The Fool Errant Part 30

"To the house of Dr. Lanfranchi the learned judge," I said.

CHAPTER XLVII

THE FINAL PROOF

Free in every sense of the term--free, of prison, free of debt (for if Aurelia had paid me, I had now paid her husband), free of every obligation but guilt, I was all on fire for Lucca and that service which is perfect freedom, voluntary bondage to Virginia, whom I could now love whole-heartedly as she deserved. Artemis! Artemis! Chaster than a fire-- what wonder is it that she had prevailed in that dream-strife which I had witnessed in the villa garden, what wonder when she had to contend with the soiled wife of a vile man--with Aurelia, the lovely, caressing, silken woman, bought by a place, bought by a house, who, possessed by two men, sought yet another. Ah, thou glowing, honey-tongued, unhappy one, in what a horrible web of affairs was I enmeshed along with thee!

What a world was that into which I went ruffling with my money, and rank and fine prospects! Never more, never more would I enter that world of bargain and sale.

So I swore, and so purposed; but in pursuance of a plan which I had formed in my most private mind, I travelled to Lucca in a coach and four horses, with postillions before and my body-servant behind. On this occasion I was furnished with a pa.s.sport and abundance of money. All my property in Florence, all my household gear had been transferred to the city of my choice. I left behind me in Florence not one vestige of myself, and (so far as I know) not one true friend. I intended to be two days upon the road, and lay the night at Empoli; early on the following morning, a fine day in early autumn, I departed from the inn for my final stage, and fared without incident as far as Ponte a Cappiano.

Before the hill of Altopascio is reached, the traveller must accomplish a lonely stretch of road, which runs for some three miles through a ragged wood. This place bears a bad name; it is debatable land, as we say, between the Republic of Lucca and the Grand Duchy, and a well-known haunt for footpads, highwaymen, outlaws, and other kinds of cut-throat.

So, at least, my servant said when, stopping the carriage, I got out and proposed to walk through the wood by a direct path and meet my conveyance at the top of the pa.s.s. He begged me very earnestly to do nothing of the kind. "The road is the only tolerable way for your lordship," he a.s.sured me; and then, with a start, he added, "Hark, sir, hark! As I live by bread, we are pursued even now." I listened, and could hear a long way off the regular pounding of a horse.

However, I paid no more attention to that than to see to the priming of my pistols. I had been near death too often of late to stand on any ceremony with it; and there are times in life when one can see beyond it. I had a certainty that I should not die until I had found Virginia.

Therefore I dismissed the carriage and walked on. Now and again, as I entered more deeply into the thicket, I caught the sound of hoofs; but I soon grew to disregard them and presently forgot their menace altogether.

This wood, of holm-oak, holly and beech for the most part, rises and dips twice before it climbs the final ascent to the crown above Altopascio. A cart-track runs through it, deeply rutted and always miry, on either hand of which glades are revealed of great beauty. Here, if the trees are remote, the gra.s.s grows lush and green. Hereabouts are the flowers, tall and plenty--foxgloves and mullein, such as we have at home, and loosestrife (lysimachia), both the yellow and the purple. The sun shone brilliantly between the leaves, the air was sweetly tempered, the wood was empty. I felt exalted, as I always do when I am alone. I was hopeful; I was still young. G.o.d, methought, was about to bless me abundantly, after making stern trial of me. My secret thought ran rhythmically in my head. I walked briskly up the first slope, surmounted it, and stood looking down upon a scene more charming than that which I was about to leave--a deeper, greener glade, with a clearing in the midst, and a rude gipsy tent and a little fire, and two persons beside it. As I stood looking I heard the crackling of the brushwood and dead twigs behind me. The horseman, whoever he was, had entered the wood and was following the track.

But the encampment below me engrossed all my eyes. In that windless hollow a thin spire of smoke rose blue towards the blue. An iron pot was suspended on three poles; the smoke hugged it closely, united above it, and rose in a column. The couple, a young man and woman, sat still, watching it. Their meal was ended, I judged, and they were summoning resolution for the road. The woman, with a pretty, weary gesture, put her head upon the man's shoulder. He embraced her with his arm, bent his head and kissed her. Stooping yet lower, he kissed her lap. I saw that she had a child asleep there. Just then both of them heard, as I did, the horse's hoof strike on a stone. They both started, and looked up towards me. My heart stood still, my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. Those two were Belviso and Virginia--and the child! the child! In a flash of instantaneous reflection I remembered that a year ago Belviso had gone to Lucca to find Virginia, had reported her to me as not there, and at Arezzo had asked leave to seek her again.

Oh, monstrous thought! Oh, monstrous thinker, Francis! But I was incapable of justice or reason. I thought here to see the mockery of G.o.d; and I, who imagined so wickedly, went on to deal wickedness.

I strode down the hill upon them without a word, my eyes blazing like coals. Both recognised me at the same moment. Virginia stood up, holding her child close to her, but never budged; Belviso cried, "Master!" and started towards me. When he saw with what countenance I was coming, he faltered and stood ill at ease. In my blind fury I put this down to his guilt; good G.o.d, what more did I meditate? Oh, horrible! I stopped and c.o.c.ked my pistol.

"Ah, false wife once," I said terribly, "and now false mistress!

Traitress, with this traitor whom I believed my friend----"

Belviso here gave a cry and held up his hand. He was looking, not at me, but behind me to the slope down which I had come. "Master, beware, beware," he called out in his ringing young voice. "Palamone is behind you. Treachery indeed!"

I turned, and saw that he spoke the truth. Fra Palamone, booted and spurred, with a huge black cloak flagging about him, was close upon me, walking his horse tenderly down the hill. His face was distorted with a grin, there was a light, scared look in one of his eyes, whose brow was lifted more than the other. If ever appearance foretold mischief, that did his.

He saw that I was armed, no doubt, for he reined up out of shooting distance, bowed to me, and spoke my name. I asked him what he wanted.

"A little talk, if you please, Don Francis," he said in his blandest tone, "a little friendly talk."

"You rascal," said I, "a cudgelling was the upshot of your last. Do you want another? Have you earned it yet?"

"G.o.d do so unto me if I meditate any harm to your Excellency," said the old villain. "Upon Christ's life and death I can do you a service at last, and so I will. Know first of all that the most charitable deed you ever did in your life was to break your cane over my wicked body. Yes, yes, I tell you truly, you saved a soul that day, and I care not who knows it. Sir, sir!" said he earnestly, "I am here not only to thank you for having restored me my soul, but to give you a letter which will restore you your wife, and tell you the whole truth about her into the bargain."

"Who wrote your letter?" I asked him, and he told me, "One who knows.

Miriam the Jewess."

I am to confess that he deceived me again. I was fool enough to believe that he could explain to me the guilty history of these two persons behind me--these two and their child. We believe what we desire to believe, whether it be of good or evil report. I bade him give me his letter; he dismounted and came towards me, fumbling in his cloak. "'Tis here," he was muttering to himself. "No, no, that is my pardon from his Holiness. Ah, what have we here? Nay, 'tis my certificate of communion.

How, how? Have I lost it?" Grumbling and mumbling, grating his loose tooth, he was close upon me, his hand deep in his cloak. "Ha, ha!" he suddenly cried, "now I have it!" and whipped out his hand. Belviso shrieked my name aloud, "Francis, my lord and king!" and flung himself upon my breast. There was a shocking report of a pistol, discharged close at hand. Belviso shuddered and fell limp--a dead weight. I raised my arm, levelled, and shot Palamone through the head.

We picked up the lifeless form of that lad whom I had once loved for his love of me and laid him by the fire. Virginia knelt beside him, pale and tearless; pale, stern and tearless also I stood above him, my weapon still reeking in my hand. "Woman," said I hoa.r.s.ely, "would that I had fired that shot. Do you dare to say that he has not got his deserts?"

She did not answer me; she was busy with the dead. She opened his jacket and vest and put her hand below his shirt to feel if his heart yet fluttered. Then she lifted to me a stern pure face. "His deserts, my lord, say you? Come, kneel you by me, and see whether he have them or no."

Some impulse, I know not what, made me obey. I kneeled down by Virginia.

She opened reverently the clothing of Belviso, laid back the vest, laid back the cotton shirt. Wonder, terror, a flood of shame came scalding into my eyes. I had looked upon, but now could not see, the young b.r.e.a.s.t.s of a girl. My proof had turned to my reproof. I was humbled to the dust. "Poor child," said Virginia very softly, "poor sinner, who died to save him that had once saved thee, I pray to G.o.d that thou knowest now how innocently he did thee this wrong." She stooped and kissed the cold lips, but I fell upon the cold bosom and wept bitterly.

She let me sob my full. Not until I was calmer did the n.o.ble girl touch me upon the shoulder and call me by my name. "Francis," she said, "do not reproach yourself any more. This poor soul has done what she must in any case have done. Her heart was yours, and yours, she knew, could never have been given her. She was loyal to you through all and deceived you through loyalty. She is repaid in the only coin she could have asked. G.o.d have her soul." [Footnote: Belviso's tragic masquerade was not at all uncommon in Italy at the time of which I write. If a girl were desirous of becoming a comedian she must, unless her talents were extraordinary, appear to be a male. The salaries of women, to begin with, were high and out of the reach of poor companies of players; and secondly, as I have said in the text, some States, such as the Roman, forbade the appearance of women upon the scene. Women's parts, therefore, would be taken by castrati, or boys, whose s.e.x it was necessary for a woman to a.s.sume. There was another reason which, I fondly believe, induced Belviso to adopt that name and appearance. A woman appearing as such must be morally ruined. I never heard of an exception to the rule. Belviso's real name was Geronima Sastre, and she was a native of the Trentino.--F. A. S.] I looked up at my beloved--now at last my entirely beloved--wife. Bare as she was, her neck bare of covering, her finger of the ring, she was my wife before G.o.d and the angels. I rose and faced her, she met my looks without flinching, in her eyes was no shame. The child lay sleeping in her shawl.

My heart beat high. I lifted up my face to the sky and laughed aloud. "O G.o.d, O G.o.d, Thou hast redeemed me!" I cried. Then to Virginia I said, "This child of thine----"

"It is thine," said Virginia.

My arms embraced both mother and babe, but with a hand I took her by the chin. She turned her face to me, and with her clear eyes searched my face. "It is ours," she said, and blushed.

"And I am yours, my Virginia," I said, and stooped to her. Our lips met and stayed together. We kissed long, drinking the joy of one another.

The Fool would err no more.

CHAPTER XLVIII

THE LAST

HERE BELVISO LIES WHO DIED TO SAVE HIS FRIEND

Under this superscription we consigned to the dust the dust of our dear benefactor; and that reverently done, we settled ourselves in Lucca, where we have remained ever since, where I have written these pages, where I intend to live and die. Of my true marriage with my beloved, expect no raptures in this place, seek no further, ask no more. This is holy ground. In all these years wherein she has been spared to be my well of bliss, my fountain of nourishment, my stem of solace, I declare with my hand on my heart, never for one moment did she cease to be my loving, willing, chaste and discerning wife. We have been poor, for I renounced my inheritance in favour of my next brother, retaining nothing of it, and began the world again where I left it when I was driven from Lucca by misfortunes; and by industry and thrift we have risen to a competence enough to educate our children according to the degree marked out by their birth. I did this deliberately, having found out by hard experience that money was the bondslave of l.u.s.t, and rank the breastplate of inanity. Had I taken my wife to England I must have retained my wretched panoply; but England also I renounced, and that also deliberately. I shall take leave to close my relation with a few words upon my choice of life.

It has been said, with truth and reason, that our vices are but the excrescences of our virtuous essence. If I am justly to be called a Fool then, and my folly a vice, it is because it has ever been a ruling need of my nature to be naked, and to desire to deal nakedly with my neighbours, who, to serve my ends, must themselves be unclad. Let the light scoffer understand me. I speak of the soul, and of spiritual and moral matters. All my good fortune, and I have had much, was due to my ability to indulge that spiritual urgency of mine, and to my having been dealt with as I desired to deal; all my troubles, and they were not few, were bruises inflicted upon my simple soul by others, who opposed their mail-clad might to my tenderness. Not once, but many times, in the course of this narration, I have had occasion to show how the poor, the outcast, the forsaken and the very young entreated me, as one must suppose the Saviour of us all, His Divine Mother, and the guardian angels would entreat each other or us. The proud, the greatly circ.u.mstanced, the rich, the enclosed, the sitters in chief seats, wounded me, shocked, rebuffed, cast me down. But in this land the Genius of the place delights only to dwell in the hearts of the poor. They are the true Tuscan nations, and in spite of governments they remain the salt of the earth and the heirs of all that is good in it. In England it is not so. There the poor are serfs; there feudalism forbids intercourse; there the weak suspect (and rightly) the benevolence of the strong; and the strong can only be benevolent in proportion as they are weak. Consider for a moment what flows from these axiomata; it will result, I think, that Honour, Religion, and Love, the three fortresses of the human soul, will be found deeply involved with them.

Honour, as I understand it, consists in the nice adjustment of what is due to me from my neighbours, and to them from me. Here, among the poor, where a native reserve has not grown, as a fungus upon it, a native cant, where there is no desire to seem better than one is, and no belief that one is so by seeming--here, I say, among the Tuscan poor, there is never any difficulty, for here there is no excrescence to the substantial quality of the soul, but precisely to the contrary, there is, if anything, a denudation. The fault of the Tuscans is, perhaps, a carelessness of opinion, and an ignorance of it, and, springing from that, a lack of reserve which occasionally approaches the shocking. Be this as it may, here it is possible for man to envisage man, each as he really is and can be discerned to be.

In England it is not so. Honour is an artificial, manufactured thing, depending upon accepted, volunteered relationships. What is due from me to my lord differs from that which his lordship owes to me: so in any traffic between me and my valet, or my valet and the kitchen-boy. So also it is with Religion. The Englishman dare not even strip before his G.o.d, but will bear his garter or his worsted-braid, his c.o.c.ked or c.o.c.kaded hat, his sword or his dung-fork up to the very sanctuary rails-- lest, forsooth, by leaving them at home he should either seem so poor as to be without them, or so rich as to be able to discard them. But here, what a difference! Not only is man naked before G.o.d, but G.o.d stands naked before man. The church is their common ground; the church is their inn, and the blessed table their market ordinary. At this board, G.o.d and man, man and the saints, meet as friends. The sweetest intercourse possible on earth is not denied them. They may be gossips, G.o.d and man; they may be lovers, bosom friends. Is this not a hopeful estate for the tried and erring, naturally affectionate soul? I trow that it is.

And as with Honour, as with Religion, so with that child of the pair, so with Love. Boy and maid, man and woman, in this country stand as children hand in hand before their parent, who is G.o.d. Hand in hand, in seemly innocence, naked, without shame, or underthought or afterthought, they stray about the flowery meads. Their hearts are by chance enkindled, each burns, fire seeks the embrace of fire; they touch, they mingle, they soar together. Wedded love, which neither soars nor leaps like a furnace, but glows steadily with equable and radiant heat--wedded love ensues this pa.s.sionate commingling. But the pair remain what they were at first, simple, naked, unashamed, unshameful, with all things displayed, even to the very aspirations of the secret soul, in blessed sympathy, in union blessed and to be blessed.

Such, I say, may be, and indeed is, the case with many honoured, wedded pairs observed by me. Such, I thank G.o.d, has been my own lot, since that day when, after long tribulation, I took Virginia into my arms and held her to my breast. But of that, and of her, I dare write no more. Judge me favourably, reader, for her sake; and so farewell.

LUCCA, October 20, 1741.

[Mr. Strelley lived, I believe, until the spring of 1759, and was buried behind the altar of San Romano. His house, now a hospital, is still intact, and may be visited by the curious, as it was by me.--M. H.]