‘Yes, Carlo. I have left my household ledger in the next chamber I think. Fetch it for me, will you?’
I bowed low, more than a courtesy in the circumstances, and went out onto the terrace or balcony which served both this and the next room. There was then a gap of some dozen or more feet to the next terrace on which I could see the figure of Zanetta stooping to pick up the pieces of the broken bowl. She was humming a gay little melody from some opera of Claudio Monteverdi, who was their Maestro di Capella at this time. Still nothing might have happened had she not broken into song. But the words were the mockery of Thetis at Perseus’ attempts to hold her down in their wrestling match and they struck me as a deliberate affront. It mattered not that she was unaware that I could hear her – surely I must still be in her mind.
And in more than her mind if I had my will, for what man of honour could tolerate such indignities as she had heaped on me and not retaliate?
What man of sanity could even dream of doing what I did next!
Breaking into a little run, I leapt on to the low balustrade at the end of this terrace and launched myself through the air!
Her back was to me and, as I have said, she was stooping. I hit her full in the haunches sending her sprawling with a force that must have knocked all the breath and most of the sense out of her. I then had just enough left of caution to pull the brim of her bleaching hat down over her brow till it ran across her eyes, put my hand over her mouth, hoisted up her skirts and, applying my lance like a tiro in a tourney, thrust God knows where!
So wrought up was I that one thrust was enough. The whole affair took scarce ten seconds. I stood up. She still lay on her belly gasping for breath. I turned and climbed to the balustrade. The gap to the next terrace seemed wider now, the drop much deeper. But my lustful wrath had been replaced by fear, which imps a man’s feathers just as well, and I was over the gap, back in Benetto’s room, had given him his ledger and was listening with every sign of appreciation to an anecdote he was telling concerning Henry III of France when the first scream rang out.
Naturally I stuck to Benetto like a fly to a pine tree. He was my alibi, though I feared much that Zanetta would not let considerations of time and space and rationality interfere with her conviction of my guilt.
Yet, in the event, she it was who confirmed my innocence. For being modestly unwilling to admit how far the attack had gone, she claimed that it was her noisy resistance which had frightened off the villain, and of course I had been standing by her husband’s side when the first screech was heard.
Well, we all took swords and searched the garden and scoured the ways about the house. By chance I came across a ragged fellow carrying a bundle which, when he saw me approach with naked weapon, he dropped and drew a stiletto. I foolishly thought my rapier gave me sufficient advantage to disarm and arrest him, but throwing the moth-eaten rag he wore as a cloak over my point, he drew me close and stabbed me in the side.
Praise God, I am one of those whom pain and fear has ever stimulated to rational behaviour, so I kneed him in the balls and, drawing back from his foul grasp, I delayed only long enough to let him raise his head to sue for mercy, which gave me room for the clean thrust through his throat.
The bundle had fallen open revealing various cups of silver which this silly fellow must have come from thieving; also a purse of silver duckatoons which I just had time to slip into my pocket before others of the household came running up and caught me as I swooned.
So within a few moments of running the risk of the long and painful tortures these clarissimi reserve for those who offend their womenfolk, I had become a hero! But the price I almost paid was the one commonly demanded of heroes, for though the wound I took from that fellow’s filthy weapon was not deep, yet it began to fester, and I lay in a raging fever for several days from which I was miraculously recovered, according to the Priulis’ chirurgeon, only by the frequent application both internally and externally of teriaca, the Venetian mithridatic whose beneficent properties are famed the world over. But I knew better where to give thanks for my life, for the first face I saw when I came out of my fever was Godfrey’s! He, I learned, had called at the Priuli palace the morning after my wounding, pretending to have just returned from a visit to Vienna; and, finding me surrounded by doctors with their blood-pans and leeches, he had dismissed them all and applied such nursing and remedies as had frequently restored his wounded Uskoks to health.
I was thus deeper than ever in his debt. And he had helped me in other ways too, more than I then knew. For instance, when I was well enough to converse with him, he drew from his pouch the purse of duckatoons I had recovered from the thief and dropped it on my pillow, saying, ‘This might have been hard to explain, Carlo!’
I begged him to keep it for me, or rather for himself, for in truth I knew not what he was doing for money now that his occupation had gone. Also I felt myself wealthy enough for the bestowal of charity since Antonio Priuli himself had visited me and left me a gift of gold, while the family whose silver cups had been stolen by the ragged fellow had given me a reward also.
But perhaps the strangest and most pleasing result of the whole business was that Zanetta seemed to have shed her suspicion of me and frequently visited me, to laugh and talk and shower me with cakes of marzipan which the Venetians love above all sweetmeats. At first I viewed this friendliness with some suspicion, and even more so the friendliness of Maria who often came to change my dressings. Then one day when I was almost wholly recovered the old attendant bustled into my room unawares as I lay in one of those carnal dreams of youth and, pulling back the sheets as was her wont, she looked down and laughed and said, ‘So your strength is restored.’
Then, too swift for my prevention, she bent over and I thought for one terrible moment was about to do with her teeth what once she had tried to do with her talons. Instead what followed was delicious beyond my innocent dreams, and thereafter I abandoned my suspicions, reckoning that there are some offers of a friendship a man must be churlish past a Welshman to refuse. And as though in reward for my altruistic courtesy, I noted thereafter how much younger this Maria seemed to my maturer eye.
My youth was passing and I did not know it. Nor ever could. For when a man knows that, then it has already passed.
4
Now commenced perhaps the most joyous time of my life. Fully recovered, I was treated by the Priulis if not quite like one of their family (for these patricians of Venice will scarcely let our Saviour’s name be written in their Golden Book, when he comes again), yet often more like a visiting friend than a servant. Official interest in me seemed to have died down altogether and I was able to move freely about the city. Benetto and Zanetta interested themselves in my education, teaching me the forms of courtesy, but my greatest delight was in the renewed contact with Godfrey who was now a frequent guest at the palazzo and had laughingly offered his services in, as he put it, converting the heathen. Thus those lessons in the arms and the arts of warfare which had commenced in Senj were resumed and my natural talents bloomed, though whenever I grew vain to think I might outstrip my master, Godfrey, perceiving this, would disarm me in a twinkle, or put his ball through the hole made by mine.
What I missed most of all, however, and he too I believe, was the exercise of riding, for unless a man mounted one of the four great copper horses which step eternally from the front of St Mark’s Church, it were hard to find even a nag in Venice. Zanetta, when I made inquiries about this, laughed and, pointing to a row of moored gondolas bobbing and dipping their curious arched prows on the choppy water, said, ‘There are our horses. See how their necks bend! Are they not the fairest of steeds, little Carlo?’
It was her constant joke to pretend I was a child and on these occasions Maria would stick her fist into her mouth to choke down her giggles. I was proud enough to be hurt by it, but wise enough to contain my offence. Yet there was nothing of malice in this mockery and a few days later when Benetto announced we were going to his villa
on the terrafirma, Zanetta added, ‘Where you, my little Carlo, will be able to satisfy your lust; for riding, I mean.’
The next day we journeyed by boat to Fusina on the mainland, where our bark was most ingeniously lifted by a crane over the sluice that keeps separate the salt waters of the lagoon and the fresh of the River Brenta. Thence we journeyed upstream for some miles in the direction of Padua and, about six miles outside that city, we turned to the bank and disembarked at Benetto’s villa.
Compared with the palazzo this was but a small house, yet I much preferred it, partly because there were fewer people therein, but mainly because of the many acres of land which lay about it, and the horses in the stables. Venice is a beautiful city containing nearly all that is necessary to a man’s pleasure, but there is a sense of confinement in staying there unless a man is in love with the sea. Well, I could never grow fond of the water, though I had many adventures thereon, and to return to the joys of riding, briefly tasted under Godfrey’s tutelage at Senj, was bliss beyond expectation.
Godfrey continued his lessons and complimented me on having quickly learned to spot the good points of a horse when I selected as my usual mount a fine grey gelding called Priam. But, to tell truth, I picked him for no better reason than that he made much of me, whinnying at my approach and nuzzling my neck with his great damp nostrils!
I would have ridden him all day, aye, and all night too, if I had been allowed. But I was still half a servant and, besides, Godfrey warned me, as he had done before, against over-taxing a horse which could not, and often would not, complain. When we rode out in the heat of sun, he always made me take what they called an umbrella – that is, a circle of leather on a frame held by a stout rod which the rider lashes to his thigh. When I complained that a broad-brimmed hat would do as well to keep off the sun, he scolded me and called me dolt and said it was not for my protection, but the horse’s, giving him shade and preventing me from overmuch galloping alike!
It was an idyllic time. Autumn lasted long that year and still believed it was summer. Godfrey and I would sometimes miss our meal and make do instead with a melon or a peach by some bright-running brook, the whiles talking lightly of nothings. Godfrey never referred to the past or the future, but spoke only of ‘now’ as if it were for ever, and I gladly followed him in this for to me it seemed as if it might be! Once rested and refreshed, we would indulge in some passage of arms, target-shooting, or knife-fighting, or (Godfrey’s favourite) sword-play. I had no weapon of my own, nor was there much point in having one most of the time. To prevent civil brawls, in most cities of the terrafirma the wearing of swords is forbidden, and visitors must hand their weapon to a porter at the city gates who will carry it to the place of lodging and deposit it with the host until the time for departure arrives. Godfrey, however, always loaned me a weapon when he rode abroad, partly for the purpose of our exercise but also for defence against bandit attack, for the Republic was not so serene outside her city walls.
Only once were we threatened. Three ruffians on horse-back appeared at out backs and galloped madly after us, waving swords and hallooing madly. Their intent was probably to drive us into an ambuscade further along the way, but Godfrey held his ground, drew his English dog-lock with the rifled barrel, and blew a hole in the leading pursuer’s chest at twenty-five yards. Then the attackers became the attacked. I had learned something of the art of sword-play on horseback from Godfrey, but we had practised it little for, as he told me, it was a dangerous pastime without trained horses. This indeed proved the case. Priam seemed well-suited to the fray, standing his ground and moving only as I urged him. But Godfrey’s mount, a nervy dun mare, became so excited that she reared at a crucial point; his adversary swung his sword, missing Godfrey but severing his reins, and next thing my friend was flat on his back, winded, with this ruffiano towering over him to deal the death-blow. I meanwhile had just dealt my fellow such a slash across the wrist that his hand, though it still held his sword, hung nerveless from his arm by no more than a couple of stretched sinews.
Disengaging now I galloped headlong at the other villain and, before he could strike at the defenceless Godfrey, I drove my point so deep into his body that I had to release my hold or be pulled to the ground.
Now I dismounted to tend Godfrey, but already he was rising with a smile on his lips.
‘We’ll make a cavalryman of you yet, Carlo,’ he said dusting himself down. ‘But you must learn to keep your weapon with you right through the charge!’
Then seeing I was a little hurt by his jocularity at my deed of derring-do, he plucked the sword from the dead fellow’s body and presented it to me saying, ‘I thank you, Carlo. Keep this sword as your own now, in token of the life I owe you. ’Tis a good weapon, and if ever you decide to cancel the debt on me, I would be happy to know I was going to be penetrated by no virgin blade!’
I took the sword with my eyes full of tears. It was a joyous moment. Perhaps I would have preferred a gentleman’s rapier to the solid weapon this was, which, with a slight curve in the blade, made it almost an Uskok cutlass, but it was a gift from the man I loved most in the world. And besides, it had the temper of a man’s life-blood in it which some of these willowy rapiers are never stiffened with.
We took the survivor of the trio, whose hand had now fallen off, back with us to the villa, where Godfrey made much of my part in the affray. For that evening at least I was quite a hero, with Benetto in particular smiling benevolently on me as if it were all due to his own influence! And Maria performed such miracles of her arts on me that night that I was obliged to keep to my bed next morning, claiming fatigue from the battle with the banditti!
Well, it was good for me to excel in some of those arts that gentlemen value, for in most other areas of manners and behaviour I was still very much the tiro, and though the Priulis’ laughter at my mistakes was kindly meant, it still hurt. But if you admit patronage through the front door you must store sensitivity in the cellar – that too I learned among all my other skills and it was a valuable lesson, for on the one occasion I forgot it, I was made to pay dearly for my pride.
We were invited to dine with the podesta of Padua, that is, the civic as opposed to the military of the two rettori, or rulers, sent by the Venetians to govern each of their subject cities. This was the first formal dinner I had attended, for at the palazzo Priuli when important guests were at the board I was relegated to the kitchens or at best allowed to wait upon Antonio as a sort of esquire. Now I was strangely excited to find myself included in the noble gathering who feasted at the podesta’s palace that evening. I think Benetto had had doubts about the propriety of my presence, but Godfrey had made a joke of it and Zanetta had scolded her husband for his conventionality, so there I was, seated it is true some distance from the head of the table, and from the Priuli party proper, but definitely a guest among other important guests.
Seated next to me was a dark-haired, swarthy-skinned man of about thirty-five, with one of those faces that looks full of melancholy till you see the bright amusement in the sharply watchful eyes.
He introduced himself to me with a self-parodying formality as Señor Francisco Gomez de Quevedo y Villegas. Spanish was not one of the languages I was perfect in, yet I had heard enough of it in the bustling cosmopolitan life of Venice to be able to greet him in his own tongue and introduce myself in return.
He expressed delight at hearing me use his language, saying that not many Venetians seemed to feel it necessary to learn, foreign tongues. To which I replied that my Spanish was very limited and in any case I was a Croatian.
‘A Croatian?’ he said, courteously reverting to Italian. ‘You are the first I have met of that race, Signore.’
‘They are few who find their way out of that land,’ interrupted the fellow who sat opposite us.
‘Oh, and why should that be?’ inquired Quevedo.
‘Why is a blow-fly content with the midden he is hatched on?’ returned the other carelessly. He was a richly dress
ed Venetian of about twenty with a fleshy, discontented face and malicious eyes.
I stiffened at the insult but Quevedo courteously inquired the other’s name and on learning this was Giacomo Basadonna, who was presently studying at the University (as did the sons of many rich Venetian families), the Spaniard began to inquire about common acquaintance and the small moment of tension was past.
Soon Basadonna began to talk with a gaily dressed young fellow on his other side, grumbling at the slowness of the Senate to recognize his own outstanding merit, and Quevedo returned his attention to me. He was a good conversationalist, light and witty and willing to listen as well as to speak. Soon I felt very much at ease, but it was this very sense of easiness which made me commit the small social blunder that caused me such pain.
The Venetians were famed alike for their extravagances and their restraint, perhaps most simply exemplified by the choppines of their ladies and the plain black gowns of their gentlemen. Any novelty, so long as it costs not overmuch, is seized upon avidly and it was at their tables that I first saw the use of that outlandish instrument with two prongs which is called a dining fork. I had used one on a couple of occasions, but now so deeply immersed in conversation was I that when a roast capon was placed before me, I used it as was the custom both in my father’s house and at the Uskok board, seizing the bird with one hand and dragging off a drumstick with the other.
‘See what kitchen manners are here, Señor Quevedo,’ said a sneering voice. It was Basadonna, of course, underlining his remark by delicately conveying a piece of meat to his lips with his fork.
I blushed and dropped the chicken, staining the cloth on which the salver rested. One or two people laughed. But even then my confusion, which inclined me to self-effacement, would have conquered my resentment, which inclined me to action, if the fleshy youth had not been emboldened by the audience reaction to lean across, put my fork in my hand and say sarcastically, ‘Surely in Croatia, where all are peasants, they taught you to use such an implement, if only for the shifting of dung?’
The Forging of Fantom Page 7
