became more calm. Indeed, this calmness came upon her so suddenly, and
was so extreme, that it seemed an appropriate last act of the sad drama
of her destiny. I soon perceived that she had become, so to speak, a
total stranger to herself; she became wholly absorbed in one idea: that
of the monument to be erected to her beloved Silvio. From that day she
would neither think nor talk about anything else. It was impossible for
me to pursue any employments of my own, for she hardly slept at all,
and allowed me only a few hours’ sleep, I will not say every day, but
every week. It was out of the question to put her into the hands of any
one but myself; under the care of any one else she became irritated,
and fell into frightful paroxysms; while, with me, she never had a
single attack of fury or despair. She talked to me endlessly, not about
her husband, for she seemed no longer to retain any clear individual
recollection of him; he had, as it were, become a wholly imaginary
being, whom she had never seen; but she discussed the epitaphs, the
emblematic designs, the carvings, etc., with which she proposed to
embellish her husband’s monument.
“I think I must have drawn two or three thousand different designs for
her. Each new one always pleased her for an hour or two, but at the end
of that time she always found it unworthy of the memory of the ‘Magus,’
as she now always called the dear deceased. No emblematic design could
embody the abstract and confused ideas that floated through her mind.
She was constantly falling into profound meditations, when, taking out
of my hands the pencil she herself had placed in them with a pretence
of making some slight alteration, she would make me design some
entirely new subject of a quite opposite character. As you will easily
imagine, most of these designs were quite impracticable, and even
meaningless. If I varied from her suggestions, she became so uneasy
and agitated that I found it best to comply strictly with them. Thus I
accumulated portfolio after portfolio full of designs, fantastic enough
to have crazed any one who should have undertaken to interpret them.
“When some hours had been spent in this way, she used to take me out to
see the pieces in marble that she had ordered of all the statuaries in
the country. She had the court and garden full of them, and as soon as
they were done she was dissatisfied with them.
“Another fancy of hers, which I felt bound to gratify at whatever
cost, was in respect of the material to be employed for this imaginary
monument. She obtained specimens of all the varieties of marbles and of
all known metals; and more models, both in sculpture and in casting,
were executed than the house could contain. They were even piled upon
the beds; and travellers used to take our house for a museum, and to
come to it and ask the meaning of all the strange subjects represented
there. Poor Sophia found pleasure in receiving these visitors, and in
explaining her ideas to them; and so they departed, some pained and
saddened, others laughing and shrugging their shoulders,--the brutes!
Their sneers affected me like so many crimes.
“Meanwhile our property began to be exhausted. M. Goffredi had left to
his wife the whole of his little fortune, which I was to have inherited
after her. A family council of the kinsmen assembled under these
circumstances, as was alleged, both in order to protect my interests,
and to provide for carrying out my father’s intentions in this respect.
One member, a lawyer, was of opinion that the control of the property
should be taken away from poor Sophia; that all artists, founders,
mechanics and tradesmen should be formally notified not to fill orders
from her, and that she herself should be confined in a lunatic asylum,
since the proposed measure, being contrary to her wishes, would
certainly throw her into a paroxysm of fury, in which she would be
dangerous to others.”
“The lawyer was right,” said M. Goefle. “It was a painful step, but a
necessary one.”
“I really beg pardon, Monsieur Goefle, but I judged otherwise. As I was
the sole heir of Goffredi, I had a perfect right to permit my guardian
to expend my property.”
“No, you had not that right. You were a minor, and the law protects
those who cannot protect themselves.”
“That is just what I was told; but I was so sufficiently able to
protect myself, that I threatened to throw the lawyer out of the window
if he did not withdraw his infamous proposition. To put my mother into
a lunatic asylum! I should have had to be shut up with her, for she
could not bear to be without me a moment; she would quickly have died
under the distress of being attended by hirelings. To deprive her of
this sole occupation that could quiet her; that exerted an influence
upon her little less than magical! To prevent her from expressing
and soothing her sorrows by these works--senseless and ruinous in
themselves, I readily admit, but which neither harmed nor wronged any
one! And what mattered our house full of tomb-stones to that fat and
prosperous lawyer? No one obliged him to volunteer his regret for money
thrown away, or to mock at the aberrations of the poor widow’s mind,
unsettled by her grief. I persisted, the family blamed me, and the
lawyer declared I was out of my wits myself; but my mother was kept
comfortable.”
“Ah, ah, my boy!” said M. Goefle, smiling, “that’s the way you treat
lawyers, is it? Come, give me your hand!” he added, looking upon
Cristiano with eyes wet with tenderness and sympathy.
Cristiano pressed the hands of the worthy Goefle, and raised them to
his lips, in the Italian manner.
“I accept your kind feelings to me,” he said, “but I cannot accept
your praises for my conduct. It was perfectly natural; to have been
influenced by selfish motives in such a situation would have been
infamous. Have I not told you how much I had been loved, petted,
indulged, by these two parents--for such I felt them, even by blood as
well as by heart. Ah! I had been happy with them, very happy, Monsieur
Goefle--so much so, that no matter what disasters shall come upon me, I
shall never have the right to complain of Providence. I had certainly
not deserved so much happiness before I was born. I surely was bound to
try and deserve it after I had lived a little while!”
“And what became of poor Sophia?” asked M. Goefle, after a few moments’
meditation.
“Alas! I promised to tell you my story as gayly as possible, and I have
only shown you its melancholy side! I ask your pardon; I have saddened
you. All I need say is, that the poor lady is no longer living.”
“Of course, since you are here. It is easy to see that you would never
have left her. But did she fall into actual want before her death? I am
anxious to know the whole story.”
“No, thank God; she was spared that misfortune. I do not know what
might have happened if all her means had been expended, and I had been
obliged to leave her for the sake of earning our living. But that
consideration was not the one that troubled me. Notwithstanding her
calmness, I could see that she was rapidly failing. At the end of about
two years, one evening when we were sitting by the shore of the lake,
she took my hand and said, with a strange inflection in her voice:
“‘Cristiano, I think I have fever. Feel my pulse, and tell me what you
think.’
“This was the first time, since her misfortunes, that she had referred
to her health. I perceived that she was really in a violent fever. I
took her into the house and sent for a physician.
“‘She is very ill, it is true,’ he said to me, ‘but possibly it may be
a favorable crisis!’
“In fact, she had never had any fever at any time since her disorder
had seized her.
“But I felt no hope. She fell into a state of profound lethargy, upon
which no treatment produced the least effect, and the progress of her
decline was so rapid as to be plainly visible. A few moments before she
died she seemed to recover strength, and to awaken as if from a long
dream. She asked me to lift her in my arms, and feebly whispered in my
ear:
“‘I bless you, Cristiano; you have saved me. I think I have been
insane, and that I have been a trouble to you. Silvio has this moment
been blaming me for it. I just saw him, there; he told me to rise up
and follow him. Help me to escape out of the tomb where I have shut
myself up so foolishly! Come! The ship is setting sail! Let us go!’
“And with one supreme effort to arise, she fell back dead into my arms.
“I know nothing of what happened for some days. I felt as if I had no
further concern with life, since I had no longer any one but myself to
care for.
“I had the remains of my dear parents deposited in one tomb, and
placed over it the simplest and whitest of the monuments that had
been accumulated in our home, cutting upon it, with my own hands, the
beloved names, with no other epitaph. You may well suppose that I felt
a horror of formulas and emblems. When I returned to our home, I was
notified that it belonged not to me, but the creditors. This I knew
very well, and, indeed, I was so entirely ready to depart from it,
that I had mechanically packed up my own property, while the women
were wrapping the body in the winding-sheet. I left the business of
settlement in the hands of the family, for I had been orderly enough,
in the midst of my carelessness, to know that though nothing should be
left for me, no debts would be left unpaid.
“I was about leaving my home, when the little Jew of whom I spoke came
in. I supposed he came to get a cheap bargain of some of M. Goffredi’s
precious antiques, which were to be sold at auction; but if he had any
such purpose, he had delicacy enough not to mention it to me, and,
as I sought to avoid him, he followed me into the garden where I was
gathering a few flowers--the only material souvenirs which I proposed
to carry away with me. He put into my hands a well-filled purse, and
would have retreated without any explanation.
“I had so little thought of any relations other than those whom I had
just lost, that I concluded this was an alms which the Jew had been
employed to bring me; I flung the purse away upon the ground, in order
to make him return and pick it up. He did so, and said:
“‘This is yours--it really is. It is money which I owed Goffredi, and I
wish to repay it to you.’
“I refused, for this might be just the amount necessary to enable the
estate to meet all the claims against it. Then the Jew said:
“‘The money comes from your real parents. They deposited it with me,
and I engaged to deliver it to you whenever you should need it.’
“‘I need none of it,’ I replied, ‘I have enough to carry me to Rome,
where M. Goffredi’s friends will find me some employment. Make my
parents easy about me. I presume they are not rich, since they have
been unable to bring me up under their own eyes. Thank them for having
remembered me, and say to them that, at my age, and with the education
I have received, it is my duty to be of assistance to them, if they
should need it. Whether they reveal themselves to me or not, I will do
this with pleasure. They intrusted me to such good hands, and I have
been so happy in consequence, that I owe them the liveliest gratitude.’
“Those were my real sentiments, Monsieur Goefle. I was not dissembling
at all, for they are my sentiments still. I have never felt any
inclination to accuse or question the motives of those who gave me
life, and I do not understand the feelings of illegitimate children
who complain of not having been born into such or such a condition of
society as they would have chosen--as if every living being had not
been from all eternity destined to live, and as if it were not God who
calls us, or sends us, into this world, under such conditions as it
pleases Him to establish.
“‘Your parents are no longer living!’ replied the little Jew; ‘pray for
them, and accept this gift from a friend!’
“This being a third account, different from the two preceding, I felt a
secret distrust.
“‘Perhaps it is you yourself,’ I said, ‘who are so good as to offer me
this friendly assistance?’
“‘No,’ he replied, ‘I am simply the agent, nothing more.’
“‘Very well: say to those who employed you that I thank them, but
decline to accept anything, either from friends who disclose themselves
or who hide themselves. Are you authorized by my family to give me any
information?’
“‘No, none,’ he said, ‘but I may probably do so hereafter. Where do you
intend to stop at Rome?’
“‘I have no idea.’
“‘Very good; I shall learn, however, for I am under obligations not to
lose sight of you. Farewell, and remember that if you fall into trouble
this money is yours, and that you have only to give me notice, and I
will account to you for it!’
“He seemed to say this with sincerity, but it was possible that he was
one of those bold speculators who furnish means to the necessitous with
the intention of amply reimbursing themselves afterwards. So I thanked
him rather coldly, and departed with my pockets almost empty.
“I felt but very little anxiety about the future. It would be
impossible for me now to think of travelling, and instead, I should
have to find employment and work for my support. Although, for
a considerable time, I had been unable to pursue my studies, my
memory was so good that I had not forgotten what I already knew. My
attainments were sufficiently varied, and their elements still clear
enough in my mind, to render me quite competent to become the private
tutor of some young lad, and I was especially desirous of finding such
a position, so that I might continue my own pursuits, by encroaching
on my sleep.
“My father’s position in the province where we lived had been
exceedingly honorable; but, strangely enough, my conduct in regard to
Madame Goffredi was considered romantic, and quite unworthy a person of
trustworthy character. I had allowed myself to be ruined,--so much the
worse for me. As I was generally reputed to be a witless spendthrift,
and a sort of lunatic, it would have been useless for me to seek
employment. So I could not think of settling in Perugia. At Rome, one
of my father’s friends found me a position as tutor in the family
of a Neapolitan prince, who had two idle and stupid sons, besides a
daughter, hump-backed, and of a coquettish and amorous disposition. At
the end of two months I had to ask my dismission, so as to escape from
the demonstrations of this heroine, of whom I did not choose to become
the hero.
“At Naples, I met another of my father’s friends, a learned abbé, who
obtained a place for me in a family less rich, but a great deal more
disagreeable than that of the prince, and where my pupils were even
less intelligent. Their mother, who was neither young nor handsome,
quickly became unfriendly to me, because I was unwilling to deceive
myself as to her charms. I made no pretensions to a savage degree of
virtue, and did not think of claiming that I could fall in love only
with a goddess,--I could have been quite contented with an ordinary
mortal. But, even although this lady had been passably attractive,
nothing would have induced me to be the lover of a woman who had
authority over me, and who paid me my salary. So I went back to my
learned abbé, and told him my troubles. He laughed, and said:
“‘It’s your own fault. You are a handsome fellow, and that makes you
difficult.’
“I entreated him to get me a position with a widower or orphans,
and, after some efforts, he informed me that he had found just what
I wanted. The young Duke of Villareggia, who had lost his father and
mother, and who had neither sisters nor aunts, was being educated by
his uncle the cardinal. He already had a tutor, but wanted a professor
of languages and literature. I was received into this post, and found
it not only agreeable, but lucrative. The cardinal was a man of
cultivation and intellect; and the nephew, now thirteen years of age,
had a good mind and an amiable disposition. I became much attached to
him, and brought him on rapidly, while at the same time pursuing my
own studies with much ardor; for I had a lodging to myself, and all my
evenings at my own disposal. The cardinal was so well satisfied with
me, that he paid me quite liberally, so that I might dispense with
seeking other pupils, and devote my self exclusively to the duke.
“For about a year, my conduct was studious and regular. I had suffered
so much sorrow, and felt so deeply my social isolation, that my views
of life were, perhaps, rather too serious. I might have become a mere
pedant, had not the cardinal taken it into his head to urge me, in
the most elegant and graceful manner, to mingle in the follies and
corruptions of the day. He succeeded in making me a man of society,
for which I am not sure that I am bound to be grateful. Gradually I
came to waste a great deal of time on my toilet, and on my pleasures
and intrigues. The cardinal’s palace was the rendezvous of all the
wits of the day, and of the principal celebrities of the city. I was
not expected to cultivate the moral character of my pupil, but merely
to supply him with superficial accomplishments and pleasing social
qualities. As for myself, all that was required of me was to make
myself agreeable to everybody. This was not difficult, among people so
amiable and frivolous. I was considered charming; indeed more so than
was best for an orphan without position, fortune, or prospects.
“In the course of time I became quite dissipated, and was decidedly on
the road to ruin. Indeed, I was encouraged, and, as it were, pushed
downward in this career by all sorts of influences, and had nothing
to restrain me but the memory of my parents, and the fear of becoming
unworthy of the name which they had bequeathed me. I ought to have
told you that my adoptive father had directed me, in his will, to
assume the name of Cristiano Goffredi; and that I was thus known at
Naples. With serious and learned people, this honorable name was an
excellent recommendation, but it was thoroughly plebeian, and I too
easily forgot that I needed, therefore, to exercise great prudence and
reserve in my intercourse with the young nobles with whom I was in the
habit of associating at the cardinal’s house. I suffered myself to be
carried away by their engaging manners, and was much liked, because
I had neither the awkward manners nor the austere principles of a
professional pedagogue. I was invited everywhere, and was a favorite
member of all the gay assemblies of the most fashionable youth of the
city.
“The cardinal congratulated me upon my ability to reconcile suppers,
balls, and late hours with the accuracy and lucidity which I
unfailingly brought to the instruction of his nephew. Yet I myself
perceived very plainly, and suffered from the consciousness, that I
was no longer cultivating my own intellect with sufficient assiduity.
I felt that I had stopped short in my progress, that I was insensibly
becoming a mere showy and shallow talker, that I was turning into
a parlor comedian and poet; and furthermore, was laying up nothing
from my salary with a view to securing my future independence and
respectability. My linen was too fine and my brains were too empty; in
short, I had abandoned myself to dissipation and vacuity of mind, and
from between these prison-walls there was great danger that I would
never escape.
“As a usual thing, I banished these reflections from my mind, but they
sometimes made me very anxious. And then, the pleasures that were
intoxicating me so did not give me any real enjoyment, after all.
At the home of my parents, and in their society, I had experienced
nobler enjoyments, more genuine amusements. I retraced, in memory, the
delightful walks we had taken together, always with a serious purpose,
which afforded us a pure satisfaction, while, in the feverish activity
of my present existence, I was conscious of being in realty as languid
and exhausted as if I had been living in utter idleness. I began to
dream again of the noble enjoyments of the adventurous traveller; and
when I looked at my purse, which was always empty, I asked myself
whether I could not have made a better use of the money that I earned
by hard work; whether it would not have been more to my advantage to
devote it to satisfying my genuine physical tastes and intellectual
necessities, instead of throwing it away in diversions that wearied my
body and exhausted my mind. And then suddenly I felt like a stranger,
even in my home. I thought how foreign to my nature all my surroundings
were in this country, where I was not rooted by any vital family
ties; its frivolous society, its servile political condition, its
enervating climate and indolent population. I felt, at the same time,
more energetic and more thoughtful than this people. In spite of my
twenty-three years and my poverty, I begun to consider whether I would
not marry, so that I might have a home of my own, a motive of reform,
a serious object in life. But when I confided these perplexities and
moral anxieties to the cardinal, he laughed at me for a foolish fellow.
“‘You drank too much, or worked too much, last night,’ he said, ‘and
your head is full of vapors. Go and drive them away with Cintia or
Fiammetta, but don’t marry them, of all things.’
“I loved the cardinal, for he was a good-hearted and agreeable man;
yet, though he was paternal, and unaffectedly kind to me, I saw plainly
that he was rather amiable than loving. What he wanted was to have
agreeable people about him, and he valued me because of my social
qualities; but he was not the man to retain me in his service very long
if I should become melancholy, and hence tiresome.
“I accordingly tried to drive away my thoughts, and to rest contented,
like all around me, with the enjoyments of each day, without caring for
the morrow. But I could not do it. My dissatisfaction increased, and
I could not hide it. I became disgusted with easy successes in love;
sensual infatuations, to which women of all ranks seemed to abandon
themselves without resistance. Poor, and a plebeian, these intrigues
had at first flattered my vanity; but when I saw that my barber, who
was a good-looking fellow, was as successful as myself, I contracted
a great horror of the marchioness. I became eager to quit Naples, and
begged the cardinal to make me a librarian or steward, no matter what,
at some one of his villas in Calabria or Sicily; I thirsted for repose
and for solitude. But he still laughed at my plans for retirement.
In fact he had no faith in them; he thought me no more fit for a
steward than for a monk. In this he was right, no doubt; yet it was a
misfortune that he retained me, as you will see.
“A second nephew of the cardinal returned from his travels, and
became an inmate of the house. This was Marco Melfi, a young man as
unintelligent, foolish, indolent, and vain, as his young cousin,
Tito Villareggia, was sympathetic and kind-hearted. He made himself
disagreeable to everybody; and very soon had several duels on his
hands. He was an excellent swordsman, and wounded or killed all his
adversaries without receiving a single scratch; and his insolence
became, in consequence, perfectly insupportable. I avoided collisions
with him as long as possible, but being one day urged beyond endurance
by his brutal provocations, I gave him the lie in form, and offered him
satisfaction with the sword. This he refused, saying that I was not a
gentleman, and darting at me, he attempted to strike me. I, however,
flung him down, and left him unhurt, except that he was almost choked
with fury. The quarrel made a good deal of noise; and the cardinal,
while he acknowledged to me between ourselves that I was in the right,
yet begged me to hasten and conceal myself on one of his estates, until
Melfi should depart on his travels again.
“The idea of hiding was revolting to me.
“‘But, my poor fellow,’ said the cardinal, ‘do you not know, that as
things are, my nephew is obliged to have you assassinated?’
“This expression seemed to me rather amusing, and I replied that I
would _oblige_ Marco to fight me.
“‘But you can’t kill my nephew,’ said he, patting me gayly on the head.
‘Even supposing you were skilful enough, you would not make such a
return as that for the fatherly kindness that I have shown you?’
“This observation silenced me. I returned to my lodging and made ready
to depart. I ought to have been more cautious about it, but I could
not bring myself to seem to be running away secretly. All at once,
as I stepped out of my room to look for a small box that was in the
vestibule of the house, where I lived by myself, two villains fell upon
me and undertook to overpower and tie me. In the struggle that ensued,
I pushed them down stairs; but, just as I was about to escape, the door
was shut in my face, and I heard a harsh voice proceeding from the
vestibule exclaim:
“‘Courage! tie him! I want to beat him to death on the spot!’
“My rage, at hearing this, gave me superhuman strength, and I fought my
two assailants with so much fury, that they were both overpowered in a
few seconds. Then, without further notice of them, I sprang at Marco,
who, seeing that his attempt had failed, tried to flee. I, however,
forced him against the door, and snatched away his sword, which he
would have drawn to defend himself.
“‘Scoundrel!’ I said, ‘I will not kill you, but you shall fight me, and
at once.’
“Marcus was slender, and inferior to me in strength. I made him go up
stairs before me, and pushed him into my room, when I double-locked the
door, took my sword, and giving him his, said:
“‘There, defend yourself; you see that you may sometimes be obliged to
fight with a plebeian!’
“‘Goffredi,’ he replied, lowering the point of his weapon. ‘I do not
wish to fight you, and I will not; I am too certain of killing you; and
I should be very sorry to do that, for you are a good fellow. You might
have assassinated me, and you did not do it. Let us be friends.’
“Not mistrusting him, and not being of a revengeful disposition, I
held out my hand to take that which he had offered me, when he aimed
a swift and skilful left-handed stab at my throat with a stiletto.
I evaded the thrust, which only wounded my shoulder. Upon this I no
longer restrained my anger, but instantly and furiously attacked the
villain, who was forced to stand on his defence. Our weapons were
equal, and he certainly had greatly the advantage over me in skill and
practice. But, however it may have been, I laid him dead at my feet.
He fell, sword in hand, without speaking a word, and with an infernal
smile on his face. At this very moment there was a violent knocking and
pounding at my door, and he may have thought that he should quickly
be avenged. For my part, I did not know whether the two assassins,
recovered from their stupor, had returned to the attack, or whether
they had warned the police to come and arrest me; but, exhausted as I
was with emotion and fatigue, I felt that I should be lost in either
case. So I mustered up what strength I had left, and jumped out of the
window. It was not more than about twenty feet high; I alighted upon
the court-yard pavement without much injury, and holding my coat tight
around me, to prevent the blood from my shoulder from indicating my
track, I fled as far as my legs could carry me.
“It was well for me that I succeeded in gaining the country, for as
this affair had passed without witnesses, it would necessarily have
been a very bad one for me. It made no difference that I was in the
right, that my behavior had been loyal and generous, and that my
adversary was a cowardly scoundrel. He belonged to one of the first
families in the kingdom, and the holy inquisition would have made but a
single mouthful of a poor wretch like me.
“I found refuge for the night in a fisherman’s cabin, but I had
not a single farthing about me with which to pay for the dangerous
hospitality. Moreover, my torn and bloody clothes would not allow me
to show myself by day; and my wound--whether it was severe or not I
did not know--pained me extremely. I felt my strength failing, and I
well knew that the whole police of the kingdom was already on foot,
and hunting after me. Lying on a miserable mat, under a little shed, I
wept bitter tears, not over my unfortunate destiny--I should have been
incapable of such weakness--but because of the sudden and irreparable
rupture of my relations with the good cardinal and with my amiable
pupil. I felt that I loved them deeply, and I cursed the fate which had
caused me to defile with blood the mansion where I had been received
with so much confidence and kindness.
“However, it was escape, and not lamentation, that I needed to concern
myself about. It occurred to me, of course, to find the little Jew who
had asserted that he knew the mysterious friends or relations who were
watching over me, or who had employed him to do so. I forgot to say
that this Jew had established himself in Naples, where I had met him
more than once. But it seemed to me too dangerous to return into the
city, and I could not have written to him without running the risk of
being discovered. Hence I gave up the idea.
“It is needless for me to relate in full my adventures in effecting
my escape from the kingdom of Naples. I had managed to exchange
my tattered clothes for some other rags not quite so suspicious
in appearance, but I found it very hard to obtain food. The whole
community knew that pursuit was being made after the ‘vile assassin’
of a nobleman, and poor vagrants were looked upon with distrust. If it
had not been for the women, who are always more courageous and more
humane than we men, I should have died of hunger and fever. My wound
often forced me to halt in the most solitary and deserted spot I could
find, and in some such hiding-place, lacking every kind of assistance,
it seemed more than likely, on several occasions, that I should leave
my bones, from sheer lack of strength to rise up and go forward. And
yet, M. Goefle, can you believe that, even in this desperate situation,
I experienced, at moments, a sense of delirious joy, as if, in spite
of everything, I were enjoying a foretaste of my reconquered liberty.
The open air, the motion, the freedom from conventional restraints, the
sight of the open plains, whose distant horizons I might now expect to
reach and pass--all, even to the hardness of my bed of rock, recalled
to my mind the projects and aspirations of the time when I had really
lived.
“At last I gained the frontiers of the Papal States in safety; and as
I had not followed the road to Rome, but had made a detour through the
mountains, I had every reason to hope that the spies on the lookout
for me had been baffled. I stopped in a village, therefore, to dispose
of my merchandise; for such was my horror of begging, and so angry did
it make me to be refused, that, to avoid the temptation of beating the
people who sent me off with rude brutality, I had taken it into my
head--as I should have told you before--to become a merchant!”
“A merchant?” interrupted M. Goefle, “a merchant of what? You had not a
penny to start with!”
“Very true, but I had a pen-knife in my pocket when I fled, and this
took the place of capital. Although I had I never worked in sculpture,
I was familiar enough with the principles of design, and one day,
chancing to notice on the road a remarkably white and unusually soft
layer of rock, it occurred to me to provide myself with a dozen or
so fragments from it. These I broke off on the spot; and afterwards,
while I was resting, carved into little figures of madonnas and
cherubs, about as large as a finger. This stone, or rather chalk,
which was scattered all about the country in this direction, was very
light; I could carry as many as fifty of my little statuettes without
inconvenience, and I used to sell them to the farmers and peasants for
five or six _baiocchi_ each. This was certainly all they were
worth, and it was enough to furnish me with bread.
“For several days I had succeeded remarkably well in my new avocation,
and I hoped, on seeing that it was market-day in this village, that I
would be able to dispose in safety of my whole supply of merchandise. I
found, however, but little custom, in consequence of the competition of
a Piedmontese with a great tray of plaster figures; and so it occurred
to me to sit down and execute my carving in sight of the crowd, who
quickly gathered round me. This plan was extremely successful. The
quickness of my work, and very likely the simplicity of its style, made
it very popular, and the admiration and delight of these good folks,
especially of the women and children, made my Piedmontese competitor
extremely jealous and angry. He addressed me several times in a violent
manner, without making me lose patience. I saw plainly that he meant
to force a quarrel on me in order to drive me away, but I only made
fun of him, telling him to go to work as I did, and make some of his
statuettes, so as to show his talents to the company, a suggestion
which was received with great applause; for in Italy even the lowest
classes are fond of everything connected with art. So my rival found
himself laughed at as a mere mechanic, while I was loudly declared to
be a real artist.
“The malignant rascal, upon this, contrived a very mean trick to
revenge himself. He dropped two or three of the cheapest of his images
on purpose, and then made a terrible outcry, so as to attract the
attention of some of the police, who were moving about here and there
in the crowd. When he had succeeded in bringing them to the spot, he
charged that I had been stirring up the people against him, that they
had been shoving him about, and had caused great damage to his frail
wares. He was a respectable person, he said, who paid for his license,
and was well-known in the neighborhood, while I was a mere vagrant, and
very likely something still worse, who could say? perhaps that vile
assassin of the cardinal? This was the shape that the story had already
assumed, and it was in this character that I was held up to public
animadversion, and to the scrutiny of the police. The people, however,
took my part; and many witnesses testified to my innocence as well as
their own, proving that no one had pushed, or even touched the tray
of the figure-merchant. Those who were immediately about me stepped
quietly in the way of the officers, and made room for me to pass.
“But although I found good friends among them, there were also plenty
of blackguards or cowards, who pointed me out without saying a word,
as I rushed precipitately into a crowded by-street. The officers
pursued me; I had a good start, but I knew nothing of the locality;
and instead of gaining the open country, very soon found myself in
another square, where a number of people had gathered attentively about
a theatre of marionettes. Scarcely had I had time to join this group,
when the officers came up and began looking around with penetrating
eyes. I made myself as small as possible, and was pretending to feel a
great interest in Punchinello, so as not to excite the curiosity of my
neighbors, who were jostling me on every side, when suddenly a luminous
idea, suggested by my imminent danger, flashed into my excited brain.
While the officers were trying to force an entrance into the compact
and motionless crowd, I crept gradually forward until I could touch the
canvas of the booth. Then stooping slowly down, I suddenly glided in
under it as a fox runs into a hole, and found myself squatting almost
between the legs of the operator--that is, of the person who was moving
the marionettes and speaking for them.
“Do you know what a theatre of marionettes is, M. Goefle?”
“Certainly! I saw Christian Waldo’s only a little while ago, at
Stockholm.”
“Saw it?--From the outside, you mean?”
“That’s all; but I have a very good idea of the inside, though that one
seemed to me to be rather complicated.”
“It is a theatre for two operators, or, in other words, for four
hands, which means, of course, four actors on the stage, and that is a
sufficiently large company of _burattini_.”
“What are _burattini_?”
“They are the classical, primitive marionettes; the best. The
_burattino_ is not the same as the stiff, wooden _fantoccio_
which, hung to the ceiling by strings, moves about without touching
the ground, or else with a noise that is ridiculous and unnatural.
The jointed marionette, which is much more scientific and complete,
contains some really ingenious mechanism, that enables it to make
very natural gestures and to assume graceful attitudes. With further
improvements it could undoubtedly be constructed to imitate nature
perfectly; but, on investigating the subject, I have asked myself of
what use this would be, and what advantage art would derive from a
theatre of automata? The larger they were made, the more like human
beings, the more disagreeable, and even frightful, the spectacle of
such artificial actors would become. Does it not appear to you so?”
“Certainly, it does--but the digression interests me less than the
continuation of your narrative.”
“Pardon me, pardon me, Monsieur Goefle, the digression is unavoidable.
I am just coming to a singular part of my adventurous career, and I
must positively prove to you the superiority of the _burattino_. I
want to convince you that the instrument of the comic artist, in this
elementary representation, is neither a machine, nor a puppet, nor a
doll; it is a living being.”
“Ah! Indeed? A living being?” repeated M. Goefle, looking with
astonishment at his companion, and asking himself whether he was not
liable to occasional fits of insanity.
“Yes, a living being! I insist upon it,” replied Cristiano,
with enthusiasm; “and all the more because it has no body. The
_burattino_ has neither wheels, nor strings, nor pulleys. It is
a head, and nothing more; a head with expression and intelligence, in
which--but wait a moment!”
Cristiano stepped under the staircase, and opening a box, produced a
little wooden figure, dressed in rags, which he threw down, picked up,
tossed in the air, and caught again in his hand.
“There,” he resumed, “look at that! A rag--a mere chip, the figure
scarcely indicated. Now see, I put my hand inside of this little
leather bag, my forefinger in the head, which is hollow, my thumb and
middle finger into these sleeves, to manage the two little wooden
hands. These hands, you see, are short, formless, and not exactly
either open or shut. This is intentional; it is to conceal their
immovability. Now let me stand at such a distance from you as suits the
size of the little thing. There; stay where you are, and look!”
“While he was speaking, Cristiano had mounted the staircase at two
bounds, crouched down so as to hide his body behind the balustrade,
raised his hand above it, and moved the marionette with extreme address
and grace.
“You see, now,” he cried, as gayly as ever, and yet with real
earnestness, “you see how perfect the illusion is, even without either
theatre or scenery. The face, which is sketched, as it were, in a
broad style, and painted in colors of a somewhat dull tone, begins, as
it moves, to look as if it were alive. If I were to show you one of
the best German marionettes, all varnished and shining, covered with
spangles, and moving by wheel-work, you could not help remembering that
it is only a doll--a mere piece of machinery; while my _burattino_
here, lithe and obedient to every motion of my fingers, comes and goes,
salutes, turns its head, folds its arms, raises them towards heaven,
expresses all manner of emotions, strikes a blow, beats upon the wall
with joy or despair. And don’t you see that you fancy you perceive all
these emotions expressed in the face too? What is it that causes such
a wonderful effect? How is it that a head so roughly cut, so ugly when
closely examined, should suddenly assume, in the play of the light,
such a lifelike expression, that you quite forget its real size. Yes,
I insist upon it, that when you see the _burattino_ in the hands
of a real artist, upon a theatre where the scenery, the stage, the
surroundings are in proper proportion to the actors, you completely
forget that you yourself are not upon the same scale; you forget even
that the voice that speaks for them is not their own. The association
apparently so impossible, of a head no larger than my fist, with a
voice as strong as mine, is admitted readily in the state of mysterious
intoxication into which I manage gradually to bring you, and the whole
miracle is accomplished. Do you see what causes it? The fact that
the _burattino_ is not an automaton, but a thing obedient to my
caprice, my inspiration, my impulses; because all its motions are the
results of ideas which spring up in my mind, of words which I furnish;
in short, because it is myself; therefore, a living being and not a
doll!”
Having thus argued his case with a great deal of animation, Cristiano
came down stairs, laid the marionette on the table, took off his coat,
apologizing to M. Goefle on the ground of being too warm, and placed
himself astride upon his chair again, so as to resume the thread of his
story.
During this odd interruption, M. Goefle’s attitude had been about as
amusing as Cristiano’s.
“Wait a moment,” he observed, taking up the _burattino_. “All that
you have said is very true, and well argued. And now I understand the
extraordinary pleasure which I took in the representations of Christian
Waldo. But what you do not explain, and what I nevertheless perceive
very plainly to be the fact, is, that this good little gentleman that
I have in my hand, I would like very well to make him move and talk
myself--Come, my little friend,” he proceeded, inserting his fingers
into the head and sleeves of the _burattino_, “come; take a look
at me. That’s right: yes; you are very good-looking, and I am happy to
make so close an acquaintance with you. And now, I declare I remember
you! You are Stentarello, that very joyous, satirical and graceful
Stentarello who made me laugh so much a fortnight ago at Stockholm! And
you, young man,” continued M. Goefle, turning to his guest--“although
I have never seen your face before, yet I recognize you perfectly by
your voice, your sprightliness, your gayety, and your sensibility as
well--you are Christian Waldo, the famous operator of the Neapolitan
_burattini_!”
“Very much at your service,” answered Christian Waldo, bowing to the
doctor of laws, with much grace; “and if you would like to know how
Cristiano del Lago, Cristiano Goffredi, and Christian Waldo came to be
one and the same person, attend to the rest of my adventures.”
“I am listening, and with a great deal of curiosity, too. But I want to
know when you received this new name of Christian Waldo?”
“Oh, that one is really new. It only dates back to last autumn, and
I should find it difficult to tell why I adopted it. The fact is, I
believe it came to me in a dream, and that it is a reminiscence of the
name of some locality which made an impression upon my mind during my
infancy.”
“That is singular! Well, no matter. You left off inside the theatre of
marionettes, in the square of--”
“Of Celano,” said Christian; “again on the borders of a beautiful lake.
I assure you, Monsieur Goefle, that my destiny is linked in with lakes;
there certainly is some mystery under the association, which perhaps
some day I shall penetrate.
“You have not forgotten that the police were at my heels, and that had
it not been for the booth of marionettes, I should probably have been
taken and hung. This booth, however, was very small, and could hardly
contain more than one man. When I asked you if you knew how these
marionette theatres are constructed--an excusable inquiry, since this
characteristic Italian amusement is not common in your country, and
perhaps has never been brought here except by myself--it was with the
intention of explaining my position between the feet of the operator,
who, busily occupied in making Punchinello fight with an officer,
with his hands and eyes both raised as high as possible, and his mind
intensely concentrated upon the work of improvising his burlesque
drama, had no time to notice or to understand what was taking place in
the vicinity of his knees. There remained, therefore, only a single
minute before the denouement of the piece and my own fate together.
“I felt that it would not do to trust my safety to mere chance.
Picking up from the ground two _burattini_, which, by a curious
coincidence with my own circumstances, represented a judge and a
hangman, and rising up as well as I could by the side of the operator,
I placed the marionettes upon the stage, and at the risk of breaking
through the cloth awning of the box, introduced an unexpected scene
into the piece, quite impromptu. This scene had an immense success;
and my associate, without being the least in the world disconcerted,
received it quite as a matter of course, and although extremely
crowded for room, sustained his part of the dialogue with extraordinary
gayety and presence of mind.”
“Wonderful, fantastic Italy!” exclaimed M. Goefle; “nowhere else are
men’s faculties so keen and so ready!”
“My companion,” continued Christian, “was a good deal more penetrating
than you have imagined. He had recognized me; had comprehended my
situation, and had resolved to rescue me.”
“And did he do so?”
“Most effectually: while I was delivering the closing speech to the
public in his stead, he, without saying a word, put an old cap of his
own on my head, flung a tattered red cloak about my shoulders, and
rubbed some ochre on my face. Then, as soon as the curtain had fallen,
he said in my ear:
“‘Goffredi, take the theatre on your back and follow me.’
“And, in fact, we passed through the square in this way, and left the
village without being molested. We travelled all night, and before
daylight had reached the Roman campagna.”
“But who was this devoted friend?”
“It was a young man of good family, one Guido Massarelli, who, like
myself, had run away from the kingdom of Naples. His difficulty was a
less serious one than mine; he had fled only from his creditors. But he
was not so good a fellow as I, Monsieur Goefle, notwithstanding; I give
you my word for it! Still, he was an amiable young man, well educated,
accomplished, and with extremely attractive manners. I had been quite
intimate with him in Naples, where he had wasted his property, and had
made many friends. He was the son of a wealthy merchant, was naturally
well endowed, and had received an excellent education; but, like
myself, he had been too early launched in a society much too expensive
for him; so that he speedily found himself without resources. I had
myself supported him for some time; but as he could not be contented to
live simply, and had not the force of character to work for a living,
he had ended by becoming a swindler.”
“Did you know this?”
“I did, but I could not find it in my heart to reproach him at the
moment when he had saved my life. Like myself, he was in a state of
complete destitution. He had absconded with a few crowns, and with
these had purchased from a mountebank a theatre of marionettes, which
he used not so much to make his living as to hide his face.
“‘This business of mine,’ he said, ‘is a stroke of genius upon my part.
Here I have been for two months rambling about the kingdom of Naples
without being recognized. Perhaps you will ask why I do not go further
away. The reason is, that I have creditors in all parts of Italy; I
shall find them everywhere, unless I go as far as France. Besides, I
had left some little love affairs at Naples that were still pulling at
my heart, and I could not make up my mind to leave the neighborhood.
This light cloth watch-tower keeps me invisible in the midst of the
crowd. While all eyes are fixed upon my _burattini_, no one thinks
of inquiring who the man is that moves them. I go from one neighborhood
to another walking erect inside of my shell, and when I am once out of
it, nobody knows that I am the same person who has been diverting the
public.’
“‘It certainly is a good idea,’ I said; ‘but what do you propose to do
now?’
“‘Whatever you choose,’ he answered; ‘I am so glad to meet you again,
and to be of service to you, that I will go with you wherever you like.
I am more attached to you than I can express. You have always treated
me with indulgence. You are not rich, but you have done much more for
me in proportion than many of my friends who are. You have defended me
when I have been accused; and even while blaming me for my follies,
have always tried to persuade me that I was perfectly able to reform.
I do not know that you are right, but I am sure of this: that for the
sake of pleasing you, I will make one supreme effort, only provided
it be out of Italy; for anywhere in Italy I am lost and dishonored. If
I am to attempt a better life, I must do it in a foreign country, and
under an assumed name.’
“Guido spoke with deep earnestness, and even shed tears. I knew him
to be kind-hearted, and I believed him sincere. Perhaps he was so at
that moment. To tell you the truth, I have always felt very indulgent
towards those who are generous as well as prodigal, and this was the
case with Guido, to my own knowledge. I beg you, however, Monsieur
Goefle, not to suppose that I confound together liberality and selfish
extravagance, although I, too, have been an offender in this respect.
At any rate, I allowed myself to be moved and persuaded by my old
comrade and new friend; so you will please to imagine us within the
territories of the pope, breakfasting frugally together under the shade
of a clump of pine-trees, and arranging a joint plan of operations.
“We were equally destitute; but my situation, though in a legal point
of view more serious than his, was still by no means desperate. It
would have been quite possible for me to have effected my escape
without so much risk, fatigue and suffering. I should only have had
to take refuge outside the city of Naples, with any one of a number
of honorable persons, who had assured me of their friendship, and
who would certainly have believed my word when I described to them
how I had been in some sort forced to kill my cowardly enemy. He was
hated, and I was beloved. I should have been well received, concealed,
properly cared for, and enabled to leave the country in safety under
influential protection. The police, and even the inquisition, can
sometimes be induced to close their eyes when sufficient influence
is exerted. However, I could not bring myself to adopt this plan; I
felt an insurmountable repugnance to it, on account of my poverty, and
the necessity I should have been under of accepting aid at the very
outset. While I was with the cardinal, my salary had been too liberal
to justify me in leaving him empty handed. He himself would certainly
never have suspected how destitute I was. I should have been ashamed
to confess, not that I was without money, for the young men in the
circle I frequented were constantly in a similar condition, but that
I had no prospect of receiving any until I had earned it in some new
employment; and still further, the fact that it would be necessary
for me to live much more sensibly and prudently than I had done in
the past. Upon this latter point I was quite ready to enter into an
engagement with myself; but, under the circumstances, my pride would
not allow me to make promises to others.
“When I explained my situation to Guido Massarelli, he was greatly
astonished at my scruples, and seemed even to feel a sort of contempt
for them. But the more he urged me to apply to my friends in Rome for
assistance, the more repugnant the idea became to me. Perhaps I was
unreasonable about it; but at any rate, while I felt no shame at all
at being reduced to the necessity of eating lupins with my companion
in misfortune, it is certain that I would have died of hunger rather
than go with him to beg a dinner of my old acquaintances. He had so
long abused the efficacy of applications for aid, promises, useless
repentances and artfully contrived narratives, that I should have been
very much afraid of being supposed engaged in a similar course.
“‘We have been foolish,’ I said to him, ‘and we ought to be men enough
to take the consequences. For my part, I have decided to proceed into
France by the way of Genoa, or else into Germany by Venice. I shall
go on foot, and live as I can. As soon as I can reach some large
town outside of Italy, for here I am constantly in danger of falling
into the hands of the Neapolitan police from the least imprudence,
I will look out for some regular employment. I will write to the
cardinal, and justify myself; from my friends I will request letters of
recommendation, and I am confident that, after more or less of poverty
and delay, I shall find some respectable position. If you like to come
with me, come, and I will help you to the best of my ability in doing
as I do--that is, in earning a respectable living by honest work.’
“Guido seemed so perfectly willing, and so well convinced, that I no
longer hesitated to allow myself the enjoyment of an intimacy with him.
In fact, I have often observed that a thorough scoundrel is often one
of the most agreeable of men, and that the most companionable people
are frequently those most destitute of dignity of character. But we
have an absurd sort of conceit that makes us believe that we can exert
an influence over such unfortunates; and when they deceive us, the
fault is as much ours as theirs.
“I make these preliminary reflections so as to avoid interrupting the
account of what followed.
“Our first business was to escape from Italy: in other words, to travel
some hundreds of leagues without a farthing in our pockets. I promised
that I would find the means, asking only for a few days’ rest to enable
my wound to heal, for it was very painful and feverish.
“‘In the meanwhile,’ I said, ‘go and provide for yourself. I will take
a loaf of bread and establish myself under a rock, near a spring. That
ought to be sufficient for a man in a fever. We will appoint some place
of meeting, and I will join you as soon as I can travel.’
“He refused to depart, and devoted himself to taking care of me; and
so much zeal and ingenuity did he display in relieving my pain and
supplying my wants, that I could not help feeling sincerely grateful.
In three days I was upon my feet again, and by this time I had made my
reflections.
“In brief, this was their result. I had come to the conclusion that
we could not do better than to continue our marionette exhibition,
which only required to be made more profitable and less vulgar. We
needed to escape from the everlasting drama of Punchinello, to choose
plots equally simple, but less threadbare; and, taking these for the
groundwork, to improvise together amusing little comedies. Guido had
enough, and to spare, of wit for this sort of work, and instead of
applying himself to it with reluctance and dislike, he saw at once
that, with an agreeable companion, it could be made very amusing. It
is a general rule, by the way, that we cannot entertain other people
when we are bored ourselves. So he readily assisted me to build a
portable theatre in two sections, one of which served each of us as a
shelter, in which we walked, safe from sun, rain, and police-officers;
and which, when joined together by a few hooks, formed a stage large
enough for the manœuvring of our two pairs of hands. I transformed his
wretched _burattini_ into intelligent and well-costumed figures,
and added to them a dozen characters invented by myself. Then, in the
open air, in a solitary wilderness, we made the first trial of our new
theatre.
“The sale of my little devotional images carved out of stone, which
Guido sold about the country to much better advantage than I could have
done, defrayed the humble expenses of this establishment. In about
a week we had advanced so far as to give a dozen representations in
the suburbs of Rome, which had the greatest success, and netted the
fabulous profit of three Roman crowns! This was enough to enable us
to set out on our journey across the deserted regions that separate
the Eternal City from the other provinces of Italy. Guido, who was
delighted at our success, wanted to stay longer at Rome. It is very
true that we might have risked going into the more fashionable quarters
of the city, so as to have attracted the attention of a better class
of society to our little comedies. But that was precisely what I was
afraid of, and what we both needed to be afraid of, considering our
reasons for remaining concealed. I therefore overruled my companion,
and we took the road to Florence, exhibiting, as we went, in the
villages and small towns, to pay our current expenses.
“We went by the way of Perugia, and it was not without a reason
that I preferred this to the Sienna route. I wished to see again my
own beautiful and beloved city, my sweet lake of Thrasymene, and,
most of all, the little villa where I had been so happy. We reached
Bassignano at nightfall. Never had I seen the sun setting in such
luminous splendor in waters so calm and transparent! I left Guido to
establish himself in a small inn, while I went along the shore of the
lake towards the little villa which had formerly been occupied by the
Goffredis.
“In order to avoid being recognized in the neighborhood, I put on a
mask and a harlequin hat, which I had bought at Rome to use in case of
danger. A few parti-colored rags transformed me into a professional
mountebank--a very appropriate character for an exhibitor of
marionettes employed in distributing handbills. The village children,
fancying that I was going to play tricks for their amusement, followed
me with cries of joy, but I drove them away with my wooden sword, and
was soon alone upon the shore.
“The night had come on, but the air was bright, and in the
limpid crystal of the lake, where the lines of the horizon were
indistinguishable in the twilight, I seemed to trace and follow the
immensity of the starry heavens, and to float, like a disembodied
spirit, upon some fantastic similitude of infinity. Ah, Monsieur
Goefle! how strange is life sometimes! And what a strange appearance
did I myself present, in that grotesque costume, seeking about, like
a lost soul, under the shade of the willows, which had grown in my
absence, for the solitary tomb of my poor parents! For a moment I
believed that it had been removed, that they had robbed me of it--for
it was mine--my only possession! With my very last means I had
purchased the little nook of consecrated earth where I had laid their
remains.
“At last, however, I discovered the humble tomb, and, sitting down by
it, and taking off my harlequin’s mask, I wept freely. I remained there
for a good part of the night plunged in reflection, for I desired,
before leaving this spot probably for the last time, to review my life,
to repent of my errors, and to make good resolutions for the future.
Divine grace is no illusion, Monsieur Goefle. I do not know to what
extent you are a Lutheran, and for my part I do not pretend to be very
much of a Catholic. In these days, in fact, nobody believes in very
much of anything, unless it be in the necessity and duty of toleration.
But I believe, in a vague sort of way, in a soul of the world--no
matter by what name you call it--a great soul all love and goodness,
which receives our tears and our aspirations. The philosophers are
just now asserting that it is a platitude to imagine that the Being
of beings will condescend to concern himself with such worms as the
human race. But I say that there is nothing either great or small, in
the sight of Him who is All; and that, in an ocean of Love, there will
always be room to receive with kindness one poor little human tear.
“Accordingly I instituted an examination of my conscience over that
tomb; and, in the rain of soft light which fell upon me from the quiet
stars, I fancied that the two beings whom I had loved as a father and
mother, must surely be sending at least one ray to find me out and
bless me. I felt that between me and them there was neither crime,
shame, cowardice, nor impiety. I had never forgotten them for a single
day; and, in the very midst of my dissipations, whenever the demon of
youth and curiosity had urged me towards the deeper abysses of this
vicious and unbelieving world, I had always drawn back and protected
myself by invoking the memories of Silvio and Sophia.
“To have avoided evil, however, was not enough; it was my duty to
do well. Well-doing is a task which varies with the position and
capabilities of each one of us. My own duty was, to continue the labors
of Silvio Goffredi, and to accumulate the means of writing out and
publishing the results of his researches. For this it would have been
necessary, in the first place, to acquire quite a fortune, in order
to complete his travels. I had at first thought of doing this, but my
inexperience, the pleasures of the senses, and bad examples, had led me
on, from day to day, in a life like that of a mere adventurer. It was
this reckless course which had resulted in my ruin. If I had remained
contented with the appropriate position of a modest professor, I should
not have been obliged to kill Marco Melfi. He would never have thought
of insulting me; indeed, he would not have met me in the cardinal’s
saloons. He would not have searched me out in my study among my
books--he would not even have known that I existed. I had tried to play
the gentleman, and had been obliged to become a bully.
“‘How my poor mother would have wept!’ I thought to myself, ‘to have
seen me transformed into a strolling mountebank, bruising, on the
stones of the pavement, the feet that she used to warm in her own
hands before putting me in my cradle! And would not my father have
disapproved of the false sense of honor which had made me a murderer
and an outcast?’
“I remembered the quick sensibilities and scrupulous pride of the noble
Silvio, and yet he could not manage a sword, and had refused to allow
me a fencing-master. ‘A man’s honor,’ he used to say, ‘must be very
frail, if he could not make himself respected without having a sword
dangling at his side.’
“By the memory of these dear and holy friends I took an oath to amend
my faults; and, after gazing for a long time at the heavens, where
I imagined them reunited in some happy star, I returned at once
to the village, without caring any longer to go in search of the
_villetta_. Why should I have gone there to indulge in barren
regrets? It was not to enable me to live in idleness that Goffredi
had bequeathed it to me. He must needs have blessed me, even from his
tomb, for alienating the property, and expending his whole fortune in
solacing the last days of his widow. But when that was done, I ought
to have labored all the harder, instead of acting as if one small
act of devotion to my family had given me a right to go and live in
dissipation at the tables of idlers.
“On the shore of the lake I met Guido Massarelli; my long absence had
made him uneasy, and he was coming to look for me. I opened my heart to
him, and he seemed to be greatly touched by my emotion. We sat down in
a boat moored to the shore, and talked sentiment, ethics, philosophy,
metaphysics, astronomy, and poetry, until the day began to dawn. Guido
possessed a very noble intellect. And, indeed, this strange anomaly
occurs in the case of many worthless characters, as if to make us doubt
the validity of God’s own logic.
“Next day we were on the road again, and some days later were
attracting a crowd on the Piazza del Palazzo Vecchio, at Florence. Our
receipts were excellent. If we had chosen, we could have travelled to
Genoa by wagon. We preferred to walk, however, although our loads,
continually augmented by additional figures and scenery, had become
very heavy.
“At Genoa, further success, and extraordinary receipts. We became
such favorites that we were unable to comply even with the private
engagements that were offered us. At first we had simply amused the
common people, who gathered on the public square; but passers-by of
higher rank had chanced to stop before our booth, and we could not
resist the temptation of elevating our dialogue on the occasion to a
correspondingly higher intellectual level.
“This was observed, and was spoken of in society. One of these casual
listeners was a Marquis Spinola, who invited us to his house to amuse
his children. We went masked, as usual, for we made our incognito an
express condition of appearing. Our theatre was erected in the garden,
and we had for an audience the best and most brilliant society of the
city.
“For days afterwards, we knew not which way to turn. Our
representations were in the greatest demand, and Guido demanded
extremely high prices, which were conceded without hesitation. The
mystery with which we surrounded ourselves, the pains we took to remain
masked outside of our theatre, and the fantastic names we had assumed,
added, no doubt, to our popularity. Every one readily guessed that we
were two young men of good family; but while some guessed, also, that
it was our own follies that had forced us to become wandering showmen,
others tried to persuade themselves that we had adopted this employment
merely for our amusement, and on a wager. Some went so far as to insist
upon it that we were two young men of the city, who, as we learned
later, were very well pleased with the imputation.
“At Nice, at Toulon, everywhere until we reached Marseilles, our
progress was a series of triumphs. As we travelled slowly, our fame
preceded us, and at every inn where we stopped we heard that persons
had already come to inquire after us, and to engage our evenings.
“From Marseilles our success diminished steadily, until we reached
Paris. My knowledge of the French language was thorough; and, as I
improved daily, I soon freed myself from the Italian accent which had
prevented me at first from giving sufficient variety to the intonations
of my actors. But Guido’s accent, which was much more pronounced than
mine, seemed to become stronger rather than otherwise, and our dialogue
suffered in consequence. This, however, scarcely troubled me at all.
Our career as professional buffoons was approaching an end, and I
flattered myself that I should soon be able to command a more dignified
position.”
[Footnote 5: This is still true, in a great measure. During the last,
and in the beginning of this century, the works of the middle ages were
regarded with general contempt.]