Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  Grio’s face fell remarkably. “No, master,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “I grant it. I cannot. A wilder filly was never handled.”

  “So! And yet I tamed her. And she suffers you! She’s sport for us within bounds. Yet do you think she likes it when you paw her hand or lay your dirty arm about her waist, or steal a kiss? Think you the blood mounts and ebbs for nothing? Or the tears rise and the lip trembles and the limbs shake for sheer pleasure. I tell you, if eyes could slay, you had breathed your last some weeks ago.”

  “I know,” Grio answered, nodding thoughtfully. “I have wondered and wondered, ay, many a time, how you did it.”

  “Yet I did it? You grant that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you do not understand — with what?”

  Grio shook his head.

  “Then why mistrust me now, blockhead,” the other retorted, “when I say that as I charmed her, I can charm Blondel? Ay, and more easily. You know not how I did the one, nor how I shall do the other,” the big man continued. “But what of that?” And in a louder voice, and with a gusto which showed how genuine was his delight in the metre,

  “Pauci quos æquus amavit Jupiter aut ardens evexit ad æthera virtus Dis geniti potuere,”

  he mouthed. “But that,” he added, looking scornfully at his confederate, “is Greek to you!”

  Grio’s altered aspect, his crestfallen air owned the virtue of the argument if not of the citation; which he did not understand. He drew a deep breath. “Per Bacco,” he said, “if you succeed in doing it, Messer Basterga — —”

  “I shall do it,” Basterga retorted, “if you do not spoil all with your drunken tricks!”

  Grio was silent a moment, sunk plainly in reflection. Presently his bloodshot eyes began to travel respectfully and even timidly over the objects about him. In truth the room in which he found himself was worthy of inspection, for it was no common room, either in aspect or furnishing. It boasted, it is true, none of the weird properties, the skulls and corpse-lights, dead hands, and waxen masks with which the necromancer of that day sought to impress the vulgar mind. But in place of these a multitude of objects, quaint, curious, or valuable, filled that half of the room which was farther from the fire-hearth. On the wall, flanked by a lute and some odd-looking rubrical calendars, were three or four silver discs, engraved with the signs of the Zodiac; these were hung in such a position as to catch the light which entered through the heavily leaded casement. On the window-seat below them, a pile of Plantins and Elzevirs threatened to bury a steel casket. On the table, several rolls of vellum and papyrus, peeping from metal cylinders, leant against a row of brass-bound folios. A handsome fur covering masked the truckle-bed, but this, too, bore its share of books, as did two or three long trunks covered with stamped and gilded leather which stood against the wall and were so long that the ladies of the day had the credit of hiding their gallants in them. On stools lay more books, and yet more books, with a medley of other things: a silver flagon, and some weapons, a chess-board, an enamelled triptych and the like.

  In a word, this half of the room wore the aspect of a library, low-roofed, dark and richly furnished. The other half, partly divided from it by a curtain, struck the eye differently. A stove of peculiar fashion, equipped with a powerful bellows, cumbered the hearth; before this on a long table were ranged a profusion of phials and retorts, glass vessels of odd shapes, and earthen pots. Crucibles and alembics stood in the ashes before the stove, and on a sideboard placed under the window were scattered a set of silver scales, a chemist’s mask, and a number of similar objects. Cards bearing abstruse calculations hung everywhere on the walls; and over the fireplace, inscribed in gold and black letters, the Greek word “EUREKA” was conspicuous.

  The existence of such a room in the quiet house in the Corraterie was little suspected by the neighbours, and if known would have struck them with amazement. To Grio its aspect was familiar: but in this case familiarity had not removed his awe of the unknown and the magical. He looked about him now, and after a pause: —

  “I suppose you do it — with these,” he murmured, and with an almost imperceptible shiver he pointed to the crucibles.

  “With those?” Basterga exclaimed, and had the other ascribed supernatural virtues to the cinders or the bellows he could not have thrown greater scorn into his words. “Do you think I ply this base mechanic art for aught but to profit by the ignorance of the vulgar? Or think by pots and pans and mixing vile substances to make this, which by nature is this, into that which by nature it is not! I, a scholar? A scholar? No, I tell you, there was never alchemist yet could transmute but one thing — poor into rich, rich into poor!”

  “But,” Grio murmured with a look and in a voice of disappointment, “is not that the true transmutation which a thousand have died seeking, and one here and there, it is rumoured, has found? From lead to gold, Messer Basterga?”

  “Ay, but the lead is the poor alchemist, who gets gold from his patron by his trick. And the gold is the poor fool who finds him in his living, and being sucked, turns to lead! There you have your transmutation.”

  “Yet — —”

  “There is no yet!”

  “But Agrippa,” Grio persisted, “Cornelius Agrippa, who sojourned here in Geneva and of whom, master, you speak daily — was he not a learned man?”

  “Ay, even as I am!” Cæsar Basterga answered, swelling visibly with pride. “But constrained, even as I am, to ply the baser trade and stoop to that we see and touch and smell! Faugh! What lot more cursed than to quit the pure ether of Latinity for the lower region of matter? And in place of cultivating the literæ humaniores, which is the true cultivation of the mind, and sets a man, mark you, on a level with princes, to stoop to handle virgin milk and dragon’s blood, as they style their vile mixtures; or else grope in dead men’s bodies for the thing which killed them. Which is a pure handicraft and cheirergon, unworthy a scholar, who stoops of right to naught but the goose-quill!”

  “And yet, master, by these same things — —”

  “Men grow rich,” Basterga continued with a sneer, “and get power? Ay, and the bastard sits in the chair of the legitimate; and pure learning goes bare while the seekers after the Stone and the Elixir (who, in these days are descending to invent even lesser things and smaller advantages that in the learned tongues have not so much as names) grow in princes’ favour and draw on their treasuries! But what says Seneca? ‘It is not the office of Philosophy to teach men to use their hands. The object of her lessons is to form the soul and the taste.’ And Aldus Manucius, vir doctissimus, magister noster,” here he raised his hand to his head as if he would uncover, “says also the same, but in a Latinity more pure and translucent, as is his custom.”

  Grio scratched his head. The other’s vehemence, whether he sneered or praised, flew high above his dull understanding. He had his share of the reverence for learning which marked the ignorant of that age: but to what better end, he pondered stupidly, could learning be directed than to the discovery of that which must make its owner the most enviable of mortals, the master of wealth and youth and pleasure! It was not to this, however, that he directed his objection: the argumentum ad hominem came more easily to him. “But you do this?” he said, pointing to the paraphernalia about the stove.

  “Ay,” Basterga rejoined with vehemence. “And why, my friend? Because the noble rewards and the consideration which former times bestowed on learning are to-day diverted to baser pursuits! Erasmus was the friend of princes, and the correspondent of kings. Della Scala was the companion of an emperor; Morus, the Englishman, was the right arm of a king. And I, Cæsar Basterga of Padua, bred in the pure Latinity of our Master Manucius, yield to none of these. Yet am I, if I would live, forced to stoop ‘ad vulgus captandum!’ I must kneel that I may rise! I must wade through the mire of this base pursuit that I may reach the firm ground of wealth and learned ease. But think you that I am the dupe of the art wherewith I dupe others? Or, that once I have my foot on f
irm ground I will stoop again to the things of matter and sense? No, by Hercules!” the big man continued, his eye kindling, his form dilating. “This scheme once successful, this feat that should supply me for life, once performed, Cæsar Basterga of Padua will know how to add, to those laurels which he has already gained,

  The bays of Scala and the wreath of More, Erasmus’ palm and that which Lipsius wore.”

  And in a kind of frenzy of enthusiasm the scholar fell to pacing the floor, now mouthing hexameters, now spurning with his foot a pot or an alembic which had the ill-luck to lie in his path. Grio watched him, and watching him, grew only more puzzled — and more puzzled. He could have understood a moral shrinking from the enterprise on which they were both embarked — the betrayal of the city that gave them shelter. He could have understood — he had superstition enough — a moral distaste for alchemy and those practices of the black art which his mind connected with it. But this superiority of the scholar, this aloofness, not from the treachery, but from the handicraft, was beyond him. For that reason it imposed on him the more.

  Not the less, however, was he importunate to know wherein Basterga trusted. To rave of Scholarship and Scaliger was one thing, to bring Blondel into the plot which was to transfer Geneva to Savoy and strike the heaviest blow at the Reformed that had been struck in that generation, was another thing and one remote. The Syndic was a trifle discontented and inclined to intrigue; that was true, Grio knew it. But to parley with the Grand Duke’s emissaries, and strive to get and give not, that was one thing; while to betray the town and deliver it tied and bound into the hands of its arch-enemy, was another and a far more weighty matter. One, too, to which in Grio’s judgment — and in the dark lanes of life he had seen and weighed many men — the magistrate would never be brought.

  “Shall you need my aid with him?” he asked after a while, seeing the scholar still wrapt in thought. The question was not lacking in craft.

  “Your aid? With whom?”

  “With Messer Blondel.”

  “Pshaw, man,” Basterga answered, rousing himself from his reverie. “I had forgotten him and was thinking of that villain Scioppius and his tract against Joseph Justus. Do you know,” he continued with a snort of indignation, “that in his Hyperbolimæus, not content with the statement that Joseph Justus left his laundress’s bill at Louvain unpaid, he alleges that I — I, Cæsar Basterga of Padua — was broken on the wheel at Munster a year ago for the murder of a gentleman!”

  Grio turned a shade paler. “If this business miscarry,” he said, “the statement may prove within a year of the mark. Or nearer, at any rate, than may please us.”

  Basterga smiled disdainfully. “Think it not!” he answered, extending his arms and yawning with unaffected sincerity. “There was never scholar yet died on the wheel.”

  “No?”

  “No, friend, no. Nor will, unless it be Scioppius, and he is unworthy of the name of scholar. No, we have our disease, and die of it, but it is not that. Nevertheless,” he continued with magnanimity, “I will not deny that when Master Pert-Tongue downstairs put our names together so pat, it scared me. It scared me. For how many chances were there against such an accident? Or what room to think it an accident, when he spoke clearly with the animus pugnandi? No, I’ll not deny he touched me home.”

  Grio nodded grimly. “I would we were rid of him!” he growled. “The young viper! I foresee danger from him.”

  “Possibly,” Basterga replied. “Possibly. In that case measures must be taken. But I hope there may be no necessity. And now, I expect Messer Blondel in an hour, and have need, my friend, of thought and solitude before he comes. Knock at my door at eight this evening and I may have news for you.”

  “You don’t think to resolve him to-night?” Grio muttered with a look of incredulity.

  “It may be. I do not know. In the meantime silence, and keep sober!”

  “Ay, ay!”

  “But it is more than ay, ay!” Basterga retorted with irritation; with something of the temper, indeed, which he had betrayed at the beginning of the interview. “Scholars die otherwise, but many a broken soldier has come to the wheel! So do you have a care of it! If you do not — —”

  “I have said I will!” Grio cried sharply. “Enough scolding, master. I’ve a notion you’ll find your own task a little beyond your hand. See if I am not right!” he added. And with this show of temper on his side, he went out and shut the door loudly behind him.

  Basterga stood a few moments in thought. At length,

  “Dimidium facti, qui bene cœpit, habet!”

  he muttered. And shrugging his shoulders he looked about him, judging with an artistic eye the effect which the room would have on a stranger. Apparently he was not perfectly content with it, for, stepping to one of the long trunks, he drew from it a gold chain, some medals and a jewelled dagger, and flung these carelessly on a box in a corner. He set up the alembics and pipkins which he had overturned, and here and there he opened a black-lettered folio, discovered an inch or two of crabbed Hebrew, or the corner of an illuminated script. A cameo dropped in one place, a clay figure of Minerva set up in another, completed the picture.

  His next proceeding was less intelligible. He unearthed from the pile of duo-decimos on the window-seat the steel casket which has been mentioned. It was about twelve inches long and as many wide; and as deep as it was broad. Wrought in high relief on the front appeared an elaborate representation of Christ healing the sick; on each end, below a massive ring, appeared a similar design. The box had an appearance of strength out of proportion to its size; and was furnished with two locks, protected and partly hidden by tiny shields.

  Basterga handling it gently polished it awhile with a cloth, then bearing it to the inner end of the room he set it on a bracket beside the hearth. This place was evidently made for it, for on either side of the bracket hung a steel chain and padlock; with which, and the rings, the scholar proceeded to secure the casket to the wall. This done, he stepped back and contemplated the arrangement with a smile of contemptuous amusement.

  “It is neither so large as the Horse of Troy,” he murmured complacently, “nor so small as the Wafer that purchased Paris. It is neither so deep as hell, nor so high as heaven, nor so craftily fastened a wise man may not open it, nor so strong a fool may not smash it. But it may suffice. Messer Blondel is no Solomon, and may swallow this as well as another thing. In which event, Ave atque vale, Geneva! But here he comes. And now to cast the bait!”

  CHAPTER V.

  THE ELIXIR VITÆ.

  As the Syndic crossed the threshold of the scholar’s room, he uncovered with an air of condescension that, do what he would, was not free from uneasiness. He had persuaded himself — he had been all the morning persuading himself — that any man might pay a visit to a learned scholar — why not? Moreover, that a magistrate in paying such a visit was but in the performance of his duty, and might plume himself accordingly on the act.

  Yet two things like worms in the bud would gnaw at his peace. The first was conscience: if the Syndic did not know he had reason to suspect that Basterga bore the Grand Duke’s commission, and was in Geneva to further his master’s ends. The second source of his uneasiness he did not acknowledge even to himself, and yet it was the more powerful: it was a suspicion — a strong suspicion, though he had met Basterga but twice — that in parleying with the scholar he was dealing with a man for whom he was no match, puff himself out as he might; and who secretly despised him.

  Perhaps the fact that the latter feeling ceased to vex him before he had been a minute in the room, was the best testimony to Basterga’s tact we could desire. Not that the scholar was either effusive or abject. It was rather by a frank address which took equality for granted, and by an easy assumption that the visit had no importance, that he calmed Messer Blondel’s nerves and soothed his pride.

  Presently, “If I do not the honour of my poor apartment so pressingly as some,” he said, “it is out of no lack of respect, Me
sser Syndic. But because, having had much experience of visitors, I know that nothing fits them so well as to be left at liberty, nothing irks them so much as to be over-pressed. Here now I have some things that are thought to be curious, even in Padua, but I do not know whether they will interest you.”

  “Manuscripts?”

  “Yes, manuscripts and the like. This,” Basterga lifted one from the table and placed it in his visitor’s hands, “is a facsimile, prepared with the utmost care, of the ‘Codex Vaticanus,’ the most ancient manuscript of the New Testament. Of interest in Geneva, where by the hands of your great printer, Stephens, M. de Beza has done so much to advance the knowledge of the sacred text. But you are looking at that chart?”

  “Yes. What is it, if it please you?”

  “It is a plan of the ancient city of Aurelia,” Basterga replied, “which Cæsar, in the first book of his Commentaries places in Switzerland, but which, some say, should be rather in Savoy.”

  “Indeed, Aurelia?” the Syndic muttered, turning it about. It was a plan beautifully and elaborately finished, but, like most of the plans of that day, it was without names. “Aurelia?”

  “Yes, Aurelia.”

  “But I seem to — is this water?”

  “Yes, a lake,” Basterga replied, stooping with a faint smile to the plan.

  “And this a river?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aurelia? But — I seem to know the line of this wall, and these bastions. Why, it is — Messer Basterga,” in a tone of surprise, not unmingled with anger— “you play with me! it is Geneva!”

  Basterga permitted his smile to become more apparent. “Oh no, Aurelia,” he said lightly and almost jocosely. “Aurelia in Savoy, I assure you. Whatever it is, however, we have no need to take it to heart, Messer Blondel. Believe me, it comes from, and is not on its way to, the Grand Duke’s library at Turin.”

  The Syndic showed his displeasure by putting the map from him.