"Some twenty-five years ago there lived in Rome two friends, who were
both musicians, and greatly attached to each other. The elder, whose
name was Giacomo Andria, was maestro di capella of one of the churches,
the other was an accomplished lutinist and singer. The elder was a
cavaliere and a man of rank; the younger of respectable parentage, of
the name of Vanneo. The style of music in which each was engaged was
sufficiently different to allow of much friendly contention; and many
lively debates took place as to the respective merits of 'Sonate da
Chiesa' and 'Sonate da Camera.' Their respective instruments also
afforded ground for friendly dispute. Vanneo was very desirous that his
friend should introduce viols and other instruments into the service, in
concert with the voices, in the Church in which Vanneo himself sang in
the choir; but the Cavaliere, who considered this a practice derived
from the theatre, refused to avail himself of any instrument save the
organ. Vanneo was more successful in inducing his friend to practice
upon his favourite instrument the lute, though Andria pretended at first
to despise it as a ladies' toy, and liable to injure the shape of the
performer. His friend, however, though devoted to secular music,
brought to the performance and composition of it so much taste and
correct feeling, that Andria was ravished in spite of himself, and of
his preference to the solemn music of the Church. Vanneo excelled in
contrasting melancholy and pensive music with bright and lively cords,
mingling weeping and laughter in some of the sweetest melodies that
imagination ever suggested. He accompanied his own voice on the lute,
or he composed pieces for a single voice with accompaniment for violins.
In a word, he won his friend over to this grave chamber music, in some
respects more pathetic and serious than the more monotonous masses and
sonatas of the Church composers. Vanneo composed expressly for this
purpose fantasies on the chamber organ, interposed, now and then, with
stately and sweet dance music, such as Pavins (so named from the walk of
a peacock) Allemaines, and other delightful airs, upon the violins and
lute. In these fancies he blended, as it were, pathetic stories, gay
festivities, and sublime and subtle ideas, all appealing to the secret
and intellectual faculties, so that the music became not only an
exponent of life but a divine influence. After these delightful
meetings had continued for several years, circumstances obliged Vanneo
to accompany a patron to France, and from thence he went over into
England, to the great King of that nation, as one of his private
musicians; for the Queen of England was a French Princess, and was fond
of the lute. His departure was a great grief to the Cavaliere, who
devoted himself more than ever to Church music and to the offices of
religion. He was a man of very devout temper, and was distinguished for
his benevolent disposition, and especially for his compassion for the
poor, whom he daily relieved in crowds at his own door, and in the
prisons of Rome, which he daily visited. From time to time he heard
from his friend, to whom he continued strongly attached."
"I was brought up at the English Court," said Inglesant, "and have been
trying to recall such a man, but cannot recollect the name you mention,
though I remember several lutinists and Italians."
"I tell the story as I heard it," replied the other. "The man may have
changed his name in a foreign country. One day the Cavaliere had
received a letter from his friend, brought to him by some English
gentleman travelling to Rome. Having read it, and spent some time with
the recollections that its perusal suggested to his mind, he set himself
to the work in which he was engaged--the composition of a motet for some
approaching festival of the Church; but although he attempted to fix his
mind upon his occupation, and was very anxious to finish his work, he
found himself unable to do so. The remembrance of his friend took
complete possession of his mind; and his imagination, instead of
dwelling on the solemn music of the motet, wandered perversely into the
alluring world of phantasied melody which Vanneo had composed. Those
sad and pensive adagios, passing imperceptibly into the light gaiety of
a festival, never seemed so delightful as at that moment. He rose from
time to time, and walked to and fro in his chamber, and as he did so he
involuntarily took up a lute which Vanneo had left with him as a parting
gift, and which always lay within reach. As he carelessly touched the
strings, something of his friend's spirit seemed to have inspired him,
and the lute breathed again with something of the old familiar charm.
Each time that he took it up, the notes formed themselves again under
his hand into the same melody, and at last he took up a sheet of paper,
intended for the motet, and scored down the air he had involuntarily
composed. His fancy being pleased with the occurrence, he elaborated it
into a lesson, and showed it to several of his associates. He gave it
the name of 'gli amici,' and it became very popular among the masters in
Rome as a lesson for their pupils on the lute. Among those who thus
learnt it was a youth who afterwards became page to a Florentine
gentleman, one Bernard Guasconi, who went into England and took service
under the King of that country, who, as you doubtless know better than I
do, was at war with his people."
"I know the Cavaliere Guasconi," said Inglesant, "and saw him lately in
Florence, where he is training running horses for the Grand Duke."
"This war," continued the man, "appears to have been the ruin of Vanneo;
for the English people, besides hating their King, took to hating all
kinds of music, and all churches and choristers. Vanneo lost his place
as one of the King's musicians, and not being able to earn his living by
teaching music where so few cared to learn, he was forced to enlist as a
soldier in one of the King's armies, and was several times near losing
his life. He escaped these dangers, however; but the army in which he
served being defeated and dispersed, he wandered about the country,
wounded, and suffering from sickness and want of food. He supported
himself miserably, partly by charity, especially among the Loyalist
families, and partly by giving singing lessons to such as desired them.
He was without friends, or any means of procuring money to enable him to
return to Italy. As he was walking in this manner one day in the
streets of London, without any hope, and with scarcely any life, he
heard the sound of music. It was long since the melody of a lute, once
so familiar, had fallen on his ear; and as he stopped to listen, the
notes came to him through the thick moist air like an angelic and divine
murmur from another world. The music seemed to come from a small room
on the ground-floor of a poor inn, and Vanneo opened the door and went
in. He found a young man, plainly dressed, playing on a double-necked
theorbo-lute, which, from the number of its strings, enables, as you
know, the skilful lutinist to play part music, with all the varieties of
fugues and other graces and ornaments of the Italian manner. The piece
which the young man was playing consisted of an allegro and yet sweet
movement on the tenor strings, with a sustained harmony in thorough
bass. The melody, being carefully distributed through the parts, spoke
to Vanneo of gaiety and cheerfulness, as of his old Italian life,
strangely combined at the same time with a soothing and pathetic
melancholy, like a corpse carried through the streets of a gay city,
strewn with flowers and accompanied with tapers and singing of boys.
The whole piece finished with a pastorale, or strain of low and sweet
notes. As Vanneo listened he was transported out of himself. It was
not alone the beauty of the music which ravished him, but he was
conscious that a mysterious presence, as of his friend the Cavaliere,
was with him, and that at last the perfect sympathy which he had sought
so long was established; and that in the music he had heard a common
existence and sphere of life was at last created, in which they both
lived, not any longer separate from each other, but enjoying as it were
one common being of melody and ecstatic life of sound. When the music
ceased Vanneo accosted the lutinist, and inquired the name of the
composer; but this the young man could not tell him. He only knew it
was a favourite lesson for skilful pupils among the music-masters in
Rome, and as such he had learnt it. Vanneo was confident the piece had
been written by Andria, and by none other, and told the young man so.
By this time they had discovered that they were fellow-countrymen, and
the lutinist sent for refreshments, of which Vanneo stood very much in
need. He also told him that his name was Scacchi, and that he was page
to the Signore Bernard Guasconi, who was then in arms for the King, and
was besieged in some town of which I have forgotten the English name."
"It was Colchester," said Inglesant; "I was in prison at the time of the
siege; but I know the history of it and its sad ending."
"Becoming very familiar with Vanneo, he advised him to accompany him to
Colchester. His master, he said, would doubtless be set at liberty
immediately as a foreigner and a friend of the Grand Duke's, and he
could accompany him home to Italy as a domestic. As no better prospect
was open to Vanneo of returning to his native country, he gladly
accepted the page's offer, and agreed to accompany him next day. The
besiegers of the town which you call Colchester were engaging persons
from all parts of the country to work their trenches, and the town not
being far from London, many persons went from that place to earn the
wages offered. Many of the Loyalists also took advantage of this
pretext, intending to join the besieged if a favourable opportunity
offered. To one of these parties Vanneo and the page joined themselves.
You may wonder that I know so much of these matters, but I have heard
the story several times repeated by the page himself. The weather was
very cold and wet, and the companions underwent much hardship on their
march. They travelled through a flat and marshy country, full of woods
and groves of trees, and crossed with dykes and streams. Vanneo,
however, who had endured so much privation and suffering, began to sink
under his fatigues. After travelling for more than two days they
arrived at the leaguer. They were told that the besieged were expected
every day to surrender at discretion; but they were sent into the
trenches with several other volunteers to relieve those already there,
many of whom were exhausted with the work, and were deserting. As they
arrived at the extreme limit of the lines the besiegers had planted four
great pieces of battering cannon against the town, and fired great shot
all the forenoon, without, however, doing much damage. The Royalists
mustered all their troops upon the line, intending, as it afterwards
appeared, to break out at night and force their way through the leaguer.
The lines were so close that the soldiers could throw stones at each
other as they lay in the trenches; and Vanneo and the page could see the
King's officers plainly upon the city walls. The Royalists did not
fire, being short of ammunition, and in the night a mutiny took place
among some of the foot-soldiers, which prevented the project of cutting
their way out from taking effect. The soldiers of both armies were now
already mixed on many places upon the line, and no fire was given on
either side, as though the Royalists were already prisoners. The page
left Vanneo, who was worn-out and ill, and easily made his way into the
town, where he found his master. When he returned to the trenches he
found Vanneo very ill, and a physician with him, a doctor of the town,
named Gibson, as I remember, who told the page that he thought his
companion was dying. Vanneo, in fact, appeared to be insensible, his
eyes were closed, and he was perfectly pale. He lay in a small house,
just within the lines, which had been deserted by its inhabitants, who
were weavers. The gentlemen were under arrest in the town, and it was
reported that several were to be immediately shot, of whom it was
whispered the Signore Guasconi was to be one. About two in the
afternoon the general of the besieging army entered the town, and a
great rabble of the soldiers with him. The latter broke into many
houses to search for plunder, and among them into that in which Vanneo
was lying. As they came into the room and saw the dying man, they
stopped and began to question the page as to who he was. Before he
could reply Vanneo opened his eyes with a smile, raised himself suddenly
from the straw on which he lay, and, stretching out his hand eagerly as
one who welcomes a friend, exclaimed in Italian, 'Cavaliere, the
consonance is complete;' and having said this he fell back upon the
straw again, and, the smile still upon his face, he died."
The musician stopped a moment, and then glancing at Inglesant with a
curious look said, "It is confidently said that about that very moment
the Cavaliere Andria died at Rome; at any rate when the page returned to
Italy and inquired for him at Rome, he was dead. He caught a fever in
one of his visits to the prisons, and died in a few days."
"Did the page tell you of the two gentlemen who were shot at
Colchester?" said Inglesant.
"Yes, he told me that Guasconi stood by with his doublet off expecting
his turn; but when the others were shot he was taken back to his prison.
They only found out he was an Italian by his asking leave to write to
the Grand Duke."
"I have been told," he continued, "that this poor King was a great lover
of music, and played the bass viol himself."
"He was a great admirer of Church music," said Inglesant; "I have often
seen him appoint the service and anthems himself."
As the conversation of this man was a great entertainment to Inglesant,
so his sudden and unexpected death was a great shock to him. The
physician could give no clear explanation of his decease, and the
general opinion was that he died of the plague, though it was, of
course, the interest of every one in the pest-house that this should not
be acknowledged.
A few days after the burial two of the Jesuit Fathers arrived from
Florence, accompanied by Don Agostino, who, having in vain waited for
his friend at Lucca, had sought him at Florence, and finally traced him
to his dreary prison. By their influence Inglesant was allowed to
depart; and actuated still by his desire to see Venice, set out,
accompanied by Don Agostino, in the hope of reaching that city. They
crossed the Apennines, and journeyed by Modena, Mantua, Verona, and
Padua. These places, which at other times would have excited in
Inglesant the liveliest interest, were passed by him now as in a dream.
The listless indifference which grew day by day, developed at Padua into
absolute illness; and Agostino took lodgings for his friend in one of
the deserted palaces of which the city was full. A few days' rest from
travel, and from the excitement produced by novel scenes and by the
scorching plains, had a soothing and beneficent effect; but Venice being
reported to be at that time peculiarly unhealthy, and Inglesant becoming
sensible that he was physically unable to prosecute any inquiries there,
the friends resolved to abandon their journey in that direction, and to
return towards Rome. At this juncture Don Agostino received letters
which compelled him to return hastily to Sienna, and after spending a
few days with his friend, he left, promising to return shortly and
accompany Inglesant to Rome, when he was sufficiently recruited by a few
weeks' repose.
The failure of the silk trade, owing to the importation of silk from
India into Europe, had destroyed the prosperity of many parts of Italy;
and in Padua long streets of deserted mansions attested by their beauty
the wealth and taste of the nobility, whom the loss of the rents of
their mulberry groves had reduced to ruin. Many houses being empty,
rents were exceedingly cheap, and the country being very plentiful in
produce, and the air very good, a little money went a long way in Padua.
There was something about the quiet gloomy town, with its silent narrow
streets and its long and dim arcades,--by which you might go from one
end of the city to the other under a shady covert,--that soothed
Inglesant's weary senses and excited brain.
His was that sad condition in which the body and the mind, being
equally, like the several strings of an ill-kept lute, out of tune,
jarred upon each other, the pains of the body causing phantasms and
delusions of the mind. His disappointment and illness at Florence, his
long confinement in the pest-house, and the sudden death of his friend
the poor musician, preyed upon his spirits and followed him even in his
dreams; and his body being weakened by suffering, and his mind depressed
by these gloomy events and images, the old spiritual terrors returned
with augmented force. Nature herself, in times of health and happiness
so alluring and kind, turns against the wretch thus deprived of other
comfort. The common sights and events of life, at one time so full of
interest, became hateful to him; and amid the solemn twilights and
gorgeous sunsets of Italy, his imagination was oppressed by an
intolerable presentiment of coming evil. Finally, he despaired of
himself, his past life became hateful to him, and nothing in the future
promised a hope of greater success. He saw himself the mere tool of a
political faction, and to his disordered fancy as little better than a
hireling bravo and mercenary. The rustling of leaves, the falling of
water, the summer breeze, uttered a pensive and melancholy voice, which
was not soothing, but was like the distant moaning of sad spirits
foreboding disaster and disgrace. On his first arrival in Padua Don
Agostino had introduced him to two or three ecclesiastics, whose
character and conversation he thought would please his friend; but
Inglesant made little effort to cultivate their acquaintance. His
principal associate was the Prior of the Benedictine monastery, a mile
or two beyond the Ferrara Gate, who, becoming at last distressed at his
condition, advised him to consult a famous physician named Signore
Jovanni Zecca.
This man had the reputation of a wit, maintained chiefly by a constant
study of Boccalini's "Parnassus," with quotations from which work he
constantly adorned his discourse. He found Inglesant prostrate on a
couch in his apartment, with the Prior by his side. The room had been
the state reception room of the former possessor, and the windows, which
were open, looked upon the wide space within one of the gates. It was
the most busy part of the city, and for that reason the rooms had been
chosen by Don Agostino, as commanding the most agreeable and lively
prospect.
The Prior having explained to the physician the nature of Inglesant's
malady, as far as he was acquainted with it, inquired whether the
situation of the rooms seemed suitable to the doctor, or whether it
would be well to remove to some country house. The scene from the
windows indeed was very lively, and might be considered too distracting
for an invalid. The prospect commanded the greater part of the Piazza,
or Place d'Armes, the gate and drawbridges and the glacis outside, with
a stretch of country road beyond, lined with poplars. This extensive
stage was occupied by ever-varying groups,--soldiers on guard in stiff
and picturesque uniform, men carrying burdens, pack-horses, oxen, now
and then a carriage with a string of horses and with running footmen,
peasant women, priests, children, and beggars, with sometimes a
puppet-show, or a conjuror with apes, and side by side with these last,
in strange incongruity, the procession of the Host.
"From what I know of this gentleman's malady and disposition," said the
physician, "I should suppose that these sights and sounds, though
perhaps hurtful to his physical nature, are so dear to his moral nature
that to speak against them were useless. These sounds, though
physically unpleasant, contain to the philosophic mind such moral beauty
as to be attractive in the highest degree, and to such a nature as this
my patient possesses offer a fascination which it would be unwise to
contend against."
"If," said the Prior to Inglesant with a smile, "your case requires
philosophic treatment, you are fortunate in having secured the advice of
Signore Zecca, who has the reputation of a philosopher and wit, as well
as that of a most skilful physician."
"With respect to my calling as a physician, I may make some claim
certainly," said the doctor, "if descent has any title to confer
excellence, for my great-grandfather was that celebrated Jovanni Zecca,
after whom I am named, the Physician of Bologna, whom you will find
mentioned in the most witty 'Ragguagli' of Messere Tragano Boccalini;
therefore, if I fail in my profession, it is not for want of generations
of experience and precept; but as regards my proficiency as a
philosopher, I have no one to depend upon but myself, and my proficiency
is indeed but small."
"You are pleased to say so, Signore Fisico," said Inglesant languidly,
"with the modesty usual with great minds; nevertheless the remark which
you have just made shows you to be familiar with the deepest of all
philosophy, that of human life. It is my misfortune that I am too deeply
impressed already with the importance of this philosophy, and it is my
inadequate following of its teaching which is killing me."
"It is a subject of curious study," said the physician, "for perplexity
perhaps, certainly for much satire, but scarcely, I should think, for
martyrdom. The noblest things in life are mixed with the most ignoble,
great pretence with infinite substance, vain-glory with solidness. The
fool of one moment, the martyr of the next: as in the case of that
Spaniard mentioned by Messere Boccalini, whose work doubtless you know,
signore, but if not, I should recommend its perusal as certain to do
much to work your cure. This man--the Spaniard, I mean--dying most
gallantly upon the field of honour, entreated his friend to see him
buried without unclothing him; and with these words died. His body,
being afterwards examined, it was found that he who was so sprucely
dressed, and who had a ruff about his neck so curiously wrought as to be
of great value, had never a shirt on his back. This discovery caused
great laughter among the vulgar sort of mankind; but by order of Apollo,
the great ruler of learning and philosophy, this Spaniard was given a
public and splendid funeral, equal to a Roman triumph; and an oration
was pronounced over him, who was so happy that, in his great calamity,
he was careful of his reputation before his life. His noble funeral
seems to me rather to proclaim the fact that our worst meannesses cannot
deprive us of the dignity of that pity which is due to human nature
standing by the brink of an open grave. A man has mistaken the secret
of human life who does not look for greatness in the midst of folly, for
sparks of nobility in the midst of meanness; and the well-poised mind
distributes with impartiality the praise and the blame."
"It is my misfortune," replied Inglesant, "that my mind is incapable of
this well-poised impartiality, but is worn out by the unworthy conflict
which the spirit within us wages with the meannesses of life. As the
Psalmist says, 'The very abjects make mouths at me, and cease not.'
"You are like those people, signore," said the physician, "mentioned by
Messere Boccalini, whom the greatest physicians failed to cure, but who
were immediately restored to active health by the simple and common
remedies of a quack. You seek for remedies among the stars and the
eternal verities of creation, whereas your ailment of mind arises
doubtless from some physical derangement, which perchance a learner in
healing might overcome."
"The fatal confusion of human life," said Inglesant, "is surely too
obvious a fact to be accounted for by the delusions of physical
disease."