary Roman palace, the melancholy king, the impoverished, ruined courtiers, the comings and goings of adventurers or curious strangers, the dominion of the priests.

He had not rested until he had tried to retrieve the fortunes of his house by one desperate throw with fate; the fire and vigour of his youth had resolved to attempt by arms what diplomacy had given up as hopeless...only to lose everything, to bring his most devoted followers to the scaffold, ruin on the loyal Highlands, doubt of his cause into the Court of France, and into the heart of that good old man wandering through the dull rooms of the Palazzo dei Sant' Apostoli, fresh despair.

Charles's whole ardent being was in revolt against his fate.

He had acquitted himself to the admiration of all in the brief hour of his triumph and the long misery of his flight; no act of cruelty, of boasting, of folly, had marred the bright gleam of his prosperity, no repining, cowardice, or weakness had shadowed the dignity with which he had endured his utter downfall, but to suffer what his father had suffered with patience and fortitude—that was not in the power of this fiery, ardent, impetuous nature.

To return to Rome, to resume the old life, to dream of Holyrood Edinburgh, Preston, and Culloden amid the sloth of Southern exile seemed intolerable and impossible...He held by one hope—the promised aid of France.

So far Louis XV. had not expressed his hereditary friendship for the house of Stewart in any way beyond splendid hospitality and gracious compliments.

Forty thousand pounds had been sent by Henry's efforts to Scotland; Charles had had to leave them buried on the shores of Loch Arkaig with instructions to Cluny as to how to distribute them. Another two thousand had been sent by means of John Macdonnell (part of which he had been robbed of on the journey). D'Éguilles had been sent as quasi-ambassador to Edinburgh, and no further had the help of France gone in this unhappy expedition of 1745, which had proved more fatal to the Stewart cause than the disastrous rebellion of thirty years before.

During Charles's expedition Henry had remained in France endeavouring to urge Louis to send reinforcements, and had performed a thankless task doggedly and faithfully, if half-heartedly, and without much skill. The younger Stewart was as little a statesman as he was a warrior; however, he had secured for his defeated brother a splendid if unofficial reception at Versailles: a pension and the Hôtel St Antoine were put at the disposal of Charles, and Louis had been extremely gracious.

As the young Prince walked through the sunny, foul, and narrow streets of Paris he was endeavouring to comfort himself with these thoughts. Surely France could never go back on her promises; could never, for her own sake, abandon the family whom she had supported in so princely a fashion for three generations!

His sanguine and buoyant nature responded to the glamour of these reflections; he threw back his head and slightly smiled.

Might he not yet land at Moidart with a French army at his back; might he not, indeed, talk with Lochiel in St. James's over the dangers and miseries of that flight to the islands and the long hiding in the heather?

He quickened his step with the force that these thoughts gave him and brushed, rather roughly, against a lady who was coming out of a small grocer's shop, knocking from her hand a packet of candles that rolled towards the gutter.

The Prince flushed with vexation and stooped at once to gather up the candles, but the lady, quicker than he, swiftly snatched them up and slipped them into a large bag of gold and blue taffeta she carried swung on her arm.

Smiling, she faced the Prince, whose apologies were blushing and confused; he had always been shy and ill at ease with women, who never had in any way affected the main interests of his life.

But she cut him short and made a great curtsey on the very step of the little shop. 'It is the Prince of Wales!' she murmured, with her eyes on the two stars shown where he had flung back his thin cloak.

Charles was never displeased by graceful homage; he felt at his ease now that she had discovered his rank. He judged her to be of the lower bourgeosie by the fact that she was out alone and the manner of her plain black dress, but her dark, clever face, young and vivacious, her slender figure, bespoke breed.

'Mademoiselle, I must buy you some more candles,' he said.

He moved to avoid the passers-by and stood beside her, next the window of the shop, where bottles of oil, dried fishes, spices and figs were mingled with thick funeral tapers and bunches of wax-lights to burn before images of saints.