Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1768 page)

‘I know you!’ growled the ruffian, grinding his teeth at me. ‘You got me turned out of the church! Body of Bacchus! I’ll be revenged on you for that!’

He thrust his hand into his waistcoat. Before I could utter even the faintest cry for help, the heroic Marchesina had caught him fast by the beard and wrist, and had pinned him helpless against the wall. ‘Pass on, Signor Potts!’ said this lioness of a woman, quite complacently. ‘Pass on; there’s plenty of room now.’ Just as I passed on I heard the sound of a kick behind me, and, turning round, saw Polycarp the Second prostrate in the kennel. ‘La, la, la-la-la-la-la — la!’ sang the Marchesina from ‘Suoni la Tromba’ (which we had just heard at the Opera), as she took my arm once more, and led me safely up the palace stairs — ’La, la, la-la — la! We’ll have a salad for supper to-night, Signor Potts!’ Majestic, Roman matron-minded woman! She could kick an assassin and talk of a salad both at the same moment!

4th
— A very bad night’s rest: dreams of gleaming stilettos and midnight assassination. The fact is, my life is no longer safe in Florence. I can’t take the Marchesina about with me everywhere as a body-guard (she is a great deal too affectionate already); and yet, without my Amazonian protectress what potent interposition is to preserve my life from the blood-thirsty Polycarp, when he next attempts it? I begin to be afraid that I am not quite so brave a man as I have been accustomed to think myself. Why have I not the courage Marchesina and her mother warning, and so leave Florence? Oh, Lord! here comes the tall woman to sit for the Sibyl picture! She will embrace me again, I know she will! She’s got into the habit of doing it; she takes an unfair advantage of her size and strength. Why can’t she practise fair play, and embrace a man of her own weight and inches?

5th
— Another mess! I shall be dead soon; killed by getting into perpetual scrapes; if I am not killed by a stiletto! I’ve been stabbing an innocent man now; and have had to pay something like three pounds of compensation-money. This was how the thing happened: Yesterday I got away from the Marchesina (she hugged me, just as I foretold she would) about dusk, and immediately went and bought a sword-stick, as a defence against Polycarp. I don’t mind confessing that I was afraid to return to the palace at night without a weapon of some sort. They never shut the court-yard door till everybody is ready to go to bed; the great staircase is perfectly dark all the way up, and affords some capital positions for assassination on every landing-place. Knowing this, I drew my new sword (a murderous-looking steel skewer, about three feet long) out of the stick, as I advanced towards home, and began or Polycarp in the darkness, the moment I mounted the first stair. Up I went, stabbing every inch of my way before me, in the most scientific and complete manner; spitting invisible assassins like larks for supper. I was just exploring the corners of the second landing-place on this peculiar defensive system of my own, when my sword-point encountered a soft substance, and my ears were instantly greeted by a yell of human agony. In the fright of the moment, I echoed the yell, and fell down flat on my back. The Marchesina rushed out on the stairs at the noise, with a lamp in her hand. I sat up and looked round in desperation. There was the miserable old porter of the palace, bleeding and blubbering in a corner, and there was my deadly skewer of a sword stuck in a piece of tough Italian beef by his side! The meat must have attracted the skewer, like a magnet; and it saved the porter’s life. He was not much hurt; the beef (stolen property with which he was escaping to his lodge, when my avenging sword-point met him) acted like a shield, and was much the worse wounded of the two. The Marchesina found this out directly; and began to upbraid the porter for thieving. The porter upbraided me for stabbing, and I, having nobody else to upbraid, upbraided Destiny for leading me into a fresh scrape. The uproar we made was something quite indescribable; we three outscreamed all Billingsgate-market in the olden time. At last I calmed the storm by giving the porter every farthing I had about me, and asking the Marchesina to accept the sword part of my sword stick as a new spit to adorn the kitchen department of the palace. She called me ‘an angel;’ and hugged me furiously on the spot. If this hugging is not stopped by to-morrow I shall put myself under the protection of the British ambassador — I will, or my name isn’t Potts!

6th
— No protection is henceforth available! No British ambassador can now defend my rights! No threats of assassination from Polycarp the Second can terrify me more! — All my other calamities are now merged in one enormous misfortune that will last for the rest of my life: the Marchesina has declared her intention of marrying me!

It was done at supper last night, after I had pinked the porter. We sat round the inevitable, invariable salad, on which we were condemned to graze — the Nebuchadnezzars of modern life — in this accursed gazebo of a palace. My stomach began to ache beforehand as I saw the Marchesina pouring in the vinegar, and heard her, at the same time, dropping certain hints in my direction — frightfully broad hints, with which she has terrified and bewildered me for the last three or four days. I sat silent. In England I should have rushed to the window and screamed for the police; but I was in Florence, defenceless and a stranger, before an Amazon who was fast ogling me into terrified submission to my fate. She soon got beyond even the ogling. When we were all three helped to salad, just at the pause before eating, the Marchesina looked round at her fleshless, yellow old parent.

‘Mother,’ says she, ‘shall I have him?’

‘Beloved angel,’ was the answer, ‘you are of age, I leave your choice to yourself; pick where you like?’

‘Very well then,’ pursued the Amazonian daughter, ‘very well! Potts! here is my hand.’ She held out her mighty fist towards me, with a diabolical grin. I felt I must either take it or have my head broken. I now sincerely wish I had preferred the latter alternative; but an unlucky emotion of terror misled me into accepting the former. I received an amorous squeeze that made the bones of my fingers crack again.

‘You are a little man, and not noble,’ observed the Marchesina, critically looking me over, as if I had been a piece of meat that she was purchasing in the market, ‘but you get both size and rank in getting
me.
Let us therefore be perfectly happy, and proceed with our salad.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said I, faintly shivering all over in a sort of cold horror, ‘I beg your pardon; but really — ’

‘Come, come!’ interrupted the Marchesina, crushing my hand with another squeeze; ‘too much diffidence is a fault; you have genius and wealth to offer in exchange for all I confer on you, you have, you modest little cherub of a man! As for the day, my venerated mother!’ she continued, turning towards the old woman; ‘shall we say this day week?’

‘Certainly, this day week,’ said mamma, looking yellower than ever, as she mopped up all the oil and vinegar in her plate with a large spoon. The next minute I received the old woman’s blessing; I was ordered to kiss the Marchesina’s hand; I was wished good night, — and then found myself alone with three empty salad plates; ‘left for execution’ that very day week; left without the slightest chance of a reprieve!

I write these lines at the dead of night, — myself, more dead than alive. I am in my bed-room; the door is locked and barricaded against the possible entrance of the Marchesina and her mamma. I am covered from head to foot with a cold perspiration, but am nevertheless firm in my resolution to run away to-morrow. I must leave all my luggage behind me, and resort to stratagem or I shall not get off. Tomorrow, the moment the palace gate is opened, I shall take to my heels, carrying with me nothing but my purse, my passport, and my nightcap. Hush! a stealthy breathing sounds outside the door — an eye is at the key-hole — it is the old woman watching me! Hark! a footstep in the street outside — Polycarp the Second, with his stiletto lying in wait before the house! I shall be followed, I know I shall, however cunningly and secretly I get away to-morrow! Marriage and murder — murder and marriage, will alternately threaten me for the remainder of my life! Art, farewell! henceforth the rest of my existence is dedicated to perpetual flight!

[
NOTE BY THE EDITOR OF THE FOREGOING FRAGMENTS]

With the ominous word ‘flight,’ the journal of Mr Potts abruptly ends. I became possessed of the manuscript in this manner: The other day, while I was quietly sitting in my study in London, the door of the room was flung violently open, and the ill-fated Potts himself rushed in, his eyes glaring, his hair dishevelled.

‘Print that!’ cried my gifted, but unhappy friend; ‘enlist for me the sympathies, procure for me the protection, of the British public! The Marchesina is after me — she has followed me to England — she is at the bottom of the street! Farewell, farewell, for ever!’

‘Who is the Marchesina? Where are you going to?’ I exclaimed, aghast.

‘To Scotland! To hide myself in the inaccessible caverns of the most desolate island I can find among the Hebrides!’ cried Potts, dashing out of the room like a madman. I ran to my window, which opens on the street, just in time to see my friend fly past, at the top of his speed. The next passenger proceeding in the same direction was a woman of gigantic stature, striding over the pavement in a manner awful to behold. Could that be the Marchesina? For my friend’s sake I devoutly hope not.

THE POETRY DID IT

An event in the life of Major Evergreen

I

An employment which he enjoyed represented the bright side, and an enemy whom he abhorred personified the dark side, of Major Evergreen’s life. He had plenty of money, excellent health, and a hare-brained little niece who might have caused some anxiety to other men in his position. The major’s constitutional tranquility accepted responsibilities of all sorts with a good-humoured indifference which set them at defiance. If Miss Mabel had eloped with the footman, he would have said: ‘Well, I hope they may be happy.’ If she had come down one morning to breakfast, and had announced that she felt a vocation to be a nun, he would have answered: ‘You know best, my dear; I only beg you won’t trouble me to find the convent.’

Persons who wished to see Major Evergreen in earnest — terribly in earnest — had only to look at him when he had pen, ink, and paper before him, and was writing poetry.

This was the employment that he enjoyed; this was the occupation of every day in his life. He must have written hundreds of thousands of lines, without a single thought in them which was not unconsciously borrowed from somebody else. Every form that poetry can take was equally easy and delightful to him. Blank verse and rhyming verse; epic poems and sonnets; tragedies, satires, epigrams; passionate poetry in the manner of Byron; narrative poetry in the manner of Scott; philosophical poetry in the manner of Wordsworth; poetry of the modern type which gets into the pulpit, and reminds us of our moral duties — this wonderful man was equal to every imaginable effort in verse; and, more deplorable still, being rich, he published his works. They appeared in volumes (first edition), and disappeared as waste paper — and appeared again (second edition), and disappeared as before. The printing was perfection; the paper was expressly manufactured to make it worthy of the printing; and the happy major, closing his eyes on facts, firmly believed in his own popularity.

One day, towards the end of summer, the poet had laid down his pen, and was considering whether he should write a few hundred lines more, when his niece looked over his shoulder, and asked if she might speak to him.

Miss Mabel was little and dark, and slim and active; her brightly restless eyes were never in repose, except when she was asleep; her voice was cheerful, her manner was brisk, and her figure was plump. She was further entitled to claim general admiration by a system of dress which was the perfection of elegance, and by possessing a fortune of eighty thousand pounds. And last, not least on the list of her virtues, she read Major Evergreen’s poetry.

‘Well, Mabel, what is it?’

‘It’s about my marriage, uncle.’

‘Marry anybody you like, my dear.’

‘Even your ugly old publisher?’

‘Yes, if you prefer him.’

‘Or anybody else!’

‘Certainly, if you like him better.’

‘The fact is, uncle, you don’t care what becomes of me.’

‘I am of your way of thinking, my dear.’

‘What do you mean?’