AN UNEXPECTED MESSENGER LIFTS ME UP
Destitute 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 nobody
questioned his absolute right, and nobody 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 appetite his means whereby to grow rich. In other
walks of life the practice is reversed, and labour is looked upon as the
means, appetite 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 shirt 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 assured 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 assumes 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, slobbered 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 documents--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 assure
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 Hell, 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 fashion." 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.