Читать книгу The Man on the White Horse - Warwick Deeping - Страница 13

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Guinevra was fresh from the bath. She put aside the curtains of the parlour and stood before Cornelia, and Cornelia on her couch by the window rolled up the scroll she was reading and looked at the girl. She saw the burning hair coiled round the shapely head, the very still dark eyes, the poignant mouth. Guinevra was slim at the hips, less slim as to bosom and shoulders. "Assuredly," thought Cornelia, "a man should have something upon which to lay his head." Guinevra had height and straightness. You would not call her "my pretty" or "my lamb." She did not simper or fall into attitudes. There was fine metal in the child. She was not the drooping, frightened thing of yesterday.

Cornelia nodded.

"Well, my dear, nobody has anything to be ashamed of. I have ordered my litter at ten. We still have shops in Calleva, and I shop—in spite of everything. For no doubt you saw yesterday that this city—is a little mad."

She pointed to a cushion on the floor.

"Sit down, my dear.—I say what I think. Youth says what it pleases.—I hear they threw stones at my Lord Geraint."

She watched the girl's face, and all that she saw was a darkening of those very dark eyes. Guinevra might be deep water. She did not break into easy ripples when an old woman dabbled with a mischievous hand.

"I will come with you, if I may."

"And chance the stones?"

"Do they throw stones at women?"

Cornelia chuckled.

"At ugly old women. They call me the Gorgon, my dear, but they are still a little afraid of looking me straight in the face. I'm a heathen—because I read Plato, and think Lucretius rather a fine fellow.—Well, shall we say that religion is a private affair? No doubt, as a Christian maiden—"

Guinevra looked up through the window. She was seeing the world in flower, and not a figure on a cross.

"You have been merciful to me."

"My dear, old things are mellow and merciful, wine, books, even some old women. Your religion preaches mercy—but then, it is so very young. It is like a young man out for the first time with his sacred spouse. It is rather afraid of being laughed at. But, tut-tut—I grow garrulous.—Well, come and shop with me. No doubt you need—a few things."

The girl looked at her red shoes.

"I have no money. You see—poor Justus—"

She grew dark and seemed to shake off a shudder. My Lord Geraint, who did things so swiftly and with the silence of death, had buried Justus with the money. Her wardrobe had gone crashing into the green wood at the heels of two frightened mules, and those men, content with the immediate plunder, had stood and laughed and shouted.

Cornelia tied up the scroll.

"You can share my purse, my dear.—I have sent for my lawyer to come and see you. Felix, my freedman, goes to Londinium next week, and the lawyer can go with him. Yes, if I say so, he goes. Your affairs can be settled. The will is in the London Record Office—yes? Money is a useful thing, my dear, and only those who lack it abuse it. Even our dear Bishop here is discovering the virtue of property."

She thrust out her lower lip.

"Well, let us go. You will have a Gorgon to guard you, instead of my Lord Geraint.—Yes, he has a wife who is a Christian, and a most pious creature."

Her glance was oblique. She saw the girl's eyes flicker for a moment. Then she sat very still, staring at her shoes. She seemed to be clasping something within herself. Her face was secret. And Cornelia, having rent a veil, felt that things might have been ordered more like the month of May. This deep, dark, elvish thing with her bright head, and Placida, Placida with the eyes of a goat, a tallow candle of a woman who dribbled piety like grease! Cornelia disliked Placida, and when Cornelia disliked a person, she did not spare her symbols.

Cornelia's shopping was a ceremonious affair—the procession of a goddess crowned with a mural crown. To the lions with all dogs and demagogues! She had her high colour and a wicked eye, and more courage than most men. Had she been Cæsar's wife, Cæsar could have gone campaigning and left the Seven Hills and the Senate and the Plebs—and especially the Plebs—to her. Two German slaves carried her litter. Her steward walked before it, bearing my lady's purse. Two women came behind. Guinevra was made to hold the old lady's hand.—"Beauty and the Beast, my dear."

The courtyard gates were flung open. The steward, a pompous person, a little uneasy, and therefore all the more pompous, marched forward with his staff of office. They came to the centre of the city and its shops, the steward heading for the outer north ambulatory of the Forum, where a goldsmith, a jeweller, money-changers, and a silk- and linen-merchant traded. Half a dozen lewd fellows were sitting at tables outside the wine-shop at the north-east corner, butchers' porters, for the shops of the butchers were in the east wing. One of these fellows jumped up and, raising his mug, was witty.

"Hail, old dear! Have a drop with me."

Cornelia stopped the litter.

"Carus, bring that fellow here."

Carus went, but delicately so.

"My friend, the lady would speak with you."

The fellow, swaggering and putting a finger to his nose, crossed over to the litter. And Cornelia looked at him—Cornelia smiled. She asked for her purse, and picking out a copper coin, she tossed it to demos.

"Take a bath, my friend. There is the price of a bath."

The litter went on, and the casual crowd under the colonnade made way for it, for the Germans were big men. The face of Calleva was sullen. Hands made rude gestures behind the great lady's back. Cornelia, at ease on her cushions, pressed Guinevra's hand.

"See how the people love me!"

But the shopkeepers were more urbane. They hurried out to the litter. What did my lady desire? Cornelia fanned herself. Her niece's desires—for why should not Guinevra pass as her niece?—were the desires of the moment. Cornelia looked at jewellery, while Guinevra bought slippers, night-gear, a comb, a mirror, linen, a green cloak, shoes. Her purchases were piled at the foot of Cornelia's litter. Carus, leaning with dignity upon his staff, hoped that the morning's business was over.

"Home, my lady?"

Cornelia grimaced.

"We have been nowhere. Carry me into the Forum."

Carus looked worried.

"It is very full—ahem—of the city."

"Am I not of the city?"

"Shall we go in by the north passage, my lady?"

"You are very modest, Carus, this morning. No, we will go in by the Great Gate."

And in by the main gate she went. The litter swung down the street between the butchers' shops and the butter-market. Half a dozen women had stopped to gossip in the vestibule, and Carus, putting a solemn face to the adventure, swung his staff and gave tongue: "Room for the Lady Cornelia." The little procession passed through to the tune of "Hoity-toity, what's she, after all? An old hag and an old heathen." The Forum was crowded. People were buying meat, groceries, oysters, fish. The seats of the inner ambulatory were full. Calleva, Bishop Balthasar's Calleva, had become a city of tongues, more eager to talk than to labour. Here was demos in its best clothes; masons, carpenters, plasterers, painters, tilers, smiths, wheelwrights, basket-makers, coopers, farriers, cobblers, all waiting for oratory. The Bishop and his new City Council were assembled in the curia with the members of the guilds and brotherhoods.

Cornelia with her litter and her women, Roma Rediviva defying the new world, was a challenge to the crowd. It suffered her to pass, but not with respect. The two Germans strode stolidly; Carus tried to look more imposing and inviolable than he felt. Guinevra held fast to the imperial hand. She shrank from all these unfriendly faces, but she did not show it. Cornelia, grim and smiling, ordered the slaves to set her down at the foot of the column in the centre of the court. Calleva might growl, but it would not bite. She lay and fanned herself and talked to Guinevra.

"Above you, my dear, you will see the Genius of the city. I forget how much it cost to gild him.—The basilica, as you see, is rather new. Its predecessor was burnt when Allectus and his rebels made a last stand here. Yes, the Emperor still rules, though you might not think it. Over there you can see the offices of the Decemvirs, the Ædile, the Quæstor. That is the Collegium Sacerdotum, and the Taxation and Tribute Office. Yes, I understand that most of our officials have taken a holiday. Officials are never very popular. Up above are the terraces—beloved of nursemaids and children."

She fanned herself, and the crowd glared and made impolite remarks. Carus stood and perspired; the women looked frightened, but they were more afraid of their mistress than the crowd. It was a problem in poise, one formidable old lady contra mundum. And then one of the world's clowns dropped from the skies, though he was by no means a clown in his own estimation. He dashed in through the vestibule with wild cries.

"Woe, woe—woe unto this island!"

He was a hairy man, looking still more hairy in his sheepskin. He brandished a small wooden cross. His little mad eyes flared in a mask of hair. His legs were like the legs of Pan, his toe-nails like barnacles, lumps of horn. He rushed through the crowd, shouting and sweating.

"Woe, woe! Repent. Antichrist is here. Woe, woe, blood and death! Repent—repent. I see fire—I smell smoke. Woe, woe to this city!"

It was Hylas the Hermit hot from the woods—a very holy man and a very dirty one. He ran around, slapping people with his piece of wood.

"Ha," said Cornelia—"the mad dog!"

Then Hylas saw her. He came running on his horny feet. He gathered the poison in his mouth and spat.

"Herodias—Babylonian—anathema—"

The drabble of saliva missed its mark and streaked itself down Guinevra's gown. The crowd roared.

"The old heathen."

"Cast her out."

"Put her among the oyster-shells."

But the crowd was not to have its way or to play Alexandria to an elderly Hypatia. The centre door of the basilica had opened and Bishop Balthasar appeared at the head of a procession of priests, deacons, acolytes, consecrated virgins, catechumens, penitents, city councillors. He stood, he saw. He raised a hand.

"Peace—peace."

His voice carried. He came sailing through the crowd towards the litter and the saintly and hirsute hermit. Hylas, like the Devil, was a useful grotesque with which to frighten and persuade froward people, but Hylas could make a nuisance of himself on occasions. Like a mad dog he might flesh his teeth in the wrong body. Balthasar, a stately and debonair Balthasar, came with hand raised.

"Peace, peace, Brother Hylas. Let us not be harsh with women. Gentleness—gentleness."

Balthasar was suave, the courtier. The voice of demos might set the welkin ringing, but so often it was the voice of an ass. Balthasar chose to show his power, and especially so in the presence of the great. He stood beside the litter, two fingers of his right hand raised, sacerdos in silk. He looked at Cornelia, and he looked at the girl, and having looked at Guinevra, he looked again.

"Matrona, we are simple people. We are devout people. Let not the simple be offended."

Balthasar simple! But the old lady understood him. The Church might not blink an eyelid, but it could deliver a significant and caressing gesture. She was an offence to the crowd, and deliberately so, and if Balthasar was one of those who could walk on the heads of the crowd, he was ready to let her join him in the promenade if she would walk somewhat to his liking. She smiled at Balthasar.

"I am but a poor old woman, Bishop, a silly old woman. I come out to stare."

The crowd pressed close. Hylas was gnawing the end of his cross. The crowd had to be humoured as well as the lady.

"Matrona, only those are rich who give to the poor."

Applause from the crowd. Cornelia, demure as a virgin, drew her veil over her face.

"My Lord Bishop is wise. One should grow old in virtue. I would not offend—dear little children.—Carus, we go home."

She raised the hem of her palla and kissed it. Almost she ogled the Bishop. The Germans bent to the poles; Carus, rather white about the chops, made haste to profit by his mistress's humour. Balthasar stood stiff and stark, hand raised, observing Guinevra out of the slant of his eyes. The crowd exulted. Obviously Balthasar had humbled the gorgon.

"Go in peace."

Cornelia murmured to her veil.

"But not—in pieces."

Hylas, who had been rather out of the show, let out a yell and brandished his symbol.

"Woe—woe to the proud, woe to the heathen—"

But Balthasar turned on him gently.

"Brother Hylas, we have planted the seed. Birds are not won with curses. Did you not see how she covered her face? Even the proud can be humbled."

Cornelia, holding the girl's hand, was carried past the shops of the butchers. She put back her veil. Her old eyes were grim.

"Woe to the heathen, my dear. You dear people may be a little short-sighted. The woe may be in other stomachs if the heathen should come over the Wall."