The Innocents Abroad

Chapter 21

We voyaged by steamer down the Lago di Lecco, through wild mountain

scenery, and by hamlets and villas, and disembarked at the town of Lecco.

They said it was two hours, by carriage to the ancient city of Bergamo,

and that we would arrive there in good season for the railway train. We

got an open barouche and a wild, boisterous driver, and set out. It was

delightful. We had a fast team and a perfectly smooth road. There were

towering cliffs on our left, and the pretty Lago di Lecco on our right,

and every now and then it rained on us. Just before starting, the driver

picked up, in the street, a stump of a cigar an inch long, and put it in

his mouth. When he had carried it thus about an hour, I thought it would

be only Christian charity to give him a light. I handed him my cigar,

which I had just lit, and he put it in his mouth and returned his stump

to his pocket! I never saw a more sociable man. At least I never saw a

man who was more sociable on a short acquaintance.

We saw interior Italy, now. The houses were of solid stone, and not

often in good repair. The peasants and their children were idle, as a

general thing, and the donkeys and chickens made themselves at home in

drawing-room and bed-chamber and were not molested. The drivers of each

and every one of the slow-moving market-carts we met were stretched in

the sun upon their merchandise, sound a sleep. Every three or four

hundred yards, it seemed to me, we came upon the shrine of some saint or

other--a rude picture of him built into a huge cross or a stone pillar by

the road-side.--Some of the pictures of the Saviour were curiosities in

their way. They represented him stretched upon the cross, his

countenance distorted with agony. From the wounds of the crown of

thorns; from the pierced side; from the mutilated hands and feet; from

the scourged body--from every hand-breadth of his person streams of blood

were flowing! Such a gory, ghastly spectacle would frighten the children

out of their senses, I should think. There were some unique auxiliaries

to the painting which added to its spirited effect. These were genuine

wooden and iron implements, and were prominently disposed round about the

figure: a bundle of nails; the hammer to drive them; the sponge; the reed

that supported it; the cup of vinegar; the ladder for the ascent of the

cross; the spear that pierced the Saviour's side. The crown of thorns

was made of real thorns, and was nailed to the sacred head. In some

Italian church-paintings, even by the old masters, the Saviour and the

Virgin wear silver or gilded crowns that are fastened to the pictured

head with nails. The effect is as grotesque as it is incongruous.

Here and there, on the fronts of roadside inns, we found huge, coarse

frescoes of suffering martyrs like those in the shrines. It could not

have diminished their sufferings any to be so uncouthly represented.

We were in the heart and home of priest craft--of a happy, cheerful,

contented ignorance, superstition, degradation, poverty, indolence, and

everlasting unaspiring worthlessness. And we said fervently: it suits

these people precisely; let them enjoy it, along with the other animals,

and Heaven forbid that they be molested. We feel no malice toward these

fumigators.

We passed through the strangest, funniest, undreampt-of old towns, wedded

to the customs and steeped in the dreams of the elder ages, and perfectly

unaware that the world turns round! And perfectly indifferent, too, as

to whether it turns around or stands still. They have nothing to do but

eat and sleep and sleep and eat, and toil a little when they can get a

friend to stand by and keep them awake. They are not paid for thinking

--they are not paid to fret about the world's concerns. They were not

respectable people--they were not worthy people--they were not learned

and wise and brilliant people--but in their breasts, all their stupid

lives long, resteth a peace that passeth understanding! How can men,

calling themselves men, consent to be so degraded and happy.

We whisked by many a gray old medieval castle, clad thick with ivy that

swung its green banners down from towers and turrets where once some old

Crusader's flag had floated. The driver pointed to one of these ancient

fortresses, and said, (I translate):

"Do you see that great iron hook that projects from the wall just under

the highest window in the ruined tower?"

We said we could not see it at such a distance, but had no doubt it was

there.

"Well," he said; "there is a legend connected with that iron hook.

Nearly seven hundred years ago, that castle was the property of the noble

Count Luigi Gennaro Guido Alphonso di Genova----"

"What was his other name?" said Dan.

"He had no other name. The name I have spoken was all the name he had.

He was the son of----"

"Poor but honest parents--that is all right--never mind the particulars

--go on with the legend."

THE LEGEND.

Well, then, all the world, at that time, was in a wild excitement about

the Holy Sepulchre. All the great feudal lords in Europe were pledging

their lands and pawning their plate to fit out men-at-arms so that they

might join the grand armies of Christendom and win renown in the Holy

Wars. The Count Luigi raised money, like the rest, and one mild

September morning, armed with battle-ax, portcullis and thundering

culverin, he rode through the greaves and bucklers of his donjon-keep

with as gallant a troop of Christian bandits as ever stepped in Italy.

He had his sword, Excalibur, with him. His beautiful countess and her

young daughter waved him a tearful adieu from the battering-rams and

buttresses of the fortress, and he galloped away with a happy heart.

He made a raid on a neighboring baron and completed his outfit with the

booty secured. He then razed the castle to the ground, massacred the

family and moved on. They were hardy fellows in the grand old days of

chivalry. Alas! Those days will never come again.

Count Luigi grew high in fame in Holy Land. He plunged into the carnage

of a hundred battles, but his good Excalibur always brought him out

alive, albeit often sorely wounded. His face became browned by exposure

to the Syrian sun in long marches; he suffered hunger and thirst; he

pined in prisons, he languished in loathsome plague-hospitals. And many

and many a time he thought of his loved ones at home, and wondered if all

was well with them. But his heart said, Peace, is not thy brother

watching over thy household?

* * * * * * *

Forty-two years waxed and waned; the good fight was won; Godfrey reigned

in Jerusalem--the Christian hosts reared the banner of the cross above

the Holy Sepulchre!

Twilight was approaching. Fifty harlequins, in flowing robes, approached

this castle wearily, for they were on foot, and the dust upon their

garments betokened that they had traveled far. They overtook a peasant,

and asked him if it were likely they could get food and a hospitable bed

there, for love of Christian charity, and if perchance, a moral parlor

entertainment might meet with generous countenance--"for," said they,

"this exhibition hath no feature that could offend the most fastidious

taste."

"Marry," quoth the peasant, "an' it please your worships, ye had better

journey many a good rood hence with your juggling circus than trust your

bones in yonder castle."

"How now, sirrah!" exclaimed the chief monk, "explain thy ribald speech,

or by'r Lady it shall go hard with thee."

"Peace, good mountebank, I did but utter the truth that was in my heart.

San Paolo be my witness that did ye but find the stout Count Leonardo in

his cups, sheer from the castle's topmost battlements would he hurl ye

all! Alack-a-day, the good Lord Luigi reigns not here in these sad

times."

"The good Lord Luigi?"

"Aye, none other, please your worship. In his day, the poor rejoiced in

plenty and the rich he did oppress; taxes were not known, the fathers of

the church waxed fat upon his bounty; travelers went and came, with none

to interfere; and whosoever would, might tarry in his halls in cordial

welcome, and eat his bread and drink his wine, withal. But woe is me!

some two and forty years agone the good count rode hence to fight for

Holy Cross, and many a year hath flown since word or token have we had of

him. Men say his bones lie bleaching in the fields of Palestine."

"And now?"

"Now! God 'a mercy, the cruel Leonardo lords it in the castle. He

wrings taxes from the poor; he robs all travelers that journey by his

gates; he spends his days in feuds and murders, and his nights in revel

and debauch; he roasts the fathers of the church upon his kitchen spits,

and enjoyeth the same, calling it pastime. These thirty years Luigi's

countess hath not been seen by any in all this land, and many

whisper that she pines in the dungeons of the castle for that she will

not wed with Leonardo, saying her dear lord still liveth and that she

will die ere she prove false to him. They whisper likewise that her

daughter is a prisoner as well. Nay, good jugglers, seek ye refreshment

other wheres. 'Twere better that ye perished in a Christian way than

that ye plunged from off yon dizzy tower. Give ye good-day."

"God keep ye, gentle knave--farewell."

But heedless of the peasant's warning, the players moved straightway

toward the castle.

Word was brought to Count Leonardo that a company of mountebanks besought

his hospitality.

"'Tis well. Dispose of them in the customary manner. Yet stay! I have

need of them. Let them come hither. Later, cast them from the

battlements--or--how many priests have ye on hand?"

"The day's results are meagre, good my lord. An abbot and a dozen

beggarly friars is all we have."

"Hell and furies! Is the estate going to seed? Send hither the

mountebanks. Afterward, broil them with the priests."

The robed and close-cowled harlequins entered. The grim Leonardo sate in

state at the head of his council board. Ranged up and down the hall on

either hand stood near a hundred men-at-arms.

"Ha, villains!" quoth the count, "What can ye do to earn the hospitality

ye crave."

"Dread lord and mighty, crowded audiences have greeted our humble efforts

with rapturous applause. Among our body count we the versatile and

talented Ugolino; the justly celebrated Rodolpho; the gifted and

accomplished Roderigo; the management have spared neither pains nor

expense--"

"S'death! What can ye do? Curb thy prating tongue."

"Good my lord, in acrobatic feats, in practice with the dumb-bells, in

balancing and ground and lofty tumbling are we versed--and sith your

highness asketh me, I venture here to publish that in the truly marvelous

and entertaining Zampillaerostation--"

"Gag him! throttle him! Body of Bacchus! am I a dog that I am to be

assailed with polysyllabled blasphemy like to this? But hold! Lucretia,

Isabel, stand forth! Sirrah, behold this dame, this weeping wench. The

first I marry, within the hour; the other shall dry her tears or feed the

vultures. Thou and thy vagabonds shall crown the wedding with thy

merry-makings. Fetch hither the priest!"

The dame sprang toward the chief player.

"O, save me!" she cried; "save me from a fate far worse than death!

Behold these sad eyes, these sunken cheeks, this withered frame! See

thou the wreck this fiend hath made, and let thy heart be moved with

pity! Look upon this damosel; note her wasted form, her halting step,

her bloomless cheeks where youth should blush and happiness exult in

smiles! Hear us and have compassion. This monster was my husband's

brother. He who should have been our shield against all harm, hath kept

us shut within the noisome caverns of his donjon-keep for lo these thirty

years. And for what crime? None other than that I would not belie my

troth, root out my strong love for him who marches with the legions of

the cross in Holy Land, (for O, he is not dead!) and wed with him! Save

us, O, save thy persecuted suppliants!"

She flung herself at his feet and clasped his knees.

"Ha!-ha!-ha!" shouted the brutal Leonardo. "Priest, to thy work!" and

he dragged the weeping dame from her refuge. "Say, once for all, will

you be mine?--for by my halidome, that breath that uttereth thy refusal

shall be thy last on earth!"

"NE-VER?"

"Then die!" and the sword leaped from its scabbard.

Quicker than thought, quicker than the lightning's flash, fifty monkish

habits disappeared, and fifty knights in splendid armor stood revealed!

fifty falchions gleamed in air above the men-at-arms, and brighter,

fiercer than them all, flamed Excalibur aloft, and cleaving downward

struck the brutal Leonardo's weapon from his grasp!

"A Luigi to the rescue! Whoop!"

"A Leonardo! 'tare an ouns!'"

"Oh, God, Oh, God, my husband!"

"Oh, God, Oh, God, my wife!"

"My father!"

"My precious!" [Tableau.]

===

Count Luigi bound his usurping brother hand and foot. The practiced

knights from Palestine made holyday sport of carving the awkward

men-at-arms into chops and steaks. The victory was complete. Happiness

reigned. The knights all married the daughter. Joy! wassail! finis!

"But what did they do with the wicked brother?"

"Oh nothing--only hanged him on that iron hook I was speaking of. By the

chin."

"As how?"

"Passed it up through his gills into his mouth."

"Leave him there?"

"Couple of years."

"Ah--is--is he dead?"

"Six hundred and fifty years ago, or such a matter."

"Splendid legend--splendid lie--drive on."

We reached the quaint old fortified city of Bergamo, the renowned in

history, some three-quarters of an hour before the train was ready to

start. The place has thirty or forty thousand inhabitants and is

remarkable for being the birthplace of harlequin. When we discovered

that, that legend of our driver took to itself a new interest in our

eyes.

Rested and refreshed, we took the rail happy and contented. I shall not

tarry to speak of the handsome Lago di Gardi; its stately castle that

holds in its stony bosom the secrets of an age so remote that even

tradition goeth not back to it; the imposing mountain scenery that

ennobles the landscape thereabouts; nor yet of ancient Padua or haughty

Verona; nor of their Montagues and Capulets, their famous balconies and

tombs of Juliet and Romeo et al., but hurry straight to the ancient city

of the sea, the widowed bride of the Adriatic. It was a long, long ride.

But toward evening, as we sat silent and hardly conscious of where we

were--subdued into that meditative calm that comes so surely after a

conversational storm--some one shouted--

"VENICE!"

And sure enough, afloat on the placid sea a league away, lay a great

city, with its towers and domes and steeples drowsing in a golden mist of

sunset.