Allan Mallinson - A Call to Arms

Shelley smiled. ‘You have a very charming way of avoiding the material issue, but not an entirely effective one. I asked how you supposed that Milton wished vengeance to be accomplished?’

Hervey did not hesitate. ‘Perhaps the wrath of God as well as the peace passes all understanding.’

Shelley raised his eyebrows and inclined his head, resigned to the knowledge that he could provoke his friend to no more.

However, Hervey was unsure whether the expression meant that Shelley acknowledged the reasoning, or that it was just the sort of rhetoric he had expected. ‘In any case, you surely cannot lay blame at the door of the English College?’

‘No, but it must have given rise to some very contrary sentiments.’

‘We all live with those!’

Shelley now looked at him intently. ‘Truly, you are a man of very decided certainties — even as regards contrary sentiments. I never had any thoughts of the army, as Coleridge and Southey had, but I think that were I ever to have served I should have wished to do so with an officer like you. Certainty can move mountains.’

‘Ha! I assure you, my dear Shelley, certainty in very senior officers is more often the cause of getting lost in mountains.’

‘Now here indeed is someone who at last speaks his own mind rather than the institution’s!’

‘Shelley, at times you speak absurdities.’

‘Very well, then. Let us speak not of absurdities. Where do we go this evening? I confess I shall be in need of gaiety after all the martyrdom at the English College.’

‘I am taking Elizabeth to the opera.’

‘And you did not ask me to accompany you? I call that dashed uncivil! Have you tired of me?’

Hervey frowned. ‘I have neglected Elizabeth of late.’

Shelley was about to protest further when the Greco’s proprietor approached their table, accompanied by a postal messenger. ‘ Signor ’Ervey? Una lettera, molto urgente ,’ said the messenger, and there were twenty scudi to pay.

Hervey gave over the money, and a further three for his trouble in searching him out.

When they had gone, Hervey began to examine the envelope.

‘It intrigues me why men tarry so long in contemplating an envelope when a moment’s address with a paper knife would reveal what they puzzle over,’ said Shelley.

But Hervey scarcely noticed. ‘I do believe it to be from a most gallant acquaintance of mine. It is sent from Naples only three days ago.’ He opened it and read the contents quickly. ‘It is indeed from him. And it appears he is made commodore. He says he will be in Naples for a month and more, and would see me in Rome as soon as I am able to receive him.’

‘And who is this gallant commodore? You have not told me of him.’

‘I would need many an evening to do him justice. I sailed to India and home in his frigate. He is uncommonly good company.’

‘An officer of the wooden walls, another high Tory!’

‘In that you suppose wrongly. There’s a radical heart beating in Commodore Peto’s breast — as well as one of oak. And you would not deride the latter, I’m sure?’

‘No, no; I should not deride a brave heart wherever it beat. How did he know you were here?’

Hervey put the letter in his pocket and stood up. ‘I knew his station was the Mediterranean, and so sent word to the embassy in Naples asking that the letter be forwarded when there was intelligence of his ship. I shall go to the post office at once and send him word to come at his pleasure. You will like him.’

‘A radical, you say?’

‘I did not quite say that. He has a radical bent. I would hardly think him a subscriber to the Black Hand , or whatever it is you revolutionaries read.’

‘ Dwarf , Hervey, Black Dwarf .’

‘Just so. Shall you come with me to the college then?’

‘No; on second thoughts I’m a little weary. My eyes are aching again. I have not slept well these past nights. And I want to engage someone at once to find other lodgings. You do not forget Signora Dionigi’s party tomorrow evening?’

‘No, indeed.’ Hervey brushed the dust from his hat and placed it on his head a shade more carelessly than usual.

Shelley looked at him quizzically. ‘I perceive a sudden spring to your step — at last.’

Hervey failed to hear more than an easy remark. ‘Very well, then. Do we meet at the same time tomorrow?’

Shelley nodded, and with a wry grin. He had no words. And as he watched Hervey walk from the Caffè Greco, he wondered at the comradeship which black powder so evidently made.

There had been a night of rain and the Tiber had risen, so that the sewers were stagnant again and enterprising hawkers were doing a brisk trade in nosegays. Hervey made do without, though now the stench was so bad that he clutched a handkerchief to his face, and consoled himself with the thought that there would be incense enough to cover this rankness at the college. He quickened his pace, too, almost to double time, so that it was not long before he was pulling the bell handle at the ironclad doors of the English College, the Venerable College of St Thomas de urbe .

The portiere opened them, but he spoke no English, much to Hervey’s surprise — disappointment even — for John Keble had said the place was truly a piece of England in the heart of the old city, though he had not himself been to Rome. At length there came a tall man in a black cassock, and by the portiere ’s manner, and a few of his words, Hervey supposed this must be the rector, which indeed the man confirmed as he held out a hand in welcome.

Father Robert Gradwell was striking in both appearance and bearing. Eyes that felt as if they pierced to the soul, albeit with gentleness, at once engaged the visitor; and when Hervey had detached himself from their hold he saw a face that might have been the Duke of Wellington’s own, for the features were spare, hawklike, fervent. Indeed, so arresting was the comparison that Hervey made a very faltering introduction for himself, and took a little time to explain that he would deem it a great privilege if he might see inside the seminary. He half expected to be asked for what purpose, but Father Gradwell did not enquire; he simply welcomed him, warmly and without condition.

Although it seemed otherwise, Hervey knew that the rector could not have had long experience of showing the college to chance visitors such as he. The house had only lately reopened following Bonaparte’s long occupation of what had variously been described as the Roman republic or the vassal kingdom of France’s. But mercifully, the evidence was not as great as it might have been, although horses had been stabled where the venerabili prayed, and the tombs had been opened for their imagined treasure. Least spoiled of all was the little garden, a very singular feature according to the rector, for where in other palazzi there would be a cortile , with pots and running water perhaps, here was a place where in but a few moments an Englishman might think himself at home. Hervey, certainly, was able to cast his mind to Horningsham and to conjure an image of his parents, his father especially, for in no man could there be a closer unity of chancel and garden than in the Reverend, indeed now the Venerable, Thomas Hervey.

When the garden had pleased enough, the rector showed him some of the college’s treasures — memorials rather than fine plate — and then conducted him to what he called the chapel of the Martyrs. ‘I expect you shall wish to be in peace here. It is our custom to offer hospitality to any visitor. Please come to the refectory when you are quite ready.’

Hervey murmured his thanks, and the rector took his leave. He stood at the chapel door for some time before he felt ready to enter, for here was a place where the remembrance of English blood was as real as in the chapels-turned-dressing-posts he had seen too often in the ‘never-ending war’. At length he went inside, got to his knees and closed his eyes. A quarter of an hour he remained thus, his prayers a ramble of pleas for the living and the dead — and for himself above all, for he could not in his heart believe that Henrietta needed his oration, nor yet that the living had more need of divine help than he. In his mind’s eye he held the picture of Henrietta before him. It was a picture that no other had seen. Even in this most sacred place he had no scruple in conjuring the picture of passion which had transformed her face.