The Fool Errant Part 23

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 a.s.siduous 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, Brigh.e.l.la 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 t.i.tle to this particular farce--the Donne Furlane-- are the lowest cla.s.s 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 Brigh.e.l.la are his simpleton sons--they were the manager and myself. Il Nanno was Punchinello, his Neapolitan servant, Il Dottore his travelling physician. They come ash.o.r.e 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; Brigh.e.l.la 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 "'l.u.s.trissimo, si!" which marked so well the growth of self-esteem; his finger in the mouth, his twisting ap.r.o.n-corner, which betrayed embarra.s.sment 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 Brigh.e.l.la 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, G.o.d 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 a.s.set 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 ma.s.se 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, Brigh.e.l.la, 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 Brigh.e.l.la; 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 Brigh.e.l.la. "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 sh.o.r.e.

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, Brigh.e.l.la," 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 pailla.s.se 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 c.h.i.n.k 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.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

I COMMIT A DOUBLE MURDER

Francis Antony Strelley, Tennis-ball of Fate, should be inscribed upon my tomb, unless like the wandering Jew I were not destined to have any other than that restless globe upon whose shelving surfaces I was for ever to slip and slide. Here was I once more buffeted on to the road; and yet I could not fairly pretend that there was no fault of mine concerned in the stroke. O, fatal dower of beauty that was thine, Aurelia! Could I say that, had I maintained my firm resolve of a few days' date, and fixed my heart and inclination where they were due-- towards the loving bosom and welcoming arms of my Virginia--this new shame had come upon me? Alas, what malign influence drew thee, lady, to Siena, to rekindle my flame, to melt my conjugal desires, to betray me into the old pa.s.sion, to draw me into the old despair? Thus I bitterly questioned myself as, guarded on either hand by mounted men, I descended the silent street on the way to what I must needs consider perpetual imprisonment.

Going out of the Porta Romana, where we were obliged to wait in the cold drizzle of a cheerless dawn for the porter to open the gate, a deeply veiled, respectably dressed young woman asked the favour of our escort from the corporal, and received it, probably on account of her good looks, which should be extraordinary. She was going, she said, to join her husband at Volterra, and feared the brigands who were notoriously rife in that country. The corporal offered to take her pillion behind him. "Willingly, sir," she said, and was lifted up by the troopers. As we went out of the gate she raised her veil to use her handkerchief and to look at me. In a moment I saw that it was my brave and affectionate Belviso, and was no little comforted by the thought that here, at any rate, was one heart in Siena generously inclined to mine.

We baited at Colle, and rested there two or three hours; from thence we mounted a very steep hill and reached a country of abounding desolation and misery, where bare grey hills alternated with dense thickets, and were told that there was not a human habitation for the rest of the journey to Volterra. Our guards saw to the priming of their muskets before they started from Colle, and kept a sharp lookout on all sides of the way. We met nothing, however, threatening or otherwise, for nearly half our journey, but somewhere about four o'clock of the afternoon, when we were traversing a barren moor, the corporal gave a sharp cry and reined up his horse. Before I knew what he was about a pistol had been placed in my hands, and he said, "Every man for himself now. You are free, sir."

"How--free?" I asked him.

His reply was to point ahead of us. "Brigands," he said, "and the Kingdom of Heaven in view."

The troopers got off their horses, lashed them by the bridles, head to head, and stood behind them with their muskets pointed the way the enemy was coming. They were upon us almost before I had seen anything but a cloud of whirling dust. They came on at a furious pace, yelling and discharging their arms, and made short work of our defenses. The three soldiers were killed and rifled. I and Belviso had our hands tied, were strapped on to horses, put in the midst of the band, who were all masked, and carried off at a terrible rate across the open country. We went down a mountain side, crossed a torrent and crashed into a thick belt of woodland which lay beyond it. In the midst of this a ruined chapel or hermitage seemed to serve our captors for a camp; for here they drew rein and disposed of us, their booty. My feet were bound, as my hands already had been, and I was thrown thus helpless on my face on one side; the miserable Belviso, whose disguise and beauty made him appear what he had so unhappily pretended to be, had his hands tied behind him, but his ankles left free. Him they placed on the other side of the ruin at some distance from me. They had made no effort to search me, my wretched rags of a clown of the theatre being my protection, and by that means only I was able to keep the pistol given me by the corporal. Mercifully I had not used it yet, for when the attack was made I saw that I had better make no defence if I wished to save my life; and I could not see that I had any good reason for risking it on behalf of the soldiers. I suppose it must have been evident that I was a prisoner, and that it would be better worth their while to keep and sell me as a slave than to blow my brains out. It was only too clear what they intended to do with my poor friend.

The brigands, so soon as they were rid of us, set to work preparing a meal for themselves. They lit a fire in the chapel, filled a cauldron, fed and watered their horses. Very soon they were all about the pot, eating and drinking like wild beasts; and when the meat was done they went on with the wine and brandy which they had in abundance, played cards and dice, quarrelled or caroused far into the night. It was densely dark, save for the chance flames of the fire, when I heard them all wrangling together and had some hopes of a fight which might turn to our advantage. But whatever was the subject of their disputations, their fury died down into grumbling. They had decided on drawing lots for possession of us, as I now understand--but some were too drunk to take a part, and some too indifferent. It came down to three who went on with the contest, while three fell asleep and snored through all the noise.

I saw the whole affair: how three billets were put into an empty crock and one was drawn out. The man who drew it had won me, I could tell, because when he had shown his paper to the others, he came over to where I was and touched me with his foot to learn whether I was safe. I shammed sleep, and never moved; so presently he lay down by the side of me and himself slept. Meantime another, of the remaining two, had drawn Belviso and had gone towards his victim. I saw the loser creep after him, and lost sight of both in the dark; but then, after a horrible pause, I heard my wretched friend begin to cry for mercy, to confess the truth, to pray to G.o.d, to shriek in a way I shuddered to hear. The ruffian at my side, like his companions by the fire, slept through all, and this dared me to what sounds like an act of madness. With a temerity born of my anguish on Belviso's account, I rolled over and over until I was close to the fire. There, I thrust my ankles into the flames, regardless of the excruciating pain, and burnt away the cord that tied me. I served my hands in the same way, and springing up, crept swiftly to where I heard the crying lad and the scuffling. By what light the fire afforded I saw that the two men were fighting for possession. One was full length on the ground, the other crouched over him and upon him with a knife in his teeth, but so intent upon his murderous design that he had no eyes for me. I came quite close, made a sudden snap at the knife, and plunged it with all my force into the neck of the topmost. It drove right through him and pierced his victim; I think they must have died at once, for except for one horrible gasping snort I heard nothing.

At the moment I felt myself caught by the ankle and heard, "Francis, Francis, it is I." I pulled Belviso to his feet, cut the cord at the wrist and plunged forward into the black of the wood, running downhill, as near as I could judge, towards where I knew the brook was. We were pursued, but in a darkness so impenetrable the chances were in our favour, and we were never within a quarter-mile of being caught. We gained the river side. "Jump!" I cried, and dragged Belviso in after me.

We could just bottom it. There we stayed, under a shelving bank, up to our necks in cold water until the day began to break--not daring to move lest we should happen upon our enemies, our teeth chattering together, in a state of semi-death. How we endured it I don't know; but life is sweet to young men.

Looking about with great caution, I could see nothing nor hear anything of the brigands. We crossed the river and ran as fast as we could-- Belviso in dripping weeds and myself in my wet rags of the comedy. By very good luck he had had some four lire in the pocket of his gown.

When we had recovered something of blood and heart by our running, I told Belviso to keep himself snug in some bushes while I went marketing with his four lire. I had seen some herdboys on the hill and was determined to supply him with clothes proper to his s.e.x. I went up to the boys and offered a lire for a pair of breeches. Half a dozen pairs were off and under my nose before I had done speaking. I chose two pair, begged a hunch of bread into the bargain, and made them happy as kings with three lire. I asked them my whereabouts and learned that I was four leagues from Volterra and seven from Pomarance. I was south of Volterra, south-west of Siena, but Pomarance was on my road to Arezzo. To Pomarance, therefore, so soon as we were clothed in the one indispensable garment of manhood, we determined to go.

To reach our haven it was necessary to cross one of the main lines of communication with Siena, that from Florence, namely, by the Val d'Elsa, or that from Rome by San Quirico and the Val d'Orcia. We agreed that the latter was the safer for us as being further from the seat of Government, though much the more difficult. The country was mountainous and thinly populated. If we ran in no danger of robbery--as how should we, who had nothing but rags and empty stomachs about us?--we might easily starve, or keep the beasts from starvation. There were wolves in these hills, and dogs, turned rogue, which were as bad or worse. All this, however, we were ready to face so soon as we had eaten bread, washed ourselves at a well by the roadside, and commended ourselves to G.o.d. "Come, brother," I said, "our fortunes must needs mend since they can never be more broken. In this world there is no stay, but a thing gets better or worse. I believe we may be happy yet."

"Brother," replied Belviso, "I am sure of it, and I promise you I have never looked forward to happiness before. This well in which I have washed myself is l.u.s.tral water. I have fouled it with the vile thing I was once. In return it has made a new creature of me, thanks to G.o.d and you."

"Bravo," said I, "and now, Avanti!"

"p.r.o.nti," says Belviso, and we struck east along a fine gra.s.sy valley where the trees were in the full glory of early summer. I was full of hope, which I could neither explain nor justify, and though I did not know it then I had some grounds to be so. I shall not inflict upon the reader the vicissitudes of our wearisome journey of three weeks over the sharp-ridged valleys of lower Tuscany. We sometimes begged, sometimes worked for the bread we ate and the sheds in which we slept. We were tanned to the colour of walnuts, healthy as young cattle, merry as larks in the sky. We gave each other our full confidence, or so I believed. At any rate I kept nothing from my friend. He was more reticent. "The past is past," he used to say. "My safety is only in the future; let me talk to you of that." And so he did. A friendship was sealed between us which no difference of race, degree or age could ever break in upon; we loved each other tenderly, we were as brothers. Belviso was at one and the same time the most affectionate, the shrewdest, and the most candid boy that ever was conceived in sin and nurtured in vice. No shameful dealing had left a mark upon him, he was fine gold throughout. But so I have found it always in this dear country of my adoption, that it takes prosperity, never misery, to corrupt its native simplicity. The lower you descend in the scale of human attainment the greater the hopes you may conceive of what humanity may be permitted to attain. The poor drab, the world's hire for the price of a rush-light, the lurking thief, the beggar at the church door, the naked urchin of the gutter--these, though they live with swine and are of them, have the souls of children new and clean from G.o.d. Neither malice nor forethought of evil, nor craft, nor hatred, nor clamour, nor the great and crowning sin is in their hearts.

A kind word, a touch, a kiss redeems them. Thus they, whom the tyrants of Italy have enslaved, are in truth the very marrow of Italy, without whom she would never have done anything in this world. And the sorrowful verity is that slaves they must remain if Italy is to live on. For prosperity, which fattens their bodies, chokes and poisons their souls.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

AN UNEXPECTED MESSENGER LIFTS ME UP