FICTION.
THE rf A T.F-PRIESTit
TEE reader who thinks that by plunging into a romance of Italy in the late fifteenth century he will forget for a moment the horrors of war will find himself singularly nkistaken. He will even be deprived of the feeling of complacency with which most people have hitherto read novels of this sort—a feeling which causes them to say to themselves, when reading of a town given over to the soldiery, "What a comfort it is to live in the twentieth century when such things cannot happen!" Unfortunately for humanity our present opponents are as unscrupulous as the Borgiaa. The theme of the novel before us is the preservation of the little State of Pontaggio, which occupies rather a weak position In the middle of other and larger States and is too small to stand -alone. The Count Zarata reign!! over Pontaggio and is obliged to sacrifice his only daughter in marriage to the exceedingly undesirable •
(1) Deatoierety : his Life and Literary Actietty. By Bugenli Boloviev. Translated from the Russian by C. G. Hogarth. London : Allen and Unwin. 5s.]—(2) A Raw Youth. By Fyoclor Dcatolevsky. Translated tom the Russian by Constance -Garnett. London : W. Heinemann. 14s. 6d.] t 27w Holf-Prial. By Hamilton Drummond. London: Stanley Paul and 41s.
LlcJ head of the family of Parana, Duke of Arzano, of the neighbouring State.
There is a glamour about this period of Italian history that makes the intrigues and adventures with which the story is concerned good reading, and to have such a person as Caesar Borgia taking a leading part, and Leonardo da Vinci appearing in the alit of a super, is a relief from the khaki-coloured realities of the moments The author fails LIB a little in the matter of giving the full value to the gorgeous pic- turesqueness of the time. True he enumerates the colours and materials of costumes and the details of great feasts, but the whole splendid tapestry of the background of life as we know it in the pictures and frescoes of Central Italy is hardly realized, and the atmosphere of the book is therefore a little grey.
The most dramatic scene is that in which the Duke of Arzano (perhaps not unnaturally from his point of view) refuses re-entrance into his Castle to his Duchess, who insists on nursing the victims of the plague In the overcrowded alleys of the town. The fanatio priest, Father Martin, rings the tocsin through the Quarter of San Ambrogio, and the whole of the populace streams out in front of the closed gates to force the Duke to re-admit his Duchess :—
Make a way for the Duchess,' he ordered, 'then follow all of you, that His Highness may know the love and gratitude of San Ambrogio, but let none come nearer to the gates than fifty paces. A way, there I a way! but gently, lest any be hurt. There must he hurt to none on this great and blessed day of the staying of the plague.' How that packed mob could pack yet closer to force a lane-way through its midst passed my understanding, but somehow they obeyed him. Also there was an end to silence. No single voice was raised, but the whole square grew vocal with a buzz and burr like the vibrations of the great bell when it had ceased tolling. And it was up that lane-way, the narrowest of narrow vicolettos for width, and with that burring all about us, we passed to the angle of the square, whore lay the nearest way to the castle. Martin led, his rapt face raised to the blue of heaven, his hands clasped across his breast, and looking neither to right nor left ; we two followed close behind, Madonna Maura's hand upon my arm, for by this time she was very weary. If there was colour on her cheeks it was the flush of half-feverish exhaustion in the sullen heat, but it added the one touch of beauty to her face which it lacked in pallor. And presently that wistful beauty moved the emotional soul of San Ambrogio, always etirred easily to impulsiveness. First in ones here and there, then in groups, and finally along the whole double line ahead, those to the front wont upon their knees, many of the women weeping and all bare-headed. And over and above the burr voices rose, blessings, invocations, little ejaculatory cries from the heart, and not all from women, for it was a man who cried, God bless the Duke for our Groy Madonna's sake 1 • But instantly a score answered, Wait till the gates are opened!' and all across the square the roar hoarsened, Wait till the gates are opened 1' The beast had ceased growling, but San Ambrogio know its Duke. And yet, I thought, if Luke di Verona were wise he had here a greater gain than Pontaggio could have brought him, the gain of a generous people's love and loyalty. And so we came to the open space fronting the lower gates of the castle. It was then Martin proved his control over that mixed mob of thieves, beggars, honest men, decent women, and termagants which followed at our heels. Pausing midway he turned and raised his hand as on the church steps."
The priest keeps the people in cheek while a parley is held at the gates and finally the Duke himself appears.
"I think the Duke cannot have been very far away, for few explains- tions were necessary before he stopped to the battlements, and Looked from our little group of three to San Ambrogio, and bank again to us. A fine figure of a man he made, standing there in his black and white, his plumed cap pulled forward on his brows, but San Ambrogio failed to approve. For, after an instant's silence, it broke out first into a rumble, then into a roar which was certainly not acclamation, and as Varana sensed their meaning his broad, comely face went white, then rod with rage. But he leashed his temper, perhaps wisely. Well 1' He fltmg, the word as one might fling a stone at a our. Your Highness, by God's grace the plague is at an end and there is now no reason for the closing of the gates." That is for my decision, priest, not yours.' 'But, your Highness, Her Grace—" Her Grace had her choice and Her Greco chose. Does Her Grace beg the gates to be opened ? ' San Ambrogio—' began Martin. But the Duke snapped his fingers. That for San Ambrogio!' and in the rear San Amhrogio growled afresh. Your Highness, by a miracle—" Work a second miracle and open the gates,' and, to drive the insult home, Varana laughed."
In the end, at a threat that the people will burn down the whole Quarter of San Ambrogio, the Duke flings down the key, and the Duchess—it must be owned without an attempt at quarantine—re-enters the Castle. The scene will remind lovers of Italy of many delightful pictures of steep hills with rows of little houses clustering up them in narrow lanes, and the battlemented castle presiding at the top, with the Duke and his key just appearing over the stony breastwork.
It must, however, be confessed that the last chapter of the book Is pure melodrama and is for all the world like the end of the Opera of Lucrezia Borgia, beloved of our grandparents. in the last Act a black curtain is suddenly drawn from an alcove at the back of the stage and the proper number of coffins—one to each of the dismayed guests—are seen standing on end waiting for immediate occupation. In the last pages of the present book a curtain is flung back at the end of a feast, revealing a room, dark but for two candles, with a block draped in black, flanked by the executioner waiting for the Duke. Th.) Duke had been the guest of honour at supper, and the whole scene was arranged, as the play-bills say, by Caesar Borgia himself. But fifteenth century executions and adventures are refreshing reading when they are well set forth, and Mr. Hamilton Dnusunond's book possesses at any rats .tha quality of excellent stage management.
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