Cornelius O'Dowd Upon Men And Women And Other Things In General. Charles James Lever
I caught hold of the poker with a convulsive grasp, but quick as thought he bounded back behind the table, and drew out a pistol, and cocked it. I saw that Gioberti’s friend had his wits about him, and resumed the conversation by remarking that the documents he had shown me were not in my wife’s handwriting.
“Very true,” said he; “these, as you will perceive by the official stamp, are sworn copies, duly attested at the Prefettura—the originals are safe.”
“And with what object,” asked I, gasping—“safe for what?”
“For you, lllustrissimo,” said he, bowing, “when you pay me two thousand francs for them.”
“I’ll knock your brains out first,” said I, with another clutch at the poker, but the muzzle of the pistol was now directly in front of me.
“I am moderate in my demands, signor,” said he, quietly; “there are men in my position would ask you twenty thousand; but I am a galantuomo——”
“And the friend of Gioberti,” added I, with a sneer.
“Precisely so,” said he, bowing with much grace.
I will not weary you, dear reader, with my struggles—conflicts that almost cost me a seizure on the brain—but hasten to the result. I beat down the noble Count’s demand to one-half and for a thousand francs I possessed myself of the fatal originals, written unquestionably and indisputably by my wife’s hand; and then, giving the Count a final piece of advice, never to let me see more of him, I hurried off to Mrs. O’Dowd.
She was out paying some bills, and only arrived a few minutes before dinner-hour.
“I want you, madam, for a moment here,” said I, with something of Othello, in the last act, in my voice and demeanour.
“I suppose I can take off my bonnet and shawl first, Mr. O’Dowd,” said she, snappishly.
“No, madam; you may probably find that you’ll need them both at the end of our interview.”
“What do you mean, sir?” asked she, haughtily.
“This is no time for grand airs or mock dignity, madam,” said I, with the tone of the avenging angel. “Do you know these? are these in your hand? Deny it if you can.”
“Why should I deny it? Of course they’re mine.”
“And you wrote this, and this, and this?” cried I, almost in a scream, as I shook forth one after another of the letters.
“Don’t you know I did?” said she, as hotly; “and nothing beyond a venial mistake in one of them!”
“A what, woman? a what?”
“A mere slip of the pen, sir. You know very well how I used to sit up half the night at my exercises?”
“Exercises!”
“Well, themes, if you like better; the Count made me make clean copies of them, with all his corrections, and send them to him every day—here are the rough ones;” and she opened a drawer filled with a mass of papers all scrawled over and blotted. “And now, sir, once more, what do you mean?”
I did not wait to answer her, but rushed down to the landlord. “Where does that Count Castrocaro live?” I asked.
“Nowhere in particular, I believe, sir; and for the present he has left Turin—started for Genoa by the diligence five minutes ago. He’s a Gran’ Galantuomo, sir,” added he, as I stood stupefied.
“I am aware of that,” said I, as I crept back to my room to finish my packing.
“Did you settle with the Count?” asked my wife at the door.
“Yes,” said I, with my head buried in my trunk.
“And he was perfectly satisfied?”
“Of course he was—he has every reason to be so.”
“I am glad of it,” said she, moving away—“he had a deal of trouble with those themes of mine. No one knows what they cost him.” I could have told what they cost me; but I never did, till the present moment.
I need not say with what an appetite I dined on that day, nor with what abject humility I behaved to my wife, nor how I skulked down in the evening to the landlord to apologise for not being able to pay the bill before I left, an unexpected demand having left me short of cash. All these, seventeen years ago as they are, have not yet lost their bitterness, nor have I yet arrived at the time when I can think with composure of this friend of Gioberti.
Admiral Dalrymple tells us, amongst his experiences as a farmer, that he gave twenty pounds for a dung-hill, “and he’d give ten more to any one who’d tell him what to do with it.” I strongly suspect this is pretty much the case with the Italians as regards their fleet. There it is—at least, there is the beginning of it; and when it shall be complete, where is it to go? what is it to protect? whom to attack?
The very last thing Italians have in their minds is a war with England. If we have not done them any great or efficient service, we have always spoken civilly of them, and bade them a God-speed. But, besides a certain goodwill that they feel for us, they entertain—as a nation with a very extended and ill-protected coast-line ought—a considerable dread of a maritime power that could close every port they possess, and lay some very important towns in ashes.
Now, it is exactly by the possession of a fleet that, in any future war between England and France, these people may be obliged to ally themselves to France. The French will want them in the Mediterranean, and they cannot refuse when called on.
Count Cavour always kept telling our Foreign Office, “A strong Italy is the best thing in the world for you. A strong Italy is the surest of all barriers against France.” There may be some truth in the assertion if Italy could spring at once—Minerva fashion—all armed and ready for combat, and stand out as a first-rate power in Europe; but to do this requires years of preparation, long years too; and it is precisely in these years of interval that France can become all-dominant in Italy—the master, and the not very merciful master, of her destinies in everything. France has the guardianship of Italy—with this addition, that she can make the minority last as long as she pleases.
Perhaps my Garibaldian companion has impregnated me with an unreasonable amount of anti-French susceptibility, for certainly he abuses our dear allies with a zeal and a gusto that does one’s heart good to listen to; and I do feel like that honest Bull, commemorated by Mathews, that “I hate prejudice—I hate the French.” So it is: these revolutionists, these levellers, these men of the people, are never weary of reviling the French Emperor for being a parvenu. Human inconsistency cannot go much farther than this. Not but I perfectly agree with my Garibaldian, that we have all agreed to take the most absurdly exaggerated estimate of the Emperor’s ability. Except in some attempts, and not always successful attempts, to carry out the policy and plans of the first Empire, there is really nothing that deserves the name of statesmanship in his career. Wherever he has ventured on a policy, and accompanied it by a prediction, it has been a failure. Witness the proud declaration of Italy from the Alps to the Adriatic, with its corroboration in the Treaty of Villafranca! The Emperor, in his policy, resembles one of those whist-players who never plan a game, but play trick by trick, and rather hope to win by discovering a revoke than from any honest success of their own hand. It is all the sharp practice of statecraft that he employs: nor has he many resources in cunning. The same dodge that served him in the Crimea he revived at Villafranca. It is always the same ace he has in his sleeve!
The most ardent Imperialist will not pretend to say that he knows his road out of rome or Mexico, or even Madagascar. For small intrigue, short speeches to deputations, and mock stag-hunts, he has not his superior anywhere. And now, here we are in Genoa, at the Hotel Feder, where poor O’Connell died, and there’s no fleet, not a frigate, in the port.
“Where are they?”
“At