CHAPTER XIV. THE ACCIDENTS OF 'ARTIST' LIFE

An autumnal night, in all its mellow softness, was just closing in upon the Lungo l'Arno of Florence. Toward the east and south the graceful outlines of San Miniato, with its tall cypresses, might be seen against the sky, while all the city, which lay between, was wrapped in deepest shadow. It was the season of the Ville-giatura, when the great n.o.bles are leading country lives; still the various bridges, and the quays at either side of the river, were densely crowded with people. The denizens of the close and narrow streets came forth to catch the faint breath of air that floated along the Arno. Seated on benches and chairs, or gathered in little knots and groups, the citizens seemed to enjoy this hour _al fresco_ with a zest only known to those who have basked in the still and heated atmosphere of a southern climate. Truly, no splendid salon, in all the gorgeous splendour of its gildings, ever presented a spot so luxurious as that river-side, while the fresh breeze came, borne along the water's track from the snow clad heights of Vallombrosa, gathering perfume as it came. No loud voices, no boisterous mirth disturbed the delicious calm of the enjoyment, but a low murmur of human sounds, attuned as it were to the gentle ripple of the pa.s.sing stream, and here and there a light and joyous laugh, were only heard. At the Pont St. Trinita and immediately below it the crowd was densest, attracted, not impossibly, by the lights and movement that went on in a great palace close by, the only one of all those on the Arno that showed signs of habitation. Of the others the owners were absent; but here, through the open windows, might be seen figures pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing, and at times the sounds of music heard from within. With that strange sympathy--for it is not all curiosity--that attracts people to watch the concourse of some gay company, the ebb and flow of intercourse, the crowd gazed eagerly up at the windows, commenting on this or that personage as they pa.s.sed, and discussing together what they fancied might form the charm of such society.

The faint tinkling of a guitar in the street beneath, and the motion of the crowd, showed that some sort of street performance had attracted attention; and soon the balcony of the palace was thronged with the gay company, not sorry, as it seemed, to have this pretext for loitering in the free night air. To the brief prelude of the guitar a roll of the drum succeeded, and then, when silence had been obtained, might be heard the voice of an old, infirm man, announcing a programme of the entertainment. First of all--and by 'torch-light, if the respectable public would vouchsafe the expense'--The adventures of Don Callemaoho among the Moors of Barbary; his capture, imprisonment, and escape; his rescue of the Princess of Cordova, with their shipwreck afterward on the island of Ithica: the whole ill.u.s.trated with panoramic scenery, accompanied by music, and expressed by appropriate dialogue and dancing.

The declamation to be delivered by a youth of consummate genius--the action to be enunciated by a Signorina of esteemed merit. 'I do not draw attention to myself, nor to the gifts of that excellent lady who presides over the drum,' continued he. 'Enough that Naples has seen, Venice praised, Rome applauded us.

We have gathered laurels at Milan; wreathed flowers have fallen on us at Mantua; our pleasant jests have awoke laughter in the wild valleys of Calabria; our pathos has dimmed many an eye in the gorgeous halls of Genoa; princes and contadini alike have shared in the enjoyment of our talents; and so, with your favour, may each of you, _Gentilissimi Signori_.'

Whether, however, the 'intelligent public' was not as affluent as it was gifted, or that, to apply the ancient adage, 'Le jeu ne valait pas la chandelle,' but so was it, that the old man had twice made the tour of the circle without obtaining a single quatrino.

'At Bologna, _O Signori_, they deemed this representation worthy of wax-light. We gave it in the Piazza before two thousand spectators, who, if less great or beautiful than those we see here, were yet bountiful in their generosity! Sound the drum, _comare mia_ said he, addressing the old woman, 'and let the spirit-rousing roll inspire heroic longings.

A blast of the tromb, _figlio mio_ will set these n.o.ble hearts high-beating for a tale of chivalry.' The deafening clamour of drum and trumpet resounded through the air, and came back in many an echo from across the Arno; but, alas! they awoke no responsive sympathies in the audience, who probably having deemed that the spectacle might be partly gratuitous, showed already signs of thinning away. 'Are you going, _Ill.u.s.trissimi Signori_, cried he, more energetically, 'going without one view, one pa.s.sing glance at the castle on the Guadalquivir, with its court of fountains, all playing and splashing like real water; going without a look at the high-p.o.o.ped galleon, as she sailed forth at morn, with the banner of the house of Callemacho waving from the mast, while the signal guns are firing a salute, the high cliffs of Carthagena reverberating with the sound? 'A loud 'bom' from the drum gave testimony to the life-like reality of the description. 'Going,' screamed he, more eagerly still, 'without witnessing the palace of the Moorish king, lit up at night--ten thousand lanterns glittering along its marble terraces, while strains of soft music fill the air? A gentle melody, _figlio mio_, whispered he to the boy beside him.

'Let them go, in the devil's name!' broke out the old woman, whose harsh accents at once proclaimed our old acquaintance Donna Gaetana.

'What says she--what says the Donna?' cried three or four of the crowd in a breath.

'She says that we 'll come back in the daylight, Signori,' broke in the old man, in terror, 'and sing our native songs of Calabria, and show our native dances. We know well, O gentle public, that poor ignorant creatures like ourselves are but too rash to appear before you great Florentines, citizens of Michel Angelo, dwellers with Benvenuto, companions of Boccaccio!'

'And not a quatrino among ye!' yelled out the old hag, with a laugh of scorn.

A wild cry of anger burst from the crowd, who, breaking the circle, now rushed in upon the strollers.

In vain the Babbo protested, explained, begged, and entreated. He declared the company to be the highest, the greatest, the richest, he had ever addressed; himself and his companions the vilest and least worthy of humanity. He a.s.severated in frantic tones his belief, that from the hour when he should lose their favour no fortune would ever attend on him, either in this world or the next.

But of what avail was it that he employed every eloquence at his command, while the Donna, with words of insult, and gestures more offensive still, reviled the 'base rabble,' and with all the virulence of her coa.r.s.e nature hurled their poverty in their teeth?

'Famished curs!' cried she. 'How would ye have a _soldo_, when your n.o.bles dine on parched beans, and drink the little sour wine of Ponteseive?'

A kick from a strong foot, that sent it through the parchment of the drum with a loud report, answered this insolent taunt, and gave the signal for a general attack. Down went the little wooden edifice, which embodied the life and fortunes of the Don and the fair Princess of Cordova; down went the Babbo himself over it, amid a crash of properties, that created a yell of laughter in the mob. All the varied insignia of the cunning craft, basins and bladders, juggling sticks, hoops, and baskets, flew right and left, in wild confusion. Up to this time Gerald had witnessed the wreck unmoved, his whole care being to keep the crowd from pressing too rudely upon Marietta, who clung to him for protection. Indeed, the frantic struggles of old Gaetana, as she laid about her with her drum-sticks, had already provoked the youth's laughter, when, at a cry from the girl, he turned quickly around.

'Here's the Princess herself, I 'll be sworn,' said a coa.r.s.e-looking fellow, as, seizing Marietta's arm, he tried to drag her forward.

With a blow of his clenched fist Gerald sent him reeling back, and then, drawing the short scimitar which he wore as part of his costume, he swept the s.p.a.ce in front of him, while he grasped the girl with his other arm. So unlooked-for a defiance seemed for an instant to unman the mob, but the next moment a shower of missiles, the fragments of old Babbo's fortune, were showered upon them. Had he been a.s.sailed by wild beasts, Gerald's a.s.sault could not have been more wildly daring: he cut on every side, hurling back those that rushed in upon him, and even trampling them beneath his feet.

Bleeding and bruised, half-blinded, too, by the blood that flowed from a wound on his forehead, the youth still held his ground, not a word escaping him, not a cry; while the reviling of the mob filled the air around. At last, shamed at the miserable odds that had so long resisted them, the rabble, with a wild yell of vengeance, rushed forward in a ma.s.s, and though some of the foremost fell covered with blood, the youth was dashed to the ground, all eagerly pressing to trample on and crush him.

'Over the parapet with him! Into the Arno with them both!' cried the mob.

'Stand back, ye cowardly crew!' shouted a loud, strong voice, and a powerful man, with a heavy bludgeon in his hand, burst through the crowd, felling all that opposed him; a throng of livery servants armed in the same fashion followed; and the mob, far more in number though they were, shrank back abashed from the sight of one whose rank and station might exact a heavy vengeance.

'It is the Principe. It is the Conte himself,' muttered one or two, as they stole off, leaving in a few moments the s.p.a.ce cleared of all, save the wounded and those who had come to the rescue. If the grief of Donna Gaetana was loudest, the injuries of poor Gerald were the gravest there.

A deep cut had laid open his forehead, another had cleft his shoulder, while a terrible blow of a stone in the side made his respiration painful in the extreme.

'Safe, _Marietta mia_; art safe?' whispered he, as she a.s.sisted him to rise. 'My poor boy,' said the Count compa.s.sionately; 'she is safe, and owes it all to you. You behaved n.o.bly, lad. The Don himself, with all his Cast.i.tian blood, could not show a more courageous front.'

Gerald looked at the speaker, and whether at the tone of his voice, or that the words seemed to convey an unseemly jest at such a moment, he flushed till his cheek was crimson, and drawing himself up said: 'And who are you? or by what right do you p.r.o.nounce upon _my_ blood?'

'_Gherardi mio, caro fratellino_,' whispered the girl. 'It was he that saved us, and he is a Prince!'

'For the first, I thank him,' said the youth. 'As to his rank, it is his own affair and not mine.'

'Well spoken, faith!' said the n.o.ble. 'I tell thee, Giorgio,' added he to a friend at his side, 'poets may well feel proud, when they see how the very utterance of their n.o.ble sentiments engenders n.o.ble thoughts.

Look at that tatterdemalion, and think how came he by such notions.'

The abject expression of Babbo's grat.i.tude, and the far more demonstrative enunciations of old Gaetana's misery, here interrupted the colloquy. In glowing terms she pictured the calamity that had befallen them--a disaster irreparable for evermore. Never again would human ingenuity construct such mechanism as that which ill.u.s.trated Don Callemacho's life. The conjuring tools, too, were masterpieces, not to be replaced; and as to the drum, no contrivance of mere wood and ram-skin ever would give forth such sounds again.

'Who knows, worthy Donna?' said the Count, with a grave half-smile.

'Your own art might teach you, that even the great drama of antiquity has its imitators--some say superiors--in our day.

'I 'd say so for one!' cried Gerald, wiping the blood from his face.

'Would you so, indeed!' asked the Count.

'That would I, so long as glorious Alfieri lives,' said Gerald resolutely.

'What hast thou read of thy favourite poet, boy?' asked the Count.

'What have I not?--the Saul, the Agamemnon, Oreste, Maria Stuart.'

'Ah, Signor Principe, you should hear him in Oreste,' broke in Gaetana; 'and he plays a solo on the trombone after the second act: he sets every a.s.s in the Campagna a-braying, when he comes to one part. Do it, _Gherardi mio_; do it for his Highness. _Oh me!_ we have no trombone left us,' and she burst out into a torrent of grief.

'Take these people to the inn at the Porta Rossa,' said the Count to one of his servants. 'Let them be well cared for and attended to. Fetch a surgeon to see this boy. _Adio_, my friends. I 'll come and see you to-morrow, when you are well rested and refreshed.'

In a boisterous profusion of thanks, old Babbo and the Donna uttered their grat.i.tude, while Gerald and Marietta kissed their benefactor's hand, and moved on.

'He's a n.o.ble Signor,' muttered old Gaetana; 'and I'd swear by the accent of his words he is no Florentine.'

'Thou art right for once, old lady,' said the servant, as he led the way; 'he's of the north, and the best blood of Piedmont.'

CHAPTER XV. A TUSCAN POLICE COURT

Long before their generous patron had awoke the following morning, the little company of Babbo were standing as prisoners in the dread presence of the Prefetto. Conducted by a detachment of the carabinieri, and secured with manacles enough to have graced the limbs of galley-slaves, the _vagabonds_ as they were politely called, were led along through the streets, amid the jokes and mockeries of a very unsympathising public.

Tuscan justice, we are informed by competent authority, has not made, either in its essence or externals, any remarkable progress since the time we are now speaking of. The same ruinous old edifice stands the Temple of Justice; the same dirt and squalor disgraces its avenues and approaches; the same filthy mob beset the doors--a ragged mob, in whose repulsive features a smashed decalogue is marked, amid whom, in hot and eager haste, are seen some others, a shadow better in dress, but more degraded still in look--the low advocates of these courts, 'Cavallochi,'

as they are styled--a cla.s.s whose lives of ignominy and subornation would comprise almost every known species of rascality. By these men are others goaded on and stimulated to prefer claims against the well-to-do and respectable; by them are charges devised, circ.u.mstances invented, perjuries provided, at the shortest notice. They have their company of false witnesses ready for any accusation--no impugnment upon their credit being the fact that they live by perjury, and have no other subsistence.

Meet president of such a court was the scowling, ill-dressed, and ill-favoured fellow who, with two squalid clerks at his side, sat judge of the tribunal. A few swaggering carabinieri, with their carbines on their arms, moved in and out of the court, buffeting the crowd with rude gestures, and deporting themselves like masters of the ign.o.ble herd around them. By these, as it seemed--for all was mere conjecture here--were the cases chosen for adjudication, the selection of the particular charges being their especial province. Elbowing their way through the filthy corridors, where accusers and accused were inextricably mingled--the prisoner, and the plaintiff, and the witness all jammed up together, and not unfrequently discussing the vexed question to be tried with all the virulence of partisans--the carabiniere makes his choice among these, aided, not impossibly, by a stimulant, which in Italy has its agency throughout all ranks and gradations of men.

In this vile a.s.semblage of all that was degrading and wretched our poor strollers were now standing, their foreign aspect and their t.i.tle of vagabonds obtaining for them a degree of notice the reverse of flattering. Sarcastic remarks upon their looks, their means of life, and, stranger still, their poverty, abounded; and these from a mob whose gaunt and famished faces and tattered rags bespoke the last stage of dest.i.tution.

The Babbo, indeed, was a picture of abject misery; bankrupt was written on every line of his poor old face, through which the paint of forty years blended with the sickly hues of hunger and fear. He turned upon the bystanders a glance of mild entreaty, however, that in a less cruel company could not have failed to meet some success. Not so Donna Gaetana: _her_ stare was an open defiance, and even through her bleared eyes there shot sparks of fiery pa.s.sion that seemed only in search of a fitting object for their attack.

As for Gerald--his head bound up in a b.l.o.o.d.y rag, his arm in a sling, and his face pale as death--he might have disarmed the malice of sarcasm, had it not been that he held his arm clasped close round Marietta's waist, and even thus, in all his misery, seemed to a.s.sert that he was her protector and defender. This was alone sufficient to afford scope for mockery and derision, the fairer portion of the audience distinguishing themselves by the pungent sharpness of their criticisms; and Marietta's swarthy skin, her tinsel ragged-ness, and her wild, bold eyes, came in for their share of bitter commentary.

'What a brazen-faced minx it is!' cried one.