"No, I will go hence with no request upon my lips but to the King of
kings."
How all this pleasant dalliance would have terminated, had it continued,
we have no means of knowing, for a sudden and unexpected end was put to
it, at any rate for a time.
Easter was over, and the Cavaliere had invited Inglesant to join in a
small party to spend a day or two at his vineyard and country house
among the Apennines, assuring him that at that time of the year the
valleys and hill-slopes were very delightful.
The evening before the day on which the little company was to start,
Inglesant had an engagement at one of the theatres in Florence, where a
comedy or pantomime was being performed. The comedies in Italy at this
time were paltry in character in everything except the music, which was
very good. Inglesant accompanied a Signore Gabriotto, a violin player,
who was engaged at the theatre, and of whom Inglesant had taken lessons,
and with whom he had become intimate. This man was not only an admirable
performer on the violin, but was a man of cultivation and taste. He had
given much study to the music of the ancients, and especially to their
musical instruments, as they are to be seen in the hands of the Apollos,
muses, fauns, satyrs, bacchanals, and shepherds of the classic
sculptors. As they walked through the streets in the evening sunlight,
he favoured his companion, whom he greatly admired as an excellent
listener, with a long discourse on this subject, showing how useful such
an inquiry was, not only to obtain a right notion of the ancient music,
but also to help us to obtain pleasanter instruments if possible than
those at present in use.
"Not, signore," he said, "that I think we have much to learn from the
ancients; for if we are to judge their instruments by the appearance
they make in marble, there is not one that is comparable to our violins;
for they seem, as far as I can make out, all to have been played on
either by the bare fingers or the plectrum, so that they could not add
length to their notes, nor could they vary them by that insensible
swelling and dying away of sound upon the same string which gives so
wonderful a sweetness to our modern music. And as far as I can see,
their stringed instruments must have had very low and feeble voices from
the small proportion of wood used (though it is difficult to judge of
this, seeing that all our examples are represented in marble), which
would prevent the instruments containing sufficient air to render the
strokes full or sonorous. Now my violin," continued the Italian with
enthusiasm, "does not speak only with the strings, it speaks all over,
as though it were a living creature that was all voice, or, as is really
the case, as though it were full of sound."
"You have a wonderful advantage," said Inglesant, "you Italians, that
is, in the cultivation of the art of life; for you have the unbroken
tradition, and habit and tone of mind, from the old world of pleasure
and art--a world that took the pleasures of life boldly, and had no
conscience to prevent its cultivating and enjoying them to the full.
But I must say that you have not, to my mind, improved during the lapse
of centuries, nor is the comedy we shall see to-night what might be
expected of a people who are the descendants of the old Italians who
applauded Terence."
"The comedy to-night," said the Italian, "would be nothing without the
music, the acting is a mere pretence."
"The comedy itself," said Inglesant, "would be intolerable but for the
buffoons, and the people show their sense in demanding that place shall
be found in every piece for these worthies. The play itself is stilted
and unreal, but there is always something of irony and wit in these
characters, which men have found full of satire and humour for four
thousand years: Harlequin the reckless fantastic youth, Pantaleone the
poor old worn-out 'Senex,' and Corviello the rogue. In their absurd
impertinences, in their impossible combinations, in their mistakes and
tumbles, in their falling over queens and running up against monarchs,
men have always seemed to see some careless, light-hearted,
half-indifferent sarcasm and satire upon their own existence."
When they reached the theatre, the slant rays of the setting sun were
shining between the lofty houses, and many people were standing about
the doors. Inglesant accompanied the violinist to the door of the
playhouse, and took his place near the orchestra, at either end of which
were steps leading up on to the stage. The evening sunlight penetrated
into the house through Venetian blinds, lighting up the fittings and the
audience with a sort of mystic haze. The sides of the stage were
crowded with gentlemen, some standing, others sitting on small stools.
Many of the audience were standing, the rest seated on benches. The
part occupied in modern theatres by the boxes was furnished with raised
seats, on which ladies and people of distinction were accommodated.
There was no gallery.
As the first bars of the overture struck upon Inglesant's ear, with a
long-drawn tremor of the bass viols and a shrill plaintive note of the
treble violins, an irresistible sense of loneliness and desolation and a
strange awe crept over him and weighed down his spirits. As the
fantastic music continued, in which gaiety and sadness were mysteriously
mingled, the reverberation seemed to excite each moment a clearer
perception of those paths of intrigue and of danger in which he seemed
to walk. The uneasy sentiment which accompanied, he knew not why, his
attachment to Lauretta, and the insidious friendship of the Cavaliere,
the sense of insecurity which followed his footsteps in this land of
dark and sinful deeds, passed before his mind. It seemed to his excited
fancy at that moment that the end was drawing very near, and amid the
fascination of the lovely music he seemed to await the note of the
huntsman's horn which would announce that the toils were set, and that
the chase was up. From the kind of trance in which he stood he was
aroused by hearing a voice, distinct to his ear and perfectly audible,
though apparently at some considerable distance, say--
"Who is that man by the curtain, in black satin, with the Point de
Venice lace?"
And another voice, equally clear, answered, "His name is Inglesant, an
agent of the Society of the Gesu."
Inglesant turned; but, amid the crowd of faces behind him, he could
discern nothing that indicated the speakers, nor did any one else seem
to have noticed anything unusual. The next moment the music ceased, and
with a scream of laughter Harlequin bounded on the stage, followed by
Pantaleone in an eager and tottering step, and after them a wild rout of
figures, of all orders and classes, who flitted across the stage amid
the applause of the people, and suddenly disappeared; while Harlequin
and Pantaleone as suddenly reappearing, began a lively dialogue,
accompanied by a quick movement of the violins. As Inglesant took his
eyes off the stage for a moment, they fell on the figure of a man
standing on the flight of steps at the farther end of the orchestra, who
regarded him with a fixed and scrutinizing gaze. It was a tall and dark
man, whose expression would have been concealed from Inglesant but for
the fiery brilliancy of his eyes. Inglesant's glance met his as in a
dream, and remained fixed as though fascinated, at which the gaze of the
other became, if possible, more intense, as though he too were
spell-bound and unable to turn away. At this moment the dialogue on the
stage ceased, and a girl advanced to the footlights with a song,
accompanied by the band in an air adapted from the overture, and
containing a repetition of the opening bars. The association of sound
broke the spell, and Inglesant turned his eyes upon the singer; when he
looked again his strange examiner was gone.
The girl who was singing was a Roman, reputed the best treble singer
then in Italy. The sun by this time was set, and the short twilight
over. The theatre was sparsely lighted by candles, nearly the whole of
the available light being concentrated upon the stage. This arrangement
produced striking effects of light and shade, more pleasing than are the
brilliantly lighted theatres of modern days. The figures on the stage
came forward into full and clear view, and faded again into obscurity in
a mysterious way very favourable to romantic illusion, and the
theatrical arrangements were not seen too clearly. The house itself was
shadowy, and the audience unreal and unsubstantial; the whole scene wore
an aspect of glamour and romance wanting at the present day.
When the girl's song was over there was a movement among the gentlemen
on the stage, several coming down into the house. Inglesant took
advantage of this, and went up on the stage, from which he might hope to
see something of the stranger who had been watching him so closely, if
he were still in the theatre.
Several of the actors who were waiting for their turn mingled with the
gentlemen, talking to their acquaintance. The strange light thrown on
the centre of the stage in which two or three figures were standing, the
multitude of dark forms in the surrounding shadow, the dim recesses of
the theatre itself full of figures, the exquisite music, now soft and
plaintive, anon gay and dance-like, then solemn and melancholy, formed a
singular and attractive whole. Lauretta had declined to come that
night, but Inglesant thought it was not improbable that the Cavaliere
would be there, and he was curious to see whether he could detect him in
company with the mysterious stranger. From the moment that he had heard
the distant voice inquiring his name, the familiar idea had again
occurred to his mind that this could be none other than the murderer of
his brother, of whom he was in search; but this thought had occurred so
often, and in connection with so many persons, that had it not been for
the fixed and peculiar glance with which the stranger had regarded him,
he would have thought little of it. He was, however, unable to
distinguish either of the persons of whom he was in search from the
crowd that filled the theatre; and his attention was so much diverted by
the constantly changing scene before him that he soon ceased to attempt
to do so. At that moment the opening movement of the overture was again
repeated by the band, and was made the theme of an elaborate variation,
in which the melancholy idea of the music was rendered in every variety
of shade by the plaintive violins. Every phase of sorrow, every form and
semblance of grief that Inglesant had ever known, seemed to float
through his mind, in sympathy with the sounds which, inarticulate to the
ear, possessed a power stronger than that of language to the mental
sense. The anticipation of coming evil naturally connected itself with
the person of Lauretta, and he seemed to see her lying dead before him
upon the lighted stage, or standing in an attitude of grief, looking at
him with wistful eyes. This last image was so strongly presented to his
imagination that it partook almost of the character of an apparition;
and before it the crowded theatre, the gaily dressed forms upon the
stage, the fantastic actors, seemed to fade, and alone on the deserted
boards the figure of Lauretta, as he had last seen it, slight and
girl-like, yet of noble bearing, stood gazing at him with wild and
apprehensive eyes. Curiously too, as his fancy dwelt upon this figure,
it saw in her hand a sealed letter fastened with a peculiarly twisted
cord.
The burden of sorrow and of anticipated evil became at last too heavy to
be borne, and Inglesant left the theatre and returned to his lodgings.
But here he could not rest. Though he had no reason to visit the Count
that night, and though it was scarcely seemly, indeed, that he should do
so, yet, impelled by a restless discomfort which he sought to quiet, he
wandered again into the streets, and found himself not unnaturally
before the old nobleman's dwelling. Once here, the impulse was too
strong to be denied, and he knocked at the low sunken door. The house
seemed strangely quiet and deserted, and it was some time before an old
servant who belonged to the lower part of the establishment, devoted to
the sale of the wine, appeared at the wicket, and, on being assured whom
it was who knocked at that unseasonable hour, opened the door.
The house was empty, he averred. The family had suddenly departed,
whither he knew not. If the signore was pleased to go upstairs, he
believed he would find some letters for him left by the Cavaliere.
Inglesant followed the old man, who carried a common brass lamp, which
cast an uncertain and flickering glare, the sense of evil growing
stronger at every step he took. His guide led him into the room in
which he had first seen Lauretta, which appeared bare and deserted, but
showed no sign of hasty departure. Upon a marble table inlaid with
coloured stones were two letters, both directed to Inglesant. The one
was from the Cavaliere, excusing their departure on the ground of sudden
business of the highest political importance, the other from Lauretta,
written in a hasty trembling hand. It contained but a few lines--"that
she was obliged to follow her father;" but Inglesant hesitated a moment
before he broke the seal, for it was tied round with a curiously twisted
cord of blue and yellow silk, as he had seen in the vision his fancy had
created.
*CHAPTER II.*
Lauretta's letter had informed Inglesant that she would endeavour to let
him know where she was; and with that hope he was obliged to be content,
as by no effort he could make could he discover any trace of the
fugitive's route. Florence, however, became distasteful to him, and he
would have left it sooner but for an attack of fever which prostrated
him for some time. Few foreigners were long in Italy, in those days,
without suffering from the climate and the miasmas and unhealthy
vapours, which, especially at night, were so hurtful even to those
accustomed to the country. In his illness Inglesant was carefully
nursed by some of the Jesuit fathers, and those whom they recommended;
and it is possible that they took care that he should not be left too
much to the care of the physicians, whose attentions, at that period at
any rate, were so often fatal to their patients. In the course of a few
weeks he was sufficiently recovered to think of leaving Florence, and he
despatched a messenger to Don Agostino, begging him to meet him at
Lucca, where they might decide either to visit Venice or go on straight
to Rome. It was not without some lingering hope that he might find
Lauretta in the town of her birth, that he set out for Lucca, but
misfortune followed his path. It was reported that the plague had
broken out in Florence, and travellers who were known to have come from
thence were regarded with great suspicion. Inglesant's appearance,
recently recovered from sickness, was not in his favour; and at
Fucecchio, a small town on the road to Lucca, he was arrested by the
authorities, and confined by them in the pest-house for forty days. It
was a building which had formerly been a gentleman's house, and
possessed a small garden surrounded by a high wall. In this dreary
abode Inglesant passed many solitary days, the other inmates being three
or four unfortunates like himself,--travellers on business through the
country,--who, their affairs being injured by their detention, were
melancholy and despondent. He was short of money, and for some time was
unable to communicate with any of his friends either in Florence or
Sienna. With nothing but his own misfortunes to brood upon, and with
the apprehension of the future, which almost amounted to religious
melancholy, frequently before his mind, it is surprising that he kept
his reason. To add to his misfortunes, when the greater portion of the
time fixed for his detention was expired, one of the inmates of the
pest-house suddenly died; and although the physicians pronounced his
disease not to be the plague, yet the authorities decreed that all
should remain another forty days within its dreary walls. The death of
this person greatly affected Inglesant, as he was the only one of the
inmates with whom he had contracted any intimacy.
During the first part of his sojourn here, there was brought to the
house, as an inmate, a wandering minstrel, who, the first evening of his
stay, attracted the whole of the gloomy society around him by his
playing. He played upon a small and curiously shaped instrument called
a vielle, somewhat like a child's toy, with four strings, and a kind of
small wheel instead of a bow. It was commonly used by blind men and
beggars in the streets, and was considered a contemptible instrument,
though some of these itinerant performers attained to such skill upon it
that they could make their hearers laugh and dance, and it was said even
weep, as they stood around them in the crowded streets. Inglesant soon
perceived that the man was no contemptible musician, and after his
performance was over he entered into conversation with him, asking him
why he, who could play so well, was content with so poor an instrument.
The man, who appeared to have a great deal of intelligence and humour,
said that he was addicted to a wandering and unsettled life, among the
poorer and disorderly classes in the low quarters of cities, in mountain
villages, and in remote hostelries and forest inns; that the possession
of a valuable viol, or other instrument, even if he should practice
sufficient self-denial to enable him to save money to purchase such a
one, would be a constant anxiety to him, and a source of danger among
the wild companions with whom he often associated. "Besides, signore,"
he said, "I am attached to this poor little friend of mine, who will
speak to me though to none else. I have learnt the secrets of its
heart, and by what means it may be made to discourse eloquently of human
life. You may despise my instrument, but I can assure you it is far
superior to the guitar, though that is so high bred and genteel a
gentleman, found in all romances and ladies' bowers. For any music that
depends upon the touch of a string, and is limited in the duration of
the distinct sounds, is far inferior to this little fellow's voice."
"You seemed trained to the profession of music," said Inglesant.
"I was serving-lad to an old musician in Rome, who not only played on
several instruments, but gave a great deal of time to the study of the
science of harmony, and of the mysteries of music. He was fond of me,
and taught me the viol, as I was apt to learn."
"I have heard of musicians," said Inglesant, "who have written on the
philosophy of sound. He was doubtless one of them."
"There are things concerning musical instruments," said the man, "very
wonderful; such as the laws concerning the octaves of flutes, which,
make them how you will, you can never alter, and which show how the
principles of harmony prevail in the dead things of the world, which we
think so blockish and stupid; and what is more wonderful still, the
passions of men's souls, which are so wild and untamable, are all ruled
and kept in a strict measure and mean, for they are all concerned in and
wrought upon by music. And what can be more wonderful than that a
maestro in the art can take delight in sound, though he does not hear
it; and when he looks at some black marks upon paper, he hears
intellectually, and by the power of the soul alone?"
"You speak so well of these things," said Inglesant, "that I wonder you
are content to wander about the world at village fairs and country
weddings, and do not rather establish yourself in some great town, where
you might follow your genius and earn a competence and fame."
"I have already told you," replied the man, "that I am wedded to this
kind of life; and if you could accompany me for some months, with your
viol d'amore, across the mountains, and through the deep valleys, and
into the old towns where no travellers ever come, and where all stands
still from century to century, you would never leave it, any more than I
shall. I could tell you of many strange sights I have witnessed, and if
we stay long in this place, perhaps you will be glad to hear some tales
to while away the time."
"You spoke but now," said Inglesant, "of the power that music has over
the passions of men. I should like to hear somewhat more of this."
"I will tell you a curious tale of that also," said the man.