The Fool Errant Part 24

Dest.i.tute as we were of anything but the sinews of our backs and arms, we were forced, if we would live, to work our way to Arezzo; and it often fell out that the piece-work we engaged to do kept us long in one place. Near Sinalunga, in particular, in a green pastoral country, we hired ourselves out to a peasant to hoe his vines, and were busy there for nearly three weeks. I cannot say that I was discontented; indeed, I have always found that the harder my labour is and the straiter my lot, the less room I have for discontent. With this peasant, his family, his pigs, hens and goats, Belviso and I lived, in a hovel which, had it not been roofed over, might have been a cote or a pigsty. The man's name was Masuccio, his wife's Gioconda; between them they had a brood of nine children--a grown daughter of fourteen, three stout lads, four brats, and a child not breeched; and in addition to all these, and to Belviso and myself, to a sow in farrow, four goats, and hens innumerable, the good man's father was posed as veritable master of the whole--an old man afflicted with palsy, who did nothing but shake and suck at his pipe, but who, nevertheless, had, by virtue of his years and situation, the only semblance of a bed, the first of everything, and the best and the most of that. The rest of us, higgledy-piggledy, lay by night on the mud-floor, with a little pease-straw for litter, and scrambled all together for the remnants of the old tyrant's food. Yet n.o.body questioned his absolute right, and n.o.body seemed unhappy, nor looked out at any prospect but unremitting, barely remunerative labour from year's end to year's end. This is, I am now convinced, the true philosophy of life--that labour is a man's only riches, and food, shelter, rest, and the satisfaction of appet.i.te his means whereby to grow rich. In other walks of life the practice is reversed, and labour is looked upon as the means, appet.i.te and comfort as the end. Inconceivable folly! since labour alone brings health, and health content. But I must relate how I was cozened out of my own healthy contentment.

One day, when I was afield in the vines not far from the high road which ran from Sinalunga to still distant Arezzo, as I was resting on my hoe in the furrow, I saw a man come by walking a pretty good horse. He was an elderly, bearded man, very portly, and wore the brown garb of the Capuchins, which I certainly had no reason to love. His bald head, gleaming in the sun, was of the steep and flat-topped shape of our English quartern-loaves; and it came upon me with a shock that here was that Fra Palamone, whom I had last seen extended, shot by my hand, in the Piazza Santa Maria at Florence. This alarming discovery was verified by his nearer approach. I recognised his twinkling, tireless eyes, his one long tooth, like a tusk, and even the scar on his right brow. It was Fra Palamone in the flesh--and in great and prosperous flesh.

Although this apparition made me vaguely uneasy, I was relieved to find that I had not his death upon my conscience. On the other hand, I felt no yearning of the bowels towards him, and did not propose to go one inch over the newly turned clods to bid him good-day. Supported by my hoe, chin on hands, I watched him, tolerably sure that he would never mark me down. I was as brown as the earth in which I delved, scarce distinguishable from it. I had on my head an old felt hat of no shape at all; I had a cotton s.h.i.+rt open to the navel, and a pair of blue cotton drawers which failed me at the knees. I was bleached and tanned again, stained and polished by the constant rub of weather and hard work--a perfect contrast to my last appearance before him. Then it had been my heart that was rent, not my garments; then my spirit was fretted and seamed, not my skin. Then I had had a fine cloth coat and lace ruffles; but my soul was soiled and my honour in tatters. The hand which shot him down had been covered in a scented glove; but pride had flaunted it upon me, naked and unashamed. The contrast a.s.sured me, while it gave me confidence enough to watch my wily enemy.

He saw me, however--he saw me and reined up his horse. He beckoned me towards him in the way of free command which a mounted man a.s.sumes with peasants. As it would have been more singular to stand than to obey, I went slowly over the furrows and saluted him, responding to his bluff "Buon di" with a "Servo suo." The shadow of my hat was now my only hope; but I felt his sharp eyes burn their way through that, and now I am sure that he recognised me at the first moment. He pretended, however, that he had not, saving up, as I suppose, his acclamations to be the climax of the little drama he had schemed. Addressing me as his "honest lad,"

he asked his way to Fojano, with particulars of fords, bridle-tracks and such like. This was a game of which I, at least, was soon weary; I never could play pretences. I said, "I have told you what you want to know, Fra Palamone. It is three good leagues to Fojano. I hope you are sufficiently recovered of your wound to attempt it." At the same time I pushed up the brim of my hat, and looked him in the face.

He maintained his silly comedy for a little while longer, the old knave, staring at me as if I had been a ghost, muttering names, as if to recall mine. Then with a glad shout of, "It is, it is my Francis of old!" he threw up his arms to Heaven and broke into doggerel--

"'Si, benedetta tu, O Maria, Madre di Gesu, Regina Coeli intemerata, Atque hominum Advocata!

"O what perils by land and sea," he continued, "what racking of entrails!

What contumely, what anguish of hunger and thirst, have I not undergone for this--for this--for this! Now I can say, Domine, nunc dimittis, with a full heart. Now, indeed, is the crown of lilies set upon the life-work of wayworn, sad-browed Palamone!"

Sad-browed Palamone! He threw a leg over his horse's ears, and slid to the ground with a thud which made earth shake. He stretched out his arms to beckon me home; and when I would not budge, he scrambled through the briery hedge and took me, whether I would or no, into his strenuous embrace. He wept over me as a long-lost child of his, s...o...b..red me, patted my head, back, breast. He held me at arm's-length to look at me better, hugged me again as if at last he was sure. "This is verily and indeed," he cried, "my friend and companion for many years, ardently loved, ardently served, lost for a season, searched for with blood- shedding, and found with tears of thankfulness. O dearest brother, let us kneel down and thank the Giver of all good, the only True Fount, for this last and most signal instance of His provident bounty!" He did kneel, and had the hardihood to drag me with him; I believe he would have prayed over me like a bishop at a confirmation--but this blasphemous farce was too much for me. I jumped up and away in a rage.

"Fra Palamone," I said, "I don't know whither this pretence of yours is designed to lead you, but I know well whither it will lead myself-- namely, with this hoe of mine, to complete the work which I bungled in Florence. And to the achievement of that I shall instantly proceed, unless you get up from your polluted knees and tell me your real and present business with me here."

He got up at once--one of those lightning alterations of his from the discursive to the precise.

"Va bene," says he, "you shall be satisfied in a moment." He fumbled for his pocket-book, and from that selected three papers, which he handed to me in silence and in due order. They were:

1. A power of attorney to Fra Palamone by name from Sir John Macartney, his Britannic Majesty's representative at the Grand Ducal Court, authorising him to use all diligence and spare no expense in finding Francis-Antony Strelley of Upcote Esquire, wherever he might be in Italy; and with further authority to secure honour for his drafts upon the banking-house of Peruzzi in Florence to the extent of five hundred pounds sterling.

2. A letter to the said Sir John Macartney from Mr. Simcoe of Gray's Inn Square, announcing the death of my father, Antony Strelley Esquire.

3. A letter addressed to me by my honoured, dear and now widowed mother.

Over these doc.u.ments--especially the last two of them--and my mournful reflections upon them, I draw that veil, which no one who has been a bad but repentant son to a saintly parent, will ever ask me to lift up.

My first desire was to be rid of Palamone, my next to think. I turned shortly on the frate.

"I am obliged to you for your diligence in my affairs," I said to him, "though I don't understand how you procured the means of using it.

However, as you seem willing to serve me, you will have the goodness to ride on to Sinalunga and buy me three horses, two suits of clothes, with riding-boots and cloaks for each; body linen sufficient for two persons, valises and whatever else may be necessary--all being duplicates, remember. The whole of these necessaries you will bring back to that house which you see in the valley, together with a proper supply of ready money, within three hours of this. Now be off."

It was his turn to salute me now, and for him to say, "Servo suo."

I found Belviso helping Filippa, the daughter of the house, to milk the goats, and when he had done, drew him apart and told him my news. He received it gravely, without surprise. "Don Francis," he said, "what do you expect of me, except 'Of course!' It did not need much penetration on my part to see that you were a signorino. The whole of our company knew it. As far as I am concerned, it only makes your goodness to me the more inexplicable, while it perfectly explains my willingness to serve you; and since you have added condescension to charity I am the more sincerely grateful. As you will now wish to be rid of me, I can a.s.sure you that I am strong enough to stand alone. I believe that I shall make my way in the world by honest courses in the future; but I shall never cease to bless your name."

"Belviso," I said, "as to leaving me, that is your affair, for I tell you that the separation will never spring from me. We have been brothers in misery, and may be no less so in good fortune. At any rate, I shall not leave you to this life of a beast. Come with me to Arezzo, and after that to Florence. Then we will talk of all our businesses, and hear what Virginia has to say."

He looked serious. "Ah," he said, "I know beforehand what your Virginia will say. She will say as I do. I will follow you to the gates of Heaven or h.e.l.l, Don Francis, but only in one capacity!"

I said, "There is only one possible capacity."

"I know that very well," replied the boy. "We agree to that point, but differ beyond it."

"What do you mean?" I asked him, puzzled.

He was very serious, and said, "Don Francis, if I go with you from this place, I go as your servant, and in no other fas.h.i.+on." To that I said, "Never," and invoked the aid of Heaven. Shrugging, he turned away, saying, "As you will. Then it is farewell, padrone."

"You will make me angry," I said; and he answered, "It is your right."

"My right, is it?" said I. "If so, then, I command you."

"What!" he exclaimed. "You command me to be your brother? Dear sir!"

At this I became angry in good earnest, and showed it very plainly. He was extremely patient under it, but equally firm. He said, "Don Francis, your generosity has gone near to be your ruin, because, though it would be good logic in Heaven, we are not there yet. You say that you and I are equal. I say that we are nothing of the sort; and the proof would be that if we started level from this door, and as we stand, in six months'

time you would remain a gentleman, and I the son of a shoemaker of Cadorre. A gentleman you are, because you were born so. If you took me up to your right hand, whether in this hovel or in the palace which is yours by reason, still you would be the gentleman and I the cobbler's son. And though I might prosper in business and become rich, and finding you in want, might take you up to my right hand, call you my brother, make you my heir--still you would be the gentleman condescending, and I the cobbler's son making myself ridiculous. Your misfortunes--every one of them--have arisen from the fact that you persist in treating your inferiors as your equals. I should be sorry to tell you--it would be a great impertinence--how far back into your career in Italy I can trace this foible of yours."

He was no doubt in the right. A little more generosity on my part would have told him so. I said that I could not convince him, and that I should leave Virginia to do that.

"Oh, sir, it is she that has convinced me already," says he.

The return of Fra Palamone with the gear put an end to our talk. I said, "Come with me, Belviso, as you will--but come"; and his reply was, "Servo suo."

I left the honest family at Sinalunga calling blessings on my name, and rode forward on a good horse to Arezzo. By my orders Fra Palamone kept behind me. By his own determination, Belviso held him company, and led the sumpter-horse.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX

VIRGINIA DECLINES THE HEIGHTS

I took up my lodgings at the Bear, in Arezzo, and made all such preparations to receive my wife as were becoming. I engaged a woman to wait upon her, had a withdrawing-room--as the French say, a boudoir-- fitted up, and caused her bedchamber to be hung with the best curtain and wall furniture the place could afford, I then proceeded to dine, but told the landlord that he must be prepared at any moment to place a fresh cover on the table, with a bottle of his most excellent wine. To Belviso, who persisted in playing valet, and who told me that he had been in Arezzo before more than once, I entrusted the privilege--though I grudged it him--of seeking far and wide through the town for Virginia's lodging. I said, "Brother, you failed me once, in spite of yourself, when you tried so bravely to find my wife. Don't fail me this time, I beseech you."

He looked troubled; he fingered the tablecloth before he spoke. I encouraged him to open me his mind. "Well, Don Francis," said he, most uncomfortably, "the task you put upon me then was very easy but for the one little circ.u.mstance that Virginia was not there. But this present is of enormous difficulty."

"Why so, my dear?" I asked him.

"For the one little circ.u.mstance that Virginia IS here," said he; and then, seeing my bewilderment, he added, "You don't know the Tuscans of her cla.s.s as well as I do, that's certain. You know them as children, as warm-hearted, pa.s.sionate simpletons; but you have yet to learn how tender they are of their reputation, and how quick to feel a touch. I have never seen your Virginia, but I'll warrant her as proud as fire. I believe that she would rather die than occupy that damask-hung bed, even with your honour for mate. And supposing she consented to that, do you not guess what would be the first thing she would do? It would be to scratch the eyes out of that Donna di Camera you have given her. And she would do that, mind you, in self-defence, for the Donna di Camera (who is probably a little above her in degree) would certainly do the same for Virginia."

I own to having been somewhat put about. "My dear Belviso," I said, "Virginia is liable to impulse, it may be admitted; but she is never likely to forget what wifely duty involves. I was not a cruel husband to her, and left her through no fault of my own. I will answer for her that she will be a good wife."

"A good wife--for Francesco the carpenter," said Belviso. "Yes, it may be so, though I own that her marriage puzzles me. But wife to Don Francesco--n.o.bile Inglese--never in the world!"

I said, "Belviso, I never asked you to be my servant, as you very well know. The proposal came from you against my will. But if my servant you are, I will make free to remind you that I have given you an order, and shall be obliged if you will set about performing it." The good lad dropped on one knee, took my hand and kissed it, and turned to obey me without a word. Ashamed of myself, I patted him on the shoulder in token of forgiveness, and saw the tears spring into his eyes. Before he could reach the door, Fra Palamone had filled up the entry, panting, holding out a note.

"For the Excellency of Don Francesco," says he, "just delivered at the door by a young female." I took it from him; it was in the hand of Virginia, the hand I myself had guided, the good and docile hand which had formed itself on mine.

I read--O Heaven, can I say so? The words, like knives at work, cut themselves deep into the fibres of my heart.

Virginia wrote: