Lucifer's Shadow

65 Chance encounter

From the journal of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, April 1743

At last they do me justice. I travel now for a post of some rank, as Secretary to the French Ambassador in that den of sin, Venice. I cannot fault the work; only the location. I have not written much of the place in my other journals, though I spent a little time there a decade or so ago. There are sights aplenty and a smattering of artists too. Yet, though possessed of a memory which scarce lets slip a face or incident from years back, I must confess I recall nothing of moment during my interlude in La Serenissima. Nothing, that is, save the stink of the canals, which even an idiot is unlikely to forget.

Sometimes the oddities of fortune have a way of making up for these omissions. I travel to Venice from Geneva, where I saw my few remaining relatives. The call of business prevented my taking a direct route and instead demanded I visit the surly burghers of Zurich for three tedious days. Then I took the coach to Chur for the mountain pass to Milan, by Lugano and Como, a crossing so ancient I must be following in the footsteps of Caesar and his battalions with every mile.

This is a long and tiresome journey, and so, of necessity, I must break it into as many constituent parts as I find convenient, or sit day and night on the hard seat of some cold, drab carriage, listening to the coughs and wheezes of my fellow man. Chur is as pleasant a place as any to pause for breath. This is a curious spot, set in a deep valley carved by the Rhine. The natives, part of the canton we call Grisons and they Graubünden, claim descent from the Etruscans and speak a strange tongue known as Romansh. There is a handful of fetching buildings, some fine hotels and restaurants, and an ancient Kathedrale with one of those Gothic altars designed to make you dizzy if you stare at it too long.

With some money in my pocket for once and an urge for a decent meal and a soft bed, I took a room at the Drei Könige, a comfortable establishment not far from the carriage stop. There I dined marvellously on good Swiss boar, potatoes, red cabbage, and ale before retiring to the salon at the rear, attracted by the unexpected sound of a small ensemble. I pulled up a chair, joined the six or so other travellers in the room, and found myself lost in thought. The music was expertly played, though somewhat predictable in content— insipid dance tunes, the kind of fare one must expect from entertainers in an hotel. What caught my attention most, though, was the players: a woman of striking appearance, perhaps in her mid-thirties, with wayward dark hair and a scarlet dress, who worked at a large, sonorous fiddle as if she were born with the thing strapped to her arm; a furtive-looking man a little younger than his wife, playing the harpsichord with rather less skill than his partner; and a dark-haired, if overly serious, child — nine, no more — bowing away on a smaller fiddle alongside his mother, and very well too.

I recognised this couple instantly. Our meeting had been brief — in Venice, of all places — and at least one of them I believed dead, and after some villainous deeds at that. To see this pair, with their o fspring, stand in front of me, flesh and blood, was a curious and chilling experience, and one made all the more so by the way in which, after a while, both adults returned my inquisitive gaze. They performed another fifteen minutes more, then, after the merest round of applause, turned their backs on me and began to pack away their instruments. Emboldened by this rudeness, I decided to play them at their own game, and duly strode across to the tiny stage in order to strike up a conversation with these “strangers.”

The man regarded my outstretched hand as if it were leprous. “I congratulate your little band, sir,” I said with a smile. “I never expected to hear such musicianship in the provinces. Surely you must head for civilisation to reap the acclaim you deserve!”

The fellow gave me a filthy look, one that made my heart skip a beat. The exact circumstances of our acquaintance were still a blur to me at this point. The woman, I recall, was a musician. Yet I knew there were black rumours about his character later, though I had assumed him a gentleman when we first met, if a somewhat pompous one. It would be foolish to discount these tales of his disposition simply because half the intelligence about his fate proved misconstrued.

“Music is music, sir, wherever it is played,” he replied in a monotonous country brogue. “One does not need the city’s imprimatur to prove its value.”

“True, but what worth is a diamond set beneath the ground, dear fellow? Nothing. It is only when the miner brings it to the surface, the jeweller carves it, the lady wears it… then it becomes the most precious thing in all the world!”

His eyes, if I am not mistaken, glazed over at this metaphor. A strange symptom of fear, no doubt, for all three of us knew this was a charade.

The lady packed away that gigantic instrument, as ugly to behold as it was delightful to hear, and said with what passed for a smile, “We are mere country folk, sir. Content to earn a living and a bed for the night by our playing and our lessons, nothing more. The city would surely drown us in its tumult and expose our talents as the humble e forts which, in truth, they represent.”

She did herself a disservice and knew it. “Not so!” I insisted. “I listened most carefully, and you, madame, play like an angel. And originally, too, for I have not heard those tunes before and there’s many a hotel band I’ve been forced to listen to on my travels.”

She beamed at that. Quite rightly, for it was sincerely meant. She had acquired, I must record, a distinct limp; it spoiled somewhat her otherwise comely appearance. “Thank you, sir. It is a hobby of mine to write a little now and then.”

“Dance tunes,” the man interrupted. “Nothing that would fill a hall outside the inns.”

“And not all my own,” the woman added. “My brother recently found a position as a physician at the Russian court. We are fortunate in that he sends us some popular melodies from Moscow occasionally.”

She smiled, obviously proud of her sibling’s achievement, then her husband broke this pleasant turn in the conversation by observing sourly, “We know our métier, monsieur. We are travelling players, and it puts bread upon our table.”

Such false modesty! “Never underestimate the human spirit, my friend,” I answered. “Handel was the son of a barber, and a trainee lawyer to boot. If he can overcome those twin burdens, surely you might fight your way out of the taverns and reach a more appreciative audience?”

They looked at each other, and with my customary acuity, I was able to detect this was a subject of some tension. It would have been cruel to prolong this awkward moment, so I reached down, tousled the mop of dark hair on the young lad, and earned a grudging look for my pains.

“And you, my boy. What name do you answer to?”

“Antonio,” he replied, as surly as a street urchin.

“Well, Antonio. Let me tell you something. Your parents are fine people who will educate you well in the ways of the world. But remember always that each one of us is an individual and must make his own decisions. If you play so admirably at your age, I’ll warrant you’ll be in an orchestra by the time you’re twenty.”

He glanced at his father. There was some enforced severity in this little band I could not hope to comprehend. “I only wish to play as well as Mama, sir. And, when I am older, earn the right to own her fiddle.”

“And after that?”

“Why…” I swear the child looked at me as if I were a fool. “I’ll do the same for my son, and he for his. Until we produce the very finest fiddler there has been in all the world, and one that still plays Mama’s instrument too. So even if we all be dust by then, a little of us passes down to the next, and that is as much immortality, my father says, as any man might hope for.”

Poor lad, I thought. So sti f and old for his age. He was a comely fellow, having inherited the looks of his mother, not those on the other side, and this might stand a man in good stead. Yet I found it hard to believe these folk did not inhabit some prison of their own making and found themselves bumping into the bars at every turn.

“You’ll teach your son yourself, no doubt?” I wondered.

“Aye, sir. As Mama has taught me. Everything.”

It was time to throw in a sly one. “Then what shall you teach him of God?”

I found all three of them staring at me then and wondered whether I had overstepped my mark. Unless I was mistaken, the father had blood upon his hands already, and what’s one more red stain when your skin is soiled already?

The child looked at his parents for some guidance. The mother nodded at him. “Answer the gentleman. As you see fit.”

He drew himself up, took a deep breath, then said, as if reciting a laboured rhyme from the nursery, “We… I think that God is great enough to manage without my adulation, sir. He knows where He may find me in His hour of need.”

He said it well too. I patted him on the head, then gave him a coin, which, after glancing at his parents once more, he swiftly pocketed.

“You have all entertained me generously this evening,” I said with a smile. “I travel to Venice. May I repay the favour by recommending you to the impresarios?”

The blood drained from the faces of both man and wife in an instant. The child regarded them fearfully. I felt guilty. This was unworthy of me, and I should not have done it without their ungracious reception of my advances. Every story has more than one side. I had no right to read the gutter sheets and assume their rantings represented justice.

“We are content as we are,” the man replied icily, then set them packing away their things with more speed. I retired, a little apprehensive, I’ll admit. There was a look of utter ruthlessness in the fellow’s eyes after my last remark which made me wonder for my life.

That night I failed to sleep for more than a few moments. This strange interview replayed itself in my head and I recalled, too, a little more of the meetings we had in Venice some ten years earlier. As I said, nothing of moment then occurred. Yet looking back now, I detect, I believe, the seeds of some tragedy beginning to germinate beneath the Adriatic sun.

Small wonder a decade on they seek to flee this thicket of deceit. When I rose the following morning, there was commotion in the breakfast room over their sudden disappearance. The landlord and his wife seemed bereft at their flight, nor was it for the usual reason of an unpaid bill. The pair seemed rather fond of this odd and talented family, and looked at me askance when my enquiries set them wondering whether I had something to do with their decision to disappear into the night. Provincials! Am I supposed to feel guilty? Should the hanged man blame the rope?

They were gone. None knows where, or in truth much cares. The world is full of such strangers. One may wish them well, whatever shadows lurk in their histories, but their fate remains entirely in their own hands, for good or ill. Yet these three were not vagabonds at heart. They showed as much in their manner and in their carelessness.

A fugitive must seek a new name each time he renews his existence. And with what paucity of imagination do they seek their disguise! After a good night’s sleep the following evening, I finally remembered the fellow well. He was in the printing trade, an inkyfingered artisan of books. And how would he now be known? Why, only by the stolen name of one of his rivals in the publishers’ guild! An ancient house that in its brief day produced some books on Arabic and Hebrew which still grace many an antiquarian’s shelves.

Such errors serve the runaway poorly. I wish the family “Paganini” luck. They’ll need it.