CHAPTER FIVE
Between the denunciations of my masters at the Embassy, to whom Father Campion was a traitor come to England to destroy the Queen, the safeguard of their property, and the excitement and admiration of my 'Papist' friends, who described his fearless journeyings, giving the comfort of confession and the Mass to those long denied them, always just escaping the hounding of Burghley's and Walsingham's spies, I hardly knew what to believe. Neither description fitted the man I knew. I was the more confused because I heard Philip Sidney being praised by one party, denounced by the other for sitting on a Parliamentary Committee for legalising the execution of Jesuits, which might lead to the death of his friend and my true master.
All that summer of 1581, I was on tenterhooks as conflicting rumours spread. A document they called 'Campion's Brag' was published. My true master a braggart? The Catholic hero seemed to resemble him no more than the Catholic villain reviled at the Embassy. What was truth if one man could contain two opposites? I closed my ears to both descriptions and remembered only the good man I knew, who had transformed my life with his benevolence. But still I held my tongue.
At last, came the dread news that Father Campion had been betrayed and captured. They took him to London through jeering crowds, his elbows tied behind him, his hands in front, his feet strapped under the belly of the nag that bore him. They placed a paper in his hat, saying 'Campion, the seditious Jesuit' and all the way the people pelted him with refuse and shouted maledictions.
While my true master was free, I had played my Orpheus music with the intention of ensuring his safety, now my efforts were redoubled. At the Embassy there was rejoicing that he had been confined in the worst cell in the Tower, 'Little Ease', where he crouched in the dark for four days, deprived of food and water, unable to stand or lie full length. I denied myself food and rest also, hoping that by sharing it I might lessen future torment. I might not duplicate the agony of the rack, so cursed the rackmaster who threatened to add a foot to the height of any 'Papist priest'. Crazed with anger and helplessness, even my vivid imagination could not put me in Father Campion's shoes.
Now the worst for me came to pass. When I placed my trembling fingers on my lute, I plucked only discord from its strings. For the first time in my life, just as my need was greatest, my music failed me. I tried to pray but all my mind held was confusion. I found myself cursing the God who had brought my true master to such a perilous state. Feeling my brain about to burst with hopelessness, hardly knowing where my feet took me, I found myself at the lodging of Father Smith. He took one look at me and put me into his own bed where I fell into a high fever, tossing and turning, my head on fire, my lips parched, every limb crying out in pain as if I had indeed been on the rack.
When, at last, consciousness failed, I could hear a strange, high voice, screeching out all the filth about Leicester I had heard from John Hues and others; about Lady Sheffield's child by Dudley; how he succeeded in poisoning her husband; how he attempted to poison her. I pleaded with the voice to cease but it went inexorably on until, in a brilliant explosion of light, followed by the sharp sound of tapping, 'sca, sca, sca, sca', I began to 'see' in a more dreadful way than ever before.
I do not know, Rob, if I can make you share my helpless isolation. I was held in mid air, looking down on a great holiday crowd of folk, agog with excitement and expectation. But why did a deadly pall of silence envelop the scene? It was as though the whole world had slowed almost to a standstill and, to me even more harrowing, was the complete lack of colour - all was grey and shadowy, adding to my foreboding.
I could pick out in the stands some of the great ones for whom I had played in the past. The ghastly quiet still held. The last sound I had heard was the tapping (from the blood pounding in my temples or from the workmen, by now noiselessly and at the last moment strengthening the sca - scaffold, raised high above the eerily speechless throng, on it a newly built gallows?)
A deeper stillness fell upon the phantom mob and all movement dragged to a less than funeral pace. Into sight, and in endless time, or so it seemed, came a frightened horse, whipped in slow silence by its rider, hauling behind, through the filth and mire, an inert figure lashed to a hurdle. The dark robe and face were disfigured with smears of rotting refuse and vile excrement and I sensed, rather than perceived, that it was the face and form of my true master. The lips of the rider mouthed the words, 'Behold the traitor, Campion', and the crowd took up the silent cry.
Men standing around a fire,not too near the scaffold or the stands, stirred it into high slow-flickering flames. The sluggish throng moved back from the heat, craning their necks and ever gaping their mouths in muted execrations.
Unpinioned, after its long martyrdom from Tower to Tyburn, Father Campion's broken body lay motionless until they lifted him roughly, yet laggardly to his feet and, with leaden tread, dragged him up the scaffold steps. He made a brave attempt to bless the hangman but could not raise his stiffened arm. Three great ones stood at the steps in the vain hope that my true master would perjure himself for a last minute pardon. They had a clear view and so, alas, had I as, in a long drawn out movement, the hangman placed the noose over my true master's head. The passive body fell..fell..fell, the deceleration of my vision prolonging the agony, until, close to the scaffold, a merciful hand motioned the murderer to pull on the victim's legs and end the protracted torment.
So Father Campion felt no shame as they stripped off his robe and was spared the intended anguish as they slowly hacked off his manhood, slashed open his belly and tossed his drawn entrails onto the soundless blaze. Little it mattered to him that they lingered over quartering the remains from which the soul had fled. But, watching, unable to escape, my coward's body cringed from his unfelt pain. He was beyond earthly cares and I, myself, falling, falling into a black pit.....
~
How long I remained in Limbo I cannot tell. I had no wish to live but, having cursed God, I must have been afraid to die. The ghostly tapping came once more to plague me. I opened my unwilling eyes to find my chattering teeth knocking against a cup held to my lips.
"Scamp that you are, John, to give us such a scare," scolded the priest, Smith, though his eyes were kind. "You have been raving in fever and then seemed to fall into a deathlike trance. If we had money we would have sent for a doctor."
I was too weak to thank him for not so doing. Father Campion had always advocated natural medicines and mistrusted bleeding, purging and such severe remedies, which, he said, only further enfeebled the patient. We used to go out into the country to gather herbs - oh, the past tense, so final now! Why did he come to England? Why choose to die? I had tormented myself because my Orpheus music, which I felt sure had helped Master Philip, had done nothing for my true master. Was his desire for martyrdom greater than my desire to save him? Was that why my lute became silent? Or had I suffered from the sin of pride in thinking that a mere lad could alter God's will? Gradually, with Father Smith's help, I convinced myself that what my true master would wish was for me to live my life to the full and put aside my grief in the effort to make him proud of my achievements, as I had vowed to do when he was alive.
After starving myself before and during my unconscious state, my stomach was sadly disordered. Father Smith must have gone without himself to feed me broths and possets and gradually tempt back my appetite with small amounts of nourishing food. I think his physical administrations did me more good than his spiritual advice for I did not confess to him my blasphemy. I was sadly confused between God and the Devil and hoped that it was the latter I had cursed.
Another recusant friend, Thomas Morgan, was porter at the Embassy and, one day, brought me my lute and my Orpheus book. It was as though I was beginning to learn to play all over again, but, gradually, as I became stronger, my fingers regained their skill. Morris saw that my illness came to the ears of the Ambassador's secretary and, when I was at last able to present myself at my place of work, my haggard looks went some way to excuse my disappearance and I was granted leave of absence until my health recovered. I had some wages due me and Thomas Morris, a good musician, as rootless as I, decided to take what the French call 'English leave' and join me on a pilgrimage to Rheims, where Father Allen's English College was now housed.
~
We had an even more ambitious plan, intending to go on foot from the College to Rome, as once did Father Campion. Indeed, we managed to limp from Paris to Rheims, by which time I realised that I was not yet fit for such a journey and, when we called on Father Allen, he was horrified at the idea and absolved us from our vow.
He had with him the Jesuit missionary, Jasper Heywood, who was pleased to hear of my visits to his old father in Louvain but told me sadly of his death. Both gave me news of my true master. Elizabeth and Leicester had interviewed him privately and promised him preferment if he would attend only one Anglican service. Anjou, at tennis, had been begged to intervene on his fellow religionist's behalf but had turned to his game with the one word, "Play." As I had 'seen', my true master might have been pardoned on the very sca..scaffold, had he wished. Father Allen told us that his steadfastness would do more than an army to advance the Catholic cause in England. He took it for granted that I was of their religion.
Rheims was full of soldiers and I even heard Spanish spoken, as the Guises, whose stronghold it was, had allied themselves with Philip 11. We only stayed there long enough to obtain letters of safe conduct and a list of places where we might find a welcome en route for Rome. When Thomas unthinkingly called me 'Dolman', a nickname my Catholic friends had devised to bring a smile to my lips when I was in the dumps after my illness, Father Allen's secretary took it down in all seriousness, wrote it on my letter of introduction and also, I believe in the College Diary.
My skill on the lute was rapidly returning and Thomas had a singing voice which had ensured him a place in the choir of the Queen's Chapel Royal, so we were both advised that His Holiness the Pope (in England referred to as the Bishop of Rome) and the English College would be glad to employ two such musicians. We were even given journey money and plain serviceable suits of clothes to replace our Embassy livery, as well as horses which, we were told, we might leave at the Roman College when our need was over. We were advised by the Secretary to follow the trade route from Troyes to Lyons.
On my earlier travels alone I had learned to avoid thievish forests where beggars and bandits might lurk. The late religious wars had left many freebooters and homeless folk wandering the roads. Thomas and I both carried wicked looking knives bought to cut the hard bread with which (as well as cheese and wine) we provided ourselves in case there was no food for us at wayside inns. In daylight, I could use my 'evil eye', but, at night, when we slept with all our belongings as a pillow, it was well to have a large knife to flash, hoping its use would not prove necessary. Whenever possible, we joined a party of merchants and were careful to work ourselves to the middle of the train. We tried to keep to paved roads, though this was not good for the horses' hooves.
When we were lucky enough to find a farrier, I would remind Thomas of the story Iamblichus told of Pythagoras in the blacksmith's forge, discovering, through the hammering on the anvil, the science of harmony. As we rode along, we had many a discussion on the theory of music, but it was not good to become deeply absorbed, since we never knew what danger awaited us round a bend in the road or might pursue us as daylight failed. Before long we left behind the Cathedral at Troyes, the University of Dijon and soon reached Lyons, where, as usual, we played and sang for our suppers at the most prosperous looking hostelry we could light upon.
A young fellow with a seafaring look eyed us curiously and, at last, addressed us. "You English?" he asked, and when we denied this, saying proudly we were Welsh and Irish, his dark eyes flashed with pleasure.
"By all that's holy, I'm a Cornishman, Digory Piper, at your service. As we're all Celts, let's swear blood brotherhood and drink damnation to the English!"
In no time at all, we were fast friends. Digory was taking goods by horse-drawn barge from Lyons to Avignon so offered us places for ourselves and our tired horses. We accepted gratefully and spent the next twenty-four hours lounging, sleeping, eating, drinking and exchanging tall tales of which Digory's were by far the best. Like all Westcountrymen, he was something of a pirate, but this time he had a legitimate cargo of finished goods for Genoa and intended to return with Italian silk to be made up in Lyons.
"However," he confided, "I don't mind telling you that I have an extra cargo in mind. I have instructions from old Dominus Factotum (that's the Earl of Leicester to you) to bring back some Neapolitan horses to raise his stock with the Queen." We laughed politely at his play on words and asked how he proposed to get out of Spanish Naples with contraband horses.
"Ask no questions," he grinned, a finger beside his nose. "Sweet Robin knows the man for the job and, when I pull it off, with my reward and the money I have laid by, I shall buy my own ship and farewell to old tubs like the one that awaits us at Marseilles."
It must have been a successful piece of smuggling, as the next time I heard of Digory Piper he was captain of his own ship, the 'Sweepstake'. He was a good friend to us, for, when we reached Marseilles, he offered us berths on his 'old tub'. First, we helped him round up his crew, who had taken advantage of their captain's absence to have a high old time in a port that knew well how to cater for the lowest tastes of sailors of all nations. We helped drag the men on board, dowsed them with sea water, and Digory set about the most recalcitrant with a rope's end.
"When they're thoroughly sobered up, you give them some sweet music to calm the beast in them. Nothing keeps a ship's crew happier than a bit of song and dance. I'll be like Francis Drake, who always has musicians on board, but we'll do without the psalms and sermons, eh, lads? I don't suppose I'll sail round the world and make a fortune, though I wish I'd had a penny or two to invest with him. Ah,well, it takes money to make money."
Thus I wrote and played dance music for our new friend and his crew and Thomas sang sea songs with the sailors and their captain joining less tunefully in the refrains. We had to produce a clean bill of health to be allowed ashore at Genoa but Digory saw to that. His business finished, we sailed along the Italian coast to Ostia, fortunately avoiding the attentions of Barbary pirates.
"Sure you won't come with us to Naples?" he pleaded. "You're a useful pair of lads and I'll be more than sorry to lose my new blood brothers."
We parted with profuse thanks on both sides and he would accept no payment but a copy of the galliard I had written for him. Bless his heart, we had saved money through his hospitality and were able to stay at a decent inn on the way to Rome and even fit ourselves out with new clothes to replace our travel stained gear. With our sun- and wind-burnt skin we fancied we looked quite Italian.
On arrival at the English College, we thought it best to say nothing of our unorthodox voyage, in case Digory's piratical intentions came to light. Our credentials underwent a suspicious enough examination as it was. It seemed that an English hack, Anthony Munday, had visited the College the previous year and had repaid the hospitality received there by returning to England with material for anti-Catholic pamphlets, one of them a scurrilous diatribe against Father Campion, which brought tears of anger and frustration to my eyes.
I stayed with Thomas at the English College but not for long - there were too many rules and regulations for me. His voice was just what they needed in the choir but the lute was not regarded as a religious instrument and my chances of success there were less than my friend's. Fortune smiled on me, however, when I was introduced to a short, dark man some ten years my senior. This was Luca Marenzio (a name you know well) then Chapel Master to the Cardinal d'Este of the family who protected Ariosto and Tasso. After hearing me play, he soon invited me to share his lodging.
"Where did you learn to handle the lute in that way, Giovanni? Tell me the name of your teacher." I told him that Edmund Campion had taught me for two years but that my real tutor on the lute was Don Luys Milan and I showed Luca my Orpheus book.
"Gesu," he breathed, "do you mean to tell me you learned for yourself from a book? You escaped having a teacher?! You are a natural lutenist! No wonder your playing is such as I have never heard. And who is this Luys Milan? More likely he was Luigi da Milano and Milan could not hold two such as Francesco and himself."
I had already learned that Italians thought themselves the best musicians in the world with some justification, so I merely asked who was Francesco?
"Dio mio, the ignorance of you English! You have been playing me the music of Alberto da Ripa, who had to go abroad to find a patron (like your Don Luys, I expect) and you do not know the great works of Francesco da Milano, who played for Isabella d'Este at the court of Mantua. He was a true Orpheus and the notes of his lute could transform men from beasts to gods. Alas, he died before my birth. But we will show them that not all the great lutenists are dead, eh, Giovanni?"
Of course, we did not converse in English but in a mixture of Latin, French and, at first, a sort of Spanish Italian. Whichever language came first to my tongue had to serve. But, when we played together, we soared above mere words, in a golden cloud, our faces glowing with the pleasure of shared power, as, fingers flying, heads nodding, we exchanged conspiratorial glances of sheer delight. This musical companionship, never to be experienced in later life, gave me an inspiration to be cherished constantly.
Luca was eager to learn all the details of my life and, nothing loath, I confided everything, even telling him about 'The Shepherds' Calendar' and the role of Cuddie thrust upon me. Describing the second eclogue where Cuddie is depicted as a forward boy trying to outargue the wise old Thenot, I said I recognised a borrowing from Virgil and turned it back into Latin for Luca:
Tho wouldest thou pype of Phyllis prayse;
But Phyllis is mine for many dayes;
.............................
Such an one shepeheards would make full fain:
Such an one would make thee younge againe.
"This Spenser had no right to call you stupid, Giovanni, for if your character, Cuddie, may keep Phyllis, then he has found the answer to the riddle of Menalcas, which scholars have been seeking since Virgil's time. Tonight, I will take you to a house where they are still arguing as to its meaning", and he quoted the riddle, which I will translate:
Answer me this - and Phyllis shall be yours alone.
Where in the world do flowers grow
with kings' names written on them?
I had to confess that I was not at all sure as to the identity of Phyllis as, in the Eclogues of Virgil, she seemed to take on different personae and I could not find her mentioned at all in Ovid's 'Metamorphoses'.
"Aha, a scholar and a modest one," exclaimed Luca. "Now dress yourself in your best, brush that curling, dark hair of yours, make yourself handsome, if you can, and, above all, do not forget your beautiful lute."
I was somewhat puzzled, as I had supposed our destination to be the haunt of scholars, who are not usually known for their fashionable appearance. When we arrived at an imposing house in an exclusive quarter of Rome, Luca knocked in a mysterious fashion, we were observed through a small opening, and finally admitted to a splendid room such as I had never seen, except perhaps in a dream. The walls were hung with costly material, the furnishings were exquisite in their taste and several choice ornaments were displayed. In the centre of this imposing salon was a richly carved table covered with musical instruments of every kind, music books and leather bound volumes in Latin and Italian which would not have disgraced the great libraries I had seen. Round the walls were seated gentlemen of fashion, making music, reading, conversing, all in an atmosphere of perfect ease, as delicious perfumes wafted through the air.
A most beautiful lady of something less than middle age came forward to greet us and Luca introduced me formally, explaining that tonight we had come only to entertain the guests with our lute-playing and our exchange of views. We played duets and then solos and were politely applauded. I noticed from time to time one of the well-dressed gentlemen would slip from the room at the sound of a tinkling bell and I began to wonder what kind of studious gathering was this.
When we joined in the conversation, Luca explained, "This youth is Giovanni Dolandi, as you will gather from his name, of serious bent, who has a question for you all. He wishes to know who is Phyllis. No, not the one we all know," and he winked, "the Phyllis our Virgil wrote of. And speak in Latin, por favore, the poor lad has little Italian as yet."
I became hopelessly confused . Phyllis was a Thracian princess with a false lover, who, after her death was turned into an almond tree; she was the goddess Isis of Philae (the two words combined in one name); she was an invention of Theocritus, a shepherdess, as in Virgil, though his pastoral folk disguised real Romans of his day; the island of Samos where Pythagoras lived was called Phyllis, meaning 'leafy'. "What about Syphilis?" asked some wag, who was hastily shouted down with cries of "Not here!"
"That will do for the time being, thank you , gentlemen," said Luca and, bowing to the company, we took our leave. I was almost ashamed to voice what was in my mind, "Luca, surely that was not a ...bordello?"
His reply came sharply, "Heaven forbid, Giovanni, you should use that word. That house is one of the few left in Rome, run by a lady of the highest culture to match the famous courtesans of the past like the renowned Tullia d'Aragona, whose honour your Alberto da Ripa was prepared to defend with his sword. It is a privilege to enter those portals and I beg you never to desecrate that mansion with that gross word, bordello. If our gracious hostess had heard that tipsy fool mention the title of Girolamo Frascatoro's poem, he would have been excluded for ever."
"I don't understand why they grinned at first at the mention of Phyllis."
"You will, when you are better acquainted with the ladies of the house. They are all named after girls in Virgil's 'Eclogues' - Phyllis, Amaryllis, Thestylis, Nysa, Galatea and so on - a charming fancy."
We revisited that house of culture often and our lutes made us ever welcome. For a wager, I was able to satisfy Luca that, with my Orpheus music, I could match Francesco da Milano in charming my listeners into silence and inactivity. When I knew the 'shepherdesses' better, they thanked me for allowing them a rest from their pleasant exertions, while their 'shepherds' sat open-mouthed and transfixed as I played. My Italian rapidly improved under female tuition, no less than other skills for which Luca and I rewarded them with poems and music. His poems to Phyllis and Amaryllis were later translated by Thomas Watson, and, though my voice met with pitiful success, I sang them to Luca's settings at court and all over Europe. He even imitated Philip Sidney in singing of Astrophel and Stella.
We also discussed with the 'shepherds' the riddle of Menalcas and found as many versions as we did with the name Phyllis. The general consensus was that flowers with kings' names written on them were the purple lilies that sprang up where the blood of Hyacinthus was shed and that the lines on each petal signified, as Ovid had it, the AI, AI of Phoebus' grief at his untimely death. Some thought the lines stood for Ajax, but Luca held out for the AL of Alexander, the greatest king of all, in whose widespread empire the lilies grew. How I enjoyed these leisurely, Roman discussions. I felt I should be able to set Spenser down a peg or two should I have the ill fortune to encounter him again.
One night, as I was trying to follow the conversation, the name 'Unton', or something like it, emerged from a farrago of Italian. I motioned to Luca to listen for me and his expressive eyes told me to wait until we were outside to ask my questions.
"They were speaking of an Eduardo Unton, who is in the hands of the Spanish Inquisition at Milan. Is he an English friend of yours?" I explained that his brother had been good to me and had given me employment at his wedding when I was penniless.
"Then you must certainly repay his kindness," urged Luca. "Much as I shall hate to lose you, I think you should return to your Embassy and seek to obtain his release while there is still time. We have reason to know that there is cruelty on both sides in these sad times of religious strife. It is fortunate that I have a friend who is shortly returning to Florence and you will be able to travel safely in his company."
I went to the English College to bid farewell to Thomas Morris, by now permanently established there, explaining that family troubles made it necessary for me to return home without delay. The priests gave me letters to deliver in England (which came to spy-master Walsingham's hands) and exacted a promise that I would return to Rome as soon as my affairs were settled.
The hardest goodbyes were to Luca Marenzio, who had been such a friend to me. He wrote a letter recommending me as a musician fit for any prince's court and added a last instruction.
"However urgent your journey, Giovanni mio, you must pause at Bologna. First, I wish you to buy a second lute (the best lutes in the world are made there) and it is to be a gift in memory of our friendship." Here he pressed a large sum of money into my unwilling hand. "I will take no denial, for such a gift gives me pleasure and will dull the pain of our parting. Second, you must not leave Bologna without visiting Alfonso Ferrabosco, who used to play at the court of your Queen." He introduced me to Signor Vincente Galilei, who was to be my travelling companion, and embracing, Italian fashion, with tears in our eyes, we parted, never realising that this was to be our last meeting.
Signor Galilei was a man of great learning,himself a lutenist, who had not long published a 'Dialogue between Ancient and Modern Music', which he described to me as we jogged along. He was a member of a group called the Camerata, whose desire was to create musical drama where poetry, music and singing were to be held in perfect balance to recapture the effects of the Greeks, through which there might result a hoped for renovation of the whole world. I attempted to tell him of my similar ambition in using my Orpheus music, but, when he was in full flow, it was not easy to interrupt him in my imperfect Italian. In any case, it was not my place to answer such a brilliant scholar.
At Bologna, Signor Galilei helped me to choose the best lute from the many on display and, while I was about it, advised me to provide myself with a good selection of lute strings for future use. He then departed on some errand of his own, after first directing me to the house of Alfonso Ferrabosco.
I had made some copies of Alberto da Ripa's unpublished work, which old John Heywood and given me, and these delighted my host. With his broken English and my imperfect Italian, we managed to understand one another well enough.
"I was a mere boy when Alberto Musico died, but my father, Domenico, often spoke of him. He was a legend in his lifetime and a hero to Italian musicians. His good fortune at the French court encouraged many artists to try their luck outside Italy. In my early years I was persuaded to leave my home and a fine place with Cardinal Farnese by that serpent, the Earl of Leicester, who intrigued through those cursed Bruschetti..." Here I pricked up my ears. Master Philip had travelled in Italy with Ludovico Bruschetto or Ludovic Bryskett.
The old man continued, "Spies, all of them, and they turned me into an informer, too. Never trust Queens and courtiers, they are too wicked and too clever for us all. My father said it was a bad time to leave Italy with Rizzio, whose success at the Scottish court we had all envied, murdered by Northern savages, but young men never listen. When he saw that I had set my heart on England, my father gave me what he thought was good advice. He told me to ask Queen Elizabeth for one hundred pounds a year for the whole of her lifetime and her successor's. I was young and bound to outlive her. I was ignorant then that talk of a successor to the Queen was as good as a death warrant, especially to one of my religion. My request was granted and the Queen bided her time.
"I had been lutenist at the English Court for nine years, living happily with my wife and young son, when the blow fell. I was involved in a fight where an Italian was killed. That was what they had waited for. I found myself banished from the country, leaving my family no better than hostages. Not only did the Queen save my salary but she gained a free informer and, later, in my son, another lutenist. I came back to Bologna to find my father four years dead. Now I live alone in the family house with only my lute and a few pupils for company. I am an outcast in my own country for having served a heretic queen. Stay in your birthplace, boy, it is safer."
I tried to explain that my country was Ireland and that I had left it long since, but to all Italians I was the 'Inglese' and nothing could convince the old fellow that I was not English. I wish I could have done more for that sad man. He brightened when I played him Luca's latest songs and gave him all the news of Rome, where he had once lived happily, but I could not stay with him for long. On parting, he was kind enough to give me a copy of one of his Fantasias.
Riding along once more with Signor Galilei, I learned much that was new to me. We discussed song-writing; he told me how to use a pendulum bob for timing; how to set the frets of my lute, which later made it hard for me to play duets with those who used the old way, and he went into great detail over a new theory of Pythagoras and the Forge, which he and his son, Galileo, had devised together. I would most willingly have stayed in Florence to learn more, but, thanking my mentor heartily for all his advice and assistance, I had to continue my way with all speed to Paris.
There I found a new Ambassador, Sir Edward Stafford, and, kicking his heels impatiently, Master Henry Unton. My news was of such importance that nothing was said of my tardy return to duty. It was impossible to conceal the fact that I had been in Italy, so, from that moment, I was caught in the toils of Sir Francis Walsingham's spy service. How Master Unton and I travelled to Lyons and, from there, managed to negotiate his brother's release is too long a tale to tell in the short time left to me. Suffice it to say, it made me a good friend in Master Henry Unton.
~
Now, Rob, I have some good news. The pain in my lower back and groin became so bad that I could find solace in sitting no longer. I dressed with Mall's help and went for a walk down Fetter Lane. Strange that I, who so much fear executions, should live in a street with a gallows at either end. All the same, I dragged myself there and back and the result that evening was agony in voiding three stones and some gravel so that I feel as weak as a kitten but greatly relieved now it is all over.
Albert de Rippe died of the stone, you know, and Jean Dorat wrote a poem about how he held off death for as long as he could by playing his lute, which softened his stones and enabled him to void them more easily. A Frenchman can turn his hand to a poem on any subject, but I had never thought of those as the stones which Orpheus could move! All the same, it gives me reason to take up my lute again, which I have been too melancholy to play of late.
To speak of Dorat, takes me back to those days in Paris, when I learned that he and other members of the Pleiade had, with perhaps less success than the Italian Camerata, sought to discover the true music of Ancient Greece.
