GERARD walked silently beside Teresa, wondering in his own mind, after
the manner of artists, what she was going to do with him; instead of
asking her. So at last she told him of her own accord. A friend had
informed her of a working goldsmith's wife who wanted a writer. "Her
shop is hard by; you will not have far to go."
Accordingly they soon arrived at the goldsmith's wife.
"Madama," said Teresa, "Leonora tells me you want a writer: I have
brought you a beautiful one, he saved my child at sea. Prithee look on
him with favour."
The goldsmith's wife complied in one sense. She fixed her eyes on
Gerard's comely face, and could hardly take them off again. But her
reply was unsatisfactory. "Nay, I have no use for a writer. Ah! I mind
now, it is my gossip, Clælia, the sausage-maker, wants one; she told me,
and I told Leonora."
Teresa made a courteous speech and withdrew.
Clælia lived at some distance, and when they reached her house she was
out. Teresa said calmly, "I will await her return," and sat so still,
and dignified, and statuesque, that Gerard was beginning furtively to
draw her, when Clælia returned.
"Madama, I hear from the goldsmith's wife, the excellent Olympia, that
you need a writer" (here she took Gerard by the hand and led him
forward); "I have brought you a beautiful one, he saved my child from
the cruel waves. For our Lady's sake look with favour on him."
"My good dame, my fair Ser," said Clælia, "I have no use for a writer;
but now you remind me, it was my friend Appia Claudia asked me for one
but the other day. She is a tailor, lives in the Via Lepida."
Teresa retired calmly.
"Madama," said Gerard, "this is likely to be a tedious business for
you."
Teresa opened her eyes.
"What was ever done without a little patience?" She added mildly, "We
will knock at every door at Rome but you shall have justice."
"But madama, I think we are dogged. I noticed a man that follows us,
sometimes afar, sometimes close."
"I have seen it," said Teresa, coldly: but her cheek coloured faintly.
"It is my poor Lodovico."
She stopped and turned, and beckoned with her finger.
A figure approached them somewhat unwillingly.
When he came up, she gazed him full in the face, and he looked sheepish.
"Lodovico mio," said she, "know this young Ser, of whom I have so often
spoken to thee. Know him and love him, for he it was who saved thy wife
and child."
At these last words Lodovico, who had been bowing and grinning
artificially, suddenly changed to an expression of heartfelt gratitude,
and embraced Gerard warmly.
Yet somehow there was something in the man's original manner, and his
having followed his wife by stealth, that made Gerard uncomfortable
under this caress. However he said, "We shall have your company, Ser
Lodovico?"
"No, signor," replied Lodovico, "I go not on that side Tiber."
"Addio, then," said Teresa, significantly.
"When shall you return home, Teresa mia?"
"When I have done mine errand, Lodovico."
They pursued their way in silence. Teresa now wore a sad and almost
gloomy air.
To be brief, Appia Claudia was merciful, and did not send them over
Tiber again, but only a hundred yards down the street to Lucretia, who
kept the glove shop; she it was wanted a writer: but what for Appia
Claudia could not conceive. Lucretia was a merry little dame, who
received them heartily enough, and told them she wanted no writer, kept
all her accounts in her head. "It was for my confessor, Father Colonna;
he is mad after them."
"I have heard of his excellency," said Teresa.
"Who has not?"
"But, good dame, he is a friar; he has made vow of poverty. I cannot let
the young man write and not be paid. He saved my child at sea."
"Did he now?" And Lucretia cast an approving look on Gerard. "Well, make
your mind easy; a Colonna never wants for money. The good father has
only to say the word, and the princes of his race will pour a thousand
crowns into his lap. And such a confessor, dame! the best in Rome. His
head is leagues and leagues away all the while; he never heeds what you
are saying. Why I think no more of confessing my sins to him than of
telling them to that wall. Once, to try him, I confessed, along with the
rest, as how I had killed my lodger's little girl and baked her in a
pie. Well, when my voice left off confessing, he started out of his
dream, and says he, a mustering up a gloom, 'My erring sister, say three
paternosters and three ave Marias kneeling, and eat no butter nor eggs
next Wednesday, and pax vobiscum!' and off a went with his hands behind
him, looking as if there was no such thing as me in the world."
Teresa waited patiently, then calmly brought this discursive lady back
to the point: "Would she be so kind as go with this good youth to the
friar and speak for him?"
"Alack! how can I leave my shop? And what need? His door is aye open to
writers, and painters, and scholars, and all such cattle. Why, one day
he would not receive the Duke d'Urbino, because a learned Greek was
closeted with him, and the friar's head and his so close together over a
dusty parchment just come in from Greece, as you could put one cowl over
the pair. His wench Onesta told me. She mostly looks in here for a chat
when she goes an errand."
"This is the man for thee, my friend," said Teresa.
"All you have to do," continued Lucretia, "is to go to his lodgings (my
boy shall show them you), and tell Onesta you come from me, and you are
a writer, and she will take you up to him. If you put a piece of silver
in the wench's hand, 'twill do you no harm: that stands to reason."
"I have silver," said Teresa, warmly.
"But stay," said Lucretia, "mind one thing. What the young man saieth he
can do, that he must be able to do, or let him shun the good friar like
poison. He is a very wild beast against all bunglers. Why, 'twas but
t'other day, one brought him an ill-carved crucifix. Says he: 'Is this
how you present 'Salvator Mundi?' who died for you in mortal agony; and
you go and grudge him careful work. This slovenly gimcrack, a crucifix?
But that it is a crucifix of some sort, and I am a holy man, I'd dust
your jacket with your crucifix,' says he. Onesta heard every word
through the keyhole; so mind."
"Have no fears, madama," said Teresa, loftily. "I will answer for his
ability; he saved my child."
Gerard was not subtle enough to appreciate this conclusion: and was so
far from sharing Teresa's confidence that he begged a respite. He would
rather not go to the friar to-day: would not to-morrow do as well?
"Here is a coward for ye," said Lucretia.
"No, he is not a coward," said Teresa, firing up. "He is modest."
"I am afraid of this high-born, fastidious friar," said Gerard.
"Consider, he has seen the handywork of all the writers in Italy, dear
dame Teresa; if you would but let me prepare a better piece of work than
yet I have done, and then to-morrow I will face him with it."
"I consent," said Teresa.
They walked home together.
Not far from his own lodging was a shop that sold vellum. There was a
beautiful white skin in the window. Gerard looked at it wistfully; but
he knew he could not pay for it; so he went on rather hastily. However,
he soon made up his mind where to get vellum: and, parting with Teresa
at his own door, ran hastily up stairs, and took the bond he had brought
all the way from Sevenbergen, and laid it with a sigh on the table. He
then prepared with his chemicals to erase the old writing; but, as this
was his last chance of reading it, he now overcame his deadly repugnance
to bad writing, and proceeded to decipher the deed in spite of its
detestable contractions. It appeared by this deed that Ghysbrecht Van
Swieten was to advance some money to Floris Brandt on a piece of land,
and was to repay himself out of the rent.
On this Gerard felt it would be imprudent and improper to destroy the
deed. On the contrary he vowed to decipher every word, at his leisure.
He went down stairs, determined to buy a small piece of vellum with his
half of the card money.
At the bottom of the stairs he found the landlady and Teresa talking. At
sight of him the former cried: "Here he is. You are caught, donna mia.
See what she has bought you!" And whipped out from under her apron the
very skin of vellum Gerard had longed for.
"Why, dame! why, donna Teresa!" And he was speechless, with pleasure and
astonishment.
"Dear donna Teresa, there is not a skin in all Rome like it. How ever
came you to hit on this one? 'Tis glamour."
"Alas, dear boy, did not thine eye rest on it with desire? and didst
thou not sigh in turning away from it? And was it for Teresa to let thee
want the thing after that?"
"What sagacity! what goodness, madama! Oh, dame, I never thought I
should possess this. What did you pay for it?"
"I forget. Addio, Fiammina. Addio, Ser Gerard. Be happy, be prosperous,
as you are good." And the Roman matron glided away, while Gerard was
hesitating, and thinking how to offer to pay so stately a creature for
her purchase.
* * * * *
The next day in the afternoon he went to Lucretia, and her boy took him
to Fra Colonna's lodgings. He announced his business and feed Onesta,
and she took him up to the friar. Gerard entered with a beating heart.
The room, a large one, was strewed and heaped with objects of art,
antiquity, and learning, lying about in rich profusion, and confusion.
Manuscripts, pictures, carvings in wood and ivory, musical instruments;
and in this glorious chaos sat the friar, poring intently over an
Arabian manuscript.
He looked up a little peevishly at the interruption. Onesta whispered in
his ear.
"Very well," said he. "Let him be seated. Stay; young man, show me how
you write!" And he threw Gerard a piece of paper, and pointed to an
inkhorn.
"So please you, reverend father," said Gerard, "my hand, it trembleth
too much at this moment; but last night I wrote a vellum page of Greek,
and the Latin version by its side, to show the various character."
"Show it me!"
Gerard brought the work to him in fear and trembling; then stood,
heart-sick, awaiting his verdict.
When it came it staggered him. For the verdict was, a Dominican falling
on his neck.