Chapter 8

A Life Changing Event

 

 

 

Journal Entry 23 May, 1558

 

“Dormoy was the first to arrive at the square in front of Saint-Séverin. He was sporting a freshly washed cut over his right eye, and he was sure that this badge of combat earned him the unspoken respect of every street urchin and any other possible source of annoyance with which he might come into contact on his way to the appointed meeting place. There were no classes today, so the traditional, black academic robes were cast aside in favour of more casual jerkins, leggings and boots, although the colour and cut of Dormoy’s clothes gave away his Provençal origins as surely as the twang of his French.

“Even after having spent three years in the northern capital, Dormoy was still awed by the spectacular transformation of the ordinarily drab streets and alleys of Paris when the St Germain Fair was in full flower. Each overhanging balcony shot out sprays of garish colour, in the form of pennants rippling in the wind from their balustrades. The streets were clogged with booths and stands and stationary, horseless wagons, displaying huge cuts of meat (beef, venison, wild boar) hanging on steel hooks, big enough to have dealt the fatal blow to the yet living animals. Everywhere there were cheeses, fruits and vegetables and small tables with bottles of home squeezed olive oil and berry flavoured vinegar. From one end of the St Germain to the other, the main boulevard and every side street was thick with moving, seething, serpentine humanity in a motley variety of colours and styles from all over France, Picardy, Navarre, Luxembourg and the Low Countries. There were farmers, bakers and purveyors of medicines guaranteed to cure snake bites and syphilis sores. One could see jugglers, acrobats, fire eaters, musicians and dancers in exotic, foreign looking costumes. There were sections of the main boulevard marked off for members of specific guilds (such as the tanners, the tinkers and the pewter smiths), where speciality crafts were on display. Everywhere there were parent-less children who seemed to have escaped from a country where none of its citizens exceeded three feet in height, running and darting in and out of all of the makeshift establishments.

“‘Watch out for cut-purses,’ said a voice in Dormoy’s left ear, as Gaudin made to grab him from behind, before he was aware that the two of us from rue St Victor had reached the rendezvous point. My left arm was in a makeshift sling, my wrist having suffered a sprain in the gallantry of the previous evening. Gaudin had no visible wounds, but his usually confident stride was broken by a decided limp, the result of what he would only describe as a groin injury. ‘You’re an easy mark,’ Gaudin continued, not letting his evident pain stifle his spirits. ‘Thieves look for country bumpkins like you who spend their time gawking about them and not looking after themselves.’

“‘Oh leave him alone,’ I pleaded, having realized that I was doing a little gawking myself at that precise moment.

“‘Must you trouble the boy about everything?’ It was the heavily accented voice of Testagrossa, who, fresh from morning mass, had just joined the group and saw that the order of the day was to gang up on Gaudin. The young Italian was quite a sight, his skull swathed in a bandage that looked more like a Turkish turban, making his head look even larger than usual. Like four war veterans looking for their severance pay, we stood for a moment admiring each other’s injuries and complimenting each other on how bad we looked! Then it was time to see what the great city had to offer.

“Food, of course, was everywhere and reasonably priced for student budgets, so today was sure to be satisfying to our stomachs. There were crepes from Lille, sausages from Lorraine and plentiful ale from Bruges to wash it all down. I didn’t do badly for a man with only one hand with which to manage my victuals, but there were also other distractions for all senses and appetites.

“As we turned into one side street, we saw a small, raised clearing on which was situated a kind of spit, a crude affair composed of two forked stakes between which a cross bar was suspended. Tied and bound to the cross piece was a large grey cat, looking as terrified as a witch at Sheffield. A brazier, underneath the spit, was alight with a wood fire that had burned down to white hot coals. At a signal to the audience for silence, two ruffians lifted either end of the cross piece out of the fork and slowly lowered it closer and closer to the brazier. As they did so, the poor captive creature let out a plaintive screech, first of fear then of genuine pain. I turned away in revulsion, all the time cupping my hands over my ears to block out the hellish howl. As I turned, I caught sight of Dormoy, at the far end of the street where an alley, closed and dark even in the daytime, bent to the left and downward toward still more secret places. Dormoy was on his knees, white as a sheet, puking what was left of his Alsatian sausage into the downward sloping gutter. Gaudin and Testagrossa were on either side of him, holding his arms lest he fall forward into his own vomit. By common consent, we headed as rapidly as we could back to the main boulevard, just as soon as Dormoy had some colour restored to his face and was able to stand and walk again.

“Once on the St Germain and after putting sufficient distance between ourselves and the sadistic ritual we had just witnessed, we at last came to rest before a stand that was selling jars of golden honey as well as plum, raspberry and blackberry preserves. A young girl was dipping a stick into an open jar of honey and offering it to us as a sweet, sinless enticement, when another group walked up slowly behind us. I immediately recognised the Huguenot family from the previous evening, the youngest of which was neatly bandaged on the tip and bridge of her nose. She was holding her mother’s hand, but upon seeing the four of us, she slid her hand free and walked straight up to the broad shouldered Italian with the big white turban on his head. She reached up, to encircle one of his tree trunk legs in gentle embrace. Then she raised her eyes, intensely searching his sad face with her own clear and jubilant eyes, and said: ‘Dieu vous benisse!’ (‘God bless you!’).

“Testagrossa smiled at her, the way a father looks at his daughter on her wedding day. ‘What is your name?’ he asked her.

“‘Je m’appelle Clotilde,’ (‘I call myself Clotilde,’) she said.

“Testagrossa took his large right hand and gently placed it over the child’s clean white bonnet. ‘God bless you too, Clotilde,’ he said, while tracing the sign of the cross over her head.

“The mother, having purchased a jar of honey, turned and offered it to Testagrossa. ‘Signor Giambelli, this in no way repays our debt to you all.’

“The young Italian opened the jar and took one of the sticks that the sales girl was holding out to them. He went down on one knee, dipped the stick into the jar and offered it to Clothilde. ‘You take good care of your family now, you hear me?’ he said ever so gently, as the little girl nodded and took the stick in her small hand. Quickly she put the honeyed end of the stick into her mouth.

“We watched as the family walked on, the little Clotilde holding the honey stick in her mouth long after the last traces of sweetness had gone. Gaudin, Dormoy and I couldn’t resist dipping our fingers into the honey, as well. I stopped, nonetheless, long enough to watch the little family disappear into the milling crowds. ‘I wonder,’ I said to no one in particular, ‘what that family would have done if we had not had the good fortune to be there?’

“Before anyone could respond, however, someone pushed past us in his determination to reach the street leading out from the other end of the St Germain. The stranger made contact with Gaudin’s shoulder, who pivoted to balance himself, thus colliding with Testagrossa, who reached out to my good arm, making me lose balance and, unable to right myself, fall backward only to be caught by Dormoy.

“When it was over, none of us was quite sure whom we had all seen! He was gone, in the blink of an eye, and despite the series of mishaps he had caused, he had managed to escape without anyone’s having had a good look at him.

“Once upright on my own feet, I stood perfectly still. For a moment, I thought I had seen—I could have sworn that I had seen my father, but that was, of course, ridiculous.

“Testagrossa realized that my face had suddenly turned deathly pale. ‘Are you all right? You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost!’

“‘I’m fine,’ I said, without conviction. I no longer felt terrified. I can only imagine that a distracted, distant look had taken the place of fear on my face.

“‘Who was that stranger, and what was his hurry?’ asked Dormoy.

“‘He looked like the Devil to me,’ commented Testagrossa, remarking about his long black cloak, his pointed red-and-grey beard and his stooped shouldered gate.

“‘He was a doctor, a learned man,’ suggested Gaudin, ‘judging from what looked, to me, like academic robes to go with his physician’s cap.’

“‘His hands!’ I raised my finger, as if I had just noticed an important detail. ‘Did you see those long, thin fingers stretched out in front of him as if he was afraid of bumping into something?’

“‘Where was he going that he needed to forge a path through us to get there?’ asked Dormoy for the second time.

“Gaudin was pointing to the intersecting street on the opposite side of the boulevard. ‘Whatever it is, it’s down that way.’ Curiosity having gotten the better of all of us, we headed together towards the narrow street down which the mysterious robbed figure had vanished a few moments earlier.

“The street was crowded with a slightly better dressed mix of revellers than had been in evidence on the main boulevard. They were not milling aimlessly around, either. Rather, they were moving in an orderly fashion in the direction of another descending street, at the entrance to which another large crowd had already assembled. The four of us moved down to take places among the gathering crowd, where we saw a sign, previously covered up by onlookers, on which was posted an announcement about a play to be enacted in the adjoining street, the performance to begin in several moments. The acting troop identified itself as ‘Les Confrères de la Passion’, and the piece to be performed, in 3 acts, was called ‘La Reine de Poison, ou le Meurtre de Gonzago’ (‘The Queen of Poison, or The Murder of Gonzago’), by an anonymous poet, after the tradition of Etienne Jodelle.

“‘Oh, I know the argument of this play,’ said Dormoy, who evidently enjoyed theatre, among the other wonders of this magnificent city. ‘It is about this great lady who dresses remarkably like our Italian Queen, in high heeled shoes like the putains of St. Séverin. She has a daughter of marriageable age who is trying to decide between two suitors, one of whom is the son of a very wealthy merchant and financier, while the other is a nobleman of exalted title but, regrettably penniless.’

“‘While pondering her alternatives, the great lady visits an old crone who sells love potions and charms, when she’s not reading tarot cards or dissecting chickens. The old woman proposes a simple solution to her problem. Let her daughter marry the wealthy merchant, whose fortune she will inherit upon her husband’s demise, thereupon she can marry the titled nobleman and have the best of both!’

“‘Of course, the success of this scheme depends on being able to assure the timely death of the first husband. That is where the old crone’s wares come into play. She offers the great lady a small bottle of very effective poison which she has merely to slip into the evening drink of the first husband before he retires. By morning, the bereaved widow is both wealthy and free to marry her nobleman.’

“At this, all eyebrows arched knowingly, and our four heads drew closer in a single motion.

“This was enough encouragement for Dormoy. ‘Of course, the daughter is totally innocent of all of these machinations. The mother must do this on her own, all the while shedding tears for the fragile life of her first son-in-law. She’s a magnificent, duplicitous villainess who is both booed and admired by her riotous audience.’

“‘Sounds like a play worth seeing,’ said Gaudin to the nodding ascent of the whole company.

“Thus intent on loving and hating this creature of the stage, we moved down the street, until we saw, at a dead end, a raised platform, the length of two town houses, upon which were arranged a set of structures intended to represent dwellings in different parts of the city.

“The sets were more suggestive than representative of these things, but they seemed to develop form as different performers, in costume, moved from one side to the other, insuring that props were placed exactly where they needed to be. In back of the platform, mostly concealed by the sets, were two trumpeters and a drummer, ready to signal the start of action with the proper flourish. As the four of us established standing room for ourselves as close to the platform as we could get, the trumpets sounded for silence, and the Prologue came to centre stage to speak his opening lines.

“The costumes, the speeches, the gestures moved in a world of their own and in the imagined world within my mind. I saw the Great, Stately Lady moving with such grace and purpose among a collection of small men with large noses, circling about her. As scene shifted to scene, I was enthralled by the spectacle of sight and sound, but mostly by the sweep and majesty of language that flowed and ebbed from the actors’ mouths across to where I stood, transfixed by the magic of it all. When the Great Lady stepped forward to deliver her soliloquy of murderous resolve, I felt the power of her exaltation and of her utterly sublime villainy. I resolved, at that very moment, that I would become a poet of the stage, to bring the resonant sounds and sights of the English theatre to hitherto untested heights.

“And to put this resolve to immediate proof, I have added, to today’s entry of my journal, an English rendering of the “Queen of Poison” soliloquy as I both remember from the French and have freely adapted it to have it proclaimed on the English stage:

 

‘So, shall I strike, e’er yet another day

Hath torn to shreds the misty cloak of night

That shrouds the darkest deeds of men and beasts.

Now let nocturnal camp fires’ rising fumes

Blot out the light of stars upon my steps

That e’en the powers of Hell’s dark Lord, himself

May neither hint nor trace of me belie!

For now must I convince my child to wed

First time, the man of wealth who nightly drinks

A draft of wine, e’er coming to his bed.

Thus on that most auspicious of all nights,

Must I into the wedding chamber steal.

And in the master’s cup one drop conceal

The dross of death, the distillation of eternal sleep.

Come Hecate, thou Queen of darkest depths,

Anoint my head, my breast, my purpose cold,

With icy fingers grip my woman’s heart,

That hardened, my resolve and strength may stay.

So with a hand as steadfast as my love

Will I from wedding widowhood convey,

And thus with wealth along with tears impart

And clear the path to second marriage bed,

Where title, state and station all converge

With ‘heritance of fortune’s finest gold.

So may a husband nevermore awake

‘Til I his fortune from his bosom take.’

 

“The “Queen’s’ sublime theatrical moment was destined to end, however, much as the previous night had ended for the four of us. For out of the hushed silence that befell the unruly crowd of groundlings in the wake of the afore-mentioned speech, a company of equestrian guards cut a path down the descending street to the platform and loudly announced their intention to arrest and detain the entire company of the Les Confrères de la Passion until the guild had paid a sizeable fine for having defamed the person of Her Majesty, Catherine Queen of the French.

“Despite my particular enthusiasm for the players’ work, we saw, with a certain pragmatism, the futility of trying to duplicate the previous night’s acts of heroism, deciding instead to depart from that place, quickly and quietly. We joined the tide of spectators who jostled and shoved one another in their haste to put as much distance as possible in the least amount of time between themselves and the Duc’s guard.

While deftly turning left, then right, to avoid leading shoulders and flailing arms amid a sea of murmurs and oaths, I was arrested by the touch of long cold fingers and the cry of a voice as bitter and melodramatic as those of the stage had been. I turned to see the four cornered cap, the searing black eyes, the long face and the pointed grey beard of the strange man we had followed to this place. ‘Defend her, you churls, defend the Italian bitch, the Florentine strumpet who plots to put her whimpering little cubs on the throne of France!’ He had a look of exaltation on his time ravaged face, and I was sure that, while staring fixedly right at me, the stranger did not, for a moment, actually see me. ‘The King of Navarre alone will prevail’ he said into the fleeing crowd within which no one seemed to listen and hear, except me. ‘The King of Navarre alone will prevail. The King of Navarre will prevail.’

“Dormoy matched my gaze, following the robbed figure as he hobbled away into the milling crowd. ‘What did he say, that crazy old man?’

“I couldn’t take my eyes away from the fleeing figure, and I couldn’t forget those piercing black eyes. ‘Something about an Italian bitch and a king in Navarre or Aragon or some such place.’

“‘He seemed really angry that the play was interrupted by the Duc de Guise’s men,’ observed Testagrossa, who was still looking back toward the elevated platform. He noted that the soldiers were amusing themselves by clubbing the actors who lay prostrate at their feet, their hands and arms raise helplessly above their heads.

“‘That’s the same mad man who nearly knocked us all over to get down there!’ said Gaudin, who had pushed ahead and had circled back to see what was holding everybody up.

“I was beginning to understand what I had just witnessed. ‘I think it was the story – the Queen – that fascinated him. He was cheated out of the chance to see her get what was coming to her.’

“The sea of souls was beginning to thin and slow down to the normal bustle. Having had enough of the stink and contact of the crowds, we decided to head down to the quay to watch the quiet flow of the Seine and feel the welcome breeze coming off of the river.”

 

***

 

Thus Howard recorded, in significant detail, the two days during which these events took place. I leafed through several more pages, after these entries, to see if Howard said anything about having gone back to St. Severin to resume his encounter with the dark haired, blue eyed prostitute. I found no reference in any subsequent entry that would either confirm or deny that such a second essay had even taken place. I did, however, find a single folded sheet of paper, pressed between two blank pages not far from the entries to which I have just referred. What I found on that sheet, in Howard’s careful and steady hand, was the following sonnet, written simply “To Julie…One Evening”:

 

‘Thou comest on the shadowed wings of night,

Thy tresses black as mid-night raven’s cloak.

Thy crimson robe, thy milky flesh, delight,

Thy fragrance, sweet as rising incense smoke.

Yet from thine eyes the light of mid-day burns,

Two orbs as crystal blue as summer’s sky.

For these twin brilliant pools my soul still yearns,

My body trembling, as if wont to die.

Thy lips, like fragrant flowers open wide

To whisper wordless oaths of passion’s fire,

And bids me drink, while close to thee I bide,

Thirsting so to quench my chief desire.

In lightest dark, in coldest heat, we live,

‘Til we, to one another’s passions give.”

 

“As I read these lines over and over again, my mind returned to the scene of trembling at the steps of St Severin, and I was satisfied that I had, in fact, read the next chapter of that story.”