Whatever trick Virginia may have designed for the humiliation of the cavaliere—and I never inquired of her what it was—it failed of any apparent effect. He presented himself before us in the morning with undisturbed serenity, and the same elaborate professions of good-will. He was going, he said, to spend the day in my rehabilitation. "Be of good cheer, my dear Don Francis," were his comfortable words, "for I never yet failed a friend. It would, indeed—to put it at its lowest—be a deplorable want of policy on my part, for since I wish to be thought a gentleman, every act of my life must be more gentlemanlike than that of the greatest gentleman in Europe. As you have found me hitherto, so you shall find me now. Make me your banker at the tailor's, the perruquier's, the barber's, the shirtmaker's, the hosier's, and the hatter's. Add the shoemaker to your list, to oblige me. I go out to beat at every influential door in Lucca in your favour. Before nightfall, you shall have papers of identity and safe-conduct which will take you all over our peninsula."
I thanked him, but declined any assistance whatsoever. I had money enough for my needs; my wife was prepared to share the fortunes of her husband. I said that I intended to take a small lodging, to settle myself there, and by honest industry to make my way in the world. Both of us could work; we had no desire for fine society; and as for credentials, the excellency of our handiwork and our obedience to the laws would be the best in the world.
He was vexed, and showed that he was. "As for your handiwork, my dear sir," says he, "all that I have seen of it is that it has left you with scarce a shirt to your back. Your respect for the law has induced you to shoot a Capuchin in broad daylight, and forced you to leave Florence disguised as a manservant. However, these things are no concern of mine. Go your own way, young gentleman, consider me your friend, and permit me to kiss your lady's hand, vowing myself her grateful and obliged servant for more favours than perhaps you would care to hear recounted."
Scorning such insinuations as they deserved, Virginia held him out her hand, which he kissed as if he would have bitten it. I ought to have been warned by the glitter in his hard black eyes, but being conscious of my moral altitude above the base wretch, I took no further notice of him.
I had still in my possession my fifty guineas, with which, judiciously laid out, I had no doubt but that we could make our way good in Lucca. Full of hope, and fortified by all the privileges which the Church can bestow upon a Christian, or a complaisant wife upon her husband, I set about my business, which was to secure honourable employment for both of us. After much discussion with Virginia and the exhibition of reasons on my part with which I shall be less particular to trouble the reader, since I have dwelt upon them more than once already, I decided to begin in one of the humblest positions a man can take up. I would do journeyman's work of any sort or kind until I had won what in the finer walks of life we call the spurs. Not to be behind me in effort, Virginia would work also. I hesitated for some time between the carpenter's and the gardener's profession, for both of which I had always had an aptitude; but the former had my choice. Virginia ultimately chose for laundry-work, because that took her more into the open air, which she dearly loved.
I remember that we came to these decisions, after a day or two of talk about them, upon the grassy ramparts which overlooked the beautiful city on one side and the green meads of the Serchio, with their background of purple hills, on the other. It was there that Virginia, holding my hand in hers, spoke in this manner. "Francis," said she, "my lord and master, I have never yet asked you why you paid me the extreme honour of making me your wife, when, as you know very well, I was yours to dispose of in any other way you pleased; and I shall never ask you. It is enough for me that you have raised a poor girl out of the mire and made her a proud woman. But proud as I am—or because I am proud—I shall not forget to be humble. Don't suppose that I think myself raised to your degree because you have taken me in your arms; no, indeed, I am a little peasant and shall always be a little peasant. If I was found good in your eyes—as I am bound to believe I was—it was for that reason. Such as I am, for such as you have taken me, I shall never fail you. I will work the flesh off my bones for you, I will lie, cheat, steal, commit any sin under the sky if you bid me. I am utterly yours to take or put away, to live or die, for Heaven or Hell—you have only to require of me. It is in my power to sink for your pleasure, for we can always go lower than our best; but I cannot rise without you. If you ask me to set up for a lady, I tell you plainly I cannot. Have patience with me, Francis; do not condemn me to fail you. If I cannot rise, you must stoop. If I cannot be a fine lady, you must be content to do without your gentlehood. If I am a peasant, you must be a peasant. As such I shall please you—I am certain of it. In any other way you will stab me at every turn of your head. I shall break my back for you—and do well in my own way; but in yours I shall break my heart—and not advantage you one inch. Remember this too, that you may abandon me whenever you please, and get no reproaches from me."
She spoke modestly, courageously, and well. I kissed her, saying, "You are a good wife to me, Virginia. I agree with everything you say. Come, my dear, kiss me. I think we shall be happy."
She dashed her hand across her eyes as if to fend off a sudden storm of tears; then threw her arms round my neck and pressed me close to her bosom. She kissed me a thousand times, eagerly and warmly. "I love you, my lord, I love you, my saviour and king. If you are kind to me, I shall die. Beat me, misuse me, neglect me, be unfaithful—it is your right— and I shall serve you the better for it. But if you love me I cannot bear it. I shall suffocate with joy—my heart will crack. O Francis, Francis, wilt thou never understand thy poor girl?" All this time she was straining me to her with frenzy, kissing me, almost blind with tears. She was frantic, panting and struggling for breath. I had seen her before in possession of this dangerous ecstasy of love, and though I could not but love her for it in my turn, it was not the kind of happiness I wished her to enjoy. Her scene ended in a very passion of weeping, distressing to witness, but no doubt soothing; after which, moaning like one sore beaten, she lay lax and languid in my arms. Deeply touched, I laid her down upon the grass and watched her fade off into a quieter sleep. In this state she lay for an hour of more, and awoke refreshed, her usual shrewd and reticent self.
Therefore, loving, and being passionately loved in return, working diligently at a clean trade, living in the sweat of my brow, owing no man anything, the next few months of my life—few as they were, not more than six all told—were some of the happiest I have ever spent. They recalled those weeks at Pistoja, but only to excel them; for then I was idle and Virginia not satisfied. Then I had none of the sweet uses of domestic life—the hearth in common, and the heart too; the nuptial sacraments of kiss and embrace, the united outlook, the rational hope of increase. We forgot the world, which had forgotten us; our appetites were simple and easily satisfied; we fed each other and knew deep content. Happy, happy days at Lucca, too soon ended! We shared the uses of a single room with a couple as young and newly wedded as ourselves, rose at five in the morning, and worked at our employment until late in the evening. We ate frugally, drank a little wine and water, loved temperately, and slept profoundly. On Sundays and festivals we went to Mass together, and spent our leisure in excursions in the fields and pleasant groves with which Lucca is engirdled. We never ventured outside the territory of the Republic, but felt secure within it, trusting to our honest intentions, our simplicity and complete insignificance. Ah, blessed content! Blessed, thrice blessed obscurity! Would to God that you had been assured to us for ever! On rare occasions one or other of us had sight of the Cavaliere Aquamorta, who maintained the same magnificence at the Albergo del Sole, and was reputed to be making large sums with his faro-bank. A new scheme of his for a State lottery upon a scale never before conceived by this thrifty little State was said to be under the consideration of the Senators. Working in my master's yard, I used to see him now and again being carried in his chair to this great house or that, half a dozen link-boys before him, and his valet behind carrying his sword and gloves. Virginia often met him in the course of her errands, but, as she said, was never recognised by him. We nattered ourselves that he had forgotten our co-existence with him upon this planet. Hope never stooped to falser cozenage; we were to be rudely undeceived.
One evening—I believe, as I said, that it was after nearly six months' calm and temperate life that our troubles began—upon returning from my day's work, I found Virginia in a pensive mood. She accepted, but hardly returned, my salute, was very silent throughout the preparation and eating of our supper; now and then, glancing at her, I caught her gaze fixed upon me, and fancied that there was a hard light in her eyes. Our companions, Gioiachino and his wife Teresa, rallied us on what they thought to be one of those domestic differences common to the most affectionate couples. "A tiff, a tiff!" said they, nudging each other. "Virginia has caught him with the gardener's wife. We shall get no sleep to-night." This gardener's wife was an obese and asthmatic matron of some two-score years; who occupied a room in our little house, and was kinder to me than I cared for. It was not until Gioiachino and his Teresa were asleep that I could hope to discover what had affected Virginia. She then told me that, as she had been at work that afternoon, kneeling on the boards by the river with the other women, the Cavaliere Aquamorta with a party of gentlemen had come by the meadows and stopped to jest and bandy familiarities with the laundresses. Although he had pretended not to recognise her, Virginia was not deceived. Finding his opportunity, he drew near to her side, and whispered in her ear, "Can I believe my senses? You, my charming consort of a few weeks ago, in such a plight, in such a company!" Virginia had replied that the company had been of her own choosing up to this hour, and that what he complained of now could be remedied very easily, and by himself only. He said, "No, my honour will not allow it. I must needs remember what I might have made you, and what you have become. Count upon Aquamorta, who has never yet failed his friends. Count upon his memory and passionate aspirations."
"I told him," said Virginia, "that I should do nothing of the kind. I said that I was wife to a gentleman born, who also happened to be an honest man. 'If,' I said finally, 'you wish to do Virginia a real service, you will be pleased to forget that you ever saw her.' He laughed, and said that that was impossible to a man of his tumultuous passions, and went away with a profound salutation. This," said my poor Virginia, "has troubled me more than I care to own. I think we should be wise to leave Lucca until—evil wind that he is—he blows over."
Though I comforted her pretty well and bade her think no more about the man, I very soon had reason to be of her opinion. Two or three days later, as I was sawing planks in the yard, to make a trellis, that saturnine person came in, resplendently dressed, and filled the wholesome place with the reek of his essences. He saluted me with extravagant politeness, telling me that he had words for my private ear which he was sure would interest me. When I took little or no notice of him he came to closer quarters. "Hearken, Signor Manifold," says he, "my news concerns Donna Aurelia."
How he knew that sacred name I cannot conceive. It had never passed from my lips into his wicked ears. But I was unprepared for it, and started violently the moment I heard it. "Ha!" cried he, "now I have passed your guard, Don Francis, have I? Now perhaps you will do me the honour of conversing?" I blush to record that I led him within the workshop and begged him to be quick with his news.
There is no need for any reader of mine to tell me my duty. I ought not to have allowed her name to rest upon his mouth; I ought not to have allowed it to touch mine. I ought not to have remembered Aurelia, I ought not to have adored her. Was I not wedded? Was I not beloved? O God of Heaven and earth, if regrets did not avail me then, how can they avail me now? But I will no more look back than I will anticipate in this narrative. I will repeat with what face I can that I led this hardy ruffian into the workshop, cleared a bench for him to sit upon, and bade him tell his story.
Then said he, "My news would at any other time than this give you great pain, Don Francis, for it is not altogether to the credit of one to whom you have paid the most tender of your vows. But seeking, as I have always done, your honour and advantage, I feel that I shall really increase both of them by what I have to say. For if I remind you that you are a fortunate husband, it ought to enhance your consciousness of that fact when I go on to tell you that Donna Aurelia was unworthy of your attentions, since she took no pains to deserve them."
I said here that I knew beforehand his malice and the reasons for it. I said, "You have proved yourself already so unworthy of belief that I tell you now I shall not credit one word you say. How dare you speak of the unworthiness of any lady, being yourself the most worthless of men?"
He smiled, and continued, "What will you do, but thank God, my dear Don Francis, when I tell you that it was she herself who put Fra Palamone in your way? What will you say when you know that you were not intended to kill the Capuchin so that you might be chased out of Florence, as you have supposed, but instead, it was hoped that he would carry off Miss Virginia to her marchese? What will you now say to Donna Aurelia's share in that plot, when I tell you that she——"
He paused here, grinning his triumph.
"I will tell you what I have to say," I answered him, standing up with folded arms. "I say that you lie. You have never done anything but lie and cheat since the moment I saw you. You live by cheating, and will die lying. That is what I have to say. I salute you and beg you to be gone."
"The fair and cruel-kind Aurelia——" he began unconcernedly, but I struck the bench on which he sat.
"Cavaliere," I said, "if you speak one word more of that lady I shall kill you here in this place."
I had an adze in my hand, and I suppose he believed me, for he shrugged his shoulders, got up and walked out of the carpenter's shop. He had accomplished one part of his infamous design, at least. With every symptom of the most exquisite torture of mind I recalled throughout that day and night the lovely, fleeting, unattainable image of Aurelia Gualandi. She was fatally present, every bend and turn of her head, every motion of her bosom, the weaving of her hands, every flutter of her breath, every sigh, every flash of her eyes danced before me, mocking, deluding, beckoning, beguiling, enchanting me. My poor Virginia had reason to complain of my dejection, coldness, inattention, God knows! But He knows too, and will reward her for it, that the brave girl never once did complain. My torment endured atrociously all night, and all the next day; then subsided somewhat, and by the Sunday following was almost gone. On the Monday, moreover, I had something else to think of: this, namely——
On Monday evening, just as I was about to leave the yard, Virginia, with a hood over her head, came into it. This was extraordinary, and so did she appear—vividly coloured, with the eyes of one in a fever, but not alarmed; elated rather, and full of strong resolve. Before I could speak she put her finger to her lip, and said, "Hush! Come with me to the ramparts instead of going home. I have something to tell you." I followed her at once. The ramparts were very empty, as it was nearly dark. She took my arm and began to walk slowly under the trees, speaking calmly, mastering the excitement which she evidently suffered.
She said, "At noon to-day, after the dinner-hour, the padrona gave me three baskets of linen, and told me to carry them to their owners, with the bills which were pinned upon them. I put all three on my head and went away. The first errand was to the apartment of that old colonel of artillery, where I have often been before. I delivered the basket, unpacked it in his presence, received the money and my buona mano, and departed. The second took me to Don Filiberto, the parroco of Santa Lucia. As usual, he inquired after you, asked me that certain question which you know, gave me two whites, patted my cheek, and hoped for better news next week. When I came to look at my third basket, judge my dismay to find that it was addressed to the Cavaliere Aquamorta, at the Albergo del Sole. It was the largest by far—and that was why I had put it at the bottom—and had a substantial bill upon it, including the arrears of three weeks. I suppose he had planned it with the padrona, for I had never been to him before, and did not even know that we washed for him. However, there was no help for it. I must go.
"He received me with a grin, expressing surprise, which I knew he had not, and pleasure, which I fear he had. I was as unconcerned as I knew how to be, and began unpacking the linen; but he came behind me at once, and, kneeling beside me on one knee, began to be unpleasantly attentive, praising my beauty extravagantly, talking, joking, whispering—and worse—doing all he could, in fact, to make me as bad as he was. He owned that he had laid this 'little stratagem of love,' as he called it, and that the bill, far from being in arrear, had been paid, and twice paid. There, then, was the price of my betrayal. Then he spoke of you, Francis, asking whether I had discovered the cause of your recent distemperature. 'I have given him some news of his Aurelia of late,' he said, 'which may have inclined him to neglect a far more charming nymph.' I replied to that, that if he had put himself to the trouble of telling you lies of Donna Aurelia, there was no wonder that you were unhappy; for, says I, 'To have her name, which you held sacred, tripped off lips which you knew to be profane was a horrible thing.' He laughed at me, and called me his incorrigible charmer, his dearest tease, delight and provocation. He grew very attentive, and would have embraced me; whereupon, biding my time, I gave him such a slap in the left eye as he won't soon recover from. Then, while he was cursing me and calling for his servant, I made my escape."
I praised her warmly, as she deserved. She had done what became her with the only weapon she possessed. "The rest," I said, "is mine. I shall know how to maintain your honour and my own. This very night I shall send a friend to the cavaliere, and leave him the choice of weapons."
She stopped our walk, and faced me with agitation. "Dio mio, my lord, what are you saying?" I repeated my words, and she became dry, as she always did when she disapproved.
"Good, my lord," she said; "and may your handmaid know the name of the friend whom you propose to send with your cartel to the Cavaliere Aquamorta?"
I said that I should ask Gioiachino, our fellow-lodger, to oblige me.
"Excellent," said Virginia with irony, "excellent indeed! Gioiachino, a cat's-meat man, waits upon the Cavaliere Aquamorta on behalf of his friend Francesco, a journeyman carpenter!"
This made me more angry than I had any business to be, for she was perfectly right from the cavaliere's view of the thing. I said, "Virginia, my condition in this world has never been hidden from you. Apart from my birthright, which is an advantage not of my own making, I hope I have never been to you other than an honourable man. Gioiachino, who has been a good friend to you and me, certainly deserves no less credit. If a gentleman, as I claim to be, is condescending enough to send a person perfectly honest to a vulgar, libidinous, lying bully and cheat, who happens to have robbed to better purpose than I have worked— then, I say, you should agree with me that I am paying more honour to a thief than he can hope to deserve. I am sorry to have to speak so plainly to you, but it is not for you, any more than for me, to reproach Gioiachino with being an honest man."
She was silent for a few minutes, then knelt down and kissed my hand. When I raised her up and embraced her, I found tears on her cheeks. We walked home in the dark without another word said, and I prevailed upon Gioiachino to convey my challenge, though he did what he could to dissuade me. "This," he said, "is madness. Do you not know that the less your man is assured of his gentility the more exacting he will be in the profession of it? Do you know what will occur? He will call for some lacquey or another to kick me downstairs."
My answer to that was that such conduct to the bearer of a gentleman's cartel was unheard of. I added that if the cavaliere prided himself, against all evidence, upon being a gentleman, he was not at all likely to convict himself of being a ruffian. Very ruefully, in the end, the good-natured Gioiachino went out to oblige me.
It happens that I was right, or had good grounds for thinking so. The cavaliere received the poor fellow with perfect affability, and after a short colloquy with some of his companions, introduced a certain Prince Gandolfo Dolfini, with whom Gioiachino was to arrange a meeting in the fields for seven o'clock on the Wednesday morning. The cavaliere having the choice of weapons, his friend the prince decided for WHIPS.
If this was to make me feel ridiculous it failed. I was much too angry."Whips he shall have," said I, and went to bed.
On the morning appointed I rose at my usual hour and went to the workshop, intending to go on with my duties until the time appointed. I left Virginia in tears, and Teresa, no less wretched, clinging to her in her bed. At a quarter before seven, Gioiachino with me, armed with a stout cart-whip, I left the Porta del Vescovo and walked briskly over one or two water-meadows towards a retired grove of trees not far from the Pisa road. I flattered myself that we were first in the field; but there I was mistaken. I found a numerous company assembled—tall persons in cocked hats, coats and badges, a posse of police, and the villainous cavaliere smirking in the midst. So soon as we entered the grove he pointed to me with his cane and said in a loud voice: "There, Signor Sindaco, there is the fugitive assassin, the betrayer of an innocent girl. Speed him back to Tuscany with the added wages he has richly earned in Lucca." The police advanced, seized me, bound my wrists. An old gentleman without teeth read a long legal instrument without stops, at the end of which I was stripped to the shirt, horsed upon Gioiachino's back and vigorously whipped. I was then haled by my harsh executioners some league or more over the marshes to the confines of the Republic of Lucca and told to take myself out of sight unless I wished for more taste of the whip. Without prayers, without words, without a coat, without money, rich in nothing but innocence and despair, I reached the hillside and flung myself face downwards upon the sward. There I lay far into the night.
My present situation was of that shocking description which defies thought and paralyses the will. I was utterly alone, deprived of the means of joining the only person in Italy who loved me, utterly destitute of means, placed in a country from which I had been banished as a criminal. I shall be understood, then, when I say that for a week or more I wandered over the face of the land, not regarding whither I went (so only that I avoided my kind), nor what became of me. How I subsisted I am at a loss to tell; I have no clear recollections—nothing but a confused sense of abiding despair, hunger, haste and desolation. I know not through what regions I passed, the names of what villages I avoided, the names of what farm-houses I pillaged of eggs and milk in order that I might keep a soul in my body. It is true that I became a common thief; it is very true that during this most dreadful period I spoke not to one living person—for whenever I saw man, woman or child I crouched in whatsoever shelter I could find, and lay there trembling like a beast of chase until the enemy (as I deemed him) had passed and I could venture out again to seek for food. Providentially for me, my banishment from Lucca had taken place in the summer; I suffered nothing from exposure, and had no real lack of sustenance. I used to rummage the streets of villages at night to get broken meat; as I have said, I did not scruple to rob henroosts, or to suck the teats of cows and goats in the byres. During this time I neither prayed to God nor thought of Virginia in her horrid peril. All my efforts of mind and sense were directed to hiding and finding food. I was very near losing my wits.
Gradually, however, I recovered my self-possession, and with that, one by one, my proper faculties returned. I was surprised at myself when one day, seeing a man hoeing in a field, I felt the desire to speak to him and ask my whereabouts. I was in a dreadful fright when it came to the point that I had gone too far towards him to recede; but I mastered myself by an effort and brought myself to accost him. Without any surprise at my appearance, which was, indeed, no worse than his own, he told me that I was in the Vale of Chianti, between Certaldo and Poggibonsi, and that if I persevered upon the road I saw before me I should reach the latter place by nightfall. "But, brother," said he, "you look to have seen better days, and I advise you to push on to Siena. May be you'll find employment there—for that is a rich city. Here I tell you there is nothing. It is little use my offering you a crust, for I have not got one." I thanked him, and having broken cover, stoutly took the road and limped along as best I could.
Perhaps I had gone a league and a half when I came to a village full of people. Half a dozen miserable houses placed streetwise, one of them a disreputable inn, formed a background to a motley assembly of tattered vagrants, of which peasants of the countryside of both sexes, children, pigs and turkeys formed a small part. The others were men and women of the most extravagant attire and behaviour it is possible to imagine. I saw a punchinello on stilts wading among the rest; there were women flaunting feathers on their tousled heads, and moustachioed bullies who might have come from the ruck of some army on the march; pages, minions, magicians, astrologers, women's ruffians, castrati—it was as if one of the wildest hours of the Piazzetta of Venice had been transported by witchcraft to this quiet place. As I approached, wondering at what I saw, a creature, I knew not then whether man or woman, came and stood in my path, and with a great gesture of the arm greeted me in this remarkable apostrophe: "Hail, all hail, Bombaces, King of the Halicarnassians!" He, or she, repeated this shrilly three or four times, but nobody took any notice.
This hermaphrodite had a face of the most vivid and regular beauty I ever saw—a face of perfect oval, freshly and rarely coloured, a pair of dark and lustrous eyes, a straight, fine nose and a mouth exquisitely shaped, provokingly red. Its hair, which was dark brown, fell in a tide of wealth far over its shoulders. It wore a woman's bodice cut square in the neck, after the fashion of unmarried women in Venice, and short in the sleeves; but at the waist that sex stopped and the male began, for it had on a pair of man's breeches, worsted stockings and Venice slippers, and its shape as revealed by these garments was not that of a woman. The creature, as a fact, declared itself to be a male; and when he began to declaim against me again, I addressed him for what he was. "My good young man," I said, "I am too weary, too desperate and too hungry to be entertained by your antics, and too poor to reward you for them—being, as you see me, an exile and a stranger. If you can find me something to eat, I shall be grateful; if you cannot, go in peace, and leave me to do the same."
The droll beauty changed his tone in an instant. "Follow me, sir," said he, "and you shall have everything you want. I entreat your pardon for inflicting my impertinences upon you at such an ill-judged moment." He took me by the hand and addressed himself to the crowd about the inn doors; by pushing, punching, jostling, cursing, praying and coaxing in turns, he made a way into the house. But that was full to suffocation of the actors and their belongings, and of the peasantry who had come to gape at them. Everybody was engaged in getting drunk who was not drunk already. Some were fighting, some lovemaking, some filching. I saw a curious sight. A man dressed like a harlequin was picking a countryman's pocket, and having his own picked, while he was in the act, by some sharp-featured imp of a castrato. In fine, the whole house from floor to rafters was full; the bedchambers, to call them so which had no beds in them, were worse than the kitchen. I could not see that I had gained anything by following my questionable guide; but he, who had more resources than I knew of, having snatched a half-loaf and bottle of wine from the lower quarters, trampled and fought his way upstairs with them, showed me a ladder which gave on to the roof, and went up it like a bird, without using his hands. I followed him, and saw a proud light in his eyes as he invited me to survey my private room. We were in the valley formed by the two pitches of the roof, nothing between our heads and the evening sky. The revellings and blasphemies of the house were not to be heard; pigeons clustered on the chimney-pots or strutted the ridges of the house; a cat, huddled up, watched them from a corner. Stars showed faintly here and there; we were sheltered from the wind; I heard far off the angelus bell ringing.
"Here, at any rate, you won't be disturbed," said my protector. "Eat, sir, drink, and repose yourself. When you feel inclined you shall tell me how I can serve you further."
The evening bell, and this kindness of the lad's, had reminded me of what I was. I said, "My friend, I shall first thank God for having made your nation the boldest, the most ingenious, the gentlest, the most modest, most open-hearted in the world. You see before you a man of all men most unfortunate; but yet I say to you in the presence of God and of his household, whose lights are kindling even now, that, but for the like of you, many and many a time I should have died unannealed."
He was confused and, boylike, tried to laugh off my praises. "You give me too high a character, sir," said he. "I am a graceless devil of the Veneto, without prospect or retrospect to be proud of, a poor creature who has to go to market with what wares he has. If I can look forward it is because I dare not look back. What I am doing for you now, for which you are so kind as to praise me, is not virtue. I wish to Heaven virtue were so easy got. Eat, however, drink and rest. If I am no better than I should be, I suppose I am not worse than I could be. And I cannot allow you to praise me for that."
"You are of the race of the Samaritans," said I, "whether you hail from Venice or Tuscany. I am an Englishman, my name is Francis. How are you called?"
He said, "I believe my name is Daniele; but they call me here, in the company, Belviso."
"And they do well," I returned, "for that you certainly are, and, as far as I am concerned, you prove as good as you are good-looking."
He shrugged his shoulders. "No one is better than he can help, I fancy, sir," he said. "There is every inducement to be wicked in this world. But I will say this of myself—and I dare say everybody else can say the same—that when I am good I am as good as gold, for I realise perfectly well my unusual estate and become a very usurer of virtue. But this is of rare occurrence, seeing that I am an actor. By ordinary, for the fifteen years that I have been in the world, I am remarkably vicious."
"I cannot hear you say that, Belviso," I told him, "without giving you warning that, so long as I am in your company, and to the utmost of my powers, I shall restrain you from being anything of the sort."
He started, looked at me for a moment, then kissed my hand. "I believe our Saviour sent you here to be his vicar in my regard," he said. "I don't know how long you may be in my company, for it depends mostly upon yourself. But I promise you in my turn that I shall never take ill whatsoever your honour may please to say to me; and I say that if I have the misfortune to lose sight of you this very night, I shall be the better for having known you, and shall go to sleep with more prospect of a decent to-morrow than I have ever done in the whole of my life."
I judged that the best thing for this youth was to think more about my misfortunes than his own. I therefore told him how it was that I came before him in this plight, barefoot, bareheaded, bleeding and in rags. I told him of my concern for Virginia, of the deadly perils that beset her, and concluded by assuring him that the one service of any moment which he could do me was to devise me some means of communicating with Gioiachino, the vendor of cat's-meat in Lucca. Belviso had put his head between his knees, and so remained for some time after I had done speaking, in earnest meditation.
After a while he lifted up his face, and said, "I shall go to Lucca for you, Don Francis. It is certain that you must not cross the frontier, and equally certain that there is no other person here who could strive more heartily to help you. But I dare not myself go alone. I shall get Il Nanno to go with me—a very good old fellow and as shrewd as a winter wind. We shall disguise ourselves, of course, and be off before dawn to- morrow. He shall go as my wife."
"Your wife, my dear!" I exclaimed. "I should like to know what old fellow could play the woman beside you." "Seeing that I get my living by so doing, I don't mind owning that there is no one," he agreed. "The trouble is that I should do it too well. When you see Il Nanno you will admit that my proposals are as prudent as they seem the reverse. I'll go and fetch him, and you shall judge. Remember always that his name is Aristarcho; it would be a mortal affront to use that nickname of ours, for he is sensitive to a degree, like all these hunchbacks, and as fierce as a wild cat. Stay here—I will bring him up to you." He disappeared into the house, and presently returned, followed by his proposed wife.
Signor Aristarcho was a dwarf of the most repulsive and uncompromising type. He cannot have been much more than four feet in height; he had a head nearly as large as his body, the strong-jawed, big-nosed, slit- mouthed head of some Condottiere of old, some Fortebraccio or Colleone of history and equestrian statuary. His eyes were small, staring, but extremely intelligent, his flesh spare and strained under the skin; he was beardless and as warty as a toad's back; he never smiled, spoke little and seemed to be afraid lest the air should get within him and never get out again, for he only opened the corner of his mouth to emit a word or two, and screwed it down immediately he had done. His poor deformed body was like that of Punchinello, a part for which he was famous in the theatres—protuberant before, hunched up between his shoulders behind, and set upon little writhen fleshless legs like wooden spigots. In manner he was excessively punctilious, grave, collected, oracularly sententious. I know that he was exquisitely sensitive to ridicule and remorseless in punishing it. It was not hard to understand— the moment I set eyes upon this poor monster—that, with the young and beautiful Belviso masquerading as a woman by his side, trouble must succeed trouble without end. On the other hand, I could not for the life of me see how the parts were to be reversed with any reasonable assurance. But the good youth himself had no misgivings.
After an exchange of careful courtesies I addressed myself to the dwarf. "Signor Aristarcho," I said, "this charitable young man has assured me of your active sympathy with my anxieties. You see before you a victim of fortune's extremest spite, who can sue for your favours with nothing but his tears——"
"Don't shed them," says he at the side of his mouth, "they are precious."
"—and offer you nothing in return but his thanks. But I am speaking to a gentleman——"
"You are not," he said gruffly. "You are speaking to a man."
"—of honour," I pursued, "and sensibility. In a word, I am speaking to a Christian. If then you, a Christian, can save the soul of my young and newly wedded wife—ah, Jesu! my darling from the lions——"
He put up his hand. "No more," he said; "I will do what I can."
I said, "Sir, my boundless gratitude——"
"No more," he stayed me; "I am paid already."
"Alas, sir——" I felt that I must go on; but he would not have it.
"You have called me a Christian," he said. "No one has ever called me that before. I thank you. I would die for you."
"Live for me!" I cried. "Sir, sir, sir, I do find that the lower my bodily fortunes descend, the nearer I get to the kingdom of Heaven."
Aristarcho bowed gravely and said, "I thank you. Count upon me."
He bowed again profoundly, and I returned the salute. When he had retired I told Belviso that I saw nothing in his state to deserve our pity, but that, on the contrary, I envied him the possession of a constant and discerning mind.
My friend replied, "Yes, yes, he is a good fellow and will serve you well. You have earned his gratitude; but let me warn you again never to hurt his feelings. You will be sorry for it for many a day."
When we went down, long after dark, to the inn kitchen, I found the actors seated at supper and was kindly received. Belviso presented me to the principals—to a pleasant, plump old gentleman, who looked like the canon of a cathedral foundation, and was, in fact, the famous Arlecchino 'Gritti; to the prima donna, a black-browed lady, who, because she came from Sicily, was called La Panormita, her own name being Brigida, and her husband's Minghelli; to the cheerfulest drunkard I ever met, who played the lovers' parts, and was that same Minghelli; to the sustainers of Pantaleone, Scaramuccia, Matamorte, Don Basilio, Brighella and the rest of them—a crew all told of some twenty hands, all males with the exception of La Panormita. The reason of that was that the company was very poor, and that fine women did not get sufficiently lucrative side- issues, as I may term them, to be tempted to join it. And again there were several restrictions placed by some States—such as those of the Church—upon female performers, only to be overcome by heavy fees to the officials. If it was inconvenient to them to drop Signora Minghelli in one place and pick her up at another, to have had more women in the same case might well have ruined them. They therefore had with them half a dozen boys and lads, of whom Belviso was by far their best—Pamfilo, Narcisso, Adone, Deifobo and the like, wicked, graceless little wretches as they were. Belviso took the leading woman's part in La Panormita's absence, and when she was present he came second. Notably he was Columbine in the comedy, and, as they said, one of the most excellent. I found all these people, as I have never failed to find Italians of their sort, simple, good-hearted and careless, sometimes happy, sometimes acutely miserable; but always patient and reasonable, and always expressing themselves unaffectedly, in very strong language. Of their kindness I cannot say too much; of their moral behaviour I must not. Their profession, no doubt, which forced them to exhibit themselves in indelicate or monstrous situations for the pleasure of people who were mainly both, had made them callous to much which is offensive to a man of breeding. Il Nanno was a great exception to their rule. I never knew him, but once, behave otherwise than as a gentleman. I never heard him hold unseemly conversation. Belviso, too, was, as far as I was concerned, honest, decent and self-respecting. I am inclined to hope, and have some grounds for believing, that he had given himself a worse character than he deserved. All I shall say about him here is that, had he been my son, I could not have been troubled by anything which he said or did so long as I was in his company.
Sufficient of my story had been made common property by Il Nanno to save me the trouble of trying to enlist their sympathies. They were mine from the moment of my appearance in their midst. They were entirely willing to let my two champions go to Lucca on my account, and I was glad to hear that the company would not stand to lose much by so generous an act. They were on their way to Siena, and except for an open-air performance or two in mean villages would not need either Belviso or the dwarf until they reached that city, where the pair would rejoin them. They offered me their protection and hospitality in the frankest manner— in such terms, indeed, that I could not but have accepted them had my necessities been lighter than they were. I took them thankfully, and asked leave further to propose that, as I had a good memory and a person not otherwise unsuitable, I might place myself and my abilities at their whole disposal. "Use me, gentlemen," said I, "if I suit you; make me of service elsewhere than on your scene if I do not. By so doing you will lighten my load of debt, and make me feel less of a stranger and a burden. I have won two friends already by the recital of my sorrows"— here I placed a hand on Belviso's shoulder and gave the other to Il Nanno—"let me hope that I can gain yet more by some exhibition of my talents."
This was loudly applauded. "Stand up, Don Francis," said Belviso to me, "and spout us out whatever bombast you can remember."
I gave them, first, the opening speech of the Orfeo of Politian, where the sad shepherd accounts his plight, his pursuit of the nymph Euridice, her abhorrence of him, and the like. All eyes were fixed upon me; I saw those of La Panormita glisten. The smooth-flowing verses moved her. They were silent when I had done, which a little disconcerted me; but presently the dwarf snapped out, "More." Emboldened, I began upon the Aminta of Tasso, reciting the opening speech of Daphne in the fourth act. To my delight the part of Silvia, which Virginia in our old days at Pistoja had been wont to take, was caught up and continued by Belviso. We fired each other, capped each other, and ended the great scene. The last six lines of it, to be spoken by the Choragus, were croaked by Il Nanno in his bull-frog's voice. We stopped amid a storm of bravas, and La Panormita, with a great gesture, crowned us with flowers. I was made free of the company by acclamation.
Belviso set off early in the morning with his monstrous old wife of the occasion. He embraced me warmly before he left me. "Keep a good heart, Don Francis," he said, "and trust in your friends. All that is possible shall be done, you may be sure. I shan't dare to look you in the face if I come back without your Virginia."
The company, of which I was now enrolled a member, moved on towards Siena, that city for which—as Aurelia's cradle—I had a feeling of profound reverence; towards which now, in spite of all that had occurred, I could not approach without a quickening of the pulse, an aching heart, and a longing mind. We travelled with a large caravan of donkeys and mules to carry the baggage and women—La Panormita, her gross old mother, and two hags, who called themselves the mothers, and were really the owners, of the boys. The rest of us, the men and the boys themselves, trudged afoot. We begged, jigged, or bullied for food as we went, having scarcely any money among us; for just now, after a disastrous week in Florence, the company was by way of starving until it could earn some pence-halfpence in Siena. The first night we slept in a rick-yard—a bitter wet night it was; the next, we reached Certaldo, and cajoled the landlord of the Ghirlanda out of house-room. This he only consented to upon the condition of our giving free entertainment then and there to his customers. We had been all day on the road; but what choice is open to the needy traveller? Footsore, muddy to the eyes, hungry, thirsty as we were—our clothes of the stage sodden with rain, our finery like wet weeds, our face-powder like mud and our paints like soup—we must perforce open our packs, don our chill motley, daub our weary faces, and caper through some piece of tomfoolery which, if it had not been so insipid, would have been grotesquely indecent. All I remember about it now is that it was called La Nuova Lucrezia ossia La Gatteria del Spropositi, a monstrous travesty of the story of Lucrece. One of the castrati—Pamfilo by name—played the part of Lisetta, "una putta di undici anni," and exhibited the most remarkable turn of satirical observation and humour I have ever seen before or since. Horrible in a manner as it was, it would have redeemed any performance. This demon of ingenuity and wit was little more than fourteen years old, and sang like an angel of Paradise. Another of them was the Lucrezia, the Roman matron—put into the short skirts, spangles, and mischievous peering glances of Colombina. Belviso would have sustained it had he been present. Adone, his understudy, took his place. My own share in the mummery was humble and confusing. In toga and cothurnus I had to read a pompous prologue, and did it amid shouts of "Basta! basta!" from the audience. I don't believe that I was more thankful than they were when I had done. The less I say about the rest of the evening and night the better. The people of Certaldo more than maintain the popular reputation of their great townsman, Boccaccio. They are as light-hearted, as impertinent, as amorous as he; and they diverted themselves with our company in a manner which did credit to his example. Such things, I hope I may say, were very little to my taste; but it was necessary for me not to seem singular, and I fancy that I did not.
After a similar night's entertainment at Poggibonsi we set out, intending to be at Siena that same night. I need hardly say that the so near prospect filled me with various and contending emotions. I might hope, in the first place, to find Belviso there, returned with Virginia, my faithful and tender wife. To know her safe, to have her by my side, to be conscious, as I could not fail to be, of her deep and ardent love for me testified in every glance of her eyes—such could not fail to be a satisfaction to any honest, any sensible man. Such, too, I hope they were. But I must needs confess that not this confident expectation (for confident I was of Belviso's success) alone moved me and elated me at the moment. No, it is the truth that, the nearer I came to Siena, the more I realised the abiding influence of Aurelia upon my heart and conscience. I could not but tremble at the thought that in so few hours I should be treading the actual earth which her feet had lightly pressed during the years when she must have been at her happiest, and if not also at her loveliest—since when was she not at that?—assuredly at her purest and most radiant hour; before she had been sullied by the doctor's possessory rights, before she had been hurt by my dastardly advances. This, then, this it was which really affected me, to feel like some pilgrim of old, to Loreto, may be, or Compostella, to Walsingham, to Rome—nay, to the very bourne and goal of every Christian's desire, Jerusalem, the Holy City, itself—to feel, I say, singularly uplifted, singularly set apart and dedicated to the privilege which was now at last to be mine. From the moment of departure from Poggibonsi to that moment when I saw, upon a background of pure green sky, the spear-like shafts, the rose-coloured walls and churches of Siena, I kept my eyes steadily towards my Mecca, speaking very little, taking no heed of the manner of our progress. I had other sights than those to occupy me. I saw hedge-flowers which Aurelia might have plucked, shade where she might have rested, orchards where she might have tasted fruit, wells which might have cooled her feet. Some miles before I was in actual sight of my desired haven I was in a thrill and tension of expectancy, wrought upon me by these hopeful auguries, which I cannot describe. I was in a perpetual tremble, my lips were dry. We passed Castiglioncello; we rested for noonday at Monteriggione; at Castello del Diavolo, in full sight of all men, I kissed the stony road. In my own country, I know very well, I should have been hooted as a madman, but here, where a man does what nature, or something higher, prompts him without shame or circumspection, I was never molested. My companions were undoubtedly curious. Pamfilo said that I was going to meet my amica at Siena; La Panormita supposed that I regretted some bouncing girl of Certaldo. But I was soaring now to such a height that I cared nothing. We entered the Porta Camollia at half-past five o'clock in the evening, and trailed up the steep Via di Citta, between houses like solemn cliffs, and in the midst of a throng which, in the dusk of that narrow pass, seemed like dense clouds, lit up by innumerable moons, to our lodging at an inn called Le Tre Donzelle. These moons I found out were the wide straw hats of the lovely daughters of Siena, sisters of Aurelia, companions of her maiden hours! It made my heart jump into my throat to see in the doorway of the inn a girl of her own tender and buoyant shape, to hear her very tones, with that caressing fall which never failed to move me, and to see the quick turn of a crowned head exactly in her own manner. Before many hours were over I found myself stabbed more or less vividly by every young woman I met. There was no escaping from Aurelia in Aurelia's own city.
Indifferent alike to the orgies of my companions or to their reproaches of me for not sharing them, I spent a solitary, wakeful night in great exaltation of mind; with the first ray of dawn I was out and about, gaining in entire loneliness my first view of the sacred city. I stood, awestruck and breathless, under the star-strewn roof of the great church; I knelt where Aurelia's knees must have kissed the storied pavement. I walked in the vast Campo, which has been called, and justly called, the finest piazza in Europe; wondered over the towered palace of the ancient Commune; prayed at the altar of St. Catherine. Prepared then by prayer and meditation, I made solemn and punctilious visits to what I must call the holy places of Aurelia's nation: the Madonna del Bordone, the Madonna delle Grazie, and the Madonna called of Provenzano. Before each of these ladies—mournful, helpful, heaven-conversing deities—I prayed devoutly, on my knees. I anointed the feet of each with my tears, I offered up to each the incense of a sigh from my overcharged heart. From the last and most gracious of the three ladies I received what seems to have been a remarkable counsel.
I fell into conversation with the sacristan of her church—Santa Maria di Provenzano is its name—who told me the tale of this wonder-working image, a mutilated bust of the Holy Virgin, veiled and crowned. He said that his Madonna was kind to all the unfortunate world, and famous all over it, but that to the most unfortunate of all she was mother and friend. "And whom do you call the most unfortunate of all?" I asked him.
He looked at me as he uttered these curious words. "The most unfortunate of all, sir," he said, "are they that have to pretend to love when they do not feel it. And theirs is the class of which our Madonna is the patroness."
Padrona degli Sventurati, Helper and Friend of those who must serve Love without loving! What a Goddess was this! I drew apart from my informant and communed alone with the mysterious Emblem. "O most tender Advocate of them that need Thee," said I, "O loving Mother of Sinners! Clean Champion of the unclean, Stem, Leaf, Blossom and Fruit of the abounding promise of Heaven that a seed of hope may fructify in our ineffable corruption! cast down Thy compassionate eyes upon me too, that in their light I may strive again."
This was my prayer, a general one for grace rather than a particular for some specific grace. Now for what I consider to have been a direct answer to it. On the steps of the church, on going out, I saw Belviso waiting for me. I saw that he was alone—and that at once brought before my mind the picture of Virginia, the brave and passionate dark-browed girl, my stormy lover and my wife; whom I, alas, was hired by gratitude and the sacrament to love, though love her as I ought I did not. I stood speechless and thunderstruck. Here now, sinner, is the answer to thy prayer! Art not thou, poor Francis, one of Love's hirelings? Dost not thou need the Padrona degli Sventurati? I asked myself these questions; Belviso would answer them for me.
He told me how he had sped. He had been to Lucca and seen Teresa, Gioiachino's wife. Gioiachino, poor fellow, was in prison, but not for long, it was thought. Virginia was gone, but Aquamorta remained in the city. My poor girl had left a note for me with Teresa, which Teresa handed on to Belviso and he to me—to this effect. I read it with tears:
"MASTER, LORD, AND EXCELLENT HUSBAND," it began—("Padrone, Signor, ed egregio marito mio")—"Thy child is unhappy, but having learned from thee how necessary it is to regard her own honour, is resolved to fly danger rather than brave it. I have gone to Arezzo with all thy money safe in my bosom, to put the breadth of Tuscany between me and my persecutor. Make thy affairs as thou wilt, thou art free of Virginia, who will never blame thee. If thou need her or what she hath of thine, thou wilt find her at Arezzo, an honest woman,
"Who kisses thy hands,
Without a word of explanation I returned to the church and held up my letter before the veiled image of the Madonna of Provenzano. "Here, lady, is my duty," I said, "here is my hire. The lowliest of thy clients, I will never shirk the yoke put upon me. Yet do Thou, Patroness, make it sweet!" I kissed the letter and put it in my bosom; then I went back to Belviso, embraced him, thanked him for his extraordinary pains on my behalf, and said that as soon as possible after the forthcoming performances of the company I should go to Arezzo. He sighed and looked unhappy. "I knew that you would leave us," he said; "it was only to be expected."
"Yes, yes, Belviso," said I, "I must indeed rejoin Virginia. I see very well that she is my only means of redemption."
"And what is to become of me, Don Francis?" says he suddenly, catching hold of my hand and staying me in the street. "What is to become of me without you, who are in turn MY only means of redemption?"
I said, "My poor youth, you are putting upon me more than I can bear—or rather you are putting a fresh weight upon Virginia. If by her I can be redeemed, and by me only you can be redeemed, then that untried girl is charged with the redemption of both of us—a singular tax for one whose redemption was originally my own care."
He agreed with me that the position was unusual, but affirmed with energy that he had truly stated it so far as he was concerned. "I owe you, sir," he said, "the dearest thing a lad can possess, which is his self-respect restored, his courage reborn. In the light of your approbation I can face even my miserable trade and hope to grow up as I should. If you cast me off I am undone——"after which, as I made no immediate reply, with a pretty gesture, as of a girl wheedling for a favour, he touched my cheek with his hand and begged me to take him with me to Arezzo. I told him I would consider of it; but made no promise.
I do not know whether any other man in the world has been so unfortunate as I in making resolutions and finding opportunities to break them, but I am persuaded none can have made more abundant use of his occasions. My only consolation is that my performances have been exemplary, since punishment has ever followed hot-foot upon the offence.
Let it be observed that on the eve of my public appearance upon the scene in Siena with the rest of the company, I was resolved, and had fortified myself with a solemn vow to the Madonna of Provenzano, to return to Virginia's side and act, if I did not feel, the part of her faithful and assiduous husband. Never mind whether I believed this to be due to Aurelia, and that it was the strongest testimony I could give her of my love—this did not, in my opinion, make me disloyal to my wife, because the very act of pleasing her involved the putting out of mind that dear mistress of my heart. My resolution was indeed my final offering at the shrine of mystical love; it was to be an act comparable with Dante's—who, loving Beatrice, married Germma Donati, and proved the reality of his tie by making her the mother of many children. It will readily be believed, I suppose, that so fine a proposition made me enthusiastic, that I was impatient for the moment when I could put it into practice, recover Virginia, press her to my bosom and cherish her as so beautiful and loving a girl deserved to be cherished; but it must be almost incredible to every reader of my book that in one moment I could not only quench my own fire, but make it impossible to light it again. This, however, is the plain state of the case.
In honour of the Grand Duke's birthday a great many festivities were preparing in Siena. The city was full of visitors, for a Palio was to be run in the Campo, the Cardinal Archbishop of Florence was to celebrate pontifically in the cathedral, and our company of actors—not because it was the best, but as being the only one available—was commanded to perform in the theatre before the Podesta, the Gonfalonier and Senate, and all the representatives of Government, of the university, and of the garrison. The whole of the boxes was bespoken, and our manager was given to understand that his expenses for this night were guaranteed. As we had so far had very indifferent houses, it may be gathered that he looked upon this as the occasion of his lifetime. We were put into vigorous rehearsal, and worked most of the day, besides playing at night. We were to give the Artaserse, a tragedy of extreme length and magniloquence, and conclude with the Donne Furlane.
The night arrived; the theatre was full from parterre to gallery; the boxes presented a truly brilliant spectacle. The curtain went up, and the play began.
I shall only say of Artaserse that La Panormita was the Aspasia of the piece, and Belviso the Berenice, her foster-sister and companion. My role was that of the Messenger, and only gave me one long speech, recounting the miraculous preservation of Artaspe and Spiridate, sons of King Artaserse and lovers of the two ladies; the treachery, discovery, and violent end of Dario—in fact, the untying of the knot firmly twisted in the third act. The audience paid visits, talked, laughed, played faro, so far as I could learn, throughout the play. Nor do I wonder at it, for not the finest acting in the world could have galvanised into life any one link of its dreary chain. When the curtain was raised; however, upon the second piece, there was a perceptible settling down to listen, behold, and be amused. Tragedy was the fashion, and must be endured, but all the Italians loved the masks.
The Donne Furlane was the piece, a comedy of art as they call it here— or, as we say, a comedy of masks—wherein the stock characters of Harlequin, Columbine, Brighella and Pantalone are given a rag of a plot, and are expected to embroider that with follies, drolleries and obscenities according as their humour of the moment may dictate. The persons who give the title to this particular farce—the Donne Furlane— are the lowest class of Venetian women, and their ceremonious name implies what we in England imply when we speak of the nymphs of Drury Lane or the sirens of Radcliffe Highway, calling them, in fact, exactly what they are not. According to the plot of the play, Pantalone is an old merchant of Rimini who arrives in Venice with his family. Colombina is his daughter, and was played, of course, by Belviso; Arlecchino and Brighella are his simpleton sons—they were the manager and myself. Il Nanno was Punchinello, his Neapolitan servant, Il Dottore his travelling physician. They come ashore in the quarter of the Furlani, and all the zest of the play lies in the equivoque which contrasts the knavery of the inhabitants with the naivete of the visitors. Pantalone's family is fair game. A bully called Truffaldino poses as a marchese and wins the affections of Colombina; Brighella is entrapped by a Donna Furlana into a promise of marriage; the Dottore finds himself engaged to cure half a dozen of the same sort of ladies of the maladies incident to their career; finally, Pantalone is claimed as their long-lost uncle, who was supposed to have abandoned them in their days of infant orphanage. Such promise of diversion as this imbroglio had, it was rendered still more to the taste of the audience by the license which the actors allowed themselves. Belviso was perfection as the simple country girl; one could hardly credit a lad of his age with such niceness of observation, such humorous yet whimsical representation of an honest, foolish young woman flattered by the attention of a villain. His "La la," his "Sissioria," and "'Lustrissimo, si!" which marked so well the growth of self-esteem; his finger in the mouth, his twisting apron-corner, which betrayed embarrassment when the siege was too vigorous; his "Io non so gniente," when sheepishness was the only defence—here was the highest art of the stage. I, as Brighella his brother, aped him as well as I could. I was a clown, tickled by, yet pondering, the hardy advances of a baggage, who, in the expert person of Pamfilo, was only too well performed. If it was my business to look a fool, God knows I played better than any. The audience stormed us with delight, and I do believe I was having my share of the triumph, and might have been emboldened by success to have deserved it, had not all my sham tremors been shent—in one moment—by a shaft most real and memorable, whose fatal delivery I must now relate.
We had reached a point in our absurdity where, by the direction of Il Nanno, who had a sure dramatic sense, a little touch of tragic meaning was to be brought into the action. The play was suddenly to deepen into seriousness; the masqueraders were to be discovered—momentarily—for men and women, with hearts to be broke and souls to be tortured. I believe it was I who gave him the hint; for he had said to me one day at rehearsal, "Don Francis, you have tragedy in your face, a mouth of pure sorrow. That is a valuable asset for our business." May be that he had thought to use me at my best when he suffered this little shiver of serious surmise to be blown across the painted scene. The worthy little monster was pardonably proud of his conception, and explained it to me point by point. Touchy as his infirmities had left him, his vanity of author made him as tender as a green wound. He set all his hopes upon his invention; rightly rendered, he said, the whole theatre would be moved by it. It should be received with a moment of absolute silence, a sixty-seconds' silence; then, with one consent, the audience would rise en masse and cheer the actor—myself—and the poet—himself. Admiring the thought, feeling the force of it, I promised him that he might depend upon me.
His point was this. At a certain stage in the play, Brighella, the country clown, observes his pretended inamorata, the sham contessa, in the embrace of the pretended marchese, Truffaldino, who by his lies and flatteries has ensnared the heart of Colombina. Now Colombina is the beloved sister of Brighella; and the doubt is to dawn upon him that possibly his wonderful contessa and his sister's imposing marchese are no better than they should be. Why is she in the arms of the marchese? Are these perhaps the customs of the world of fashion? Punchinello, the family servant, suggests that the marchese and contessa may be brother and sister. "O Dio, no!" cries poor Brighella. "I know what brothers and sisters do. I love Colombina and she me, but we don't kiss and hug in a corner. That is what the contessa taught me to do—I thought it very beautiful. It was our secret, do you see? But she seems to have taught the marchese—and it is a secret no more, and not beautiful at all." He begins to wonder to himself, and grows suddenly homesick under disenchantment. He has many artless, touching things to say concerning his happiness with his sister in his own country, there far away on the lonely Adriatic shore.
I was doing my best with the part; Il Nanno, as Punchinello, was at my side watching and moving every turn of the dialogue; in the back of the scene were Truffaldino and the Furlana at their kissing. The audience, quick to feel the pathos, was very quiet, and gave me courage.
"Go to your mistress, Brighella," says Punchinello; "reproach her, pull her away."
"No, no," say I, "that would not be honourable. That would show that I doubted her. That would be an insult to her ladyship, and no comfort to me."
There was a murmur of applause, low but audible, and that stir which I know is more enheartening to the player than all the bravas in the world; but just then, as if directed by some inward motion, my eyes wandered about the auditorium, and (as happens but rarely), I saw faces there. In a box on the grand tier I saw Aurelia herself in a yellow silk gown and a hood of the same, half fallen from her dark hair. There she sat, as if absorbing the light—Aurelia, and no other, in a gallant company. She was smiling, interested, eager. Her lips were parted; I saw her little teeth; I saw the rise and fall of her white breast. Starting violently, a sharp intense pain pierced my heart. I shut my eyes and tried to recall myself, while the theatre was hushed, like death. I felt myself swaying about, and to save myself from falling, stretched out my hand for some support. Unfortunately I found it; for I caught and held the bony ridge of the nose of Il Nanno, which was just on the level of my elbow, and drove my fingers into it until he yelled with pain. Risu solvuntur! The audience rose at us in wild delight—but I, in my horror and concern, knew nothing but that here was I, a poor fool in motley, and there, at some few paces from me, radiant as a star in the firmament, was the adorable being under whose maddening rays I had fallen, as struck by the sun. I gave one short cry, and fell on my knees. "Pardon, pardon, queen of my soul!" I began, when Il Nanno, beside himself with mortification, sprang at me like a wild beast and gripped my throat. Had not the contessa and Truffaldino pulled him off me, I should have been strangled. The audience hushed, the curtain fell. I knew no more until I found myself lying on my strand paillasse at the inn and saw Belviso, yet in his skirt and spangles, leaning over me with vinegar in a sponge.
Refusing me leave to talk, he told me that he had done his best to pacify the dwarf, and hoped he had succeeded. The audience had been entirely misled. They had believed this ending to have been devised for their entertainment, and had completely approved of it. Our manager had been sent for by the Syndic, congratulated and rewarded by a handsome present. The piece was to be repeated next evening, and, for the sake of that, it was even promised that the public would sit through the Artaserse again. Higher testimony, said Belviso, could not have been given to Aristarcho as author, or to me as his exponent. Far from being in disgrace, I was the hero of Siena. The Piazza, the cafes were alive with my performance, my stage name of Francesco de' Pazzi was in everybody's mouth. I murmured the name of Aurelia, but Belviso had no notion of that part of my story, and begged me to sleep. So, after a time, I think I did—and he also.
At some later hour of the night, which must have been near the edge of dawn, Belviso woke me by springing off his bed and going to the door. Presently I heard voices downstairs, stern, short, official voices, and the hasty whispers of two or three answering at once. What was this? Steps resounded on the stair, a chink in the door revealed a light growing in brightness. We were broken in upon where we crouched in alarm; and I saw a Corporal of the Guard, two or three troopers, the scared faces of some of our companions.
The corporal held up his candle to look at me. Our colloquy was very brief.
"You are Francis Strelley, an Englishman?"
"I am."
"You killed a Capuchin in Florence and fled to Lucca?"
"I did."
"You were chastised, and expelled the Republic?"
"I was."
"You are my prisoner, in the Grand Duke's name. Get up, dress yourself and follow me."
Il Nanno had betrayed me, or some other more inveterate enemy. I rose, put on my shoes and a cloak, and told the officer I was ready. As I was tying my shoe, Belviso whispered in my ear, "Courage, I follow." He bade me a mock farewell, with tears and embraces, and I went out a prisoner.
I understood that I was to be taken at once to the Fortress of Volterra. Now, indeed, this famous, infamous prison was to have me and bury me alive.