# The Chronicle of Clemendy/The Journey Homeward

THE JOURNEY HOMEWARD
THUS WE had accomplished about a half-part of our returning, when we came to a place where a steep hill rises from the road, and a path goeth up therefrom, passing through a thicket on the bank, and leading into a deep and gloomy wood. And in the midst of this brake is a tall beech-tree, and around it a space of smooth, short grass, the which is cool and green even in the thirstiest droughts of August. And as we drew near to this place we saw the flame of a fire burning therein, and suddenly came a strain of sweetly measured musick, like a nightingale singing, and we could hear voices speaking a foreign tongue. Then the flute (for such it was) hushed, and a violin began a low descant, but swelled and thrilled, and rose (it seemed) in lamentation; but changed anon to a solemn tune like church musick, with long sustained notes and ancient closes. Then a lute began its amorous song, and a tenor voice chimed in with it and sang so sweetly a love-song of Italy that each of us thought of his mistress and wished her at hand. But when this was finished they all began to talk again in their vowelled speech, and then we determined to send an ambassador to this company that, if they willed, we might hear something more of their art. So I got off my nag and began to climb the bank, making my way in and out among ​the hazel-bushes, the wild raspberries, the maples, and the brambles, now ducking my head to escape a stiff bough, and now picking my way amidst the thorns, guiding my steps by the glare of the fire, and the sound of voices. At last I pushed aside two meeting bushes of may-thorn and stood within the circle. In the midst was the great beech, and its boughs stretched widely out on all sides, and rustled in the wind; below it a fire of dry sticks was piled up, crackling and blazing bravely and casting an uncertain and fantastic light on the musicians who sat around it. To whom I doffed my beaver and told them that I with some other honest gentlemen had heard their choice melodies as we passed on our way, and by their leave would gladly join their session under the beech-tree, and pay handsomely to hear them at greater length. And when I had done, a man who seemed to be the eldest of them answered me in indifferent English, bidding me and my companions welcome, very courteously and floridly, "for," said he, "all lovers of good musick are our brothers." So I called out to Nick Leonard and he and the other two came slowly up, as best they could, cursing now and then as a bough rapped in their eyes or a bramble tripped them up. And when they had found their way, we all sat down together, and the elder man began to inform us as to the condition of his band, and their manner of living. "We are," he began, "a company of musicians from Italy; this young fellow who is sitting on the root of the tree and eating sweet-cakes is called Giacomo ​Corelli of Aspignano; he plays the viol d'amore and is something of a poet. Next to him you see there squats a little fat fellow (by your leave Nanni); his name is Giovanni Mosca, Siena gave him birth, and the flute is his instrument. Next you have the sweet lutist, who softens maidens' hearts and makes lovers sigh, he is of Babbiena, and is called Piero Latini. Fourthly Coppo Cacci of Pisa, whose art on the violin you heard but lately; and lastly myself, who love the bass-viol better than any other instrument, and am styled Andrea Galliano of Perugia. As to our business it is to wander upon the earth, and make musick for men, who are good enough to let us live in return, and indeed your men are as a rule harmless creatures enough, though sometimes a little brutish." "And how did you fare today?" asked Phil Ambrose, "for I suppose you have been at Uske." "Right well," answered Andrea, "for the people made much of our musick all the morning and thumped down their pieces as heartily as one could wish; and indeed your folk are by no means devoid of harmony; for as we played I noted often how now one, now another of the crowd would edge close to us, hum the tune over once or twice to himself, then throw his head back, and sing to our playing in a full tenor voice, though somewhat slowly. And they tell me that the words are improvised, even after our own Italian manner, and that your Welsh tongue is very fit for singing and rolls from the throat richly and gloriously. But lord! how the people delighted themselves when the singing and ​the musick came together, and showered money on us, and would have us drink ale and still drink more, and themselves swilled down more of ale and cyder than I could have conceived. But the best part of our day was in the afternoon, when as we were going up the street a serving-man came and fetched us into a house, and led us through a long passage into a court, and from the court by a green alure, and thence into a fair garden, where were several ladies and gentlemen, of right noble houses as I suppose. These were sitting under a yew tree and had a table spread with a very white and comely piece of damask before them, and on it were flasks of wine and cups of Venetian glass, and plates of sweetmeats. Then they bade us play for them our most excellent and curious musick; and I was in some doubt as to what I should chose, so I asked Giacomo and he bade me notice that these personages were all noble lovers, and must be fed with strange mystical melodies, and quaint dances, joyous exultant love-songs, and wailing, forlorn lamentations, following fast upon one another. So we made them as fantastic fare as we were able, and it pleased us to note how hands stole together, and shy glances were interchanged; one put his arm upon the table and so shielded bent down and kissed his sweetheart's forehead, and none could laugh for all were stung alike. Then at sunset a gentleman, whose garden it seemed to be, rose up and praised us mightily for our musique, 'and all of us,' said he, 'praise you, but the ladies (and here he took off his hat) most of all, and if ​you and your company were ever with us our mistresses would never have to call us to account for hearts tender and soft no more.' Then he himself served us with wine and sweetmeats and we drank a health to those beautiful ladies, whose comeliness is more perfect than that of Tuscan maidens, for our girls are burnt up by the sun. And when the servant led us away he gave me a purseful of gold, and so we shall think often of that garden of Uske and pray for the good success of the noble lovers in love and in all other their concernments." "And whither are you now bound?" said I. "We are never bound," answered the young man, Giacomo Corelli, "but wander hither and thither as the fancy takes us, setting smooth times against rough, and warm sunshine against the bitter wind and sky of lead. For our chief delight is to have no fixed time⟨s⟩ or places but to go where we list, and to be ready for any adventure that may befall us, since if our affairs are unprosperous and our hearts sad, we have our musick and our songs of Tuscany; and he that has art, whether of sweet colour, or sweetly measured words, or sweet closes of melody, should deem himself blessed and be very thankful to God, though his cup be dry, his platter empty and his journey through life grievous." "You speak with reason, I think," said the little fellow called Mosca, "but yet meat and wine are good creatures and make the skin smooth and comfortable; wherefore let us sup, and afterwards these gentlemen shall hear how we fulfil all our bragging of our art." Nor did they delay but opened their ​wallets and drew out little dainties and sundry flasks and made us share with them: and piled more sticks on the fire from a heap at hand, and then was heard a crackling and hissing from the greener bark, joined to a gurgling noise as one flask after another was tossed into the air. "Certainly," said Tom, the Rubrican, "if this be a sample of your victual, I think you fare well, and I believe I shall take down my father's old vial and join your company." "Ah! sir," answered Piero Latini (a man with thin jaws that worked fast) "'tis not often that we sup so decently. But you must know that having our purses full this evening we determined to give our bellies good cheer, and looked about us to find a confectioner. And after some dispute we fixed on a little shop near the bridge, with a window hanging over the road; and bade the girl who waited bring us the choicest delicates she had. But this wench was one of your modest maidens with a black and roving eye, who see more of what goes on in the street than in the shop, so she called her father, who was certainly a very capable man and a complete cook. And he soon filled our wallets with savoury pies, brawn, tongues, sausages, sweet-cakes, confects, tarts, and puddings, and as he brought them out from one bin or another described each piece very exquisitely, telling us its properties and good parts, and finished up by asking a scandalous sum the which we brought down to half with a little trouble. Now this piece I am eating is a fair sample of his craft, it is, he told us, a compost of capon's flesh, and veal, and pigeons, and ham, ​brayed together in a mortar and flavoured with herbs and spices and curious condiments, and indeed it is good provision and gives a relish to the wine." "And what fine sausages are these," said Phil Ambrose, holding one up and then gnawing at it, with an evident gust: but I was busy with some sort of a pie, I know not of what essence, but certainly the cook that made it must have had a great intellect and a painful, elaborate artfulness. In fine we supped as handsomely as it is possible to sup, and when all the meats were entombed, the Italians began to stand in order and to finger their instruments, talking to themselves in Tuscan: but we drew out our tobacco pipes and lit them with chips of burning wood, which are the rarest pipe lights in the world. Then beyond the flickering flame and the fragrant curling smoke of Trinidado a low sweet musick came, for the Signor Mosca was moving his lips along his flute, and the nightingales in the wood ceased, to listen to him; and Coppo Cacci, and Corelli, and Andrea followed after with violin, viol d'amore, and bass-viol; and thus I heard the symphony of which some faint snatches came to my ears while I listened to the Seigneur de Roche Nemours his story. For they told me afterwards that this was what they played in the garden to the lovers. Truly it was a wonderful musick and full of strange fancies for which I tried to find a meaning but could not; since it seems probable that such harmonies are drawn from the Outside Realm, and are in themselves but semitones and broken voices from the concert sempiternal and ​transcendent. And it appeared that Giacomo Corelli, whom Andrea had called a poet, himself devised this symphony (as he told us) in times when he was hungry and thirsty and a-cold; and when I looked at him he appeared to me like one who listens for sounds not heard of other men. And when the last deep thunder came from the bass-viol, and the final dying close wandered away into the darkness of the wood, the circle closed again about the fire, and we fell to talking of indifferent matters. And all the musicians had curious tales to tell concerning their instruments, their strange virtues and properties, how they are answerable to one another, and occasionally make them that handle the bow their servants, and play them all manner of tricks. Messer Corelli was good enough to give me the complete anatomy of the vyall, according to the most approved theories, and from what he said it appears that vyalls certainly have souls, indeed he showed me the exact position thereof as Master Réné of the Rolls has pinned down the reasonable soul of a man to the pineal gland. Then Messer Cacci made a very ingenious relation of two companions and two violins, and showed when one was played, the other of itself echoed the musick, though many hundred miles were between them; and how the companions answered, either to other, in like manner, and dying at the same instant of time, their vyalls likewise in that hour fell to pieces with a loud twang. "And this," said he, "was made evidently to appear, and is commonly believed all over Italy": "Is commonly believed to be a lie you would ​say," quoth Mosca, "for he who credits these violin histories must have soft brains." But all the others cried out upon him with one voice, and promised that so soon as they set foot again in Tuscany the Holy Office should take order with him and eradicate his unbelief: "Certainly, Nanni," said Andrea, "the fagots that shall make a roast of thee have begun to sprout, for thou wilt assuredly come to be burnt." And seeing that the little man did not relish these jokes over much, Nick Leonard asked the musicians if they knew of any curious or fantastic case, besides their craft-tales, "for these," said the Lord Maltworm, "seem to breed dispute, a thing detested by us of Gwent, who are accustomed to take everything quietly and as it comes. And if as you say, Signor Mosca's notions have really a taste of the fagot about them, doubtless the Holy Office will attend to him in due time; and you need not therefore to grow solicitous concerning the poor gentleman." "'Tis well spoken Nick," said Tom Bamfylde, "come my masters, surely in your wanderings you have picked up some curious and well-seasoned tales; and though I have both devised histories and listened to them, yet I have never seen a time or place or company fitter for the production of these commodities. And as to Signor Mosca, why, you may set your minds at ease as to that false damnable and pernicious position of his viz. that in vyalls there is merely natural wood and sheep's-gut, and no rational soul nor sympathy. For I assure you that the Venerable Philip Jenkins Archdeacon of Monmouth would ​give odds to the Inquisitors of the Holy Office, so capable a divine is he, and so vigilant to uproot erroneous doctrines and heresy. And moreover he's a kinsman of mine, and I'll make interest with him, and have Signor Mosca presented in the next Consistory Court at Caerleon, and I promise you it shall go very hard with him." After this pledge they could dispute no more, but began to advise together as to who had the best and strangest relation in his head, and it was agreed that Piero Latini of Babbiena was seised of a mighty quaint history, the which had been mellowed and ripened by age, so that there was no sourness or crudity left in it. And Andrea declared that Piero was able to talk nonsense with a graver face than any one of them, and so was fittest to entertain us. Forthwith he struck one or two deep notes from his bass-viol, and Piero began his story.