THE TAPESTRY WEAVER OF BEAUVAIS
The oldest people of Beauvais remembered Schatten the tapestry weaver. Some vowed he was threescore, some a hundred years old; and ever as the subject was touched upon, Schatten would widen his huge mouth, and cry with a low chuckle, “Ay, ay, a thousand—more or less. I shall live to see wrinkles in the sun.” None knew from what stock he sprang—from what land he came. Such questions he would ever parry with some extravagance. “I was born of felspar and quartz, and my home was the Hartz Mountains when they were no bigger than mole-hills.” And thus Schatten lived on. He saw the child rise into manhood—wed—become a parent—a grey-headed man—a corpse; and so with the child’s child, and yet no change came upon Schatten. He stood, a flinty image gazing on dying generations.
A hovel in an obscure part of Beauvais was the dwelling of the weaver. There was his tapestry loom; and there, day after day, and night after night, would he work, at times droning a song to cheer what seemed the monotony of an eternal employment. Notwithstanding the inexplicable mystery about the man, he was, on the whole, a favourite with his fellow-townsmen. There was something so meek in his demeanour, so placid, so unassuming, and his speech was so soft and gentle, that although his name had been mingled in strange recitals, he had never been molested, but, on the contrary, was generally considered a harmless, well-meaning creature; one who, far from sneering at the pleasures of youth, looked upon them with seeming satisfaction. No one more frequently witnessed the bacchanal revelries of the topers of Beauvais; for, though Schatten was no drinker himself, he beheld with unaffected pleasure the loose jollity of others. The like at feasts: although he was temperate as a chameleon, he would most readily carve huge collops for others. He seemed to hold in peculiar admiration a purple, bloated face and swagging paunch, though his own sharp visage was as yellow as saffron, and his figure lank as a thread-paper. This urbanity towards the failings of others was, it will be conceded, the secret of his popularity. Though he himself abstained from all animal indulgence, he not only did not gloomily lecture on the lawlessness of appetite, but, on the contrary, smiled on its achievements. This charity hath served many besides old Schatten.
But there was another circumstance that greatly assisted the goodly reputation of the weaver: it was the character of his many visitors and pupils. His hovel was the resort of the loveliest girls—the most beautiful youths, not only of the town of Beauvais, but from the great city itself—from elegant, voluptuous Paris; for even at the period of which we write it was distinguished for the refinement and luxuries of life.
Schatten, in his capacity of tapestry weaver, had pictures of every variety of subject; and it was his good fortune that those professors who excelled in the beautiful art seemed by common consent to seek old Schatten, that he might immortalise their radiant sketches in his still more exquisite tapestry. There was no subject which painting could portray, no imagination which it could robe in life and colour, that was not ready for the loom of Schatten. If a battle were the theme, there might be seen contending heroes, with stern rapture in their faces, glory about their heads—their every limb glowing as with Mars’ own fire—their swords like sunbeams, and the smoking blood more like libations to purple Liber, than torrents in which the human life gushed forth. Thus a battle woven by old Schatten was a grand and glorious thing—each combatant was an excited god; whilst the drained and pallid carcass—the dreadful wounds, with jagged and gaping mouths—the rigid muscle straining against death—the fixed and stone-like eye, and clotted hair—all the gross, substantial horrors of systematic slaughter, were thrown into the shade: they were not to expose that common liar—Glory. If the subject were beauty, there might be seen—as erst was chosen by the antique master—one charm from twenty different faces, making a miracle of perfection. All that was voluptuous and entrancing shone in the dewy light of woman’s eye; there was an eternal youth in her red lip, a tenderness in her warm cheek: too pure for the earth, too exquisitely fragile, she seemed of a sisterhood ’twixt humanity and angels. The same masterly hand was displayed though the subject was the banquet of the glutton—the supper was still spread “in the Apollo.” The same power shown in the golden heaps of the miser: the food, the wine, seemed ambrosia and nectar, bestowing immortality on the lip that tasted: the gold glittered like something dropped from the skies, to be worn as amulets against calamity.
A man so potent in his handicraft as Schatten might have surrounded himself with all the symbols of wealth; and, had he been ambitious, have successfully contended for the highest honours of citizenship. But, it was plain, he valued gold as ashes; and for the trappings of state and place, the most regal shows, the pomp and blazonry of kings, were with him matter for a jest.
“Alack!” cried Michel Sous, a withered money-scrivener of Beauvais—“I hear ’twas a brave sight; and plague on my shanks! I have missed it. Which way went the procession?” The man of bonds and pieces remained gaping for the answer of the tapestry weaver, who stood, cross-legged, leaning on his staff, with a face immovable as granite. It was a day of triumph, a time of holiday, and Michel had for once quitted his bags and desk to sun himself in the glory of his fellow-townsmen. “Weaver, I say, which way went the procession, and where shall I find it?”
“It went, after some turnings, into the churchyard. Take up a handful of mould, and, in truth, you clutch a part of what you seek.”
“Why, thou art drunk, merry, or mad! The churchyard and mould! I ask you where went, where is, the procession?”
“Where I tell you. I saw it pass by me, and after some windings and shiftings, I saw each brave puppet—that strutted as though the angels were looking at it—I saw it shrink, and bend, and totter, and the yellowness of age crept over it, and its eye faded, and its hair whitened, and it crawled into the earth as the fox slinks beneath his cover. The trumpets lay dumb and cankering in the soil—the rustling flags dropped tinder at the breeze—the rust-eaten sword crumbled beneath the mattock of the digger, and rank grass grows above the pomp of the last hour.”
“Why, Schatten, thou art dreaming. Blessed St Mary! thou surely didst not see the sight, else thou hadst told me a truer story of its progress.”
“Not so: trust me, I saw the revel—but I beheld it from the pinnacle of time; and I tell you again, all the men who passed me I watched into the churchyard. Their haughty eyes—their trophies, flags, and clamorous pipes—I say to you, they are dust! The shout of triumph hath died in the distance, and hic jacet is now the only tongue.”
“So, so—a riddle,” crowed the scrivener; and he hobbled on to seek a less perplexing respondent.
Such were, at times, the answers of old Schatten, who, when he pleased, could be as grave and oracular as a father confessor. Such were his reflections on pageants which, to many thoughtless and happy minds, were the symbols of all earthly greatness. It was his pastime to analyse appearance—to unravel the glossy web of policy—to unfold the swathings of vain pomp and ceremony, and point to the foul mummy they encased. Yet would he vary this custom with smiles and laughter, and witty sayings, which gave a savour to the wine they honoured. He would, with his thin voice troll a song in praise of beauty, and, with quick conceits, prick on lusty youth to deeds of jollity and wild adventure; nay, he would often mingle in the revelry. Many a time have the townsfolk of Beauvais laughed at the gambols of old Schatten, who, pranked in his best, would trip it with some blue-eyed fair one, who, seemingly unconscious of the deformity of her partner, would glide through the dance all smiles and sweetness, as though mortal youth were wedded to immortality, and wrinkles and grey hairs were not the inheritance of the children of earth. Alas! but a few months, or weeks, and the poor maiden—she who seemed the embodied principle of beauty and motion—was as the “clods of the valley,” a mass of blank insensibility.
Various were the ways by which old Schatten had insinuated himself into the good graces of the people of Beauvais. To please them he would, when in the humour, act twenty different parts—now he would be a learned doctor, and now a mountebank; at times he would utter the wisdom of sages—at times play a hundred antic tricks, making his audience shout with merriment. For one long winter did Schatten profoundly lecture upon laurels, crowns, swords, and money-bags; and, like a skilful chemist, would he analyse their component parts.
“This,” cried Schatten, producing a semblance of the wreath, “this is the laurel crown of one of the Cæsars. How fresh and green the leaves remain! Ha! there is no such preservative as innocent blood—it embalms the names of mighty potentates, who else had never been heard of: steeped in it, deformity becomes loveliness—fame colours her most lasting pictures with its paint! The fields that grew this branch were richly manured: tens of thousands of hearts lay rotting there; the light of thousands of eyes was quenched; palaces and hovels, in undistinguished heaps, were strewn about the soil; there lay the hoary and the unborn; the murdered wife and the outraged virgin—and showers of tears falling on this garden of agony and horror, it was miraculously fertile—for lo! it gave forth this one branch, to deck the forehead of one man! In the veins that seam its leaves are the heart strings of murdered nations; it is the plant of fire and blood, reaped by the sword!—Such is the conqueror’s laurel.
“And here is the despot’s diadem!—Many a time, like glowing iron, hath it seared the brows it circled. Of what is it composed? What wonderful ingredients meet in this quintessence of worldly wealth? See, the passions and the feelings that helped to make it still haunt their handiwork. Their shadows live in its glittering metal and its flashing gems. Full-blooded power, with a demon’s eye, glares from this ruby—leprous fear trembles in these pearls—in every diamond, care or compunction weeps a tear! Throughout the gold I see a thousand forms, dawning and fading like hues in heated steel:—there, fancy detects the assassin with his knife;—there, the bondsman snaps his chain;—there, is the headsman;—there, the civil war! These are the shades that haunt the despot’s crown; that wear him waking, and screech to him in his sleep. A nation’s groan is pent up in its round. It is a living thing that eats into the brain of the possessor, making him mad and drunk for blood and power!
“The miser’s money-bag!—Another monster—all throat. Could its owner have put the sun itself within this bag, the world for him had been in darkness—perpetual night had cast a pall upon creation—the fruits of earth had withered in the bud, and want and misery been universal; whilst he, the thrifty villain! smugly lived in bloom, and in his very baseness found felicity! And yet, what was the worth of all this bag contained? Though it was stuffed with wealth, it was hung about with fears. As its owner slid his palm into the heap, he would start as though he felt the hand of death were hidden there to grasp him. He was almost blind within a world of beauty. His eye saw no images save those painted by gold; his ears heard not, save when the metal tinkled; his tongue was dumb, if it spoke not of wealth; the glittering pieces were to him the children of his heart and soul—dull offspring of the foulest appetites; yet he hugged them to his bosom—he hugged them, and in his dying hour they turned to snakes, and stung him in the embrace! This is the miser’s money-bag—the abode of reptiles, the sepulchre of the soul!
“The sword!—Ceremony sanctifies it. Some kingly words are spoken—a trumpet is blown; straightway the sword is ennobled!
“The lawyer’s gown!—the masquerading dress of common-sense. There is a living instinct in its web: let golden villainy come under it, and with a thought it flows and spreads, and gives an ample shelter to the thing it covers; let poor knavery seek it, and it shrinks and curtains up, and leaves the trembling victim naked to the court!”
Thus, in his graver moments, would old Schatten preach to his hearers; then, with a thought, he would break from the solemn discourse, and make merriment with the self-same objects. Thus, like a skilful juggler, he would hold the conqueror’s laurel, that hardy plant, to his lips, and with a puff blow it into dust; he would change the tiara into a huge snake, monstrous and ugly, and make the beholders start at its contortions. The long purse he would ravel into a shroud; he would melt the sword into drops of blood, and turn the lawyer’s gown into a net of steel. Whilst these tricks made him a favourite with the young and gay, his learning, and the thousand stories he had of men of all ages and of all ranks, rendered him an oracle of wisdom to the studious. It was observed that Schatten, whilst narrating any history, always spoke as though he had been an eye-witness of the circumstance he detailed; nay, as though he had known their most secret thoughts.
And who is Schatten, whose history is yet unfinished? Who is this mysterious Weaver, whose deeds, if chronicled, would fill thousands of folios? He is everywhere about us: in the solitude of our chamber, in the press and throng of the street, in the wilderness and in the city.
—“My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle.”
THE WINE CELLAR
A “MORALITY”
Stephen Curlew was a thrifty goldsmith in the reign of the Second Charles. His shop was a mine of metal: he worked for the Court, although, we fear, his name is not to be found in any record in the State-Paper Office. Stephen was a bachelor, and, what is strange, he never felt—that is, he never complained of—his loneliness. His chased ewers, his embossed goblets, his gold in bars, were to him wife and children. Midas was his only kinsman. He would creep among his treasures, like an old grey rat, and rub his hands, and smile, as if communing with the wealth about him. He had so long hugged gold to his heart that it beat for nothing else. Stephen was a practical philosopher; for he would meekly take the order—nay, consult the caprice—of the veriest popinjay with the humility of a pauper, when, at a word, he might have out-blazoned lords and earls. If this be not real philosophy, thought Stephen, as he walked slipshod at the heels of his customers, what is?
Stephen was a man of temperance; he was content to see venison carved on his hunting-cups; he cared not to have it in his larder. His eyes would melt at clustering grapes chased on banquet goblets, but no drop of the living juice passed the goldsmith’s lips. Stephen only gave audience to Bacchus when introduced by Plutus. Such was the frugality of Stephen to his sixty-fifth year; and then, or his name had not been eternised in this our page, temptation fell upon him.
It was eight o’clock on a raw spring evening, and Stephen sat alone in his back-room. There was no more fire upon the hearth than might have lain in a tinder-box, but Stephen held his parchment hands above it, and would not be cold. A small silver lamp, with a short wick—for the keen observation of Stephen had taught him the scientific truth, that the less the wick, the less the waste of oil—glowed, a yellow speck in the darkness. On the table lay a book, a treatise on precious stones; and on Stephen’s knee, Hermes, the True Philosopher. Stephen was startled from a waking dream by a loud and hasty knocking at the door. Mike, the boy, was out; but it could not be he. Stephen took up the lamp, and was creeping to the door, when his eye caught the silver, and he again placed it upon the table, and felt his way through the shop. Unbolting the five bolts of the door, but keeping fast the chain, Stephen demanded “who was there?”
“I bear a commission from Sir William Brouncker, and I’m in haste.”
“Stay you a minute—but a minute,” and Stephen hurried back for the lamp, then hastily returned, opened the door, and the visitor passed the threshold.
“Tis not Charles!” cried Stephen, alarmed at his mistake, for he believed he had heard the voice of Sir William’s man.
“No matter for that, Stephen; you work for men, and not for Christian names. Come, I have a job for you”; and the visitor, with the easy, assured air of a gallant, lounged into the back-parlour, followed by the tremulous Stephen.
“Sir William——” began the goldsmith.
“He bade me use his name; the work I’d have you do is for myself. Fear not: here’s money in advance,” and the stranger plucked from his pocket a purse, which in its ample length lay like a bloated snake upon the table.
Stephen smiled, and said, “Your business, sir?”
“See here,” and the stranger moved the lamp immediately between them, when, for the first time, Stephen clearly saw the countenance of his customer. His face was red as brick, and his eyes looked deep as the sea, and glowed with good humour. His mouth was large and frank, and his voice came as from the well of truth. His hair fell in curls behind his ears, and his moustache, black as coal, made a perfect crescent on his lip, the points upwards. Other men may be merely good fellows, the stranger seemed the best. “See here,” he repeated, and produced a drawing on a small piece of paper, “can you cut me this in a seal ring?”
“Humph!” and Stephen put on his spectacles; “the subject is——”
“Bacchus squeezing grape-juice into the cup of Death,” said the stranger.
“An odd conceit,” cried the goldsmith.
“We all have our whims, or woe to the sellers,” said the customer. “Well, can it be done?”
“Surely, sir, surely. On what shall it be cut?”
“An emerald, nothing less. It is the drinker’s stone. In a week, Master Curlew?”
“This day week, sir, if I live in health.”
The day came. Stephen was a tradesman of his word, and the stranger sat in the back-parlour, looking curiously into the ring.
“Per Bacco! Rarely done. Why, Master Curlew, thou hast caught the very chops of glorious Liber, his swimming eyes, and blessed mouth. Ha! ha! thou hast put thy heart into the work, Master Curlew; and how cunningly hast thou all but hid the dart of death behind the thyrsus of the god! How his life-giving hand clutches the pulpy cluster, and with what a gush comes down the purple rain, plashing into rubies in the cup of Mors!”
“It was my wish to satisfy, most noble sir,” said Stephen, meekly, somewhat confounded by the loud praises of the speaker.
“May you never be choked with a grape-stone, Master Curlew, for this goodly work. Ha!” and the speaker looked archly at the withered goldsmith; “it hath cost thee many a headache ere thou couldst do this.”
“If I may say it, I have laboured hard at the craft—have been a thrifty, sober man,” said Stephen.
“Sober! Ha! ha! ha!” shouted the speaker, and his face glowed redder, and his eyes melted; “sober! why, thou wast begot in a wine cask, and suckled by a bottle, or thou hadst never done this. By the thigh of Jupiter! he who touched this,” and the stranger held up the ring to his eye, and laughed again, “he who touched this hath never known water. Tut! man, were I to pink thee with a sword thou’dst bleed wine!”
“I,” cried Stephen, “I bleed,” and he glanced fearfully towards the door, and then at the stranger, who continued to look at the ring.
“The skin of the sorriest goat shall sometimes hold the choicest liquor,” said the stranger, looking into the dry face of the goldsmith. “Come, confess, art thou not a sly roysterer? Or art thou a hermit over thy drops, and dost count flasks alone? Ay! ay! well, to thy cellar, man; and—yes—thine arms are long enough—bring up ten bottles of thy choicest Malaga.”
“I!—my cellar!—Malaga!” stammered Stephen.
“Surely thou hast a cellar?” and the stranger put his hat upon the table with the air of a man set in for a carouse.
“For forty years, but it hath never known wine,” cried the goldsmith. “I—I have never known wine.” The stranger said nothing; but, turning full upon Stephen, and, placing his hands upon his knees, he blew out his flushing cheeks like a bagpipe, and sat with his eyes blazing upon the heretic. “No, never!” gasped Stephen, terrified, for a sense of his wickedness began to possess him.
“And thou dost repent?” asked the stranger, with a touch of mercy towards the sinner.
“I—humph! I’m a poor man,” cried Curlew; “yes, though I’m a goldsmith, and seem rich, I—I’m poor! poor!”
“Well, ’tis lucky I come provided,” and the stranger placed upon the table a couple of flasks. Whether he took them from under his cloak, or evoked them through the floor, Stephen knew not; but he started at them as they stood rebukingly upon his table, as if they had been two sheeted ghosts. “Come, glasses,” cried the giver of the wine.
“Glasses!” echoed Stephen, “in my house!”
“Right, glasses! No—cups, and let them be gold ones!” and the bacchanal, for it was plain he was such, waved his arm with an authority which Stephen attempted not to dispute, but rose and hobbled into the shop, and returned with two cups just as the first cork was drawn. “Come, there’s sunlight in that, eh?” cried the stranger, as he poured the wine into the vessels. “So, thou hast never drunk wine? Well, here’s to the baptism of thy heart!” And the stranger emptied the cup, and his lips smacked like a whip.
And Stephen Curlew tasted the wine, and looked around, below, above; and the oaken wainscot did not split in twain, nor did the floor yawn, nor the ceiling gape. Stephen tasted a second time; thrice did he drink, and he licked his mouth as a cat licks the cream from her whiskers, and, putting his left hand upon his belly, softly sighed.
“Ha! ha! another cup! I know thou wilt,” and Stephen took another, and another; and the two flasks were in brief time emptied. They were, however, speedily followed by two more, placed by the stranger on the table, Stephen opening his eyes and mouth at their mysterious appearance. The contents of these were duly swallowed, and lo! another two stood before the goldsmith, or, as he then thought, four.
“There never was such a Bacchus!” cried Stephen’s customer, eyeing the ring. “Why, a man may see his stomach fairly heave, and his cheek ripen with wine: yet, till this night, thou hadst never tasted the juice! What—what could have taught thee to carve the god so capitally?”
“Instinct—instinct,” called out the goldsmith, his lips turned to clay by too much wine.
“And yet,” said the stranger, “I care not so much for—— How old art thou, Stephen?”
“Sixty-five,” and Stephen hiccupped.
“I care not so much for thy Death, Stephen; instinct should have made thee a better hand at Death.”
“Tis a good Death,” cried the goldsmith, with unusual boldness, “a most sweet Death.”
“Tis too broad—the skeleton of an alderman with the flesh dried upon him. He hath not the true desolation, the ghastly nothingness, of the big bugbear. No matter; I’m content; but this I’ll say, though thou hast shown thyself a professor at Bacchus, thou art yet but a poor apprentice at Death.”
Stephen Curlew answered not with words, but he snored very audibly. How long he slept he could not well discover, but when he awoke he found himself alone; no, not alone, there stood upon the table an unopened flask of wine. In a moment the mystery broke upon him—and he sprang to his feet with a shriek, and rushed into the shop. No—he had not been drugged by thieves—all was as it should be. The stranger, like an honest and courteous man, had taken but his own; and, without disturbing the sleeper, had quitted the house. And Stephen Curlew, the wine glowing in his heart—yea, down to his very nails, stood and smiled at the unopened flask before him.
Stephen continued to eye the flask; and though its donor had shared with him he knew not how many bottles, Stephen was resolved that not one drop of the luscious juice before him should wet an alien throat. But how—where to secure it? For, in the new passion which seized upon the goldsmith, the one flask seemed to him more precious than the costly treasure in his shop—a thing to be guarded with more scrupulous affection—more jealous love. In what nook of his house to hide the glorious wealth—what corner, where it might escape the profane glances and itching fingers of his workmen? The thought fell in a golden flash upon him—the cellar—ay, the cellar! Who of his household ever thought of approaching the cellar? Stephen seized the flask and lamp, and paused. The cellar had no lock! No matter; he had a bag of three-inch nails and a stout hammer.
The next morning neighbours met at the closed door and windows of the goldsmith, and knocked and shouted, shouted and knocked. They were, however, reduced to a crowbar, and, at length, burst into the house. Every place was searched, but there was nowhere visible old Stephen Curlew. Days passed on, and strange stories filled the ears of men. One neighbour vowed that he had had a dream or a vision, he knew not which, wherein he saw the goldsmith whirled down the Strand in a chariot drawn by a lion and a tiger, and driven by a half-naked young man, wearing a panther skin, and on his head vine-leaves and ivy. An old woman swore that she had seen Stephen carried away by a dozen devils (very much in liquor), with red faces and goat legs. However, in less than a month, the goldsmith’s nephew, a scrivener’s clerk, took possession of Curlew’s wealth, and became a new-made butterfly with golden wings. As for Stephen, after various speculations, it was concluded, to the satisfaction of all parties, that he must have been carried away by Satan himself, and the nephew cared not to combat popular opinions. But such, in truth, was not the end of the goldsmith. Hear it.
Stephen, possessed by the thought of the cellar, with the one flask, a lamp, nails, and hammer, proceeded to the sacred crypt. He arrived in the vault, and having kissed the flask, reverently put it down, and straightway addressed himself to the work. Closing the door, he drove the first nail, the second, third; and borrowing new strength from the greatness of his purpose, he struck each nail upon the head with the force and precision of a Cyclops, burying it deep in the oak. With this new-found might he drove eleven nails; the twelfth was between his thumb and finger, when looking round—oh! sad mishap, heavy mischance! awful error!—he had driven the nails from the wrong side! In a word—and we tremble while we write it—he had nailed himself in! There he stood, and there stood the flask. He gasped with horror; his foot stumbled, struck the lamp, it fell over, and the light went out.
Shall we write further on the agony of Stephen Curlew? Shall we describe how he clawed and struck at the door, now in the hope to wrench a nail, and now to alarm the breathing men above? No; we will not dwell upon the horror; it is enough that the fate of the goldsmith was dimly shadowed forth in the following paragraph of last Saturday:—
“Some labourers, digging a foundation near”—no, we will not name the place, for the family of the Curlews is not yet extinct, and there may be descendants in the neighbourhood—“near——, found a skeleton. A hammer was beside it, with several long nails: a small wine flask was also found near the remains, which, it is considered, could not have been in the vault in which they were discovered less than a century and three-quarters!”
Oh, ye heads of families! and oh, ye thrifty, middle-aged bachelors, boarding with families, or growing mouldy by yourselves, never, while ye live, forget the terrible end of Stephen Curlew. And oh, ye heads of families—and oh, ye aforesaid bachelors, albeit ye have only one bottle left, never, NEVER NAIL UP THE WINE CELLAR!
