A Likely Story

by William De Morgan

"'"Large enough for the rats to pass up—no larger. I used to watch them run in at the outlet, when I was a youngster. But the Buco—that is large enough for a man to pass up and down—a sort of well-hole. Not the Ser Ferretti there; he would stick in it. I have seen it all, for my father was the gaoler in old days."

"'"Listen now, Ser Attilio! You want the good red gold, in plenty. And you shall have it if you do my bidding. When you leave this—are you marking what I say?—go straight to la Marta, she who attends always on the Duchessa, and say to her simply this—that on the day I regain my liberty, there will be five hundred crowns for her. Tell her where I am. And for this service to me you shall receive...."'"

Mr. Pelly stopped reading again. There was another gap; a portion of the manuscript was missing as before. He remarked upon the loss to the reader, apparently, of the whole account of the young man's first introduction to the dungeon, in which he seemed to have passed a considerable time—the best part of six months as far as could be made out—before we are able to follow his narrative.

He then read on, without comment: "'Little wonder we should find day and night alike for their complete monotony, though, indeed, we could distinguish between them by the light through the air-slot, the only ventilation through all this extent of vaulted crypt. But for incident and change, from day's end to day's end, there was none beyond the daily visit I have spoken of, of Uguccione the gaoler, carrying always his little lamp of brass and a basket of coarse black bread, and a pitcher of water. Is it not strange, Illustrissima, that a man should live, should go on living, even when the stupefaction of despair comes to his aid, without light or movement or the breath of Heaven on his face. None the less these others that I told you of had done so, some more, some less; and the very old man who was but as an idiot, and could tell nought of his name and his past, had been there already many years when Uguccione first took the prisoners into his charge.

He was a merry, chatty fellow, this Uguccione, and talked freely with me at first, and told me many things. But he said I should not talk for long, for none did. See now, he said, he would speak to the old Alberico, and never an answer would he get. And thereon flashed his lamp across the old man's face, and asked him some ribald question about la Giustina. But the old man only shrank from the light, and answered nothing. Who was la Giustina? I asked. Nay, he knew not a whit! But he knew that the former gaoler, old Attilio, from whom he took the keys, had told him that if he would enrage old Alberico, he had but to speak to him of la Giustina. And thereon he flashed his light again in the old eyes, to see them flinch again; and gave me black bread and water, and went his way.

"'But this man told me many things, before I, too, began to settle into the speechless gloom of unvarying captivity. He told me that, even now, the great Duke, after banqueting in the hall above, would sometimes for his mere diversion have the trap opened at the top of the Buco della Fame, and throw down what might be left on table, except it were such as might serve for the cook again, or to be eaten at the lower table. And he warned me to be ready and at hand if I should hear any sound from above, as then I might get for myself the best pick of the bones or bread-crusts that might come down in a shower. And I laid this to heart.

"'And now, as I must not weary your Excellency's illustrious eyes to read needless details of my sufferings in my imprisonment, I will leave its horrors to your imagination, saying only this, that whatever you may picture to yourself, there may easily have been something still worse. I will pass on to the moving of the trap-door above me.

"'Of a sudden, in what I thought was night, but which must have been midday, I hear a sound as of hinges that creak and strain. It comes from the Buco della Fame; and I can hear, too, but dimly, what I take to be the murmur of voices in the room it leads to. I rise from the straw I lie on, and move as best I may, for I am free to move about only slowly, because my right hand is manacled to my left foot, and from stiffness and weakness, towards the opening of the hole in the low arch above me. I can touch its edge with my hand. I look up through the long round tube, and can see its length now by the size of the opening at the top. It may be, as I reckon it, at least twenty bracchie from the ground I stand on.

"'As I gaze, a little dazzled by the light, I hear plainly the voices above me of those who are merry with the banquet. And then a face looks down and darkens the opening for a moment; but it is only like a dark spot, and my eyes are thwarted by the change from dark to light, so that I cannot guess if it be man or woman. Then I hear a laugh from above that I compare in my heart to the laugh a Saint in Heaven might give as he looks down a narrow shaft that leads to Hell, and rejoices in his freedom and the great Justice of God. But I myself am nowise better off than the sinners, heretics and Jews that are consumed in fires below, yet die not. Then, as I think of this, down comes a shower of what seems to me good kitchen stuff. Whereof I secure a piece of turkey for myself, and of capon for the very old man; but he shall have his choice, if, indeed, he can eat either. Then come other prisoners for their share, from afar off in the crypt, one of whom I had never seen, so dark was his corner. But I had heard him moan and mutter. Only, before he comes with the others I have time to choose somewhat else from the mess, always sharing as I think fairly. And as I do this I am taken aback by a sheet of written paper that has fluttered down the shaft. And I have caught it, and the trap above closes with a clang, and the voices die above, and the darkness has come again, and the silence.

"'Know, Illustrissima, that the eyesight that lives long in darkness may grow to be so keen that not only the outline of the prisoner's hand that he holds before him may be seen by him, but even the seams and lines thereon, by which may be known the story of his life and the length of his days. But I had not yet come to that perfection of vision, and could read nought of the paper in my own place; for all that the crypt was then at its brightest, it being late midday, and the gleam from the slot at the far end strong enough for me to see dimly the face of the old man as I held out to him in turn the turkey and the capon. But he would none of either, and hardly noted what I did, as one in a maze. So in the end I leave him and go nearer the light, to read what I may.