CHAPTER XIV. THE ACCIDENTS OF 'ARTIST' LIFE
An autumnal night, in all its mellow softness, was just closing in uponthe Lungo l'Arno of Florence. Toward the east and south the gracefuloutlines of San Miniato, with its tall cypresses, might be seen againstthe sky, while all the city, which lay between, was wrapped in deepestshadow. It was the season of the Ville-giatura, when the great noblesare leading country lives; still the various bridges, and the quays ateither side of the river, were densely crowded with people. The denizensof the close and narrow streets came forth to catch the faint breathof air that floated along the Arno. Seated on benches and chairs, orgathered in little knots and groups, the citizens seemed to enjoy thishour _al fresco_ with a zest only known to those who have basked in thestill and heated atmosphere of a southern climate. Truly, no splendidsalon, in all the gorgeous splendour of its gildings, ever presented aspot 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 mirthdisturbed the delicious calm of the enjoyment, but a low murmur of humansounds, attuned as it were to the gentle ripple of the passing stream,and here and there a light and joyous laugh, were only heard. Atthe Pont St. Trinita and immediately below it the crowd was densest,attracted, not impossibly, by the lights and movement that went on in agreat palace close by, the only one of all those on the Arno that showedsigns of habitation. Of the others the owners were absent; but here,through the open windows, might be seen figures passing and repassing,and at times the sounds of music heard from within. With that strangesympathy--for it is not all curiosity--that attracts people to watchthe concourse of some gay company, the ebb and flow of intercourse,the crowd gazed eagerly up at the windows, commenting on this or thatpersonage as they passed, and discussing together what they fanciedmight form the charm of such society.
The faint tinkling of a guitar in the street beneath, and the motionof the crowd, showed that some sort of street performance had attractedattention; and soon the balcony of the palace was thronged with the gaycompany, not sorry, as it seemed, to have this pretext for loiteringin the free night air. To the brief prelude of the guitar a roll of thedrum succeeded, and then, when silence had been obtained, might beheard the voice of an old, infirm man, announcing a programme of theentertainment. First of all--and by 'torch-light, if the respectablepublic would vouchsafe the expense'--The adventures of Don Callemaohoamong the Moors of Barbary; his capture, imprisonment, and escape; hisrescue of the Princess of Cordova, with their shipwreck afterward onthe island of Ithica: the whole illustrated with panoramic scenery,accompanied by music, and expressed by appropriate dialogue and dancing.The declamation to be delivered by a youth of consummate genius--theaction to be enunciated by a Signorina of esteemed merit. 'I do notdraw attention to myself, nor to the gifts of that excellent lady whopresides 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 usat Mantua; our pleasant jests have awoke laughter in the wild valleysof Calabria; our pathos has dimmed many an eye in the gorgeous halls ofGenoa; princes and contadini alike have shared in the enjoyment ofour talents; and so, with your favour, may each of you, _GentilissimiSignori_.'
Whether, however, the 'intelligent public' was not as affluent as it wasgifted, or that, to apply the ancient adage, 'Le jeu ne valait pas lachandelle,' but so was it, that the old man had twice made the tour ofthe circle without obtaining a single quatrino.
'At Bologna, _O Signori_, they deemed this representation worthy ofwax-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 intheir generosity! Sound the drum, _comare mia_ said he, addressing theold woman, 'and let the spirit-rousing roll inspire heroic longings.A blast of the tromb, _figlio mio_ will set these noble heartshigh-beating for a tale of chivalry.' The deafening clamour of drum andtrumpet resounded through the air, and came back in many an echo fromacross the Arno; but, alas! they awoke no responsive sympathies in theaudience, who probably having deemed that the spectacle might be partlygratuitous, showed already signs of thinning away. 'Are you going,_Illustrissimi Signori_, cried he, more energetically, 'going withoutone view, one passing glance at the castle on the Guadalquivir, withits court of fountains, all playing and splashing like real water; goingwithout a look at the high-pooped galleon, as she sailed forth at morn,with the banner of the house of Callemacho waving from the mast, whilethe signal guns are firing a salute, the high cliffs of Carthagenareverberating with the sound? 'A loud 'bom' from the drum gave testimonyto the life-like reality of the description. 'Going,' screamed he, moreeagerly still, 'without witnessing the palace of the Moorish king, litup 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 harshaccents at once proclaimed our old acquaintance Donna Gaetana.
'What says she--what says the Donna?' cried three or four of the crowdin a breath.
'She says that we 'll come back in the daylight, Signori,' broke in theold man, in terror, 'and sing our native songs of Calabria, and showour native dances. We know well, O gentle public, that poor ignorantcreatures like ourselves are but too rash to appear before you greatFlorentines, citizens of Michel Angelo, dwellers with Benvenuto,companions of Boccaccio!'
'And not a quatrino among ye!' yelled out the old hag, with a laugh ofscorn.
A wild cry of anger burst from the crowd, who, breaking the circle, nowrushed in upon the strollers.
In vain the Babbo protested, explained, begged, and entreated. Hedeclared the company to be the highest, the greatest, the richest, hehad ever addressed; himself and his companions the vilest and leastworthy of humanity. He asseverated in frantic tones his belief, thatfrom the hour when he should lose their favour no fortune would everattend on him, either in this world or the next.
But of what avail was it that he employed every eloquence at hiscommand, while the Donna, with words of insult, and gestures moreoffensive still, reviled the 'base rabble,' and with all the virulenceof her coarse nature hurled their poverty in their teeth?
'Famished curs!' cried she. 'How would ye have a _soldo_, when yournobles dine on parched beans, and drink the little sour wine ofPonteseive?'
A kick from a strong foot, that sent it through the parchment of thedrum with a loud report, answered this insolent taunt, and gave thesignal for a general attack. Down went the little wooden edifice, whichembodied the life and fortunes of the Don and the fair Princessof Cordova; down went the Babbo himself over it, amid a crash ofproperties, that created a yell of laughter in the mob. All the variedinsignia of the cunning craft, basins and bladders, juggling sticks,hoops, and baskets, flew right and left, in wild confusion. Up to thistime Gerald had witnessed the wreck unmoved, his whole care being tokeep the crowd from pressing too rudely upon Marietta, who clung to himfor protection. Indeed, the frantic struggles of old Gaetana, as shelaid about her with her drum-sticks, had already provoked the youth'slaughter, when, at a cry from the girl, he turned quickly around.
'Here's the Princess herself, I 'll be sworn,' said a coarse-lookingfellow, 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, heswept the space in front of him, while he grasped the girl with hisother arm. So unlooked-for a defiance seemed for an instant to unmanthe mob, but the next moment a shower of missiles, the fragments of oldBabbo's fortune, were showered upon them. Had he been assailed by wildbeasts, Gerald's assault could not have been more wildly daring: hecut on every side, hurling back those that rushed in upon him, and eventrampling them beneath his feet.
Bleeding and bruised, half-blinded,
too, by the blood that flowed froma wound on his forehead, the youth still held his ground, not a wordescaping him, not a cry; while the reviling of the mob filled the airaround. At last, shamed at the miserable odds that had so long resistedthem, the rabble, with a wild yell of vengeance, rushed forward in amass, and though some of the foremost fell covered with blood, the youthwas dashed to the ground, all eagerly pressing to trample on and crushhim.
'Over the parapet with him! Into the Arno with them both!' cried themob.
'Stand back, ye cowardly crew!' shouted a loud, strong voice, and apowerful man, with a heavy bludgeon in his hand, burst through thecrowd, felling all that opposed him; a throng of livery servants armedin the same fashion followed; and the mob, far more in number thoughthey were, shrank back abashed from the sight of one whose rank andstation might exact a heavy vengeance.
'It is the Principe. It is the Conte himself,' muttered one or two, asthey stole off, leaving in a few moments the space cleared of all, savethe wounded and those who had come to the rescue. If the grief of DonnaGaetana 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 respirationpainful in the extreme.
'Safe, _Marietta mia_; art safe?' whispered he, as she assisted him torise. 'My poor boy,' said the Count compassionately; 'she is safe, andowes it all to you. You behaved nobly, lad. The Don himself, with allhis Castitian blood, could not show a more courageous front.'
Gerald looked at the speaker, and whether at the tone of his voice, orthat the words seemed to convey an unseemly jest at such a moment, heflushed till his cheek was crimson, and drawing himself up said: 'Andwho are you? or by what right do you pronounce upon _my_ blood?'
'_Gherardi mio, caro fratellino_,' whispered the girl. 'It was he thatsaved us, and he is a Prince!'
'For the first, I thank him,' said the youth. 'As to his rank, it is hisown affair and not mine.'
'Well spoken, faith!' said the noble. 'I tell thee, Giorgio,' added heto a friend at his side, 'poets may well feel proud, when they see howthe very utterance of their noble sentiments engenders noble thoughts.Look at that tatterdemalion, and think how came he by such notions.'
The abject expression of Babbo's gratitude, and the far moredemonstrative enunciations of old Gaetana's misery, here interrupted thecolloquy. In glowing terms she pictured the calamity that had befallenthem--a disaster irreparable for evermore. Never again would humaningenuity construct such mechanism as that which illustrated DonCallemacho's life. The conjuring tools, too, were masterpieces, notto be replaced; and as to the drum, no contrivance of mere wood andram-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 antiquityhas 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 Geraldresolutely.
'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 setsevery ass 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 tromboneleft us,' and she burst out into a torrent of grief.
'Take these people to the inn at the Porta Rossa,' said the Count to oneof his servants. 'Let them be well cared for and attended to. Fetcha surgeon to see this boy. _Adio_, my friends. I 'll come and see youto-morrow, when you are well rested and refreshed.'
In a boisterous profusion of thanks, old Babbo and the Donna utteredtheir gratitude, while Gerald and Marietta kissed their benefactor'shand, and moved on.
'He's a noble Signor,' muttered old Gaetana; 'and I'd swear by theaccent of his words he is no Florentine.'
'Thou art right for once, old lady,' said the servant, as he led theway; 'he's of the north, and the best blood of Piedmont.'
Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel Page 14