*CHAPTER VIII*
The castle at the Porta Giovia had its glooms as well as its pleasances.Indeed, it may be questioned if the latter were not rather in proportionto the former as a tiger's gay hide is to the strength and ferocity itclothes. Built originally for a great keep, or, as it were, breakwater,to stem the rush of barbarian seas which were wont to come storming downfrom the north-west, its constructors had aimed at nothing less than itseverlastingness. So thick were its bastioned walls, so thick thecurtains which divided its inner and outer wards, a whole warren ofhuman 'runs' could honeycomb without appreciably weakening them. Hiddenwithin its screens and massy towers, like the gnawings of a foul andintricate cancer, ran dark passages which discharged themselves here andthere into dreadful dungeons, or secret-places not guessed at in thecommon tally of its rooms. These oubliettes were hideous with blotchedand spotted memories; rotten with the dew of suffering; eloquent intheir terror and corruption and darkness, of that same self-sick,self-blinded tyranny which, in place of Love and Justice, the trustybodyguards, must turn always to cruelty and thick walls for itssecurity. The hiss and purr of subterranean fire, the grinding oflow-down grated jaws, the flop and echo of stagnant water, oozed from astagnant moat into vermin-swarming, human-haunted cellars,--these weresounds that spoke even less of grief to others than of the hellishferment in the soul of him who had raised them for his soul's pacifying.Himself is for ever the last and maddest victim of a despot'soppression.
There had been stories to tell, could the coulter of Time once have cutinto those far-down vaults, and his share laid open. Now this was sofar from promising, that their history and mystery were in process ofbeing still further overlaid and stifled under accumulations ofsuperstructure. Francesco, the great Condottiere, the present Duke'sfather, had been the first to realise dimly how a tyrant, by convertinghis self-prison into a shrine for his aestheticism, might enjoy acertain amelioration of his condition. It was he who, yielding an olderpalace and its grounds to the builders of the cathedral, had transferredthe ducal quarters to the great fortress, which henceforth was to be themain seat of the Sforzas. Here the first additions and rebuildings hadbeen his, the first decorations and beautifyings--tentative at the best,for he was always more a soldier than a connoisseur. The real movementwas inaugurated by his successor, and continued, as cultivation wasimpressed on him, on a scale of magnificence which was presently to makethe splendour of Milan a proverb. Galeazzo, an indifferent warrior, towhose rule but a tithe of the territory once gathered to the Viscontiowned allegiance, contented his ambitions by rallying an army ofpainters and sculptors and decorators to the glorification of his housesat Milan, Cremona, and his ancestral petted Pavia,--after all a worthierrole than the conqueror's for a good man; but then, this man was so badthat he blighted everything he touched. It is true that the disuse ofsecret torture would have been considered, and by men more enlightenedthan he, so little expedient a part of any ethical or aesthetical'improvement' of an existing house, as that a premium would be putthereby on assassination. Yet Galeazzo's death-pits were never so much apolitic necessity as a resource for cruelty in idleness. He woulddescend into them with as much relish as he would reclimb from, to hishalls above, swelling and bourgeoning with growth of loveliness. Thescream of torture was as grateful to his ears as was the love-throb of aviol; the scum bubbling from his living graves as poignant to hisnostrils as was the scent of floating lilies. He continued to make hishouse beautiful, yet never once dreamt, as a first principle of itsreclamation to sweetness, of cutting out of its foundations those oldcesspools of disease and death.
One night he sat in his closet of the Rocca, a little four-square roomdug out of the armourer's tower, and having a small oratory adjoining.This eyrie was so high up as to give a comfortable sense of securityagainst surprise. There was but one window to it--just a deep wedge inthe wall, piercing to the sheer flank of the tower. Sweet rushescarpeted the floor; the arras was pictured with dim, sacredsubjects--Ambrosius in his cradle, with the swarm of bees settling onhis honeyed lips; Ambrosius elected Bishop of Milan by the people;Ambrosius imposing penance on Theodosius for his massacre of theThessalonicans--and the drowsy odours of a pastile, burning in thelittle purple shrine-lamp, robbed the air of its last freshness.
Another lamp shone on a table, at which the Duke was seated somewhatpreoccupied with a lute, and his tablets propped before him; while,motionless in the shadows opposite, stood the figure of the provostmarshal, its fixed, unregarding eyes glinting in the flame.
Intermittently Galeazzo strummed and murmured, self-communing, oraddressing himself, between playfulness and abstraction, to the ear ofMesser Jacopo:--
'_The lowliest of all Franciscans was St. Francis, meek mate of beastsand birds, boasting himself no peer of belted stars_.... Ha! a goodline, Jacopo, a full significant line; I dare say it, our Parablistdespite. Listen.' (He chaunted the words in a harsh, uncertain voice,to an accompaniment as sorry.) 'Hear'st? Belted stars--thosemoon-ringed spheres the aristocracy of the night. Could Messer Bembohimself have better improvised? What think'st? Be frank.'
'I think of improvising by book,' said Jacopo, short and gruff.
Galeazzo said 'Ha!' again, like a snarl, and his brow contracted.
'Why, thou unconscionable old surly dog!' he said--'why?'
Jacopo pointed to the tablets.
'Your saint asks no notes to _his_ piping. A' sings like the birds.'
'Now,' answered his master, in a deep, offended tone, 'I'm in a mind tomake _thee_ sing on a grill,--ay, and dance too. What, dolt! are notfirst thoughts first thoughts, however they may be pricked down? Lookat this, I say; flatten thy bull nose on it. Is it not clean,untouched, unrevised? Spotless as when issued from Helicon? Beast!thou shalt call me, too, an improvisatore.'
The statue was silent. Galeazzo sat glaring and gnawing his fingers.
'Answer!' he screeched suddenly.
'I will call thee one,' said Jacopo obstinately, 'but not the best.'
The Duke fell back in his chair, then presently was muttering andstrumming with his disengaged fingers on the table.
'No--not the best, not the best--not to rival heaven! Yet, perhaps, itshould be the Duke's privilege.'
The executioner laughed a little.
'The Duke should know how to take it.'
Galeazzo stopped short, quite vacant, staring at him.
'I've heard tell,' said Jacopo, 'how one Nero, a fiddling emperor, cameto be acknowledged first fiddle of all.'
He paused, then answered, it seemed, an unspoken invitation: 'He justsilenced the better ones.'
Galeazzo got hurriedly to his feet.
'Blasphemer! thou shalt die for the word. What! this Lord's anointed!A natural songster! no art, no culture in his voice--sweet and wild,above human understanding. I said nothing. Be damned, and damnedalone! Go hang thyself like Judas!'
'Well, name my successor first,' said Jacopo.
The Duke leapt, and with one furious blow shattered his lute tosplinters on the other's steel headpiece, then stamped upon thefragments, his arms flapping like wing stumps, his teeth sputtering afoam of inarticulate words. Jacopo, erect under the avalanche, stoodperfectly silent and impassive. Then, as suddenly as it had burst, thestorm ended. Galeazzo sank back on his seat, panting and nerveless.
'Well, I am no poet--curse thy block head, and mine for trusting toit--the Muses shall decide--Apollo or Marsyas--the Christian Muses and aChristian penance--flaying only for heretics. I am no poet normusician, say'st? Calf! what know'st thou about such things?' Heroared again: 'What brings thee here, with thy damned butcher's face,scaring my pretty lambs of song?'
'Thine order.'
'Mine?'
'This astrologer monk, this Fra Capello was it not? I neither know norcare.'
'Dost thou not? A faithful dog!'
'Faithful enough.'
'O! art thou? By what token?'
'By the token
of the quarry run to earth.'
'To earth? Thou hast him? Good Jacopo!'
'This three days past. Had I not told thee so already? Let thineimprovising damn thyself, not me.'
'The villain! to call himself a Franciscan, a lowly Franciscan, andpretend to read the stars! How about his prophecy now?'
'Why, he holds to it.'
'What! that I have but eleven years in all to reign--less than one tolive?'
'Just that--no more.'
'Now, is it not a wicked schism from the plain humility of his founder?A curse on their spirituals and conventuals! _This_ fellow to claimkinship with the stars--profess to be in their confidence, to shareheaven's secrets? Dear Jacopo, sweet Jacopo! is it not well to cleansethis earth of such lying prophets, that truth may have standing-room?'
'Ask truth, not me.'
'Nay, not to grieve truth's heart--the onus shall be ours. This sameFranciscan--this soothsaying monk--where hast lodged him?'
'In the "Hermit's Cell."'
'Ah, old jester! He shall prove his asceticism thereby. Let practisedabstinence save him in such pass. He shall eat his words--aneverlasting banquet. A fat astrologer, by the token, as I hear.'
'He went in, fat.'
'Wretch! wouldst thou starve him? Remember the worms, thy cousins.Hath he foretold his end?'
'Ay, by starvation.'
'He lies, then. Thou shalt take him _in extremis_, and, with thy knifein his throat, give him the lie. An impostor proved. What sort ofnight is it?'
'Why, it rains and thunders.'
'Hush! Why should we fear rain and thunder? God put His bow in thesky. Jacopo, it is a sweet and fearful thing to be chosen minister ofone of His purifications--Noah, and Lot, and now thy prince.'
'Purification?' said the executioner: 'by what?'
'By love, thou fool!' whispered Galeazzo, half ecstatic, half furious,with a nervous glance about him. 'There were the purifications by waterone, one by fire, and a third by blood, to the last of which Hisservants yet testify in the spirit of their Redeemer. Blood, Jacopo,thou little monster--blood flowing, streams of it, the visible token ofthe sacrifice. That was our task till yesterday. Now in the end comesLove, and calleth for a cleansed and fruitful soil. Let us hasten withthe last tares--to cut them down, and let their blood consummate thefertilising. Quick: we have no time to lose.'
He flung himself from the statue, and tiptoed, in a sort of gloatingrapture, to the door.
'Show me this tare, I say.'
He went down the tower a few paces, with assured steps, then, bethinkinghimself, beckoned the other to lead. The flight conducted them to aprivate postern, well secured and guarded inside and out. As theyissued from this, the howl of blown rain met and staggered them. Lookingup at the blackened sky from the depths of that well of masonry, itseemed to crack and split in a rush of fusing stars. The mad soul ofthe tyrant leapt to speed the chase. He was one with this mightydemonstration--as like a chosen instrument of the divine retribution.His brain danced and flickered with exquisite visions of power. He wasan angel, a destroying angel, commissioned to purge the world of lies.'Bring me to this monk!' he screamed through the thunder.
Deep in the foundations of the north-eastern tower the miserablecreature was embedded, in a stone chamber as utterly void and empty asdespair. The walls, the floor, the roof, were all chiselled as smoothas glass. There was not anywhere foothold for a cat--nor door, nortrap, nor egress, nor window of any kind, save where, just under theceiling, the grated opening by which he had been lowered let in by day ahaggard ghost of light. And even that wretched solace was withdrawn asnight fell--became a phantom, a diluted whisp of memory, sank like waterinto the blackness, and left the fancy suddenly naked inself-consciousness of hell. Then Capello screamed, and threw himselftowards the last flitting of that spectre. He fell and bruised hislimbs horribly: the very pain was a saving occupation. He struck hisskull, and revelled in the agonised dance of lights the blow procuredhim. But one by one they blew out; and in a moment dead negation hadhim by the throat again, rolling him over and over, choking him underenormous slabs of darkness. Now, gasping, he cursed his improvidence innot having glued his vision to the place of the light's going. It wouldhave been something gained from madness to hold and gloat upon it, towatch hour by hour for its feeble re-dawn. Among all the spawningmonstrosities of that pit, with only the assured prospect of a lingeringdeath before him, the prodigy of eternal darkness quite overcrowed thatother of thirst and famine.
Yet the dawn broke, it would seem, before its due. Had he annihilatedtime, and was this death? He rose rapturously to his feet, and stoodstaring at the grating, the tears gushing down his fallen cheeks. Thebars were withdrawn; and in their place was a lamp intruded, and a facelooked down.
'Capello, dost thou hunger and thirst?'
The voice awoke him to life, and to the knowledge of who out of all theworld could be thus addressing him. He answered, quaveringly: 'I hungerand thirst, Galeazzo.'
'It is a beatitude, monk,' said the voice. 'Thou shalt have thy fill ofjustice.'
'Alas!' cried the prisoner: 'justice is with thee, I fear, an emptyphrase.'
'Comfort thyself,' said the other: 'I shall make a full measure of it.It shall bubble and sparkle to the brim like a great goblet of Malmsey.Dost know the wine Malmsey, monk?--a cool, heady, fragrant liquid, thatgurgles down the arid throat, making one o' hot days think of gushingweirs, and the green of grass under naked feet.'
The monk fell on his knees, stretching out his arms.
'I ask no mercy of thee, but to end me without torture.'
'Torture, quotha!' cried the fiend above--'what torture in the vision ofa wine-cup crushed, or, for the matter of that, a feast on white tablesunder trees. Picture it, Capello: the quails in cold jelly; the meltingpasties; the salmon-trout tucked under blankets of whipped cream; theluscious peaches, and apricots like maiden's cheeks. Why, art not aConventual, man, and rich in such experiences of the belly? And to call'em torture--fie!'
'Mercy!' gasped the monk. His swollen throat could hardly shape theword. Galeazzo laughed, and bent over.
'Answer, then: how long am I to live?'
'By justice, for ever.'
'What! live for ever on an empty phrase? Then art thou, too,provisioned for eternity.'
He held out his hand:--
'Art humbled at last, monk, or monkey? How much for a nut?'
Leaping at the mad thought of some relenting in the voice and question,the prisoner ran under the outstretched hand, and held up his own,abjectly, fulsomely.
'Master, give it me--one--one only, to dull this living agony!'
'A sop to thee, then,' cried Galeazzo, and dropped a chestnut. The monkcaught it, and, cracking it between his teeth, roared out and fellspitting and sputtering. He had crunched upon nothing more savoury thana shell filled up with river slime. The Duke screamed and hopped withlaughter.
'Is not that richer than quail, more refreshing than Malmsey?'
The monk fell on his knees:--
'Now hear me, God!' he gabbled awry: 'Let not this man ever again knowsurcease from torment, in bed, at board, in his body, or in his mind.Let his lust consummate in frostbite; let the worm burrow in hisentrails, and the maggot in his brain. May his drink be salt, and hismeat bitter as aloes. May his short lease of wicked life be cancelled,and death seize him, and damnation wither in the moment of his supremeimpenitence. Darken his vision, so that for evermore it shall seedespair and the mockery of fruitless hope. Let him walk aself-conscious leper in the sunshine, and strive vainly to propitiatethe loathing in eyes in which he sees himself reflected an abhorred andfilthy ape. May the curse of Assisi----'
Galeazzo screamed him down:--
'Quote him not--beast--vile apostate from his teaching!'
For a moment the two battled in a war of screeching blasphemy: the next,the grate was flung into place, the light whisked and vanished, a doorslammed, and the blackness of th
e cell closed once more upon the moaningheap in its midst.
Quaking and ashen, babbling oaths and prayers, Galeazzo flung back tohis closet.
'Bring wine!' he shook out between his teeth to Jacopo.
When it came, he tasted, and flung it from him.
'Salt!' he shrieked. His fancy quite overcrowed his reason. 'O God, Iam poisoned!'
He rose, staggering, and entered his oratory, and cast himself on hisknees before the little shrine.
'Not from this man,' he protested, whimpering and writhing; 'Lord, notfrom this man--I know him better than Thou--a recusant, a sorcerer! Benot deceived because of his calling. To curse Thine anointed! kill him,Lord--kill the blasphemer--I hold him ready to Thy hand! Good sweet St.Francis, I but weed thy pastures--a wicked false brother, tainting thefold. How shall love prevail, this poison at its root?--Poison! O myGod, to be stricken for evermore! life's fruit to change to chokingashes in my mouth! It cannot be--I, Galeazzo the Duke--yet I tauntedhim with visions: what if I have caught the infection of mine ownimagination--too fearful, spare me this once. Lord God, consider--as Iput it to Thee--now--like this--listen. To starve with him should bebut a fast enlarged. What then? Some, honest ascetics, no Conventuals,so push abstinence to ecstasy as that they may cross the lines of deathin a dream, and wake without a pang to heaven gained. If he does not,should he suffer, he is properly condemned for a gross pampered brother,false to his vows, unworthy Thine advocacy. Now, call the test a fairone. Chain back this dog that ravens to tear me. How, so stricken,made corrupt, could I work Thy will but through corruption? Hush! Thoumean'st it not--only as a jest? Give me some sign, then. Ah! Thoulaugh'st--very quietly, but I hear Thee. Canst not deceiveGaleazzo--ha-ha! between me and You, Lord, between me and You! Silence,thou dog monk! What dost thou here? Escaped! by God, get back--thefirst word was mine--thou art too late. What! damnation seize thee!Lord! he scorns Thy judgment--catch him, hold him--he is there by thedoor!'
He sprang to his feet, glaring and gesticulating.
'Galeazzo!' exclaimed Bembo. The boy had mounted to the closet unheard.It was his privilege to come unannounced. He stood a moment regardingthe madman in amazement and pity, then hurried softly to his side.
'What is it? The face again?'
His tone, his entreaty, dispelled the other's delirium. The tyrant gazedat him a minute, slow recognition dawning in his eyes; then, of asudden, broke into a thick fast flurry of sobs, and cast himself uponhis shoulder.
'My saint,' he wept adoringly--'my Conscience, my little angel! and Ihad thought thee--nay, but the sign for which I prayed art thou given.'
His emotion gushed inwardly, filling all his channels to gasping.Presently he looked up, with a passionate murmur and caress.
'Love, with thy red lips like a girl's! Would that my own were worthyto marry with them.'
Bembo withdrew a little:--
'What wild words are these? Yet, peradventure, the giddy babble of aconqueror. O Galeazzo! hast triumphed o'er thyself indeed--casting thatold familiar? chasing him hereout? Why, then, I whom thou hastappointed to be thy conscience, interpreting thy rule through truth andlove, am the more emboldened to beseech the favour for which I came.'
'Ask it only, sweet.' His chest still heaved spasmodically to thecatching of his breath.
'It is,' said the boy steadily, 'that thou wouldst give me, thyconscience's delegate, a last justification by the sacraments.'
The Duke smiled faintly, and nodded, and murmured: 'I will confess eremidnight, and, fasting, receive the Holy Communion before I goto-morrow. Does it please thee? Come, then.'
He re-entered his cabinet, reeling a little, and sat himself down, as ifexhausted, by the table.
'Bernardo,' he said weakly, half apologetically, 'I am overwrought:there is wine in that jug: I prithee give it me to drink.'
The boy, unhesitating, handed him the flagon.
'It is the symbol of joy redeemed,' he said. 'Put thy lips to thechalice, Galeazzo, and take what thy soul needest--no more.'
The Duke lifted the cup shakily, stumbled at its brim, steadied himself,and sipped. His eyes dilated and grew wolfish--'I am vindicated,' hestuttered: 'O sweet little saint!'--and he drank greedily, ecstatically,and, smacking his lips, put down the vessel.
He was himself again from that draught.
'Bernardo,' he said, in a reassured, half-maudlin confidence, 'canstthou read the stars?'
'Nay,' said the other gravely, 'they are the Sibyls' books.'
'True. Yet some essay.'
'Ay: then flies a comet, cancelling all their sums.'
'An impious vanity, is it not?'
'Truly, I think so.'
'And deserving of the last chastisement.'
'Poor fools, they make their own.'
'What?'
'Why, taking colds instead of rest--cramps, chills, and agues--immensepains, and all for nothing; the dead moon for the living sun; nursingall day that they may starve by night. God gave us level eyes. Thestar's best resting place for them is on a hill. We need no moreknowledge than to read beauty through the wise lens Nature hathproportioned us. Not God Himself can foretell a future.'
'Not God?'
'No, for there is no Future, nor ever will be. The Past but eternallyprolongs itself to the Present. Heaven or hell is the road we tread,and must retrace when we come to the brink of the abyss where Time dropssheer into nothingness. Joy or woe, then, to him the returningwanderer, according as he hath provisioned his way. So shall he starve,or travel in content, or meet with weary retributions. O, inprovidence, hold thy hand, thinking on this, whenever thy hand istempted!'
Galeazzo was amazed, discomfited. This unorthodoxy was the last toaccommodate itself to his principles of conduct. The Future to him wasalways an unmortgaged reversion, sufficient to pay off all debts toconscience and leave a handsome residue for income. He could onlyexclaim, again, like one aghast: '_No Future_?'
'Nay,' said Bembo, smiling, 'what is the heresy to reason or religion?To foresee the issues of to-day were, for Omniscience, to suppress allstrains but the angels'. What irony to accept worship from theforedoomed! What insensate folly wantonly to multiply the devil'srecruits! O Galeazzo, there is no Future for God or Men? Hope shuddersat the inexorable word: Evil presumes on it: it is the lodestone to alldogmatism; the bogey, the weapon of the unversed Churchman; the verybait to acquisition and self-greed. Be what, returning, ye would findyourselves--no lovelier ambition. See, we walk with Christ, the humanGod and comrade, I have but this hour left him bathing his tired feet inthe brook. He will follow anon; and all the pretty birds and insectsand wildflowers he watched while resting will have suggested to him athousand tales and reflections gathered of an ancient lore. He can befull of wonder too, but wiser by many moons than we. There is noFuture. God possesses the Past.'
The Duke sprang to his feet, and went up and down once or twice. Thisview of a self-retaliatory entity--of a returning body condemned bynatural laws to retraverse every point of its upward flight--disturbedhim horribly. He desired no responsibility in things done and gone.Eternity, timely propitiated, was his golden chance. He stopped andlooked at Bembo, at once inexpressibly cringing and crafty.
'Bernardino,' murmured he: 'I can never get it out of my head thatwhenever thou sayest God thou meanest gods. _The gods possess thepast?_--why, one would fancy somehow it ran glibber than the other.'
Bembo sighed.
'Well, why not? Nature, and Love, and the Holy Ghost--_Tria juncta inUno_--why not gods?'
The Duke pressed his hand to his forehead; then ran and clasped the boyabout the shoulders.
'Adorable little wisdom,' he cried: 'take my conscience, and record onit what thou wilt!'
'To-morrow,' said Bembo, with a happy smile: 'when its tablets aresponged and clean.'
Galeazzo fawned, showing his teeth. There was something in himinfinitely suggestive of the cat that, in alternate spasms of animalism,licks and bites t
he hand that caresses it. This strange new heresy of alimited omniscience oddly affected him. Could it be possible, afterall, that the soul's responsibility was to itself alone? In any case sopure a spirit as this could represent him only to his advantage. Still,at the same time, if God were no more than relatively wiser and strongerthan himself--why, it was not _his_ theory--let the Parablist answer forit--on Messer Bembo's saintly head fall the onus, if any, of leavingCapello where he was. For his own part, he told himself, the God ofMoses remaining in his old place in the heavens, he, Galeazzo, wouldhave been inclined to consider the virtuous policy of releasing theMonk.
And so he prepared himself to confess and communicate.
A Jay of Italy Page 8
