A Jay of Italy

by Bernard Edward Joseph Capes

  *CHAPTER XXV*

  '_That being dead yet speaketh_'

  Through the chiming stars, the romp of wind in woods, the gush of springfreshets, the cheery drone of bees; through all happy gales--of innocentfrolic, of children's laughter, of sighing, unharmful passion, of joyand gaiety ungrudging; through the associations of his gentle spiritwith these, the things it had loved, whereby, by those who had listenedand could not altogether forget, came gradually to be vindicated thetruth of his kind religion, Bernardo's voice, though grown a phantomvoice, spoke on and echoed down the ages. Sweet babble at the hill-head,it was yet the progenitor of the booming flood which came to take theworld with knowledge--knowledge of its own second redemption through thehumanity which is born of Nature. Already Art, life's nurse and tutor,was, unknown to itself, quickening from the embrace of clouds andsunlight and tender foliage; while, unconscious of the strange destiniesin its womb, it was scorning and reviling the little priest who hadbrought about that union.

  And, alas! it is always so. Nor profit nor credit are ever to thepioneer who opens out the countries which are to yield his followersboth.

  He perished very soon. Its third night of darkness and starvation sawthe passing of that fragile spirit, gentle, innocuous, uncomplaining asit had lived. Frail as a bird that dies of the shock of capture, hebroke his heart upon a song.

  I would have no gloomy obsequies attend his fate. In tears, andstrewing of flowers, and pretty plaintive dirges of the fields--in sighsand lutes of love, such as waited on the sweet Fidele, would I have yehonour him. Not because I would belittle that piercing tragedy, butbecause he would. It was none to him. He but turned his face for home,sorrowing only for his failure to win to his Christ, his comrade, akingdom he should never have the chance to influence again. What had heelse to fear? The star that had mothered, the road that had sped him?All grass and flowers was the latter; of the first, a fore-ray seemedalready to have pierced the darkness of his cell, linking it to heaven.

  '"Let's sing him to the ground." "I cannot sing; I'll weep, and word it with thee; For notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse Than priests and fanes that lie."'

  Bring hither, I say, no passion of a vengeful hate. It is the passingof a rose in winter.

  At near the end, lying in his Fool's arms, he panted faintly:--

  'My feet are weary for the turning. Pray ye, kind mother, that thisroad end soon.'

  'What! shall I hurry mine own damnation?' gurgled the other (his tongueby then was clacking in his mouth). 'Trippingly, I warrant, shall yetake that path, unheeding of the poor wretch that lags a million milesbehind lashed by a storm of scorpions.'

  'Marry, sweet,' whispered the boy, smiling; 'I'll wait thee, never fear,when once I see my way. How could I forego such witness as thou to mybrave intentions? We'll jog the road together, while I shield thy back.'

  'Well, let be,' said Cicca. 'Better they stung that, than my heartthrough thine arm'--whereat Bernardo nipped him feebly in an ecstasy oftears.

  In the first hours of their fearful doom he was more full of wonder thanalarm--astounded, in the swooning sense. He had not come yet to realisethe mortal nature of their punishment. How should he, innocent of harm?Attributing, as he did, this sudden blow to Bona, he marvelled only howso kind a mother could chastise so sharply for a little offence--ornone. Indeed he was conscious of none; though conscious enough,latterly, poor child, of an atmosphere of grievance. Well, theprovocation had been his, no doubt--somehow. He had learned enough ofwoman in these months to know that the measure of her resentment was notalways the measure of the fault--how she would sometimes stab deeper fora disappointment than for a wrong. He had disappointed her in some way.No doubt, his favour being so high, he had presumed upon it. A usefulrebuke, then. He would bear his imposition manly; but he hoped, he didhope, that not too much of it would be held to have purged hismisconduct. The Duke was returning shortly. Perhaps he would plead forhim.

  So sweetly and so humbly he estimated his own insignificance. Could hisfoul slanderers have read his heart then, they had surely raved uponGod, in their horror, to strike them, instant and for ever, from therolls of self-conscious existence.

  Cicada listened to him, and gnawed his knotted knuckles in the gloom,and wondered when and how he should dare to curse him with the truth.He might at least have spared himself that agony. The truth, to one sotrue, could not long fail of revealing itself. And when it came, lo! hewelcomed it, as always, for a friend.

  Small birds, small flowers, small wants perish of a little neglect. Hissun, his sustenance, were scarce withheld a few hours from thissensitive plant before he began to droop. And ever, with the fading ofhis mortal tissues, the glow of the intelligence within seemed to growbrighter, until verily the veins upon his temples appeared to stand out,like mystic writing on a lighted porcelain lamp.

  So it happened that, as he and his companion were sitting apart on thefilthy stones late on the noon of the second day of their imprisonment,he ended a long silence by creeping suddenly to the Fool's knees, and,looking up into the Fool's face in the dim twilight, appealed to itsdespair with a tremulous smile.

  'Cicca,' he whispered, 'my Cicca; wilt thou listen, and not befrightened?'

  'To what?' muttered the other hoarsely.

  'Hush, dear!' said the boy, fondling him, and whimpering--not forhimself. 'I have been warned--some one hath warned me--that it werewell if we fed not our hearts with delusive hopes of release herefrom.'

  'Why not?' said the Fool. 'It is the only food we are like to have.'

  'Ah!'

  He clung suddenly to his friend in a convulsion of emotion.

  'You have guessed? It is true. Capello. We might have known, beinghere; but--O Cicca! are you sorry? We have an angel with us--he spoke tome just now.'

  'Christ?'

  'Yes, Christ, dearest.'

  The Fool, smitten to intolerable anguish, put him away, and, scramblingto his feet, went up and down, raving and sobbing:--

  'The vengeance of God on this wicked race! May it fester in madness,living; and, dead, go down to torment so unspeakable, that----'

  The boy, sprung erect, white and quivering, struck in:--

  'Ah, no, no! Think who it is that hears thee!'

  Cicada threw himself at his feet, pawing and lamenting:--

  'Thou angel! O, woe is me! that ever I were born to see this thing!'

  So they subsided in one grief, rocking and weeping together.

  'O, sweet!' gasped the boy--'that ever I were born to bring this thingon thee!'

  Then, at that, the Fool wrapped him in his arms, adoring and fondlinghim, to a hurry of sighs and broken exclamations.

  'On me!--Child, that I am thought worthy!--too great a joy--mightst havebeen alone--yet did I try to save thee--heaven's mercy that, failing, Iam involved!'

  And so, easing himself for the first time, in an ecstasy of emotion hetold all he knew about the fatal ring, and his efforts to recover it.

  Bernardo listened in wonder.

  'This ring!' he whispered at the end. 'Right judgment on me for mywicked negligence. Why, I deserve to die. Yet--' he clung a littlecloser--'Cicca,' he thrilled, 'it is the Duke, then, hath committed usto this?'

  Cicada moaned, beating his forehead:--

  'Ay, ay! it is the Duke. So I kill thy last hope!'

  'Nay, thou reviv'st it.'

  'How?' He stared, holding his breath.

  'O, my dear!' murmured the boy rapturously; 'since thou acquittest _her_of this unkindness.'

  'Her? Whom? _Unkindness!_' cried the Fool. 'Expect nothing of Bonabut acquiescence in thy fate.'

  'Yet is she guiltless of designing it.'

  'Guiltless? Ay, guiltless as she who, raving, "that my shame shouldbear this voice and none to silence it!" accepts the hired midwife'sword that her womb hath dropped dead fruit! O!' he mourned mostbitterly, 'I loved thee, and I love; yet now, I swear
I wish thee dead!'

  'Then, indeed, thou lovest me.'

  'Had it come to this, in truth?'

  'Alas! I know not what you mean. My mother is my mother still.'

  'Thy mother! I am thy mother.'

  'Ah!' Laughing and weeping, he caught the gruff creature in hisarms:--'Cicca, that sweet, fond comedy!'

  The other put him away again, but very gently, and rose to his feet.

  'Comedy?' he muttered; 'ay, a comedy--true--a masque of clowns. YetI've played the woman for thy sake.'

  Bernardo stared at him, his face twitching.

  'Thou hast, dear--so tragically--and in that garb! I would I could haveseen thee in it. O! a churl to laugh, dear Cicca; but----'

  'But what?'

  '_Thou_, a woman!'

  He fell into a little irresistible chuckle. Strange wafts of tears andlaughter seemed to sing in the drowsy chambers of his brain.

  '_Thou_ a woman!' he giggled hysterically.

  The Fool gave a sudden cry.

  'Why not? Have I betrayed my child?'

  He turned, as if sore stricken, and went up and down, up and down,wringing his hands and moaning.

  Suddenly he came and threw himself on his knees before the boy, but awayfrom him, and knelt there, rocking and protesting, his face in hishands.

  'Ah! let me be myself at last. That disguise--thou mockest--'twas none.Worn like a fool--mayhap--unpractised--yet could I have kissed itsskirted hem. I am a woman, though a Fool--what's odd in that?--a woman,dear, a woman, a woman!'

  He bowed himself, lower, lower, as if his shame were crushing him. Inthe deep silence that followed, Bernardo, trembling all through, crept afoot nearer, and paused.

  'Mother?' cried the Fool, still crouching, his head deeper abased; 'noname for me. Cry on--cry scorn, in thy hunger, on this lying dam! Nodrop to cool thy drought in all her withered pastures.'

  He writhed, and struck his chest, in pain intolerable.

  'Mother!' thrilled the boy, loud and sudden.

  The Fool gave a quick gasp, and started, and shrunk away.

  'Not I. Keep off! I am as Filippo made me--after his own image. Hewas a God--could name me man or woman. 'Twas but a word; and lo! toohideous for my sex, I leapt, his male Fool. That, of all jests, was hisfirst. He spared me for it. I had been strangled else.'

  'Mother!'

  Again that moving, rapturous cry,

  'No, no!' cried the Fool. 'Barren--barren--no woman, even! Still asGod wrought me, and human taste condemned. Let be. Forget what I said.Let me go on and serve thee--sexless--only to myself confessing, notthou awarding. I ask no more, nor sweeter--O my babe, my babe!'

  'Mother!'

  'Hush! break not my heart--not yet. This darkness? Speak it once more.Why, I might be beautiful. Will you think it--will you, letting me plyyou with my conscious sweets? I could try. I've studied in themarkets. Your starving rogue's the best connoisseur of savours. I'llnot come near you--only sigh and soothe. I'll tune myself to speak sosoft--school myself out of your knowledge. Perchance, God helping, youshall think me fair.'

  'Mother!'

  Once more--and he was in her arms.

  Surely the loveliest miracle that could have blossomed in that grave--abreaking of roses from the pilgrim's dead staff!

  Henceforth Bernardo's path was rapture--a song of love andjubilance--his spirit flamed and trembled out in song.

  They had spared him his lute; and his fingers, strong in their instinctto the last, were seldom long parted from its strings. He lay much inhis Fool mother's lap; and one had scarcely known when their conversemelted into music, or out of music into speech, so melodious was theirlove, so rapt their soul-union, and so triumphant over pain anddarkness, as to evoke of fell circumstance its own balm-breathing,illuminating spirits. What was this horror of bleak, black burial, whenat a word, a struck chord, one could see it quiver and break into agarden of splendid fancies!

  Once only was their dying exaltation recalled to earth--to consciousnessof their near escape from all its hate and squalor. It happened in amoment; and so shall suffer but a moment's record.

  There came a sudden laugh and flare--and there was Tassino, torch inhand, looking from the grate above.

  'Ehi, Messer Bembo!' yapped the cur; 'art there? And I here? What doesomnipotence in this reverse? Arise, and prove thyself. Lucia's dead;the Duke's returned; Milan is itself again. The memory of thee rots inthe gutter; and stinks--fah! I go to the Duchess soon. What message toher, bastard of an Abbot?'

  The boy raised his head.

  'The season's, Tassino,' he whispered, smiling. 'Peace and goodwill.'

  The filthy creature mouthed and snarled.

  'Ay. Most sweet. I'll wait thine agony, though, before I give it.She'll cry, then; and I shall be by; and, look you, emotion is themother of desire. I'll pillow her upon thy corpse, bastard, and quickenher with new lust of wickedness. She'll never have loved me more. God!what a use for a saint!'

  Cicada crawled, and rose, from under her sweet burden.

  'Wait,' she hissed; 'the grate's open. A strong leap, and I have him.'

  An idle threat; but enough to make the whelp start, and clap to thebars, and fly screaming.

  The Fool returned, panting, to her charge.

  'Forget him,' she said.

  'I have forgotten him, my mother. But his lie----'

  'Yes?'

  'Was it a lie?'

  'About Bona? I am a woman now. I'll answer nothing for my sex.'

  'I'll answer for her. About my father, I meant?'

  'As thou'lt answer for her, so will I for him.'

  Bernardo sighed, and lay a long while silent. Suddenly he moaned in herarms, like a child over-tired, and spoke the words already quoted:--'Myfeet are weary for the turning.'

  'Death is Love's seed--a sweet child quickened of ourselves. He comesto us, his pink hands full of flowers. "See, father, see, mother," sayshe, "the myrtles and the orange blooms which made fragrant your bridalbed. I am their fruit--the full maturity of Love's promise. Will you notkiss your little son, and come with him to the wise gardens where heripened? 'Tis cold in this dark room!"'

  So, in such rhapsodies, 'in love with tuneful death,' would he oftenmurmur, or melt, through them, into song as strange.

  'Love and Forever would wed Fearless in Heaven's sight. Life came to them and said, "Lease ye my house of light!"

  He put them on earth to bed, All in the noonday bright: "Sooth," to Forever Love said, "Here may we prosper right."

  Sudden, day waned and fled: Truth saw Forever in night. "We are deceived," he said; "Who shall pity our plight?"

  Death, winging by o'erhead, Heard them moan in affright. "Hold by my hem," he said; "I go the way to light."'

  All the last day Cicada held him in her arms, so quiet, so motionless,that the gradual running down of his pulses was steadily perceptible toher. She felt Death stealing in, like a ghostly dawn--watched itsgrowing glimmer with a fierce, hard-held agony. Once, before theirscrap of daylight failed them, she stole her wrist to her mouth, and bitat it secretly, savagely, drawing a sluggish trickle of red. She hadthought him sunk beyond notice of her; and started, and hid away thewound, as he put up a gentle, exhausted arm, detaining hers.

  'Sting'st thyself, scorpion?'

  Cicada gave a thick crow--merciful God! it was meant for a laugh--andbegan to screak and mumble some legend of a bird that, in difficulttimes, would bleed itself to feed its young--a most admirable lessonfrom Nature. The child laughed in his turn--poor little croupymirth--and answered with a story: how the right and left hands once hada dispute as to which most loved and served the other, each assertingthat he would cut himself off in proof of his devotion. Which beingimpracticable, it was decided that the right should sever the left, andthe left the right; whereof the latter stood the test first without awince. But, lo! when it came to the left's turn, there was
no righthand to carve him.

  'Anan?' croaked Cicada sourly.

  'Why,' said Bernardo, 'we will exchange the wine of our veins, if youlike, to prove our mutual devotion; but, if I suck all thine first,there will be no suck left in thy lips to return the compliment on me.'

  'Need'st not take all; but enough to handicap thee, so that we startthis backward journey on fair terms.'

  'Nay, it were so sweet, I 'd prove a glutton did I once begin. Cicca?'

  'My babe?'

  'Canst thou see Christ?'

  'Ay, in the white mirror of thy face.'

  'I see Him so plain. He stands behind thee now--a boy, mine own age.Nay, He puts His finger on His sweet lips, and smiles and goes."Naughty," that means: "shall I stay to hear thee flatter me?" Heblushes, like a boy, to be praised. He's gone no further than the wall.Cicca, thy disguise was deep. I never thought thee beautiful before.O, what an unkind mother, to hide her beauty from her boy!'

  'Am I beautiful?'

  'Dost not know it? As the moon that rises on the night. It was nightjust now, and my soul was groping in the dark; and, lo! of a sudden thouwert looking down.'

  'Let it be night, I say!'

  'What is that in thy voice? I am so happy--always; only not when Ithink of Carlo. My dear, dear Carlo! Alas! what have they done withhim? He will often think of us, and wonder where we are, and frown andgnaw his lip. If I could but hear him speak once more--cry "Bernardo!"in that voice that made one's eyeballs crack like glass, and tickle intheir veins. O, my sweet Carlo! Mother, have I failed in everything?'

  'Let be! Thou'lt kill me with thy prattle. Thy Christ remains behind.He'll see thy seed is honoured in its fruits.'

  'Well, wilt thou kiss me good-night? I'm sleepy.'

  He seemed to doze a good deal after that. But, about midnight, it mightbe, he suddenly sat up, and was singing strongly to his lute--a sweet,unearthly song, of home-returning and farewell. Cicada clung and heldhim, held to him, pierced all through with the awful rapture of thatmoment.

  'Leave me not: wait for me!' she whispered, sobbing.

  Suddenly, in a vibrating pause, a faint far cry was wafted to theirears:--

  'Bernardo! Bernardo!'

  The fingers tumbled on the lute, plucking its music into a tangle ofwild discords. A string snapped.

  'Carlo!' he screamed--'it is Carlo!'

  The cry leapt, and fell, and eddied away in a long rosary of echoes.The Fool fumbled for his lips with hers.

  But who might draw death from that sweet frozen spring!

  She feared nothing now but that they would come and take him fromher--snarled, holding him, when her one sick glint of day stole in tocross her vigil--was in love with utter solitude and blind night. Once,after a little or a long time--it was all one to her--she saw a threadof ghostly whiteness moving on the floor; watched it with basilisk eyes;thought, perhaps, it was his soul, lingering for hers according to itspromise. The moving spot came on--stole into the wan, diffused streakof light cast from the grating;--and it was a great rat, with somethingbound about its neck.

  She understood on the instant. Long since, her instinctive wit had toldher--though she had not cared or been concerned to listen to it--thatthat sudden voice in the darkness had signified that Carlo wasimprisoned somewhere hard by. Well, he had found this means tocommunicate with her--near a miracle, it might be; but miraclesinterested her no longer. No harm to let him know at last. _He_ couldnot rob her of her dead.

  She coaxed the creature to her; found him tame; read the message;re-fastened on the paper, and, by its glimmer, marked the way of hisreturn.

  Then she rose, and spoke, and, speaking, choked and died.

  In the dark all cats are grey, and all women beautiful. But I think thecountenance of this one had no need to fear the dawn.