When a beast of chase--hart-royal, bear, or wolf--has been bayed and
broken up, the least worthy parts are thrown to the curs which always
come in at the heels of the pack. So it is with a kingly seat: the best
of the meats, after the great officers of the household have feasted, go
to the dependants of these; the peelings and guttings, the scum and
scour of the broth, are flung farther, to the parasites of the
parasites, the ticks on ticks' backs. Round about the Castle of Verona,
where Can Grande II. misused the justice which his forefathers had set
up, lay the houses of his courtiers; beyond them the lodgings of the
grooms; beyond them again, down to the river's brink, were the stews and
cabins and unholy dens, whose office was to be lower than the lowest,
that there might still be degrees for the gentlemen of gentlemen's
gentlemen. And since even cockroaches must drink, in this fungus-bed of
misery there flourished a rather infamous tavern by the sale of _vino
nostrano_, black and sour, of certain sausages, black also and nameless,
speckled with white lumps, and of other wares whom to name were to
expose. This was the tavern of the Golden Fish.
On the evening of the day of the Translation of the Peach-stone, this
tavern was full to suffocation. Stefano, the purple-faced host, in shirt
and breeches, stood dealing the liquor from a tub. Two outlaws lay under
the benches, partly for fear of a visit from the watch, partly because,
having already fallen there once, they feared to fall there again if
they rose. In one hand each held his knife, in the other his empty mug.
Two ladies, intimates of theirs, Robaccia and Crucciacorda, sat
immediately above them, with petticoats ready to make ambush the moment
a staff should rattle at the door; round the table half a dozen shabby
rogues bickered over their cards; Picagente, the hairy brigand, lay
snoring across the threshold, and his dog on him; on a barrel in a
corner a gigantic shepherd in leather, with bandaged legs and a patch
over one eye, shut the other eye while he roared a hymn to Bacchus at
the top stretch of his lungs. The oil-lamp flickered, flared, and
gloomed, half drowned in the fumes of wine. A smell of wicked bodies,
foul clothes, drink, and bad language made the air well-nigh solid. The
hour was at the stroke of ten; outside the streets seemed asleep.
In the middle of the uproar Stefano the host looked up sharply,
listening.
"Stop your devil's ferment, Malabocca!" he thundered at the shepherd;
"stop it, or I'll split your crown."
"Bacco trionfante,
Amante e spumante,
Evviva l'ubbriacchezza!"
roared Malabocca, screwing up his eye.
Stefano brought down a mug full of wine upon his pate, which gave him a
red baptism.
"Mum, you blockhead, mum!" said his host "There is a stir outside the
door I tell you!"
The shepherd grew sober in a moment.
There was a brief scramble in the room--then silence. The ladies'
petticoats went farther than they were ever intended to go; Picagente
rolled over and over till he reached cover under the table; the cards
were hidden, all the players' heads buried in their elbows. Stefano blew
out the light. Then they heard distinctly a fluttering knock at the
door, timid but continuous.