 Chapter 58 of The Cloyster and the Hearth by Charles Reed This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham. Gerard walked silently beside Theresa, wondering in his own mind, after the manner of artists, what she was going to do with him, instead of asking her. So at last she told him of her own accord. A friend had informed her of a working goldsmith's wife, who wanted a writer. Her shop is hard by, you will not have far to go. Accordingly they soon arrived at the goldsmith's wife. Madam, said Theresa, Leonora tells me you want a writer. I have brought you a beautiful one. He saved my child at sea. Prithee, look on him with favour. The goldsmith's wife complied in one sense. She fixed her eyes on Gerard's comely face, and could hardly take them off again. But her reply was unsatisfactory. Nay, I have no use for a writer. Ah! I mind now. It is my gossip, clearly, the sausage-maker wants one. She told me, and I told Leonora. Theresa made a courteous speech, and withdrew. Clalier lived at some distance, and when they reached her house she was out. Theresa said calmly, I will await her return, and sat so still and dignified, and start to ask, that Gerard was beginning furtively to draw her when Clalier returned. Madam, I hear from the goldsmith's wife the excellent Olympia that you need a writer. Here she took Gerard by the hand, and led him forward. I have brought you a beautiful one. He saved my child from the cruel waves. For our lady's sake, look with favour on him. My good day, my fae, sir, said Clalier, I have no use for a writer. But now you remind me, it was my friend Appia Clalier asked me for one, but the other day she is a tailor, and lives in the Via L'Epida. Theresa retired calmly. Madam, said Gerard, this is likely to be a tedious business for you. Theresa opened her eyes. What was ever done without a little patience? She added mildly, we will knock at every door in Rome, but you shall have justice. But Madam, I think we are dogged. I noticed a man that follows us, sometimes afar, sometimes close. I have seen it, said Theresa coldly, but her cheek coloured faintly. It is my poor lot of eco. She stopped and turned and beckoned with her finger. A figure approached them somewhat unwillingly. When he came up, she gazed him full in the face and he looked sheepish. Lodovico mio, said she, know this young sir, of whom I have so often spoken to thee. Know him and love him, for he it was who saved thy wife and child. At these last words Lodovico, who had been bowing and grinning artificially, suddenly changed to an expression of heartfelt gratitude and embraced Gerard warmly. Yet somehow there was something in the man's original manner, and his having followed his wife by stealth, that made Gerard uncomfortable under this caress. However, he said, we shall have your company, sir Lodovico. No, senor, replied Lodovico, I go not on that side, Tiber. Adio, then, said Theresa significantly. When shall you return home, Theresa mia? When I have done mine errand, Lodovico. They pursued their way in silence. Theresa now wore a sad and almost gloomy air. To be brief, Apia Claudia was merciful and did not send them over Tiber again but only a hundred yards down the street. To Lucretia, who kept the glove shop, she it was, wanted a writer. But what for? Apia Claudia could not conceive. Lucretia was a merry little dame who received them heartily enough and told them she wanted no writer, kept all her accounts in her head. It was for my confessor, for the colonna, he is mad after them. I have heard of his excellence, he said, Theresa. Who has not? But good dame, he is a friar, he has made vow of poverty, I cannot let the young man write and not be paid. He saved my child at sea. Did he now? And Lucretia cast an approving look on Gerard. Well make your mind easy, a colonna never wants for money. The good father has only to say the word and the princes of his race will pour a thousand grounds into his lap. And such a confessor, dame, the best in Rome. His head is leagues and leagues away all the while. He never heeds what you are saying. Why, I think no more of confessing my sins to him than of telling them to that wall. Once to try him I confessed, along with the rest, as how I had killed my lodger's little girl and baked her in a pie. Well, when my voice left off confessing, he started out of his dream and says he, a mustering up a gloom. My earring sister, say three patanostas and three ave Maria's kneeling, and eat no buttern or eggs next Wednesday, and packs for biscombe. And Offer went with his hands behind him, looking as if there was no such thing as me in the world. Theresa waited patiently, then calmly brought this discursive lady back to the point. Would she be so kind as to go with this good youth to the friar and speak for him? Aluck, how can I leave my shop, and what need? His door is eye-open to writers and painters and scholars and all such cattle. Why, one day he would not receive the duke d'Orbino, because a learned Greek was closeted with him. And the friar's head and his so close together over a dusty parchment just come in from Greece as you could put one cowl over the pear. His wench, Onesta, told me she mostly looks in ear for a chat when she goes in errand. This is the man for thee, my friend, said Theresa. All you have to do, continued Lucretia, is to go to his lodgings, my boy shall show them you, and tell Onesta you come from me, and you are a writer, and she will take you up to him. If you put a piece of silver in the wench's hand, twill do you no harm, that stands to reason. I have silver, said Theresa warmly, but stay, said Lucretia, mind one thing. What the young man saith he can do, that he must be able to do, or let him shun the good friar like poison. He is a very wild beast against all bunglers. Why, twas, but to the day one brought him an ill-carved crucifix, says he. Is this how you present Salvatore Mundi, who died for you in mortal agony, and you go and grudge him careful work? This lovely gamecracker crucifix? But that it is a crucifix of some sort, and I am a holy man. I dust your jacket with your crucifix, says he. For Nesta heard every word through the keyhole, so mind. Have no fears, madama, said Theresa loftily. I will answer for his ability. He saved my child. Gerald was not subtle enough to appreciate this conclusion, and was so far from sharing Theresa's confidence that he begged a respite. He would rather not go to the friar today, would not tomorrow do as well. Here is a coward for you, said Lucretia. No, he is not a coward, said Theresa firing up. He is modest. I'm afraid of this high-born fastidious friar, said Gerald. Consider, he has seen the handiwork of all the writers in Italy, dear dame Theresa. If you would but let me prepare a better piece of work than yet I have done, then to-morrow I will face him with it. I consent, said Theresa. They walked home together. Not far from his own lodging was a shop that sold vellum. There was a beautiful white skin in the window. Gerald looked at it wistfully, but he knew he could not pay for it, so he went on rather hastily. However, he soon made up his mind where to get vellum, and parting with Theresa at his own door ran hastily upstairs, and took the bond he had brought all the way from Severnbergen, and laid it with a sigh on the table. He then prepared with his chemicals to erase the old writing, but as this was his last chance of reading it, he now overcame his deadly repugnance to bad writing, and proceeded to decipher the deed in spite of its detestable contractions. It appeared by this deed that Gisbrecht van Svieten was to advance some money to Flores Brandt on a piece of land, and was to repay himself out of the rent. On this, Gerald felt it would be imprudent and improper to destroy the deed. On the contrary, he vowed to decipher every word at his leisure. He went downstairs determined to buy a small piece of vellum with his half of the card money. At the bottom of the stairs he found the landlady and Theresa talking. At sight of him, the former cried, Here he is! You are caught, Don Amia! See what she has bought you! And whipped out from under her apron the very skin of vellum Gerald had longed for. Why, Dame, why Dona Theresa? And he was speechless with pleasure and astonishment. Dear Dona Theresa, there is not a skin in all Rome like it. However came you to hit on this one, to his glamour. Alas, dear boy, did not thine eye rest on it with desire, and didst thou not sigh in turning away from it? And was it for Theresa to let thee want the thing after that? What sagacity! What goodness, madame! Oh, Dame, I never thought I should possess this. What did you pay for it? I forget. Adios, Fiammana! Adios, said Gerald! Be happy, be prosperous, as you are good. And the Roman matron glided away while Gerald was hesitating and thinking how to offer to pay so stately a creature for her purchase. The next day in the afternoon he went to Lucretia, and her boy took him to Fracalona's lodgings. He announced his business and, feed on ester, and she took him up to the friar. Gerald entered with a beating heart. The room, a large one, was strewed and heaped with objects of art, antiquity and learning, lying about in rich profusion and confusion. Manuscripts, pictures, carvings in wood and ivory, musical instruments, and in this glorious chaos sat the friar pouring intently over an Arabian manuscript. He looked up a little peevishly at the interruption. Honest, a whispered in his ear. Very well, said he, let him be seated. Stay, young man, show me how you write. And he threw Gerald a piece of paper and pointed to an incorn. So please, you reverent father, said Gerald, my hand trembled too much at this moment, but last night I wrote a vellum page of Greek and the Latin version by its side to show the various character. Show it me? Gerald brought the work to him in fear and trembling, then stood heart sick, awaiting his verdict. When it came, it staggered him, for the verdict was a Dominican falling on his neck. The next day, an event took place in Holland, the effect of which on Gerald's destiny, no mortal at the time, nor even my intelligent reader now could, I think, foresee. Marched up to Eli's door, a pageant brave to the eye of sense, and to the vulgar judgment noble, but to the philosophic pitiable more or less. It looked one animal a centaur, but on severe analysis proved two. The human half was sadly bedisoned with these two metals to clothe his carcass with which and line his pouch. Man has now and then disposed of his soul. Still the horse was the vein of root of the two. He was far worse beflounced, be bonneted and be mantled than any fair lady Ragnanti Crinolina. For the man under the color of a warming pan retained nature's outline, but it was subaudy, ecquam, scarcely a pennyweight of honest horse flesh to be seen. Our crinoline spares the noble parts of women and makes but the baser parts gigantic. Why, this preference? But this poor animal from stem to stern was swamped in finery. His ears were hid in great sheaths of white linen tipped with silver and blue. His body swaddled in stiff gorgeous cloths descending to the ground, except just in front where they left him room to mince. His tail, though dear to memory no doubt, was lost to sight, being tucked in heaven knows how. Only his eyes shone out like goggles through two holes pierced in the wall of haberdashery and his little front hoofs peeped in and out like rats. Yet did this compound gorgeous and irrational represent power, absolute power? It came straight from a tournament at the Duke's Court, which being on a progress lay last night at a neighbouring town to execute the behests of royalty. What ho! cried the upper half, and on Eli emerging, with his wife behind him, saluted them, "'Peace be with you good people. Rejoice! I am come for your dwarf.'" Eli looked amazed and said nothing. But Catherine screamed over his shoulder, "'You have mistook your old good man! Here abides no dwarf!' Nay, wife. He means our giles, who were somewhat small of stature. Why gainsay what gainsaid may not be? I!" cried the pageant. "'That is he and discourseeth like the big taber!' "'His breast is sound for that matter,' said Catherine sharply, and prompt with his fists, though, at long odds. Else how would the poor thing keep his head in such a world as this?' "'Tis well said, Dame. Art is ready with thy weapon as he, art is motherlikely. So bring him forth, and that presently. See, they lead a stunted mule for him. The duke hath need of him, saw need. We are clean out at Dwarven, and tiger-cats, which may not be, whilst earth them yieldeth. Our last hop of my thumb tumbled down the well to the day. And think you, I let my darling go to such an ill-guided house as you, where the reckless trollops of servants close not the well-mouth, but leave it open to trap innocents like Wolven!' The representative of autocracy lost patience at this unwonted opposition, and with stern look and voice, bad her be-thinker, whether it was the better of the two, to have your abortion at court fed like a bishop and put on like a prince, or to have all your heads stricken off and borne on poles, with the bell-man crying, Behold the heads of hardy rebels, which having by good luck a misbegotten son, did traitorously grudge him to the duke, who is the true father of all his folk, little or meekle. Nay, said Eli sadly, miscall us not. We be true folk, and neither rebels nor traitors. But this sudden, and the poor lad is our true flesh and blood, and half of late, given proof of more sense than here to fore. Avails not threatening our lives, wimpered Catherine, we grudge him not to the duke, but in sooth he cannot go, his linen is all in holes, so there is an end. But the male mind resisted this crusher. Think you the duke will not find linen and cloth of gold to boot, none so brave, none so affected at court as our monster's big or we. How long the dispute might have lasted before the iron arguments of despotism achieved the inevitable victory, I know not. But it was cut short by a party, whom neither disputant had deigned to consult. The bone of contention walked out of the house and sided with monarchy. If my folk are mad, I am not, he roared, I'll go with you and on the instant. At this Catherine set up a piteous cry. She saw another of her brood escaping from under her wing into some unknown element. Giles was not quite insensible to her distress, so simple yet so eloquent. He said, Ney, take not on, mother, white is a God-send, and I am sick of this ever since Gerard left it. Oh, cruel Giles, should ye not rather say she is bereaved of Gerard, the more need of you to stay aside her and comfort her? Oh, I am not going to roam not such a fool, I shall never be farther than Rotterdam, and I'll often come and see you, and if I like not the place, who shall keep me there, nor all the dukes in Christendom? Good sense, lies in little bulk, said the emissary approvingly. Therefore, Master Giles, bust the old folk and thank them for misbegetting of thee, and ho, you, bring hither his mule. One of his retinue brought up the dwarf mule. Giles refused it with scorn, and on being asked the reason, said it was not just. What, would ye throw all into one scale, put muckl to muckl and little to wee? Besides, I hate and scorn small things, I'll go on the highest horse here, or not at all. The poor sweetened eyed him attentively a moment, then adopted a courteous manner. I shall study your will in all things reasonable. Dismount, Eric, yours is the highest horse, and if you would halt in the town an hour or so, while you bid them farewell, say but the word, and your pleasure shall be my delight. Giles reflected. Master, said he, if we wait a month, it will be still the same. My mother is a good soul, but her body is bigger than her spirit. We shall not part without a tear or two, and the quicket is done the fewer, so bring yon horse to me. Catherine threw her apron over her face and sobbed. The high horse was brought, and Giles was for swarming up his tail like a rope, but one of the servants cried out hastily, Forbear, for he kicketh. I'll kick him, said Giles, bring him close beneath this window, and I'll learn you all how to mount a horse which kicketh, and will not be clombed by the tail, the staircase of a horse. And he dashed into the house, and almost immediately reappeared at an upper window with a rope in his hand. He fastened an end somehow, and holding the other, descended as swift and smooth as an oiled thunderbolt in a groove, and lighted astride his high horse as unperceived by that animal as a fly settling on him. The official lifted his hands to heaven in mawkish admiration. I have gotten a pearl, thought he, and wow, but this will be a good day's work for me. Come, father, come, mother, bust me, and bless me, and off I go. Eli gave him his blessing, and brought him be honest and true and a credit to his folk. Catherine could not speak, but clung to him with many sobs and embraces, and even through the mist of tears her eye detected in a moment the little rent in his sleeve he had made getting out of window, and she whipped out her needle and mended it then and there, and her tears fell on his arm the while unheeded, except by those unflashly eyes with which they say the very air is thronged. And so the dwarf mounted the high horse, and rode away complacent with the old hand laying the caught butter on his back with a trowel. Little wrecked perpocillus of two poor silly females that sat by the bereaved half, rocking themselves and weeping, and discussing all his virtues and how his mind had opened lately, and blind as two beetles to his faults, who rode away from them jockoned and bold. In gentes animos angusto pector eversans. Arrived at court he speedily became a great favorite. One strange propensity of his electrified the palace, but on a count of his small size, and for variety's sake and as a monster he was indulged on it. In a word he was let speak the truth. It is an unpopular thing. He made it an intolerable one. Bald it! End of chapter 58 Recording by Tom Denham Chapter 59 Of The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles Reid This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham. Happy the man who has two chain cables, merit and women. Oh, that I, like Gerard, had a chendid am to pull up by. I would be pro's laureate or professor of the spasmodic or something in no time. On attendant I will sketch the Fra Colonna. The true revivers of ancient learning and philosophy were two writers of fiction, Petroch and Boccaccio. Their labours were not crowned with great public and immediate success, but they sowed the good seed and it never perished, but quickened in the soil awaiting sunshine. From their day Italy was never without a native scholar or two versed in Greek, and each learned Greek who landed there was received fraternally. The 14th century Eretz's clothes saw the birth of Podgio, Valla and the elder Guarino, and early in the 15th Florence under Cosmo de Medici was a nest of Platonists. These, headed by Gemistus Pletho, a born Greek, began about AD 1440 to write down Aristotle, for few minds are big enough to be just to great A without being unjust to capital B. Theodor Gaza defended that great man with moderation, George of Trebizond with acerbity, and retorted on Plato. Then, Cornel Basarian, another born Greek, resisted the said George and his idol in attract adversus columniatorem Platonis. Pognacity, whether wise or not, is a form of vitality. Born without controversial bile in so zealous an epoch, Francesco Colonna, a young nobleman of Florence, lived for the arts. At twenty he turned Dominican friar. His object was quiet study. He retired from idle company and faction fights, the humming and the stinging of the human hive, to Saint Dominic and the Nine Muses. An eager student of languages, pictures, statues, chronology, coins, and monumental inscriptions, these last loosened his faith in popular histories. He travelled many years in East and returned laden with spoils, master of several choice manuscripts, and versed in Greek and Latin, Hebrew and Syriac. He found his country had not stood still. Other lettered princes besides Cosmo had sprung up. Alfonso King of Naples, Nicholas Deste, Lionel Deste, etc. Above all, his old friend Thomas of Sazana had been made pope, and had lent a mighty impulse to letters, had accumulated five thousand manuscripts in the library of the Vatican, and had set Poggio to translate Diodorus Siculus and Xenophon's Chiropedia, Laurentius Valha to translate Herodotus and Thucidaides, Theodorgasa, Theophrastus, George of Trebizond, Eusebius, and certain treatises of Plato, etc., etc. The monk found Plato and Aristotle under armistice. But Poggio and Valha had loggerheads over verbs and nouns, and on fire with odium philologicum. All this was heaven, and he settled down in his native land his life a rosy dream. None so happy as the versatile provided they have not their bread to make by it. And Fra Colonna was versatility. He knew seven or eight languages, and a little mathematics, could write a bit, paint a bit, model a bit, sing a bit, strum a bit, and could relish superior excellence in all these branches. For this last trait he deserved to be as happy as he was. For gauge the intellects of your acquaintances, and you will find but few whose minds are neither deaf nor blind nor dead to some great art or science, and wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. And such of them as are conceited as well as stupid shall even parade instead of blushing for the holes in their intellects. A zealot in art, the friar was a skeptic in religion. In every age there are a few men who hold the opinions of another age past or future. Being a lump of simplicity his skepticism was as naive as his enthusiasm. He affected to look on the religious ceremonies of his day as his models, the heathen philosophers regarded the worship of gods and departed heroes, mummeries good for the populace. But here his mind drew unconsciously a droll distinction. Whatever Christian ceremony his learning taught him was of purely pagan origin. That he respected out of respect for antiquity. Though had he with his turn of mind been a pagan and its contemporary, he would have scorned it from his philosophic ides. Fra Colonna was charmed with his new artist, and having the run of half the palaces in Rome sounded his praises so that he was soon called upon to resign him. He told Gerard what great princes wanted him. But I am so happy with you father, objected Gerard. Fiddlestick about being happy with me, said Fra Colonna, you must not be happy. You must be a man of the world. The grand lesson I impress on the young is be a man of the world. Now these Montessini can pay you three times as much as I can, and they shall too by Jupiter. And the friar clapped a terrific price on Gerard's pen. It was exceeded to without a murmur. Much higher prices were going for copying than authorship ever obtained for centuries under the printing press. Gerard had three hundred crowns for Aristotle's treatise on rhetoric. The great or mighty sweet upon all their pets, while the fancy lasts, and in the rage for Greek manuscripts the handsome writer soon became a pet, and nobles of both sexes caressed him like a lapdog. It would have turned a vain fellow's head, but the canny Dutchman saw the steel hand beneath the velvet glove, and did not presume. Nevertheless it was a proud day for him when he found himself seated with Fra Colonna at the table of his present employer, Cardinal Bessarion. They were about a mile from the top of that table, but never mind. There they were, and Gerard had the advantage of seeing roast pheasants dished up with all their feathers as if they had just flown out of a coppice instead of off the spit. Also, chickens cooked in bottles, and tender as peaches. But the grand novelty was the napkins, surpassingly fine, and folded into copped hats, and bird's wings, and fans, etc., instead of lying flat. This electrified Gerard, though my readers have seen the dazzling phenomenon without tumbling backwards chair and all. After dinner the tables were split in pieces, and carried away, and low under reach was another table spread with sweetmeats. The signoras and signorinas fell upon them and gormundised, but the signors eyed them with reasonable suspicion. But father objected Gerard, I see not the bifurcle daggers, with which men say his excellency armeth the left hand of a man. Nay, tis the cardinal Orsini which hath invented yon peevish instrument for his guests to fumble their meat with all. One being in haste did skewer his tongue to his pallet with it, I hear. Oh, tempera omores, the ancients reclining godlike at their feasts, how had they spurned such pedantries? As soon as the ladies had desported themselves among the sugar plums, the tables were suddenly removed, and the guests sat in a row against the wall. Then came in ducking and scraping two ecclesiastics with lutes, and kneel at the cardinal's feet, and there sang the service of the day, then retired with a deep obeisance. In answer to which the cardinal fingered his skullcap as our late iron duke his hat, the company dispersed, and Gerard had dined with the cardinal, and one that had frice just missed being pope. But greater honour was in store. One day the cardinal sent for him, and after praising the beauty of his work, took him in his coach to the Vatican, and up a private stair to a luxurious little room with a great orial window. Here were ink stands, sloping frames for writing on, and all the instruments of art. The cardinal whispered a courtier, and presently the pope's private secretary appeared with a glorious grimy old manuscript of Plutarch's lives. And soon Gerard was seated alone, copying it, or struck, yet half delighted at the thought that his holiness would handle his work, and read it. The papal ink stands were all glorious externally, but within the ink was vile. But Gerard carried ever good ink, homemade in a dirty little ink-horn. He prayed on his knees for a firm and skillful hand, and set to work. One side of his room was nearly occupied by a massive curtain divided in the centre, but its ample folds overlapped. After a while Gerard felt drawn to peep through that curtain. He resisted the impulse. It returned, it overpowered him. He left Plutarch, stole across the matted floor, took the folds of the curtain, and gently gathered them up with his fingers, and putting his nose through the chink, ran it against a cold steel halberd. Two soldiers armed capapai were holding their glittering weapons crossed in a triangle. Gerard drew swiftly back, but in that instant he heard the soft murmur of voices and saw a group of persons cringing before some hidden figure. He never repeated his attempt to pry through the guarded curtain, but often eyed it. Every hour or so an ecclesiastic peeped in, eyed him, chilled him, and exited. All this was gloomy and mechanical, but the next day a gentleman richly armed bounced in and glared at him. What is toward here? said he. Gerard told him. He was writing out Plutarch with the help of the saints. The spark said he did not know the senior in question. Gerard explained the circumstances of time and space that had deprived the senior Plutarch of the advantage of the spark's conversation. Oh, one of those dead old Greeks they keep such a coil about! Aye, senior, one of them, who, being dead, yet live? I understand you not, young man, said the noble with all the dignity of ignorance. What did the old fellow write? Love stories? And his eye sparkled merry tales, like Boccaccio? Nay, lives of heroes and sages. Soldiers and popes? Soldiers and princes. Will read me of them some day? And willingly, senior, but what would they say who employ me were I to break off work? Oh, never heed that! Know you not who I am? I am Jacques Bonaventura, nephew to his Holiness the Pope, and captain of his guards, and I came here to look after my fellows. I trough they have turned them out of their room for you. Senior Bonaventura then hurried away. This lively companion, however, having acquired a habit of running into that little room and finding Gerard good company, often looked in on him, and chattered ephemeralities while Gerard wrote the immortal lines. One day he came a changed and moody man, and threw himself into the chair, crying, Ah, traitorous, traitorous! Gerard inquired, what was his ill? Traitorous, traitorous! was the reply. Whereupon Gerard wrote Plutarch. Then says Bonaventura, I am melancholy, and for our Lady's sake, read me a story out of Ser Plutarch, to soothe my bile. In all that Greek is there not about lovers betrayed? Gerard read him the life of Alexander. He got excited, marched about the room, and embracing the reader, vowed to shun soft delights, that bed of nettles, and follow glory. Who so happy now as Gerard? His art was honoured, and fabulous prices paid for it. In a year or two he should return by sea to Holland with good store of money, and set up with his beloved Margaret in Bruges, or Antwerp, or dear Augsburg, and end their days in peace and love and healthy happy labour. His heart never strayed an instant from her. In his prosperity he did not forget poor Pietro. He took the fraa colonna to see his picture. The friar inspected it severely and closely, fell on the artist's neck, and carried the picture to one of the colonnas who gave a noble price for it. Pietro descended to the first floor, and lived like a gentleman. But Gerard remained in his garret. To increase his expenses would have been to postpone his return to Margaret. Luxury had no charms for the single-hearted one when opposed to love. Jacques Bonaventura made him acquainted with other gay young fellows. They loved him, and sought to entice him into vice and other expenses. But he begged humbly to be excused, so he escaped that temptation. But a greater was behind. CHAPTER 60 OF THE CLOISTER AND THE HALF by Charles Reid This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham. Fraa colonna had the run of the pope's library, and sometimes left off work at the same hour and walked the city with Gerard, on which occasions the happy artist saw all things en beau, and was wrapped up in the grandeur of Rome with its churches, palaces, and ruins. The friar granted the ruins but threw cold water on the rest. This place Rome? It is but the tomb of mighty Rome. He showed Gerard that twenty or thirty feet of the old triumphal archers were underground, and that the modern streets ran over ancient palaces, and over the tops of columns, and coupling this with the comparatively narrow limits of the modern city, and the gigantic vestiges of antiquity that peeped above ground here and there. He uttered a somewhat remarkable simile. I tell thee, this village they call Rome is but as one of those swallows' nests you shall see built on the eaves of a decayed abbey. Whole Rome must indeed have been fair, then, said Gerard. Judge for yourself, my son. You see the great sewer, the work of the Romans in their very childhood, and shall outlast Vesuvius. You see the fragments of the Temple of Peace, how would you look, could you see also the capital, with its five and twenty temples? But do note this Montesavello. What is it, and it pleases you but the ruins of the ancient theatre of Marcellus, and as for Testatio, one of the highest hills in modern Rome, it is but an ancient dust heap. The women of old Rome flung their broken pots and pans there, and lo, a mountain. Ex peide Herculum, ex ungue Lyonem. Gerard listened respectfully. But when the Holy Friar proceeded by analogy to imply that the moral superiority of the heathen Romans was proportionally grand, he resisted stoutly. Has then the world lost by Christ is coming? said he, but blushed for he has felt himself reproaching his benefactor. Saints forbid, said the Friar, to a heresy to say so, and having made this direct concession, he proceeded gradually to evade it by subtle circumlocution, and reached the forbidden door by the spiral back staircase, in the midst of all which they came to a church, with a knot of persons in the porch. A demon was being exorcised within. Now Fra Colonna had a way of uttering a curious sort of little moan when things Zeno or Epicurus would not have swallowed were presented to him as facts. This moan conveyed to such as had often heard it, not only strong dissent, but pity for human credulity, ignorance, and error, especially, of course, when it blinded men to the merits of pagandom. The Friar moaned, and said, Then come away! Nay, Father, pretty, pretty, I now saw a dival cast out! The Friar accompanied Gerard into the church, but had a good shrug first. There they found the demoniac forced down on his knees before the altar, with a scarf tied round his neck, by which the officiating priest held him like a dog in a chain. Not many persons were present, for fame had put forth that the last demon cast out in that church went no farther than into one of the company, as a cony ferreted out of one burrow runs to the next. When Gerard and the Friar came up, the priest seemed to think there were now spectators enough, and began. He faced the demoniac breivery in hand, and first set himself to learn the individual's name with whom he had to deal. Come out, ashtaroth! Ho-ho! It is not you then! Come out, belial! Come out, tatsi! Come out, isa! No, he trembles not! Come out, azimoth! Come out, fereander! Come out, follitho! Come out, astima! Come out, nibble! Aha! What have I found ye? It is thou, thou reptile, at thine old tricks! Let us pray! O Lord, we pray thee to drive the foul-fiend nibble out of this thy creature, out of his hair and his eyes, out of his nose, out of his mouth, out of his ears, out of his gums, out of his teeth, out of his shoulders, out of his arms, legs, loin, stomach, bowels, thighs, knees, calves, feet, ankles, fingernails, toenails, and soul! Amen! The priest then rose from his knees, and turning to the company said with quiet geniality, Gentles, we have here as obstinate a dival, as you may see in a summer day. Then, facing the patient, he spoke to him with great rigor, sometimes addressing the man and sometimes the fiend, and they answered him in turn through the same mouth, now saying that they hated those holy names the priest kept uttering, and now, complaining, they did feel so bad in their inside. It was the priest who first confounded the victim and the culprit in idea, by pitching into the former, cuffing him soundly, kicking him, and spitting repeatedly in his face. Then he took a candle and lighted it, and turned it down, and burned it till it burned his fingers, when he dropped it double quick. Then took the custodial and showed the patient the corpus domini within. Then burned another candle as before, but more cautiously, then spoke civilly to the demoniac in his human character, dismissed him, and received the compliments of the company. Good Father, said Gerard, how you have their names by heart? Our northern priests have no such exquisite knowledge of the hellish squadrons. Ah, young man, here we know all their names, and eek their ways, the reptiles, this nibble is a bitter hard one to hand out. He then told the company in the most affable way several of his experiences, concluding with his feet of yesterday, when he drove a great hulking fiend out of a woman by her mouth, leaving behind him certain nails and pins, and a tuft of his own hair, and cried out in a voice of anguish, Tears not thou that conquers me, see that stone on the window-cell, know that the angel Gabriel coming down to earth once lighted on that stone, tears that has done my business. The friar moaned, and you believed him? Sir Tears, who but an infidel has discredited a revelation so precise? What, believe the father of lies, that is pushing credulity beyond the age. Oh, a liar does not always lie. I dutty whenever he tells an improbable story to begin, and shows you a holy relic, arms you against the Satanic host. Fiends, if any, be not so simple, shouldst have answered him out of antiquity. Timio Daneos et Dona Ferentes. Some black-hard chopped his wife's head off on that stone, young man, you take my word for it. And the friar hurried Gerard away. A lack, father, I fear you abashed the good priest. I buy Pollux, said the friar, with a chuckle. I blistered him with a single touch of Socratic interrogation. What modern can parry the weapons of antiquity? One afternoon, when Gerard had finished his day's work, a fine lackey came and demanded his attendance at the palace Cesarini. He went, and was ushered into a noble apartment, and there was a girl seated in it working on a tapestry. She rose and left the room, and said she would let her mistress know. A good hour did Gerard cool his heels in that great room, and at last he began to fret. These nobles think nothing of a poor fellow's time. However, just as he was making up his mind to slip out and go about his business, the door opened, and a superb beauty entered the room, followed by two maids. It was the young princess of the house of Cesarini. She came in talking rather loudly and haughtily to her dependence, but at sight of Gerard lowered her voice to a very feminine tone, and said, Are you the writer, Messer? I am, Signora. Tis well. She then seated herself. Gerard and her maids remained standing. What is your name, good youth? Gerard, Signora. Gerard, body of Bacchus. Is that the name of a human creature? It is a Dutch name, Signora. I was born at Tegu in Holland. A harsh name, girls, for so well favoured a youth. What say you? The maids assented warmly. What did I send for him for, inquired the lady, with lofty lunger? Ah, I remember, he seated, said Gerardo, and write me a letter to Air-call Ossini, my lover. At least he says so. Gerard seated himself, took out paper and ink, and looked up to the princess for instructions. She, seated on a much higher chair, almost a throne, looked down at him with eyes equally inquiring. Well, Gerardo, I am ready your excellence, right then, but I await the words, and who think you is to provide them? Who but your grace, whose letter it is to be? Grammar, see, watch you writers, find you not the words. What avails your art without the words? I doubt you are an impostor, Gerardo. Nay, Signora, I am none. I might make shift to put your Highness's speech into grammar as well as writing, but I cannot interpret your silence. Therefore speak what is in your heart, and I will empaper it before your eyes. But there is nothing in my heart, and sometimes I think I have got no heart. What is in your mind, then? But there is nothing in my mind nor my head, neither. Then why write at all? Why indeed? That is the first word of sense either you or I have spoken, Gerardo. Pestilence sees him. Why writeeth he not first? Then I could say nay to this, and aye to that, without an headache. Also, is it a lady's part to say the first word? No, Signora, the last. It is well spoken, Gerardo. Ha, ha, shall have a gold piece for thy wit. Give me thy purse. And she paid him for the article on the nail, à la moindre âge. Money never yet chilled zeal. Gerard, after getting a gold piece so cheap, felt bound to pull her out of her difficulty if the wit of man might achieve it. Signorina, said he, these things are only hard because folk attempt too much or artificial and play bear phrases, but do figure to yourself the Signor you love. I love him not. Well, then, the Signor you love not seated at this table and dicked to me just what you would say to him. Well, if he sat there, I should say, go away. Gerard, who was flourishing his pen by way of preparation, laid it down with a groan. And when he was gone, said Floreta, your highness would say, come back. Like enough, Wench. Now silence all and let me think. He pestered me to write, and I promised, so my honour is engaged. What lie shall I tell the Gerardo to tell the fool? And she turned her head away from them, and fell into deep thought, with her noble chin resting on her white hand half clenched. She was so lovely and statuesque, and looked so inspired with thoughts celestial, as she sat thus impregnating herself with mendacity. The Gerard forgot all except art, and proceeded eagerly to transfer that exquisite profile to paper. He had very nearly finished when the fair statue turned brusquely round and looked at him. Ne, senora, said he a little peevishly, for heaven's sake change not your posture to a perfect sea you are nearly finished. All eyes were instantly on the work, and all tongues active. How like and done in a minute, Ne, me thinks her highness's chin is not quite so. Oh, a touch will make that right. What a pity, it is not coloured. I'm all for colours. Hang black and white, and her highness hath such a lovely skin, take away her skin, and half her beauty is lost. Peace! Can you colour, said Gerardo? Aye, senorina, I'm a poor hand at oils. There shines my friend Pietro, but in this small way I can tint you to the life, if you have time to waste on such vanity. Call you this vanity, and for time it hangs on me like lead? Send for your colours now, quick this moment for love of all the saints. Ne, senorina, I must prepare them. I could come at the same time. So be it, and you, floretta, see that he be admitted at all hours. A lack, leave my head, leave my head. Forgive me, senora, I thought to prepare it at home to receive the colours, but I will leave it. And now, let us dispatch the letter. What letter? To the senor Ossini. And shall I waste my time on such vanity as writing letters, and to that empty creature to whom I am as indifferent as the moon? Nay, not indifferent, for I have just discovered my real sentiments. I hate him, and despise him. Girls, I here forbid you once for all to mention that senor's name to me again. Else I'll whip you till the blood comes. You know how I can lay on when I'm roused. We do, we do. Then provoke me not to it. And her eye flashed daggers, and she turned to Gerard all instantaneous, honey. Adiós, El Gerardo. And Gerard bowed himself out of this velvet tiger's den. He came next day and coloured her, and next he was set to make a portrait of her on a large scale, and then a full-length figure, and he was obliged to set apart two hours in the afternoon for drawing and painting this princess, whose beauty and vanity were prodigious, and candidates for a portrait of her numerous. Here the thriving Gerard found a new and fruitful source of income. Margaret seemed nearer and nearer. It was holy Thursday, no work this day. Fra Colonna and Gerard sat in a window, and saw the religious processions. Their number and pious order thrilled Gerard with the devotion that now seemed to animate the whole people, lately bent on earthly joys. Presently the pope came pacing majestically at the head of his cardinals in a red heart, white cloak, a cappuccine of red velvet, and riding a lovely white Neapolitan barb, capparizoned with red velvet, fringed and tassled with gold. A hundred horsemen, armed capipai, rode behind him with their lances erected, the butt-end resting on the man's thigh. The cardinals went uncovered all but one, Di Magici's, who rode close to the pope, and conversed with him, as with an equal. At every fifteen steps the pope stopped a single moment, and gave the people his blessing, then on again. Gerard and the friar now came down and, threading some by-streets, reached the portico of one of the seven churches. It was hung with black, and soon the pope and cardinals who had entered the church by another door, eschewed forth, and stood with torches on the steps, separated by barriers from the people. Then a cannon read a Latin bull, excommunicating several persons by name, especially such princes as were keeping the church out of any of her temporal possessions. At this awful ceremony Gerard trembled and so did the people, but one or two of the cardinals spoiled the effect by laughing unreservedly the whole time. When this was ended the black cloth was removed, and reveal the gay panoply, and the pope blessed the people, and ended by and ended by throwing his torch among them. So did two cardinals. Instantly there was a scramble for the torches. They were fought for and torn in pieces by the candidates, so devoutly that small fragments were gained at the price of black eyes, bloody noses, and burnt fingers, in which hurtling his holiness and sweet withdrew in peace. And now there was a cry, and the crowd rushed to a square, where there was a large open stage. Several priests were upon it praying. They rose and with great ceremony donned red gloves. Then one of their number kneeled, and with signs of the lowest reverence, drew forth from a shrine a square frame, like that of a mirror, and inside was, as it were, the impression of a face. It was the virum icon, or true impression of our Saviour's face, taken at the very moment of his most mortal agony for us. Received, as it was, without a grain of doubt, imagine how it moved every Christian heart. The people threw themselves on their faces when the priest raised it on high, and cries of pity were in every mouth, and tears in almost every eye. After a while the people rose, and then the priest went round the platform, showing it for a single moment to the nearest, and at each side loud cries of pity and devotion burst forth. Soon after this the friends fell in with a procession of flagellants, flogging their bare shoulders till the blood ran streaming down, but without a sign of pain in their faces, and many of them laughing and jesting as they lashed. The bystanders out of pity offered them wine. They took it, but few drank it. They generally used it to free the tails of the cat, which were hard with clotted blood, and make the next stroke more effective. Most of them were boys, and a young woman took pity on one fair urchin. Her last-dear child said she, Why wound thy white skin so? Basta, said he, laughing, Tis for your sins I do it, not for mine. Hear you that, said the friar, Show me the whip that can whip the vanity out of man's heart. The young monkey, how knoweth he that stranger is a sinner more than he? Father, said Gerard, Surely this is not to our Lord's mind. He was so pitiful. Our Lord, said the friar, crossing himself, What has he to do with this? This was a custom in Rome six hundred years before he was born. The boys used to go through the streets at the lupacalia flogging themselves, and the married women used to shove in and try to get a blow from the monkey's scourges, for these blows conferred fruitfulness in those days. A foolish trick, this flagellation, but interesting to the bystander, reminds him of the grand old heathen. We are so prone to forget all we owe them. Next they got into one of the seven churches, and saw the pope give the mass. The ceremony was imposing, but again, spoiled by the inconsistent conduct of the cardinals, and other prelates, who sat about the altar with their hearts on, chattering all through the mass like a flock of geese. The Eucharist in both kinds was tasted by an official before the pope could venture on it. And this surprised Gerard beyond measure. Who is that baseman, and what doth he there? Oh, that is the praeglste, and he tastes the Eucharist by way of precaution. This is the country for poison, and nonfall often are by it than the poor popes. Alas, so I have heard, but after the miraculous change of the bread and wine to Christ's body and blood, poison cannot remain. Gone is the bread with all its properties and accidents, gone is the wine. So says faith, but experience tells another tale. Scores have died in Italy poisoned in the host. And I tell you, Father, that were both bread and wine charged with direst poison before His Holiness had consecrated them, yet after consecration I would take them both without in fear. So would I, but for the fine arts. What mean you, Murray, that I would be as ready to leave the world as thou? Were it not for those arts which beautify existence here below and make it dear to men of sense and education? No, so long as the nine muses strew my path with roses of learning and art, me may Apollo inspire with wisdom and caution, that knowing the wiles of my countrymen, I may eat poison neither in God's altar, nor at a friend's table, since wherever I eat it, or drink it, it will assuredly cut short my mortal thread. And I am writing a book, heart and soul in it, The Dream of Polifilo, the man of many arts, so name not poison to me, till that is finished and copied. And now the great bells of St. John Laterans were rung with a clash at short intervals, and the people hurried thither to see the heads of St. Peter and St. Paul. Gerard and the friar got a good place in the church, and there was a great curtain, and after long and breathless expectation of the people, this curtain was drawn by jerks, and at a height of about thirty feet were two human heads with bearded faces that seemed alive. They were shown no longer than the time to say in Ave Maria, and then the curtain drawn. But they were shown in this fashion three times. St. Peter's complexion was pale, his face oval, his beard gray and forked, his head crowned with a papal miter. St. Paul was dark-skinned, with a thick square beard, his face also and head were more square and massive, and full of resolution. Gerard was awestruck. The friar approved after his fashion. This exhibition of the imagines or waxen effigies of heroes and demigods is a venerable custom, and incites the vulgar to virtue by great and invisible examples. Waxen images? What, are they not the apostles themselves, them barmed, or the like? The friar moaned. They did not exist in the year 800. The great old Roman families all was produced at their funerals a series of these imagines, thereby tying past and present history together, and showing the populace the features of far-famed worthies. I can conceive nothing more thrilling or instructive, but then the effigies were portraits made during life or at the hour of death. These of St. Paul and St. Peter are molded out of pure fancy. Ah, say not so, Father! But the worst is, this humour of showing them up on a shelf and half in the dark and by snatchers, and with the poor mountain-bank trick of a drawn curtain. Codcunque ostendis mihisic incredulous odi. Enough. The men of this day are not the men of old. Let us have done with these newfangled mummaries and go among the pope's books. There we shall find the wisdom we shall vainly hunt in the streets of modern Rome. And this idea, having once taken root, the good friar plunged and tore through the crowd and looked neither to the right hand, nor to the left, till he had escaped the glories of the Holy Week, which had brought fifty-thousand strangers to Rome, and had got nice and quiet among the dead in the library of the Vatican. Presently, going into Gerard's room, he found a hot disputer-foot between him and Jacques Bonaventura. That spark had come in, all steel from head to toe, doft helmet, puffed, and railed most scornfully on a ridiculous ceremony at which he and his soldiers had been compelled to attend the pope, to wit the blessing of the beasts of burden. Gerard said it was not ridiculous, nothing a pope did could be ridiculous. The argument grew warm, and the friar stood grimly neuter, waiting like the stalk that ate the frog and the mouse at the close of their combat. To grind them both between the jaws of antiquity, when low the curtain was gently drawn, and there stood a venerable old man in a purple skull-cap, with a beard like white floss silk, looking at them with a kind though feeble smile. Happy youth, said he, that can heat itself over such matters. They all fell on their knees. It was the pope. Nay rise, my children, said he, almost peevishly. I came not into this corner to be in state. How goes Plutarch? Gerard brought his work, and kneeling on one knee presented it to his holiness, who had seated himself, the others standing. His holiness inspected it with interest. Tis excellently writ, said he. Gerard's heart beat with delight. Ah, this Plutarch, he had a wondrous art, Francesco, how each character standeth out alive on his page, how full of nature each, yet how unlike his fellow. Giac Bonaventura, give me the Signor Boccaccio, his holiness, an excellent narrator capitano, and righteth exquisite Italian, but in spirit a thought too monotonous. Monks and nuns were never all unchaste. One or two such stories were right, pleasant, and diverting, but five score paint his time falsely, and sadden the heart of such as love-mankind. Moreover, he had no skill at characters. Now this Greek is supreme in that great art. He coveth them with pen, and, turning his page, see into how real and great a world we enter of war, and policy, and business, and love in its own place, for with him, as in the great world, men are not all running after a wench. With this great open field compare me not the narrow garden of Boccaccio, and his little mill-round of dishonest pleasures. Your holiness, they say, hath not disdained to write a novel. My holiness hath done more foolish things than one, whereof it repents too late. When I wrote novels, I little thought to be head of the church. I search in vain for a copy of it to add to my poor library. It is well. Then the strict orders I gave four years ago to destroy every copy in Italy have been well discharged. However, for your comfort on my being made pope, some fool turned it into French, so that you may read it at the price of exile. Reduced to this straight, we throw ourselves on your holiness's generosity, vouchsafe to give us your infallible judgment on it. Gently, gently good Francesco, are popes novels or not matters of faith? I can but give you my sincere impression. Well then the work in question had as far as I can remember all the vices of Boccaccio without his choice Italian. Fra Colonna Your holiness is known for slighting Aeneas Silvius as other men never slighted him. I did him injustice to make you his judge. Perhaps your holiness will decide more justly between these two boys about blessing the beasts. The pope demurred. In speaking of Plutarch he had brightened up for a moment, and his eye had even flashed. But his general manner was as unlike what youthful females expect in a pope as you can conceive. I can only describe it in French, le gentil emblazé, a high bread, and highly cultivated gentlemen who had done and said and seen and known everything at whose body was nearly worn out, but double-langer seemed to seize him at the father's proposal. My boy Francesco, said he, be think thee that I have had a life of controversy, and I am sick on't. Sick as death, Plutarch drew me to this calm retreat, not divinity. Nay, but your holiness for moderating of strife between two odd young bloods, macarioi oi aerinopioi, and know you nature so ill as to think either of these high metal youths will wreck what a poor old pope saith. Oh, your holiness broke in Geron, blushing and gasping. Sure, here is one who will treasure your words all his life as words from heaven. In that case, said the pope, I am fairly caught, as Francesco here would say, och est in ostest est enneer eluthios. I came to taste that eloquent heathen, dear to me, enus to thee, thou paining monk, and I must talk divinity or something next door to it, but the youth hath a good and a winning face and righteth Greek like an angel. Well then, my children, to comprehend the ways of the church, we should still rise a little above the earth, since the church is between heaven and earth and interprets betwixt them. The question is then not how vulgar men feel, but how the common creator of man and beast doth feel towards the lower animals. This, if we are too proud to search for it in the lessons of the church, the next best thing is to go to the most ancient history of men and animals. Colonna. Herodotus? Nay, nay, in this matter Herodotus is but a mushroom. Finally were we spared for ancient history if we depended on your Greeks. Who did but write on the last leaf of that great book antiquity? The friar groaned. Here was a pope uttering heresy against his demigods. Tis the vulgate I speak of, a history that handles matters three thousand years before impedents call the father of history. Colonna. Oh, the vulgate I cry your holiness mercy, how you frightened me, I quite forgot the vulgate. Forgot it? Aren't sure thou ever readst it, Francesco Mio? Not quite your holiness, tis a pleasure I have long promised myself the first vacant moment. Hitherto these grand old heathen have left me small time for recreation. His holiness. First then you will find in Genesis that God having created the animals drew a holy pleasure undefinable by us from contemplating of their beauty. Was it wonderful? See their myriad forms, their lovely hair and eyes, their grace, and of some the power and majesty, the colour of others brighter than roses or rubies, and when for men sin not their own they were destroyed yet were two of each kind spared. And when the ark and its trembling inmates tumbled solitary on the world of water then, sayeth the word, God remembered Noah and the cattle that were with him in the ark. Thereafter God did write his rainbow in the sky as a bond that earth should be flooded no more, and between whom the bond? Between God and man. Nay! Between God and man and every living creature of all flesh, or my memory fails me with age. In Exodus God commanded that the cattle should share the sweet blessing of the one day's rest. Moreover he forbad to muzzle the ox that trod out the corn. Nay! let the poor overwrought soul snatch a mouthful as he goes his toilsome round. The bulk of the grain shall still be for man. Ye will object, perchance, that St. Paul commenting this, sayeth rudely, doth God care for oxen? Verily had I been Peter, instead of the humblest of his successors, I had answered him, Drop thy theatrical poets, Paul, and read the scriptures. Then shall thou know whether God careeth only for men and sparrows, or for all his creatures? O Paul, had I made bold to say, think not to learn God by looking into Paul's heart, nor any heart of man, but study that which he hath revealed concerning himself. Thrice he forbad the Jews to boil the kid in his mother's milk. Not that this is cruelty, but want of thought and gentle sentiments, and so paves the way for downright cruelty. A prophet riding on an ass did meet an angel, which of these two, Paolo Giudici, hath seen the heavenly spirit. Marry the prophet, but it was not so. The man his vision cloyed with sin saw not. The poor, despised creature saw all. Nor is this recorded as miraculous. Poor, proud things we overrate ourselves. The angel had slain the prophet and spared the ass, but for that creature's clearer vision of essence is divine. He said so many things, but in sooth I read it many years ago. Why did God spare repentant Nineveh? Because in that city were sixty thousand children besides much cattle. Profane history and vulgar experience are their might of witness. The cruel to animals end in cruelty to man. And strange and violent deaths, marked with retribution's bloody finger, have in all ages fallen from heaven on such as wantonly harm innocent beasts. This I myself have seen. All this, duly weighed, and seeing that, despite this Francesco's friends, the stoics who in their vanity say the creature's all subsist for man's comfort, there be snakes and scorpions which kill dominum terra, with a nip, mosquitos which eat him piecemeal and tigers and sharks, which crack him like an almond. We do well to be grateful to these true faithful patient four-footed friends, which in lieu of powdering us put forth their strength to relieve our toils and to feed us like mothers from their gentle dugs. Me thinks, then, the church is never more divine than in this benediction of our four-footed friends which has revolted you great theological authority, the captain of the pope's guards. Since here, since here she inculcates humility and gratitude and rises towards the level of the mind divine and interprets God to man, God the creator, parent and friend of man and beast. But all this young gentles you will please to receive, not as delivered by the pope ex cathedra, but uttered carelessly in a free hour by an aged clergyman. On that score, you will perhaps do well to entertain it with some little consideration, for old age must surely bring a man somewhat in return for his digestion, his dura puerorum ilia e francesco, which it carries away. Such was the purport of the pope's discourse. But the manna high-bred, languid, kindly, and free from all tone of dictation, he seemed to be gently probing the matter in concert with his earers, not playing Sir Oracle. At the bottom of all, which was doubtless, a slight touch of humbug. But the humbug that embellishes life and all sense of it was lost in the subtle Italian grace of the thing. I seem to hear the Oracle of Delphi, said Fra Colonna enthusiastically. I call that good sense, shouted Jack Bonaventura. Oh, captain, good sense! said Gerard, with a deep and tender reproach. The pope smiled on Gerard. Cavill not at words. That was an unheard of concession from a rival theologian. He then asked for all Gerard's work and took it away in his hand. But before going, he gently pulled Fra Colonna's ear and asked him whether he remembered when they were school-fellows together, and robbed the virgin by the roadside of the money dropped into her box. You took a flat stick and applied bird-lime to the top, and drew the money out through the chink. You rogue! said his holiness severely. To every senior, his own honor, replied Fra Colonna, it was your holiness's good wit invented the manoeuvre. I was but the humble instrument. It is well doubtless you know to a sacrilege of the first water, but I did it in such good company it troubles me not. I have not even that poor consolation. What did we spend it on, dust mind? Can your holiness ask why sugar-plums? What all on't every doit? These are delightful reminiscences, my Francesco. Alas, I am getting old. I shall not be here long. And I am sorry for it for thy sake. They will go and burn thee when I am gone. Aren't far more a heretic than Huss, whom I saw burned with these eyes, and oh, he died like a martyr. Ah, your holiness, but I believe in the pope, and Huss did not. Fox, they will not burn thee. Wood is too dear. Adieu, old playmate. Adieu, young gentlemen. An old man's blessing beyond you. That afternoon the pope's secretary brought Gerard a little bag. In it were several gold pieces. He added them to his store. Margaret seemed nearer and nearer. For some time past, too, it appeared as if the fairies had watched over him. Baskets of choice provisions and fruits were brought to his door by porters, who knew not who had employed them, or affected ignorance. And one day came a jewel in a letter, but no words.