The Making of a Gimp'd Gut Minikin

by B. B. Schaikes

The first sound I heard in London—first sound well-remembered, at least—was the clatter of gold, in coinage well-denominated Angels, no doubt for all the good they do. My mother and I, lately of Venezia, had just entered a luthier’s workshop near St. Paul’s; as our state was impecunious, she wished to cultivate attachments among London’s musicians.

The compact premises were crowded, yet the indiscreet gold-shower, dispensed from bag to counter like some clerk’s trifling manavelins, drew all eyes, and worked a sudden silence. Then—sforzando—hubbub. I marked this, curious, not yet aware that hush, ensued by babel, is the universal rule of man, if met with gold of sufficient quantity. 

And rule of woman. My mother, too, was silenced, mid-admonishment. Then, it seemed on sudden inspiration, she outlined a plan: to bind me over, with all possible dispatch, to this instrument-maker, so manifestly worthy, she propounded, of my cleverness and fineness. 

My stomach roiled, then settled to a stabbing ache, while I practiced utmost stillness, as always during such attacks, that I not worsen the pain. Labor I didn’t fear, not labor within reason. But I was, by birth and inclination, inward. Shy of society. In short, I found it hard to talk. Must I now represent myself? And to strange English men? 

I followed Mother’s gaze, which raked the coxcombs peopling the room and lighted on a merry silver-hair, his empty purse a-dangle. This person took delivery, just then, of a large batch of gitterns, lutes and theorbos of finest quality. He examined each as it was brought him, then passed it to his retinue, young men hung about with lovelocks and decked in doublets and galliaskins of sea-green and lavender.

My mother inquired of these fellows, who divulged their principal’s title: Auxilium to the Master of the Revels. Mother at once stepped to this dignitary’s side, remarking that her father, a virtuoso of the chitarrone (as we of Venezia call the theorbo) had trained her since her earliest years as its expert mistress. The gentleman, cocking his lip and eyebrow as if upon a wager, handed her a gorgeous chitarrone, comically large in her small arms. 

Mother tuned, then skillfully plucked it, to general admiration. Surfeit with daring, she then essayed La Musica’s aria from Eurydice, with its promise—to the Auxilium himself, as she made it appear—that, with sweet music, she’ll calm every heart. The English tittered at the scandalous display, and Mother hinted that Monteverdi wrote the piece expressly for her, though convention required that a castrato sing the thing in public.

Mother’s speech was but lightly burdened with English, yet the Auxilium seemed well to understand her; indeed, with such sufficiency that they set about to leave the Shop à deux, unencumbered of me. As Mother advanced upon the door, her fingertips mashed all secure between the Auxilium’s meaty elbow and right gauntlet, she stipulated, as it were from one side of her mouth, that I make myself pleasing to the luthier until her return. Meanwhile her free hand slipped inside my glove some oddment that, she murmured, was a token to assist me. 

 My eyes followed the back of her dark head. Her hair, so glossy it reflected light, and worn high to elevate her stature, seemed almost to touch a viola da brazzo, inlaid with arrows and hearts, that hung from the ceiling just inside the luthiery door. A childish notion seized me: if my eye budged from this instrument but for a moment, it would be dislodged, smashed, by the Auxilium’s vast, bedomed chapeau. 

In the event, he ducked. But thus I heard, and never saw, the door close on my mother. And with its shrill, elongated knell, it seemed I disappeared myself. And the whole world, except for bits and scrapings.  

Perhaps it was a kind of trance. The Auxilium’s men must have secured his instruments and trundled off, and the luthier gone about his business, none taking notice of me. The next I knew, the room was empty but for the grey of dawn. And still I stood, like Lot’s wife, scarped out on a floor of empty tile.  

At length, my mind regained a kind of function. Or if not my mind, my sense, though I felt no more substantial than a pair of ears and eyes a-dangle in the void. But these eyes now cottoned to the gleams of instruments, like calm noble beasts, strange-fleshed in varnished yew, rosewood and ebony. Some took their ease side-wise on tables, best to display their intricate devices, which encoded, I surmised, the secret histories of the patrons, lovers, and great families who had, or would, possess them. The Shop now seemed an Elysium; and this because, from my earliest youth, all my pleasure and my duty was of music, and of playing instruments. 

Too soon the dreaded sound: some zealous anthropoid. I edged behind a contrabass. My nose nearly touched its shoulder. I took shallow breaths, lest I disturb it, and I fancied that I heard it resonate.

“Someone forgot a hat.” It was a youth, the luthier’s minion, his wide voice all inharmonious with his narrow head and person. Shoulder to shank, he put me in mind of eels. He snatched my hat, not yet aware that I was under it, then yelped in startlement. I used the moment to compose my face in earnest yet, I hoped, pleasing fashion.  

“What? You’ve no business here,” he said, grouty as a crab. “Turn out your pockets,” he said, poking at me, and once I complied, he ordered, “Go!” and swept his arm through space, as if to catapult me. 

I took his meaning, for I knew some of English, and his wish was obvious, in any case. I knew that I must argue, now, for my retention. Yet I was not much given to argument; nor had I ever spoke his language. I feared mockery—or worse, to give offense—should I attempt it. I dithered, clutching for some easy, saving word, and my palms rose up before me as if to offer a bowl, all laden with my life’s account. “Can you understand me, boy?” the minion asked.  

A merchant, round with prosperity, now puffed in with a quantity of gut-strings, which he arrayed upon the counter. The luthier’s minion (or Eel, for so I called him, in thought) summoned the luthier, a whey-faced, inconspicuous fellow, that they convoke in commerce with the merchant. I, still and quiet, hoped for a brief respite. Yet my very discretion made the merchant spleeny.

“What’s that secret scafe about?” the merchant said. “He looks small enough to climb inside my purse.” 

“I doubt there’s harm in him,” the Eel said. “He may be mute, or simple.”  

“Is your mother near?” The merchant asked me. My countenance must have betrayed perturbation, for “Oh dear,” the man remarked, with a leer that made my vitals quiver. “Alone, then. Though with sufficient wit to steal some fop’s fine clothes. How will you dispose this creature, Aerts?” for so he called the luthier.

“I’ve no notion,” the latter murmured, thumbing gut-strings. 

“Can you speak?” the merchant asked. Was it wise to so admit, to this unsavory fellow? I thought not, though my stomach-ache was back, which hampered logic. 

“I now recall this boy,” announced the Eel. “He came here yesterday, in company with some foreign Jade. With a pluck and warble, she entranced the Revels’ officer, and paraded out with him.” 

The luthier, seeming to consider, still, of lute-strings, now spoke, albeit so low, by nature or contrivance, that we held suspense to hear him. “The Court and Revels left this day, to start a three-months’ progress. The Jade won’t return, I think.” 

“That’s insupportable,” the Eel said. “We cannot lodge him. He must be made a ward upon the parish.” 

As I gaped, with but slight grasp of my catastrophe, the merchant, with deftness bordering on ambush, now hoisted my inconsequential form over his shoulder like a sack of millet, stating, “I’ll take the little beggar.” 

I curled like an imperiled wood-louse, in avoidance of the miscreant’s person, but to no effect; and when I looked about me for assistance, none seemed to find his act amiss.  

Yet of a sudden I felt a slackness in the merchant’s awful clench. And I saw him stare, attentive, at the luthier, who now stated, in a close-mouth croozle, that, just as the Court and Revels did not tarry in the Capital, the theaters must close, and, as well, the public entertainments; and this because in several parishes, the weekly bills showed Plague deaths to exceed two score. “In consequence, of course,” the master droned, “my yesterday’s receipts may be the last for months. I must watch my farthings. I cannot buy strings today.” 

The merchant, now in need of his arms elsewhere, to wit, to re-collect his wares, dropped me upon the floor, then stalked out, all a-scowl. The luthier, or Aerts—who seemed, of a sudden, to be a very Oracle—turned to scrutinize me; and of two days’ frights, I think this moment affrighted me most. I hoped my velvet cloak and pansied hose allayed his expectation that I was a mendicant; yet feared the effect was spoiled, as my clothes were over-large; and I suspected Mother rented them in haste. But the master took my hands in his, and looked at me narrowly, and seemed to see beneath my clothes, and skin as well, until I felt a very skeleton. And I could not think what I should say, when he called me to account.  

But he asked no word of me. Perhaps he did not need to. 

At last he murmured, “Peste. Capire?” And I nodded very small, to match his voice.

Then, like ticking off a list, he issued both my fate and name. “You shall join my household,” he said, “and be called Jan.” And my new name was no more English than my old one, because the master was not English, as it happened, but was an Antwerp man. 

And, just as he forbore to voice, or even know, the name my mother gave me, I voiced not his name, if I could help it; as “Aerts” seemed to me less a name, and more a rumbling of the bowels. 

Master Aerts now left upon some business, directing that his minion ensconce me in the household. Yet I was loath to leave the Shop, as it was lovely, and I trusted not the Eel, and was exhausted, and parched as a baccalà that was not put to soak. Thus I heeded not the Eel’s many exhortations, and sank upon the floor in lethargy, and clamped my hands upon a table-leg, that he not move me bodily.  

But now appeared a drudge, and she proved a genius of Act, if not of Argument, as, by holding a cheese lump to my nostril, she revived me, as if I were an ailing rat; and my hands, automaton-like, reached for the morsel, which she withdrew above my head, causing my legs to raise, then carry me into the household, as adjunct to this gouda ex machina.  

We advanced, or perhaps retreated, to the yard, where the drudge beat well my clothes, so they released dust in a great mass, and my cloak appeared, now, vivid scarlet rather than dull crimson; and she put my linens to soak; and scrubbed me about my person, which made me blush, for I was neither so young, nor she so old as that; and searched my head for nits; and put me at table with the best of company, to wit, a franchemole and a tansy that, it seemed, my betters had but tasted; and put me in a fresh night-shirt; and to bed. 

And in night-time, when a’bed, my eyes opened of a sudden, and my heart turned to my Fate, and Mother, who did naught of drudgery, for me or anyone, as she was an Artist and a Lady, whose duties are to herself, and Art—which is to say her Voice—and to her Patron. And this I knew from my earliest years, for it was told me by some old women at Venezia’s Ospedale della Pietà as did raise me; because Mother passed me to these women through a grating when I was but an infant; for I was a natural son. And at the Devout Hospital of Mercy, as that place would be called in English, the girl foundlings were taught of music and musicians, and one boy was so taught, also. Yet this night I felt desolate, as it seemed a strange wonder that Mother redeemed me from the Hospital, and took me to Albion, only to leave me at some Aerts. And I thought on whether this could be God’s purpose, and if so, God’s purpose seemed very hard.   

Now I thought to examine the token that my mother gave me. I withdrew it from my glove, and saw it was but a scrap of music, very old, much folded and unfolded, and even torn away, such that it comprised few bars. I wondered if, in the moment’s heat, she’d erred, and passed me rubbish. I did warrant, upon study, that the scrap seemed a marvelous tune. But, as it was but a scrap and not the whole, the tune was only a beginning. 

It seemed I’d just begun to think on all these things, when I felt myself blown as if by a hurricane, yet not a hurricane of sea gales, it seemed to me, but ale-breath. I opened my eyes, and trembled, and felt a very Daniel among hoary manes and jagged carnassial teeth. 

“Who is this scriggly bit o’ meat?” the chief Lion bawled, and I saw this was no nightmare, nor work of Satan that enmeshed me, but a gathering of ancients, ranged about my bed; and in such excess of merriment at my brief mortal fear, that the chief Lion now made water on my night-shirt.  

“Too much sleep leads to too many dreams,” advised the Lion. “It’s past time you filled my warming pan, and brought me ale, and emptied my slops. As my son thought best to attach you to my household, you must earn your keep.” For the chief Lion was Old Master Aerts, and, so fortune decreed, my bedmate; as yesternight, when I nodded off, the drudge did not make shift to carry me upstairs, but threw me down a’bed inside the Warehouse, where Old Aerts slept, as well, because he could not mount the selfsame stairs, in his decrepitude. 

I now went to and fro at Old Aerts’s bidding, and so saw the household, both those parts behind and those parts above the wondrous Shop, yet it was but a dreadful mopple of stacked crates and blocked passages, with the master’s Lady, and everyone, rushing up- and downstairs, and paying me no heed. But I quick perceived that all was emptying into a hackney-coach and cart, which sat, all surreptitious, in the yard between Aerts’s Shop and Warehouse, until these vehicles were filled, both with personalty and person, and then disappeared. For Aerts, like his Monarch, now sent abroad his Lady, children, and most valued servants (though not himself), that they escape the Capital’s distemper. As I was but an innocent youth, I found this a great advantage, and all because I’d feared and wondered over what I should say, if called to converse at table.

Old Aerts, however, did not stir from the Warehouse, which was his Court, as well as his Lion’s Den or Privy Chamber, with his Courtiers, or cronies, assembled there to sit upon Turkey-work chairs and discourse all day.

“Have you thought to go a’country with the household?” asked one Courtier, a fellow well-shrouded in mustaches, and with but one tooth above and two below. 

“Cornelis bade me go,” Old Aerts said, in scoffing sort, “yet that’s not my pleasure, as my son’s Lady and her brood are dullards. And anciently I was a coffin-maker, and had the Plague twice over, and do not fear it.” 

The three-tooth man said, quite polite, “As there is no miasma herein, Plague is unlike to enter this establishment.” At that, I thought all present did draw breath, and sniff, while yet seeming to sip from cups, or scratch their beards. 

“In any case,” the Lion said, “I am a city man and much prefer the stench, if not of Antwerp, then of London, over that of beasts and rustics. Also I do not think a Plague is proven, as I’ve seen no case of it in recent months. It could be the weekly bills of death were falsified, that someone profit thereby.” 

“Yet the Genovese engraver on the next corner but one did die of Plague just yesternight, as did his wife, and all their servants, seven at one stroke,” said another elder, who seemed a bright-eyed skull, for his head was covered in naught but a close-fitting biggin.

“You are prey to malicious rumor, Silvius,” the Lion said. “The Genovese is living, as I dined with him at the Boar & Bloater, and not two weeks ago; and his ills are none but the French disease. And his wife died not of Plague, but tissick.”

“Yet the Genovese may have declined since then,” said Silvius, “as his shop was closed when I went by.”

“What of that fellow shrieking these past days from the top window opposite?” asked the three-toothed man. 

“Imposthume of the breast, he died of,” said Silvius, “which I know of a certainty, as I bade the servant go atop my house, and look down in his window, and he was a’bed, as naked as a jaybird, and the servant swore upon my Bible that his swelling was not buboes.”

“But, Silvius,” said the Lion now, “why do you not go a’country, as you be in such fear of Plague?”

“I have no ready money, and my daughter will not stand me to’t, as she feels I’ve lived longer than God warrants, and also says the better people have little to fear,” Silvius said. 

I attended well their talk, for I thought to advance my skill in English, though, as it happened, the Lion’s Court were of Antwerp, or Friesland, or Saxony, or some other places, and spoke in diverse accents, well-salted with exotic words. Also, their talk of ways of dying interested me, especially if they are gruesome and peculiar, for I was but a boy. 

Yet now their colloquium took a fearful turn. 

“As it were wise to arm oneself against Fate’s arrows,” Silvius said, “I have bought a Venetian cordiale, that is said to make anyone proof against Plague.” 

“Yet I wonder if such cordiales cause some other ills, or even be a kind of poison,” said the Lion. He turned his great bulge-y eyes on me, which disquieted me; and I was unprepared, for I’d hoped I’d go unnoticed, as factotum. “This boy’s of Venice, I heard,” the Lion said.  “What does he say of Venice cordiale?” 

All waited on my words, and I was much perturbed, as I’d never heard of Venice cordiale, and could provide no honest reassurance. And yet, I did not wish to fret them; and surely such could not be poison, as Venezia had no war and much commerce with Albion? 

The Lion persisted: “Is it but poison, meant to kill the English?”

I wrung my hands, and said, in poor accent, “I know not of Venetian cordiale,” which was all truth, yet of no value. 

“Speak free now,” said the Lion, “we shan’t blame you, as we’d like to kill the English too,” and there was a general laughter, and I saw his seeming query was a jest to entertain his fellows. As they quieted, the Lion said to me, “You are a diplomat, I think. Your mother, or the woman as brought you, was such a one, also—and audacious, I heard. Do you have such enterprise as her?”

I could but shake my head, to raucous laughter. 

“Tell us your name, boy,” Old Aerts said. 

“Jan,” I said, but hesitating, as I was not sure this could be called my true name. 

“But that is a lie,” Old Aerts said, as if he read my mind, and he distressed me, as it is a sin to lie, yet some questions are not so simply answered. “You do not say ‘Jan’ properly. Be not cast down, though,” he said, for my face betrayed me. “My son gave you that name, of a certain. But we have a Jan already,” he said, pointing at the three-toothed man. “What were you called before? Speak up, now.”

“Serafino,” I admitted.

“Ah. Best stick with Jan. You might be burned as Papist,” he said, smiling, but it was an evil jest. “Such a funereal visage you display,” he said. “Are you in fear of Plague?”  

I was in fear of him; I had not thought much of Plague, being a boy. Therefore I must now think of Plague, and take over-long to speak. “I don’t know,” I said at last, “I don’t think so,” which was the truth, for I was young, and felt myself in health, for all that I was a pallid little fellow, who suffered stomach-ache, which jabbed my innards even now, but from fear, I thought, and not from Plague seeds or miasma or such things.  

“Spoke like a young lad,” said the Lion, and this seemed to please him. “But ‘twere best to plumb your character, as you are to live amongst us. And you are more still and quiet than any boy is, or can be, of nature.” And he looked at me to see if I would speak. Yet I said nothing, for I knew not what to say, and had not wit for badinage, and feared to offend him. He continued, in his untrue, jesting way: “Perhaps you are a dwarf, or changeling? Or are you but a feckless booby?”  

I now perceived that, howsoever I might strain, effortful, to represent myself, it mattered not, as I was to be the Lion’s meat, or doll to play with; and all his talk was evil play, and hiding, such as others use silence. And my face hotted, for it is one thing to be thought a mute, or simple, and quite another to feel oneself so.

“Yet Cornelis will find this boy of use,” said the three-toothed man, “for not many such as have their wits about them, are yet silent as the tomb. And that be good for business, maybe, in such a time as this.”

“Cornelis likes quiet servants,” agreed the Lion, “as he himself is silent, yet I trust not such people, and I cannot but forever wonder what my son is up to. Still, I’m not sure this one has such wit as you describe, or as his claimed mater. She is dark, they say, and he a fox head. Are you quite sure the singer is your mother, lad? Or is she your co-conspirator, perhaps?”

This question startled me, and his tone seemed deeper than jesting, and a trick. Indeed, my mother had not set forth my provenance; yet I called her Mother, and she did not correct me; and the Hospital’s crones allowed her to redeem me. But it seemed beyond my courage or competence to so explain, and, no doubt, be made the butt of hilarity. 

 As I wracked my brain, Silvius said, “This lad is pale as glass, he washes out in sunlight.” 

“He cuts a strange appearance,” said the Lion. “His garments are as tents upon him; I cannot see his hands. He’s but a Minikin.” 

“Well, small casks make good wine, and gold’s not at its best in sunlight,” said the three-tooth man. 

 “Yet I wonder at his health,” said Silvius. 

“He looks pelchy,” said the Lion. “Might he carry contagion? He slept with me, yesternight. Have you killed me, son?” he said. He smirked, yet his words filled me with terror, that I might be put outside, into the immense City, which seemed like to be put into the Sea. 

Yet the Lion did none such. “Don’t gape,” he only said. “Look smart, rather, that your silence be taken, not as dullness, but strategy.” And to my relief, he only gestured, all impatient, that I take myself away. 

I ran straight to the luthiery Shop, in great hope that I could now exist there, as I much preferred it to the Warehouse, or any place in the Aerts Establishment. But the Eel was in the Shop, and at once barred me therefrom, with a great Speech. First, he said, I must leave off the Shop because I did not speak, in proper, the English tongue, nor Hollandish, nor Flemish, nor any such commercial language; and second, that I was, of nature, a hesitating sort, and had no enterprise, and so would be a hindrance in a Shop; and also, that an English Statute proscribed the binding over as Apprentice of one of my small years; and also, the Eel was already Apprentice, and no more were needed; and also, since all the servants save the drudge were a’country, that I must be dogsbody; and finally, since I were dogsbody, and must go abroad all day on household errands, it were best I not come in the Shop, as I might introduce contagion.  

At this great Speech, delivered presto, such that I could barely understand, I looked to Master Aerts, in hopes he’d take exception. But I saw not the master’s face, only his hinder parts, as he, hunched in repair of a vised-up viola de gamba, paid neither of us heed. It seemed, therefore, his pleasure that the Eel act as Principal, and I must retire from the Shop.  

As I knew not what to do, I went to the kitchen. Therein was the drudge, a-splaying breams. She glanced at me, quite fleet, which seemed to decide her that she would make of me a useful menial. She put this coin with a partridge and that coin with some sprats, and this coin with a jar of ink and these coins with a cask of ale, that I might go to the markets, knowing the worth of English things. She bade me touch not, speak not, and breathe not (almost) of people or their clothes or beasts, or anything, except in the Aerts’ kitchen, Shop, and garden, that I avoid distemper. And though my clothes be too large, she would not change them, as they would hedge me about, protecting me, if they be beaten every day, before I come into the kitchen of an evening. And she put sprigs of pennyroyal in them, telling me not why, but I thought they must protect me; but they made me sneeze and take headache. 

She also sternly bid me to mingle not with intimates, such as fools did, though they often lied, she said, and falsely claimed to stay apart, and safe; for such mingling would assuredly convey to me distemper. Yet as I had no intimates, and was not much given to mingling, such things were to me no hardship. 

Thenceforth I went about each day: to buy what she bid me; to pick up broken instruments and return repaired ones; deliver and receive such messages as were written out for me; and do every errand of the household. The roads of London are a great bewilderment, and often I must wander footsore all the day, and be lost, for several hours, and flee from dangerous ragamuffins, and all to the single purpose that we have scotch collops of an evening. 

Yet I had another purpose, I suppose. For Idumeah (so was the drudge’s name) said I must have hawks’ eyes and dogs’ ears, and remember all I saw and heard; whether of births, of marriages, the sales of horses, the departure of a household to the country; or anything; and most of all, whether anyone looked ill, or looked better, or was said to be ill, and if so, of what illness; or was said to have died, and if so, of what cause; and which house door bore a Red Cross, portending Plague within; and what lane or road each of these things occurred upon.  

And one other duty Idumeah taxed me with: that I should view, and commit to mind, the weekly bills of death, to the last numeral, whether two died of Surfeit, or three died of Teeth, or so many of Small Pox, or flux, or smothering, or gangrene, or the many other diverse ways of death, but especially how many died of Plague. And this enormity of matter so taxed my mind, that as I walked the streets, I must continually repeat it to myself, that I not forget. 

Upon my return each day, I took repast with Idumeah, at which time (for it was the only moment, she said, that she had leisure to sit), I must relate to her this vastness of particulars.  And it seemed strange that I must speak, while another (she) attend on all I said. But of habit, she spoke very little, and that in strange accents. And she was as dark as I was pale, so that I did wonder if her father was a Lascar. 

Each night I was in despair, and sometimes even cried: of loneliness, for Idumeah bid me sleep all alone, and in the kitchen; and of being worn to a nubbin, for Idumeah bade me get up and shake my bed outside each morning, and put it away, neat as a pin, even before she came to bring up the fire; and of wishing to see the Hospital crones; and of wondering if my mother would e’er return; and of feeling that I was a very urchin. 

Yet I gained much knowledge of the City. And I learned I need not speak, or very little, if I have sufficient coin, for coin is a universal tongue, at least of Commerce, if not of Philosophy. 

During this time, people continually left the town to avoid the general malady, and shops closed, and the neighborhood became more insalubrious, and those remaining seemed a very Beggar’s Fair. And all began to shrink from all, and keep to themselves, and I heard of many people who had Plague, and saw many houses with the Red Cross, and often horrid moans and shrieks issued from those houses. And I came to fear the Plague, and to look anxiously upon myself for tokens of it, and to fear that Idumeah would put me out, if I had Plague, or failed at my duty. And so I lived for an Eternity, or at least two fortnights.

But all mortal things must end. One evening, as I came near Aerts’, I saw many people scrowg’d together in the road, and, to avoid them, slipped into a deserted alley. I felt uneasy, as I was hedged by dim backs of lofty houses, and the sun descended, it seemed, directly at the alley’s terminus, blazing at my eyes to make me squint; so that I could not avoid, or even see, such as might approach me. Then, of a sudden, the wall above me thrust forth black fingers, and I did jump, and run. And “Jan!” it seemed to utter.  

Yet now a biggin-head emerged, which must be Silvius. He croaked, all effortful, from the third story, to ask if the Lion was well. I told him I knew not, as I went only in the kitchen, the garden and the Shop, and the latter only to pick up and deliver instruments; but did not go in the Warehouse, or upstairs, or the yard. Then, as Idumeah bade me not converse, I made to depart. 

Silvius now begged that I remain, as he had not spoke to one soul in three days’ time, and he wished to tell me of some wondrous things, and I did take pity on him, and also I was curious.  He told me that some days’ past, in fear of Plague, and to know how to repel it, he went to find a Soothsayer. Yet though fortune tellers abound (especially during Plague) he now, in time of need, could find none; and was in desperate worry. 

Then Fate placed in front of him, as he walked the streets, a woman who must be a Soothsayer, he thought, as she was robed like a Mahometan (which also was a healthful practice, he said, as it must help keep off distemper). He could see but her eyes, and these were peculiarly of red, or rust-color, or wine-color, perhaps, and uncanny, and seemed to see into his very soul, which affrighted him, but not as much as Plague. He begged her pardon, and asked, in very humble sort, whether it were his Fate to die of Plague. She looked at him, and considered much, and at last she gestured that he step off the street, into a sort of nook, or alcove. And then she said he must answer of one question, and he bade her ask it. And this question was, “What is the condition of your mind?”  

As he considered of her question, he said, all became silent, so that he wondered if she had, by some devilry, commanded all sounds be gone, and the silence seemed a living beast, that ate up sounds. Then Silvius was moved to break this silence, by confessing to her of his deepest fear, which was that his intimate friend, the Lion, had Plague tokens, but concealed them, and so spread to Silvius the contagion. And he suspected such because the Lion seemed discomfited, and Silvius fancied that he saw a swelling in the Lion’s neck, part-covered with a cloth. Yet Silvius thought that such could not be, as the Lion had Plague long ago; and even if he had not, he would not endanger his old friends; and Silvius wondered if he was going mad from fear.  

The Soothsayer thought on this. Then she told Silvius that he must shun the Lion, for, of a certain, the latter was unwell. She advised that Plague was rife, and at his very doorstep, and would close upon Silvius like a vise, from North, South, East and West, which she proved, reciting of Plague cases from each compass point about his house. She said he must go abroad at once, else not leave his house til Winter. Silvius did as she said, remaining at home, and had not seen the Lion for seven days.  

I knew not what to say, and so went home. Or to Aerts’, rather.

I wondered very much at whether this Soothsayer was genuine, but I had not to wonder very long. For that evening, as I sat at table with Idumeah, reciting my day’s telling, Master Aerts came to the kitchen, and said the Lion died of Plague the previous night, though he was not discovered until this mid-day, and just now was his corpus taken. To my shame, my first thought was not of Old Master’s soul, but of my luck, in that he thought I was too silent, and a changeling, booby, or conspirator, and full of contagion, and so did not wish to bed with me. 

“I am sorry,” Idumeah said, “yet I am amazed. For the Old Master had had the Plague before.”

“So he said,” acknowledged Master Aerts, “yet I do not remember, for he had it before I was born. Perhaps one may have Plague again, after intervals of many years; or perhaps his mind, or memory, faltered because of his great age, and he confused Plague with another distemper.” Now the luthier’s creased brow seemed almost to crack, its fissures deepened, so. “What is more amazing than my father’s Plague,” he said, “is that my father stayed in the Warehouse, as was his custom, and did not groan, or call, or shriek, at least not so loud that I could hear him in the Shop. Indeed, I knew not he was ill.”

“He had a great Will,” Idumeah said, “stronger than any one I ever saw, and stronger than his bodily weakness.” I thought she wished to ease the luthier’s mind, more than to speak her own. For, thinking on her words to me, which, though few, were full of matter, I thought she would say the Lion was a Fool, or Liar. 

“Or perhaps my Father did call to us,” the luthier now continued, “but very quiet and weak. And as I, from a little boy, thought him proof against Plague, and as I was busy in the Shop, and as I work until he is a’bed, and sleep upstairs, and ill-attend him, perhaps I did not perceive him call to me.” And now I thought the luthier, though a great man, did look sad. And I resolved to pray for the Lion’s soul. Because, though he was a great curmudgeon, he gave rise to the luthier, who made me part of his household.

“Do you see,” Idumeah said, as in a certain wonderment, “that the Old Master, by forbearing to complain, or cry out, or even speak, saved us from his distemper?” And Master Aerts looked at her very keen. And she continued: “Because, as he betrayed no ill, we did not nurse him, as we would have.”

“Indeed, we hardly spoke to him, and went about our business,” Master Aerts said, “whether in the Shop, the kitchen, or about the town. And thus did not risk contracting his contagion.” 

“You discern the truth of his intent, for certain,” said Idumeah, “as the first wish and the last, of all his life, was that his son be safe, and well.” 

Master Aerts now roused himself, and said that, as the Plague surged even to our doorstep, the Eel (who Master Aerts called Andreas, or Nephew) must be fetched away to stay with his mother, the master’s sister. Master Aerts said he would go a’country also, but by himself, that before he join his children and Lady, he know for certain if he be truly well. He instructed that Idumeah look after his establishment, remaining always therein, as such provisions as remained, would suffice with a reduced household, and that he would provide her with some ready cash, and the parish would deliver things to eat, if such be necessary. Then he bid her be very well, and that he would return in Winter, when the Plague, of a certain, would recede; and retired to make his preparations. And Idumeah retired, to arrange the Eel’s travel. Yet she first advised that I wait on Master Aerts in the Shop, after I finished of certain kitchen duties. 

Now I surmised that the time had come for me to be given to the parish. One might suppose that such would be no hardship for me, as all my early life was spent in the Devout Hospital of Mercy. Yet the Ospedale della Pietà was—as I learned once taken from it—a rarity, in causing foundlings to be occupied with music. (Indeed, in later years, the Hospital hired Antonio Vivaldi as maestro di violini, and its foundling orchestra was taken for a marvel, and its skill bruited over the whole world.) I’d heard of no place like the Ospedale in London. And in Plague-time, were I put to public trust, I thought, I must be given the worst, most dangerous work, and end by dying of Plague. 

Yet I must do as Idumeah bade me, and so I went to see the master, that he, again, issue forth my fate. But I must wait, as he was finishing a bit of work upon a lute. And my fancy, which, all flighty, ran here and there, as if to escape my body and condition, now was captivated by the master’s craft. Because the master had some strings which were naught of what I’d ever seen, being not gut, or wire, but gut wound about with wire, and much peculiar. Because I played, all of my youth, on the violin, I wished to know, as if it were my last wish, whether these novel strings made a more lovely tone. And, though I voiced no question, Master Aerts knew my mind (I know not how).

“These strings are gimp’d gut, upon Pistoy construction,” he said, Pistoy being a sort of string. “This innovation can improve the sound, and resist failing of the string,” he said, and plucked and strummed at it. And he told me that he wished to keep this method close about him, ‘til after the Plague, when he hoped to perfect it.  

I nodded very strong, to show that I would ne’er speak of such, as I knew his invention cost him much to accomplish, both of labor, and effort of mind. And now I wondered if this novelty could be used on other strings, especially those of the violin. Words tumbled from my mouth, maybe the first I’d ever spoke to him; to wit, “Could you make a gimp’d Minikin?” For a Minikin be not only a small person, but is also a small string. 

Master Aerts said the Minikin’s quality arises from its delicacy; it must not be so strong as to be coarse; so the Minikin likely is sufficient, on its own. Yet, he said, his mind did delight in novelties and rarities; so, he allowed, a gimp’d Minikin might at least be tried; as it might be a very wonder. 

All this Master Aerts said in musing sort, as he plucked of strings. But then he put away the instrument and fixed me with his eye. He said that I, with Idumeah, must maintain his Establishment, but that, as Idumeah keep the house, the garden, the Warehouse and the yard, I must keep the Shop, and also sleep there. And though the Shop be closed because of Plague, I must mind the instruments, that they not dry out, and crack, or be dust-covered, or attacked by pests, or release their strings. But most important, I must play, each day, of various of the instruments, so that each be played in turn. Because when instruments are idle, their sound becomes not of the best; and so they must be played, as all musicians know, and I knew. 

I cannot say what joy I felt. I clasped my hands, and bowed, even down unto the floor. And again I felt Master Aerts was a very Oracle, who knew of everything; even that I played of instruments, though I never spoke of such, because no one asked me, as I was of little moment in the household. Though I wondered at his knowledge, I asked no question, remaining still and silent, that he see me respectful and dutiful; and also because I was weak at the knees of my relief, and feared my voice would issue forth as mewling, or a-quiver.  

Yet Master Aerts answered what I did not ask. For he said that on the very day that I arrived, he took my hands in his (as I did now recall) and felt of my calluses (formed of many hours, and years, in play on violins). Such calluses belong, he said, only to a true brother of the string.  

Because Master Aerts did seem to know of every mystery, practically, save those of his own Father, I did then think to ask about the Scrap. For my mother called it a sort of token, to assist me, and, though I often looked on it, and hummed it to myself, I did not comprehend her meaning. But then I thought, perhaps it were ill-logic, foolish, and a waste of Master’s time to query him about a Scrap, which might be rubbish, or some freak of Mother’s. So I said nothing. 

He bid me keep well, and left that night. And that was wise, for next day a man came, and painted a Red Cross upon the door, and the words “Lord Have Mercy On Us,” that all know not to enter in. And a pink freckled Galumph came to lock and guard the Aerts’ Establishment and let no one stir therefrom. 

And now Idumeah and I must live alone, til Winter, taking our meals together, and see only a man such as might make deliveries, and the Galumph, and some passersby, but each of these only through windows. I was much by myself, as Idumeah did not frequent the Shop. But I did fancy that I heard her stirring in the passage, sometimes, between the Shop and house, as if she would listen to me play upon instruments, but with a piece of work in her hands, forbearing to sit. And, after some time, she asked why I so often played of a certain tune (which was the Scrap), as it was but a part-tune, and did not conclude in proper, and she asked if I had failed to learn of the whole piece. I said I had a strong fancy to play only of certain notes. I was loathe to tell all, as she was but a drudge, quite free of fancy, and the Scrap was my possession, and my life seemed to me a strange tale, which very strangeness I’d begun to cotton to, and to embroider. Yet at table she often looked at me, if she saw me preoccupied. And one night she said, “Tell me the condition of your mind.” 

And I was affrighted, for I thought of Silvius’s Soothsayer, and wondered if something weird must now transpire, and if Idumeah convened with the unnatural. Indeed, she wore no Mahometan’s robe, but looked a very drudge, in apron and a cap, so perhaps her words were a fluke, or freak. I now looked at her eyes, and they were not of red, or rust, or wine-color. But yet they were of Cinnamon. And so I resolved that I must try her.

“You are a Soothsayer,” I said. 

“Only fools confer with such,” she responded, in ordinary sort. Yet she now was as I had never seen her; that is, her eyes were upon me, and her hands were still, and her ceaseless labor all forgotten. And it seemed that all the world fell silent. And I could not but think on the condition of my mind, despite that I did not wish to think on it. And the quietude stretched on and on, until I could not but break it. 

And it was thus that I showed her my Scrap, and told her of the Ospedale della Pietà, and that my mother redeemed me, and then precipitately left me, because I lacked those qualities she loved, namely wit, enterprise, and Voice. Yet once I’d spoke, I saw my speech was folly, and was sorry to have given up my secrets, and feared that, whether Idumeah be Soothsayer or drudge, she must now despise me. And so I, very peevish, accused her of making me speak, by some devilry. 

“How is it that you bewitch a silence,” I asked, “that all must tell you of their great secrets?”  

Her eyebrows raised up to into her cap, but I would not laugh, because I was so grouty.  She said, “It is Plague, and lack of horses, and people, and commerce, that makes all of London quieten, except for groans. As to secrets, no man nor boy has power to retain such, if yet a woman be sufficiently attentive.” 

I heeded not her words. “Why do you not tell me of my fortune, and advise me?” I demanded. “Is it because I do not give you a coin?” 

Now I saw she was offended. “As I am no Witch, I am no Fraud. If I advise,” she now admitted, “it is not of Fate, or the future, but only of the past. For the past is murkier, even, than the future, at least for Fools. When a Fool thinks on the past, he chooses to forget much and to remember little; and chooses not to think, but to opine; and chooses to assume, not to properly consider; and chooses to make what has happened be what he fancy, without regard to actuality.” 

I thought she did not speak to the purpose. “If you would plumb the past, then tell me why my mother left me, all unprepared, to fend for myself?” 

“You did not fend for yourself,” Idumeah contradicted.

I was surprised, and sputtered. “But she left me alone in this Establishment.”

“For not a moment were you left alone.” 

“But this place was strange, we never saw it before.” 

“You never saw it.” 

“But we knew naught of Master Aerts!”

“You knew naught of Master Aerts.” 

I was astonished. “Do you say my mother knew him?”

“How can I know that?” she asked, but I did not believe her, for now she seemed less drudge, and more Soothsayer, or at least a mystery, and I wondered at her arcane knowledge. 

“If my mother anciently knew Master Aerts, would she not have told me?” 

“Perhaps she knew him, yet knew not all of his mind, and feared to fret you. In any case, I cannot tell you what she knew, for each mind is more unknown than the Indies’ furthest reaches, even minds of drudges, such as you think do not exist. Yet you assume to know your mother’s mind, to wit, that she troubled to bring you far from your native place, only to leave you to Chance.” 

“I cannot understand you,” I said. 

“You play of the best instruments in London, and have a prosperous Patron, and one of like temperament with you; and of like talent; and even, some stickybeaks observe, of like aspect. Now you tell me: is it logic to say that your mother played at Hazard?”  

As I gaped, Idumeah, all abrupt, gave off her telling. “As you keep confidences from your elders, they keep such from you, as it suits them. Now I must do my duty.” She rose. But then she turned to bid me one thing more. 

“Only Fools are quick to see bewitchments, when all can be explained in ordinary sort, if they but make slight effort of mind, which effort, however, is too much for them, and perhaps you. Do you know, that as I do washing in the yard, I hear, over the wall, gossips who talk of you, for as they lie a’bed, they hear you play of instruments at all hours of night, neglecting, at such times, any proper exercise or song, and giving Voice, as it were, to your free fantasy?” 

And I was quite surprised, as I was yet a boy, and perceived not that in the silence of night, when I thought all the town slumbered (even Idumeah) some ears attended me. And I wrung my hands, much abashed, and distressed, which, perhaps, did satisfy Idumeah, as she felt I deserved such; as I was a heedless Boy.  

Yet she now took care to correct a certain misapprehension that I had. For she said, “Do not believe that you, Jan, are discovered—only, as it were, your Voice. As these earwigs think our house full of the sick and dead, so they think this night-music be the devil, for he is a violinist. Or, some others argue, this be a Seraph’s Voice, given us for night-comfort in Plague-time; as the song, sometimes, is of surpassing Beauty; though other times it seems to scold, and harry. And yet others believe you be a Ghost.” 

And now I was amazed! 

“For such people be Fools,” she continued. “Though perhaps these Fools be, in part, forgiven. For is there not something occult, that this Voice of seeming-diverse devils, spirits, or souls, issue forth from a mere Minikin, who must be bade to put his bed away, and wipe his plate?” And her remark alarmed me for a moment. But now Idumeah goggled her eyes at me, and I did perceive in her a seed of jollity, which made me smile, though she spoke in her usual scolding sort.   

As she went to her duty, I now retreated to my night’s rest at the Shop, or more properly, to play until all hours, as she put it. But this night, I have a novel plan. To please Idumeah, and make up for almost calling her a witch, or fraud, I did think to compose music, to add to the Scrap, and make the Song complete, as such would better please her ear, and mine. This is a great Excitement. It is my pleasure to try diverse passages and bowings and chords, some cheerful, some melancholy, some elegant, and some dissonant, so that the Scrap become, not just a Whole, but a great multitude, with themes and variations. For I decree that my Song will not be limited to one single History, or Fate.  

As the hour grows late, and I, purported Ghost, play at the open window, I do think I hear the limpid notes of some other instrument, albeit very faint, as at great distance, such that I must strain to hear. And in listening at the window, I hear other small sounds, of far-off chimes, or peals, or bells, or night-birds. And it takes my fancy, that London is but a great Orchestra, although at its interval (which is to say the Plague). But it could be that, in Winter, this Orchestra being renewed, it will tune, then strike up a glorious Overture. And so I redouble my practice, and resolve, that I be ready at the proper time to take my place, receive my cue, and give voice, with all the Players, to the great Melody. 

About the author

B. B. Schaikes’s fiction and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in Pangyrus, Merion West and orangepeel literary magazine. Her story “Turf” won Leaf by Leaf’s first prize in fiction in 2024.  

About the illustration

The illustration is Lady with a Theorbo by John Michael Wright, painting, ca. 1670. In the collection of the Columbus Museum of Art, Columbus, Ohio, USA. In the public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.