Sir John Constantine Part 56

"THE GRAND d.u.c.h.eSS AND HER THREE WOOERS."

"Once upon a time, in Carinthia, there lived a Grand d.u.c.h.ess, of marriageable age. Her parents had died during her childhood, leaving her a fine palace and an ample fortune, which, however, was not--to use the parlance of the Exchange--easily realizable, because it consisted mainly in an avenue of polished gold. By this avenue, which extended for three statute miles, the palace was approached between two parallel lines of Spanish chestnuts. It ran in an easterly direction and was kept in a high state of polish by two hundred retainers, so that it shone magnificently every morning when the Grand d.u.c.h.ess awoke, drew her curtains, and looked forth towards the sunrise.

"Her name was Sophia, and the charms of her young mind rivalled those of her person. Therefore suitors in plenty presented themselves, but only to be rejected by her Chancellor (to whom she left the task of preliminary inspection) until he had reduced the list to three, whom we will call Prince Melchior, Prince Otto, and Prince Caspar.

The two former reigned over neighbouring states, but Prince Caspar, I have heard, came from the north, beyond the Alps.

"A day, then, was fixed for these three to learn their fate, and they met at the foot of the avenue, at the far end of which, on her palace steps, stood the Grand d.u.c.h.ess to make her choice. Now, when Prince Melchior came to the golden road, he thought it would be a sin and a shame were his horse to set hoof on it and scratch it and perchance break off a plate of it; so he turned aside and rode up along the right of it under the chestnuts. Likewise and for the same reason Prince Otto turned aside and rode on the left. But Prince Caspar thought of the lady so devoutly and wished so much to be with her that he never noticed the golden pavement at all, but rode straight up the middle of it at a gallop.

"When the three arrived, Sophia felt that she liked Prince Caspar best for his impetuosity; but, on the other hand, she was terribly annoyed with him for having dented her precious avenue with hoof-marks.

She temporized, therefore, professing herself unable to decide, and dismissed them for three years with a promise to marry the one who in that time should prove himself the n.o.blest knight.

"Thereupon Prince Melchior and Prince Otto rode away in anger, for they coveted the golden road as well as the lady. Prince Melchior, who loved fighting, went home to collect an army and avenge the insult, as he called it. Prince Otto, whose mind worked more subtly, set himself by secret means to stir up disaffection among the Carinthians, telling them that their labour and suffering had gone to make the splendid useless avenue of gold; and he persuaded them the more easily because it was perfectly true. (He forbore to add that ho coveted it for his own.) But Prince Caspar, having seen his lady-love, could find no room in his heart either for anger or even for schemes to prove his valour. He could think of her and of her only, day and night. And finding that his thoughts brought her nearer to him the nearer he rode to the stars, he turned his horse towards the Alps, and there, on the summit, among the snows, lived solitary in a little hut.

"His mountain overlooked the plain of Carinthia, but from such a height that no news ever came to him of the Grand d.u.c.h.ess or her people. From his hut, to which never a woodman climbed, nor even a stray hunter, he saw only a few villages shining when they took the sun, a lake or two, and a belt of forest through which--for it hid the palace--sometimes at daybreak a light glinted from the golden avenue. But one night the whole plain broke out far and wide with bonfires, and from the grand-ducal park--over which the sky shone reddest--he caught the sound of a bell ringing. Then he bethought him that the three years were past, and that these illuminations were for the wedding; and he crept to bed, ashamed and sorrowful that he had failed and another deserved.

"Towards daybreak, as he tossed on his straw, he seemed to hear the bells drawing nearer and nearer, until they sounded close at hand.

He sprang up, and from the door of his hut he saw a rider on muleback coming up the mountain track through the snow. The rider was a woman, and as she alighted and tottered towards him, he recognized the Grand d.u.c.h.ess. He carried her in and set her before his fire; and there, while he spread food before her, she told him that the Princes Melchior and Otto had harried her lands and burnt her palace, and were even now fighting with each other for the golden avenue.

"Then," said Caspar, pulling his rusty sword from under a heap of f.a.ggots, "I will go down and win it from them; for I see my hour coming at last."

But the Princess said, "Foolish man, it is here! And as for the golden avenue, that too is here, or all that was ever worth your winning." And thereupon she drew aside her cloak, shaking the snow from it; and when the folds parted and the firelight fell on her bosom, he saw a breastplate gleaming--a single plate of gold--and in the centre of it the imprint of a horse's hoof.

"So these two, Cavalier--or so the story reached me--lived content in their silly hut, nor ever thought it worth their while to descend to the plain and lose what they had found. . . . But you were good enough just now to inquire concerning my own poor adventures."

"Billy Priske," said I, "has given me some account of them up to your parting from my father--at Calenzana, was it not?"

"At Calenzana." Mr. Fett sighed a.s.sent. "Ah! Cavalier, it has been a stony road we have travelled from Calenzana. _Infandum jubes renovare dolorem_ . . . but Badc.o.c.k must bear the blame."

Badc.o.c.k with his flute made trees--

Has it ever struck you sir, that Orpheus possibly found the gift of Apollo a confounded nuisance; that he must have longed at times to get rid of his attendant beasts and compose in private? Even so it was with Badc.o.c.k.

"That infernal _mufro_ chivvied us up the road to Calvi and into the very arms of a Genoese picket. The soldiers arrested us--there was no need to arrest the _mufro_, for he trotted at our heels--and marched us to the citadel, into the presence of the commandant.

To the commandant (acting, as I thought, upon a happy inspiration) I at once offered the beast in exchange for our liberty. I was met with the reply that, as between rarities, he would make no invidious distinctions, but preferred to keep the three of us; and moreover that the _mufro_ (which had already put a sergeant and two private soldiers out of action) appeared amenable only to the strains of Mr.

Badc.o.c.k's flute. . . . And this was a fact, Cavalier. At first, and excusably, I had supposed the brute's behaviour to express aversion; until, observing that he waited for the conclusion of a piece before b.u.t.ting at Mr. Badc.o.c.k's stomach, I discovered this to be his rough-and-ready method of demanding an _encore_.

"The commandant proved to be a _virtuoso_. Persons of that temperament (as you may have remarked) are often unequal to the life of the camp with its deadening routine, its incessant demand for vigilance in details; and, as a matter of fact, he was on the point of being superseded for incompetence. His recall arrived, and for a short while he was minded to make a parting gift of us to his late comrades-in-arms, sharing us up among the three regiments that composed the garrison and endowing them with a _mascot_ apiece; but after a sharp struggle selfishness prevailed and he carried us with him to the mainland. There for a week or two, in an elegant palace behind the _Da.r.s.ena_, we solaced his retirement and amused a select circle of his friends, till (wearying perchance of Badc.o.c.k's minstrelsy) he dismissed us with a purse of sequins and bade us go to the devil, at the same time explaining that only the ingrat.i.tude he had experienced at the hands of his countrymen prevented his offering us as a gift to the Republic.

"We left the city that afternoon and climbed the gorges towards Novi, intending our steps upon Turin. The _mufro_ trotted behind us, and mile after mile at the brute's behest--its stern behest, Cavalier-- Mr. Badc.o.c.k fluted its favourite air, _I attempt from love's sickness to fly_. But at the last shop before pa.s.sing the gate I had provided myself with a gun; and at nightfall, on a ledge above the torrent roaring at our feet, I did the deed. . . . Yes, Cavalier, you behold a sportsman who has slain a wild sheep of Corsica. Such men are rare.

"The echoes of the report attracted a company of pedestrians coming down the pa.s.s. They proved to be a party of comedians moving on Genoa from Turin, whence the Church had expelled them (as I gathered) upon an unjust suspicion of offending against public morals.

At sight of Badc.o.c.k, their leader, with little ado, offered him a place in the troupe. His ignorance of Italian was no bar; for pantomime, in which he was to play the role of pantaloon, is enacted (as you are aware) in dumb-show. Nay, on the strength only of our nationality they enlisted us both; for Englishmen, they told me, are famous over the continent of Europe for other things and for making the best clowns. We therefore turned back with them to Genoa.

"But oh, Cavalier! these bodily happenings which I recite to you, what are they in comparison with the adventures of the spirit?

I am in Italy--in Genoa, to be sure, which of all Italian cities pa.s.ses for the unfriendliest to the Muse: but that is my probation.

I have embraced the mission of my life. Here in Italy--here in the land of the vine, the olive--of Maecenas and the Medicis--it shall be mine to revive the arts and to make them pay; and if I can win out of this city of skinflints at a profit, I shall have served my apprenticeship and shall know my success a.s.sured. The Genoese, cavalier, are a banausic race, and penurious at that; they will go where the devil cannot, which is between the oak and the rind; opportunity given, they would sneak the breeches off a highlander: they divide their time between commercialism and a licentiousness of which, sordid as it is, they habitually beat down the price. And yet Genoa is Italy, and has the feeling of Italy--the golden atmosphere, the clean outlines, the amplitude of its public s.p.a.ces, the very shadows in the square, the statues looking down upon the crowd, the pose, the colouring, of any chance poor onion-seller in the market--"

But here Mr. Fett broke off his harangue to rise and salute the Princess, who, entering with our host at her heels, turned to Marc'antonio and bade him, as purse-bearer, count out the money for a week's lodging. Payment in advance (it seemed) was the rule in Genoa. Messer' Fazio bit each coin carefully as it was tendered, and had scarcely pocketed the last before a noise at the front-door followed by peals of laughter announced the arrival of our fellow-lodgers. They burst into the room singing a chorus, _O pescatore da maremma_, and led by Mr. Badc.o.c.k, who wore a wreath of seaweed a-c.o.c.k over one eye and waved a dripping basket of sea-urchins. Two pretty girls held on to him, one by each arm, and thrust him staggering through the doorway.

"O pesca--to--o--o--" Mr. Badc.o.c.k's eyes, alighting on me, grew suddenly large as gooseberries and he checked himself in the middle of a roulade. "Eh! why! bless my soul, if it's not--"

"Precisely," interjected Mr. Fett, with a quick warning wink and a wave of his hand to introduce us. "_I pescatori da maremma_.

. . . To them enter Proteus with his attendant nymphs. . . . They rush on him and bind him with strings of sausages (will the Donna Julia oblige by tucking up her sleeves and fetching the sausages from the back kitchen, _with_ a brazier?) The music, slow at first, becomes agitated as the old man struggles with his captors; it then sinks and breaks forth triumphantly, _largo maestoso_, as he discourses on the future greatness of Genoa. The whole written, invented, and entirely stage-managed by Il Signore Fetto, Director of Periodic Festivities to the Genoese Republic. . . . To be serious, ladies, allow me to present to you four fellow-lodgers from--er-- Porto Fino, whom I have invited to share our repast. What ho!

without, there! A brazier! Fazio--slave--to the macaroni! Bianca, trip to the cupboard and fetch forth the Val Pulch.e.l.lo. Badc.o.c.k, hand me over the basket and go to the ant, thou sluggard; and thou, Rinaldo, to the kitchen, where already the sausages hiss, awaiting thee. . . ."

In less than twenty minutes we were seated at table. Master Fazio's hotel (it appeared) welcomed all manner of strange guests, and (thanks to Mr. Fett's dextrous tomfooling) the comedians made us at home at once, without questions asked. Twice I saw Mr. Badc.o.c.k, as he held a mouthful of macaroni suspended on his fork, like an angler dangling his bait over a fish, pause and roll his eyes towards me; and twice Mr. Fett slapped him opportunely between the shoulder-blades.

He had seated me between the Duenna and the pretty Bianca, to both of whom--for both talked incessantly--I gave answers at random; which by-and-by the Columbine observed, and also that I stole a glance now and then across the Princess, who was trying her best to listen to the conversation of the Matamor.

"Are you newly married, you two?" asked the Columbine, slily.

"Oh, you need not blush! She puts us all in the shade. You are in love with her, at least? Well, she scorns us and is not clever at concealing it: but I will not revenge myself by trying to steal you away. I am magnanimous, for my part; and, moreover, all women love a lover."

CHAPTER XXIX.

VENDETTA.

"Have ye not seyn som tyme a pale face Among a prees, of him that hath be lad Toward his death, wher-as him gat no grace, And swich a colour in his face hath had, Men mighte knowe his face that was bistad, Amonges alle the faces in that route."

CHAUCER. _Man of Lawe's Tale_.

"Criticism," said Mr. Fett, with his mouth full of sausage, "is the flower of all the arts."

"For my part, I hate it," put in the melancholy Rinaldo.

"To be sure," Mr. Fett conceded, "if all men grasped this great truth, there would be an end of artists; and in time, by consequence, of critics, who live by them and for whom they exist. Therefore I keep my discovery as a Platonic secret, and utter it but occasionally, in my cups, and when"--with a severe glance at Mr.

Badc.o.c.k--"the vulgar are not attending."

Mr. Badc.o.c.k woke up at once. "On the contrary," he explained, "I listen best with my eyes closed; a habit I acquired in Axminster Parish Church. Indeed, I am all ears."

"Indeed you are. . . . Well then, as I was about to say, the secret of success in the Arts is to make other men do the work for you.

At this obviously he will excel who has learnt to appraise other men's work, and knows exactly of what they are capable; that is to say, the Critic. Believe me, dear friends, the happiest moment of my life will come when, as _impresario_ I shall have realized the ambition of giving myself, as _capo comico_, the sack at twenty-four hours' notice."

"A man should know his own worth," grumbled Rinaldo, "if only in self-defence on pay-day."

"'Tis notorious, my dear Rinaldo, that your mere artist never does.

Intent upon expressing self, he misses the detachment which alone is Olympian; whereas the critic--Tell me, why is an architect architectonic? Because he sits in his parlour, pushing the brown sherry and chatting with his clients, while his clerks express their souls for him in a back office. This lesson, O Badcocchio, I learnt from an uncle of mine, who had ama.s.sed a tidy competence by thus vicariously erecting a quite incredible number of villa residences for retired tradesmen in the midlands--to be precise, in and around Wolverhampton. I say vicariously, for on his deathbed it brought him inexpressible comfort that he himself had not designed these things.

"He was in many respects a remarkable man, and came near to being a great one. His name originally was Lorenzo Smith, to which in later years he added that of Desborough--partly for euphony, partly because the initials made to his mind a pleasing combination, partly also in pursuance of his theory of life, that he best succeeds who makes others work for him. By annexing the Desborough patronymic--which, however, he tactfully spelled Desboro', to avoid conflict with the family prejudices--he added, at the cost of a trifling fee to the Consistory Court of Canterbury, a flavour of old gentility to the artistic promise of Lorenzo, the solid commercial a.s.surance of Smith.

Together the three proved irresistible. He prospered. He died worth twenty-five thousand pounds, which had indeed been fifty thousand but for an unlucky error.

"Like many another discoverer, he pushed his discovery too far.

He reasoned--but the reasoning was not _in pari materia_--that what he had applied to Art he could apply to Religion. In compliment to what he understood to be the ancient faith of the Desboroughs he had embraced the principles of Roman Catholicism--his motto, by the way, was _Thorough_--and this landed him, shortly after middle age, in an awkward predicament. He had, in an access of spleen, set fire to the house of a client whose payments were in arrear. The good priest who confessed him recommended, nay enjoined, an expiatory pilgrimage to Rome; and my uncle, on the excuse of a rush of orders, despatched a junior clerk to perform the pilgrimage for him.

"For a time all went well. The young man (whom my uncle had promoted from the painting of public-house sign-boards) made his way to Rome, saluted the statue of the Fisherman, climbed on his knees up the Scala Sancta, laid out the prescribed sum on relics, beads, scapulars, medals, and what-not, and, in short, fulfilled all the articles of my uncle's vow. On the second evening, after an exhausting tour of the churches, he sat down in a tavern, and incautiously, upon an empty stomach, treated himself to a whole flask of the white wine of Sicily. It produced a revulsion, in which he remembered his Protestant upbringing; and the upshot was, a Switzer found him, late that night, supine in the roadway beneath the Vatican gardens, gazing up at the moon and d.a.m.ning the Pope. Behaviour so little consonant with his letters of introduction naturally awoke misgivings. He was taken to the cells, where he broke down, and with c.r.a.pulous tears confessed the imposture; which so incensed His Holiness that my uncle only bought himself off excommunication by payment of a crippling sum down, and an annual tribute of his own weight (sixteen stone twelve) in candles of pure spermaceti.

O Badc.o.c.k, fill Donna Julia's gla.s.s, and pa.s.s the bottle!"