The Unfortunate Traveller and Other Works (45 page)

To this feast Juliana addressed herself like an angel; in a litter of green needlework wrought like an arbour and open on every side was she borne by four men, hidden under cloth rough-plushed and woven like eglantine and woodbine. At the four corners it was topped with four round crystal cages of nightingales. For footmen, on either side of her went four virgins clad in lawn, with lutes in their hands, playing. Next before her, two and two in order, a hundred
pages in suits of white cypress and long horsemen's coats of cloth of silver; who, being all in white, advanced every one of them her picture, enclosed in a white round screen of feathers, such as is carried over great princesses' heads when they ride in summer to keep them from the heat of the sun. Before them went a fourscore beadwomen she maintained, in green gowns, scattering strewing-herbs and flowers. After her followed the blind, the halt, and the lame, sumptuously apparelled like lords. And thus passed she on to St Peter's.

Interea quid agitur domi
: ‘How is't at home all this while?' My courtesan is left my keeper, the keys are committed unto her, she is mistress
fac totum
. Against our Countess we conspire, pack up all her jewels, plate, money that was extant, and to the waterside send them. To conclude: courageously rob her and run away.
Quid non auri sacra fames
?:
³³⁵
‘What defame will not gold salve?' He mistook himself that invented the proverb,
Dimicandum est pro aris et focis
, for it should have been
pro auro et fama
: not for altars and fires we must contend', but for ‘gold and fame'.

Oars nor wind could not stir nor blow faster than we toiled out of Tiber. A number of good fellows would give size ace and the dice,
³³⁶
that with as little toil they could leave Tyburn behind them. Out of ken we were, ere the Countess came from the feast. When she returned and found her house not so much pestered as it was wont, her chests, her closets and her cupboards broke open to take air, and that both I and my keeper was missing, oh, then she fared like a frantic bacchanal; she stamped, she stared, she beat her head against the walls, scratched her face, bit her fingers and strewed all the chamber with her hair. None of her servants durst stay in her sight, but she beat them out in heaps and bad them go seek, search they knew not where, and hang themselves and never look her in the face more if they did not hunt us out.

After her fury had reasonably spent itself, her breast began to swell with the mother,
³³⁷
caused by her former fretting and chafing, and she grew very ill at ease. Whereupon she knocked for one of her maids, and bad her run into her closet and fetch her a little glass that stood on the upper shelf, wherein there was
spiritus vini
. The maid went, and mistaking took the glass of poison which Diamante had given her and she kept in store for me. Coming with it as fast as her legs could carry her, her mistress at her return was in a swound and lay for dead on the floor, whereat she shrieked out and fell a-rubbing and chafing her very busily. When that would not serve, she took a key and opened her mouth, and having heard that
spiritus vini
was a thing of mighty operation, able to call a man from death to life, she took the poison, and verily thinking it to be
spiritus vini
(such as she was sent for), poured a large quantity of it into her throat and jogged on her back to digest it. It revived her with a very vengeance, for it killed her outright: only she awakened and lift up her hands, but she spake ne'er a word. Then was the maid in my grandame's beans,
³³⁸
and knew not what should become of her. I heard the Pope took pity on her and because her trespass was not voluntary but chance-medley,
³³⁹
he assigned her no other punishment but this, to drink out the rest of the poison in the glass that was left, and so go scot-free. We, careless of these mischances, held on our flight, and saw no man come after us but we thought had pursued us. A thief, they say, mistakes every bush for a true man; the wind rattled not in any bush by the way as I rode, but I straight drew my rapier. To Bologna with a merry gale we posted, where we lodged ourselves in a blind street out of the way and kept secret many days. But when we perceived we sailed in the haven, that the wind was laid, and no alarum made after us, we boldly came abroad. And one day, hearing of a more desperate murtherer than Cain that was to be executed, we followed
the multitude and grutched
³⁴⁰
not to lend him our eyes at his last parting.

Who should it be but one Cutwolfe, a wearish
³⁴¹
dwarfish writhen-faced cobbler, brother to Bartol the Italian that was confederate with Esdras of Granado, and at that time stole away my courtesan when he ravished Heraclide.

It is not so natural for me to epitomize his impiety, as to hear him in his own person speak upon the wheel where he was to suffer.

Prepare your ears and your tears, for never till this thrust I any tragical matter upon you. Strange and wonderful are God's judgments; here shine they in their glory. Chaste Heraclide, thy blood is laid up in heaven's treasury. Not one drop of it was lost, but lent out to usury. Water poured forth sinks down quietly into the earth, but blood spilt on the ground sprinkles up to the firmament. Murder is wide-mouthed and will not let God rest till he grant revenge. Not only the blood of the slaughtered innocent, but the soul, ascendeth to His throne, and there cries out and exclaims for justice and recompense. Guiltless souls that live every hour subject to violence, and with your despairing fears do much impair God's providence, fasten your eyes on this spectacle that will add to your faith. Refer all your oppressions, afflictions and injuries to the even-balanced eye of the Almighty; He it is that when your patience sleepeth will be most exceeding mindful of you.

This is but a gloss upon the text. Thus Cutwolfe begins his insulting oration:

‘Men and people that have made holiday to behold my pained flesh toil on the wheel, expect not of me a whining penitent slave that shall do nothing but cry and say his prayers, and so be crushed in pieces. My body is little, but my mind is as great as a giant's. The soul which is in me is the very soul of Julius Caesar by reversion. My name is Cutwolfe, neither better nor worse by occupation than a poor cobbler of Verona. Cobblers are men, and kings are no more. The occasion of my coming hither at this present is to have
a few of my bones broken (as we are all born to die) for being the death of the Emperor of homicides, Esdras of Granado. About two years since in the streets of Rome, he slew the only and eldest brother I had, named Bartol, in quarrelling about a courtesan. The news brought to me as I was sitting in my shop under a stall, knocking in of tacks, I think, I raised up my bristles, sold pritchel,
³⁴²
sponge, blacking tub and punching iron, bought me a rapier and pistol, and to go I went. Twenty months together I pursued him, from Rome to Naples, from Naples to Caiete, passing over the river, from Caiete to Sienna, from Sienna to Florence, from Florence to Parma, from Parma to Pavia, from Pavia to Sion, from Sion to Geneva, from Geneva back again towards Rome, where in the way it was my chance to meet him in the nick here in Bologna, as I will tell you how. I saw a great fray in the streets as I passed along, and many swords walking, whereupon drawing nearer and enquiring who they were, answer was returned me it was that notable banditto, Esdras of Granado. Oh, so I was tickled in the spleen with that word! My heart hopped and danced, my elbows itched, my fingers frisked. I wist not what should become of my feet, nor knew what I did for joy. The fray parted, I thought it not convenient to single him out (being a sturdy knave) in the street, but to stay till I had got him at more advantage. To his lodging I dogged him, lay at the door all night where he entered, for fear he should give me the slip any way. Betimes in the morning I rung the bell and craved to speak with him. Now to his chamber door I was brought, where knocking, he rose in his shirt and let me in, and when I was entered bad me lock the door and declare my arrant,
³⁴³
and so he slipped to bed again.

‘ “Marry, this”, quoth I, ‘is my arrant. Thy name is Esdras of Granado, is it not? Most treacherously thou slew'st my brother Bartol about two years ago in the streets of Rome. His death am I come to revenge. In quest of thee ever since, above three thousand miles have I travelled. I have begged to maintain me the better part of the way, only
because I would intermit no time from my pursuit in going back for money. Now have I got thee naked in my power. Die thou shalt, though my mother and my grandmother dying did entreat for thee. I have promised the devil thy soul within this hour, break my word I will not: in thy breast I intend to bury a bullet. Stir not, quinch
³⁴⁴
not, make no noise, for if thou dost it will be the worse for thee.”

‘Quod Esdras: “Whatever thou beest at whose mercy I lie, spare me, and I will give thee as much gold as thou wilt ask. Put me to any pains, my life reserved, and I willingly will sustain them. Cut off my arms and legs and leave me as a lazar to some loathsome spital, where I may but live a year to pray and repent me. For thy brother's death, the despair of mind that hath ever since haunted me, the guilty gnawing worm of conscience I feel may be sufficient penance. Thou canst not send me to such a hell as already there is in my heart. To dispatch me presently is no revenge; it will soon be forgotten. Let me die a lingering death; it will be remembered a great deal longer. A lingering death may avail my soul, but it is the illest of ills that can befortune my body. For my soul's health I beg my body's torment. Be not thou a devil to torment my soul and send me to eternal damnation. Thy overhanging sword hides heaven from my sight. I dare not look up, lest I embrace my death's wound unawares. I cannot pray to God and plead to thee both at once. Ay me, already I see my life buried in the wrinkles of thy brows. Say but I shall live, though thou meanest to kill me. Nothing confounds like to sudden terror; it thrusts every sense out of office. Poison wrapped up in sugared pills is but half a poison; the fear of death's looks are more terrible than his stroke. The whilst I view death, my faith is deaded; where a man's fear is, there his heart is. Fear never engenders hope: how can I hope that heaven's Father will save me from the hell everlasting, when He gives me over to the hell of thy fury?

‘ “Heraclide, now think I on thy tears sown in the dust, thy tears that my bloody mind made barren. In revenge of thee,
God hardens this man's heart against me. Yet I did not slaughter thee, though hundreds else my hand hath brought to the shambles. Gentle sir, learn of me what it is to clog your conscience with murder, to have your dreams, your sleeps, your solitary walks troubled and disquieted with murther. Your shadow by day will affright you; you will not see a weapon unsheathed, but immediately you will imagine it is predestinate for your destruction.

‘ “This murther is a house divided within itself. It suborns a man's own soul to inform against him. His soul, being his accuser, brings forth his two eyes as witnesses against him, and the least eye-witness is unrefutable. Pluck out my eyes if thou wilt, and deprive my traitorous soul of her two best witnesses. Dig out my blasphemous tongue with thy dagger: both tongue and eyes will I gladly forgo to have a little more time to think on my journey to heaven.

‘ “Defer awhile thy resolution. I am not at peace with the world, for even but yesterday I fought and in my fury threatened further vengeance. Had I a face to ask forgiveness, I should think half my sins were forgiven. A hundred devils haunt me daily for my horrible murthers. The devils when I die will be loth to go to hell with me, for they desired of Christ he would not send them to hell before their time. If they go not to hell, into thee they will go and hideously vex thee for turning them out of their habitation. Wounds I contemn, life I prize light; it is another world's tranquillity which makes me so timorous – everlasting damnation, everlasting howling and lamentation. It is not from death I request thee to deliver me, but from this terror of torment's eternity. Thy brother's body only I pierced unadvisedly; his soul meant I no harm to at all. My body and soul both shalt thou cast away quite, if thou dost at this instant what thou may'st. Spare me, spare me, I beseech thee. By thy own soul's salvation I desire thee, seek not my soul's utter perdition. In destroying me thou destroyest thyself and me.”

‘Eagerly I replied after this long suppliant oration: “Though I knew God would never have mercy upon me except
I had mercy on thee, yet of thee no mercy would I have. Revenge in our tragedies is continually raised from hell: of hell do I esteem better than heaven, if it afford me revenge. There is no heaven but revenge. I tell thee, I would not have undertook so much toil to gain heaven, as I have done in pursuing thee for revenge. Divine revenge, of which, as of the joys above, there is no fulness or satiety. Look how my feet are blistered with following thee from place to place. I have riven my throat with overstraining it to curse thee. I have ground my teeth to powder with grating and grinding them together for anger when any hath named thee. My tongue with vain threats is bollen, and waxen too big for my mouth. My eyes have broken their strings with staring and looking ghastly as I stood devising how to frame or set my countenance when I met thee. I have near spent my strength in imaginary acting on stone walls what I determined to execute on thee. Entreat not: a miracle may not reprieve thee. Villain, thus march I with my blade into thy bowels.”

‘ “Stay, stay!” exclaimed Esdras, “and hear me but one word further. Though neither for God nor man thou carest, but placest thy whole felicity in murther, yet of thy felicity learn how to make a greater felicity. Respite me a little from thy sword's point, and set me about some execrable enterprise that may subvert the whole state of Christendom and make all men's ears tingle that hear of it. Command me to cut all my kindred's throats, to burn men, women and children in their beds in millions, by firing their cities at midnight. Be it Pope, Emperor or Turk that displeaseth thee, he shall not breath on the earth. For thy sake will I swear and forswear, renounce my baptism and all the interest I have in any other sacrament. Only let me live how miserable soever, be it in a dungeon amongst toads, serpents and adders, or set up to the neck in dung. No pains I will refuse however prorogued to have a little respite to purify my spirit. Oh hear me, hear me, and thou canst not be hardened against me!”