Eternal City

Hall Caine

Description

Though he originally wrote it as a play, British author Hall Caine transformed The Eternal City into a novel after he initially experienced little interest from producers. As a novel, The Eternal City was extremely well received, selling well more than 1 million copies. Set in Rome, the story is a life-affirming allegory about the power of love and commitment to a cause bigger than oneself.

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 avril 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776598076
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE ETERNAL CITY
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HALL CAINE
 
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The Eternal City First published in 1901 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-807-6 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-808-3 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Preface to this Edition Prologue I II Part One—The Holy Roman Empire I II III IV V VI VII VIII Part Two—The Republic of Man I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX Part Three—Roma I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI Part Four—David Rossi I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV Part Five—The Prime Minister I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII Part Six—The Roman of Rome I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII Part Seven—The Pope I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX XXI Part Eight—The King I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X Part Nine—The People I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX
Preface to this Edition
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Has a novelist a right to alter his novel after its publication, tocondense it, to add to it, to modify or to heighten its situations, andotherwise so to change it that to all outward appearance it ispractically a new book? I leave this point in literary ethics to theconsideration of those whose business it is to discuss such questions,and content myself with telling the reader the history of the presentstory.
About ten years ago I went to Russia with some idea (afterwardsabandoned) of writing a book that should deal with the racial strugglewhich culminated in the eviction of the Jews from the holy cities ofthat country, and the scenes of tyrannical administration which Iwitnessed there made a painful and lasting impression on my mind. Thesights of the day often followed me through the night, and after a morethan usually terrible revelation of official cruelty, I had a dream of aJewish woman who was induced to denounce her husband to the Russianpolice under a promise that they would spare his life, which they saidhe had forfeited as the leader of a revolutionary movement. The husbandcame to know who his betrayer had been, and he cursed his wife as hisworst enemy. She pleaded on her knees that fear for his safety had beenthe only motive for her conduct, and he cursed her again. His cause waslost, his hopes were dead, his people were in despair, because the onebeing whom heaven had given him for his support had delivered him up tohis enemies out of the weakness of her womanly love. I awoke in themorning with a vivid memory of this new version of the old story ofSamson and Delilah, and on my return to England I wrote the draft of aplay with the incident of husband and wife as the central situation.
How from this germ came the novel which was published last year underthe title of "The Eternal City" would be a long story to tell, a storyof many personal experiences, of reading, of travel, of meetings invarious countries with statesmen, priests, diplomats, policeauthorities, labour leaders, nihilists and anarchists, and of theconsequent growth of my own political and religious convictions; but itwill not be difficult to see where and in what way time and thought hadlittle by little overlaid the humanities of the early sketch with manyextra interests. That these interests were of the essence, clothing, andnot crushing the human motive, I trust I may continue to believe, andcertainly I have no reason to be dissatisfied with the reception of mybook at the hands of that wide circle of general readers who care lessfor a contribution to a great social propaganda than for a simple taleof love.
But when the time came to return to my first draft of a play, the taleof love was the only thing to consider, and being now on the point ofproducing the drama in England, America, and elsewhere, and requested toprepare an edition of my story for the use of the audiences at thetheatre, I have thought myself justified in eliminating the politics andreligion from my book, leaving nothing but the human interests withwhich alone the drama is allowed to deal. This has not been an easything to do, and now that it is done I am by no means sure that I maynot have alienated the friends whom the abstract problems won for mewithout conciliating the readers who called for the story only. But notto turn my back on the work of three laborious years, or to discreditthat part of it which expressed, however imperfectly, my sympathy withthe struggles of the poor, and my participation in the social problemswith which the world is now astir, I have obtained the promise of mypublisher that the original version of "The Eternal City" shall be keptin print as long as the public calls for it.
In this form of my book, the aim has been to rely solely on thehumanities and to go back to the simple story of the woman who denouncedher husband in order to save his life. That was the theme of the draftwhich was the original basis of my novel, it is the central incident ofthe drama which is about to be produced in New York, and the presentabbreviated version of the story is intended to follow the lines of theplay in all essential particulars down to the end of the last chapterbut one.
H. C.
Isle of Man, Sept. 1902.
Prologue
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I
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He was hardly fit to figure in the great review of life. A boy of ten ortwelve, in tattered clothes, with an accordion in a case swung over oneshoulder like a sack, and under the other arm a wooden cage containing agrey squirrel. It was a December night in London, and the Southern ladhad nothing to shelter his little body from the Northern cold but hisshort velveteen jacket, red waistcoat, and knickerbockers. He was goinghome after a long day in Chelsea, and, conscious of something fantasticin his appearance, and of doubtful legality in his calling, he wasdipping into side streets in order to escape the laughter of the Londonboys and the attentions of policemen.
Coming to the Italian quarter in Soho, he stopped at the door of a shopto see the time. It was eight o'clock. There was an hour to wait beforehe would be allowed to go indoors. The shop was a baker's, and thewindow was full of cakes and confectionery. From an iron grid on thepavement there came the warm breath of the oven underground, the redglow of the fire, and the scythe-like swish of the long shovels. The boyblocked the squirrel under his armpit, dived into his pocket, andbrought out some copper coins and counted them. There was ninepence.Ninepence was the sum he had to take home every night, and there was nota halfpenny to spare. He knew that perfectly before he began to count,but his appetite had tempted him to try again if his arithmetic was notat fault.
The air grew warmer, and it began to snow. At first it was a finesprinkle that made a snow-mist, and adhered wherever it fell. Thetraffic speedily became less, and things looked big in the thick air.The boy was wandering aimlessly through the streets, waiting for nineo'clock. When he thought the hour was near, he realised that he had losthis way. He screwed up his eyes to see if he knew the houses and shopsand signs, but everything seemed strange.
The snow snowed on, and now it fell in large, corkscrew flakes. The boybrushed them from his face, but at the next moment they blinded himagain. The few persons still in the streets loomed up on him out of thedarkness, and passed in a moment like gigantic shadows. He tried to askhis way, but nobody would stand long enough to listen. One man who wasputting up his shutters shouted some answer that was lost in thedrumlike rumble of all voices in the falling snow.
The boy came up to a big porch with four pillars, and stepped in to restand reflect. The long tunnels of smoking lights which had receded downthe streets were not to be seen from there, and so he knew that he wasin a square. It would be Soho Square, but whether he was on the south oreast of it he could not tell, and consequently he was at a loss to knowwhich way to turn. A great silence had fallen over everything, and onlythe sobbing nostrils of the cab-horses seemed to be audible in thehollow air.
He was very cold. The snow had got into his shoes, and through the rentsin his cross-gartered stockings. His red waistcoat wanted buttons, andhe could feel that his shirt was wet. He tried to shake the snow off bystamping, but it clung to his velveteens. His numbed fingers couldscarcely hold the cage, which was also full of snow. By the light comingfrom a fanlight over the door in the porch he looked at his squirrel.The little thing was trembling pitifully in its icy bed, and he took itout and breathed on it to warm it, and then put it in his bosom. Thesound of a child's voice laughing and singing came to him from withinthe house, muffled by the walls and the door. Across the white vapourcast outward from the fanlight he could see nothing but the crystalsnowflakes falling wearily.
He grew dizzy, and sat down by one of the pillars. After a while ashiver passed along his spine, and then he became warm and felt sleepy.A church clock struck nine, and he started up with a guilty feeling, buthis limbs were stiff and he sank back again, blew two or three breathson to the squirrel inside his waistcoat, and fell into a doze. As hedropped off into unconsciousness he seemed to see the big, cheerlesshouse, almost destitute of furniture, where he lived with thirty orforty other boys. They trooped in with their organs and accordions,counted out their coppers to a man with a clipped moustache, who wasblowing whiffs of smoke from