As for me, I marvelled, and I cried, "A beatific disposition that can
sleep in such a din."
But Dante reproved me with that gravity he always showed when there was
any matter of truth to be considered. "I did not sleep," he asserted. "I
read."
"What, in Heaven's name," asked Guido, "did you read, that could shut
your ears to such a din?"
Dante lifted up toward him the manuscript he had newly bought. "The
love-tale of Knight Lancelot and Queen Guinevere. The fellow that wrote
it discourses nothing but marvels."
Now I was curious, for I love all strange tales, and I questioned him:
"What marvels?"
Dante answered me smiling, and his face was always very sweet when he
smiled. "Why, the rogue will have it that when such a cavalier as
Lancelot tumbles into love he becomes a very ecstatic, and sees the
world as it never is, was, or shall be. The sun is no more than his
lady's looking-glass, and the moon and stars her candles to light her to
bed. You are a lover, Messer Guido. Do you think thus of your lady?"
Messer Guido answered emphatically, for he was indeed deep in love with
a lady well worth the loving. "Very surely and so will you when the
fever wrings you."
Dante turned to me, still with that same luminous smile on his face.
"And you, Lappo?"
Now, it was then and ever my creed that it is a man's best business to
be in love as much and as often as he can, and I answered him according
to my fancy. "I should scorn myself if I did not overtop every conceited
fancy that lover has ever sighed or sung for his lady."
Dante still smiled, but there was now a little scorn in his smile that
nettled me. "It is strange," he said. And then made a feint of returning
to his book, saying, "Well, I will read in my book again if you are no
wiser."
But Guido laid his hand upon the pages and protested. "Plague on your
reading, brother; you read too much. You are young to be so studious of
pothooks and hangers. The Book of Life is a brave book for a youth to
read in."
And here I put in my word. "And the two best chapters, by your leave,
are those that treat of Squire Bacchus and Dame Venus."
"You are a pretty ribald," Dante said to me, mockingly. "Leave me to my
ease. Let our star wheel where it pleases; I cannot guide the chariot of
the sun. Let me bask in its bounty, warm my hands at it, eat the fruit
it ripens, and drink the wine it kindles. I am content. Florence is the
fairest city in the world. I shall be happy to grow old in Florence,
studiously, peacefully, pleasantly, dreaming my dreams."
Guido protested against his placidity. "What a slugabed spirit! Rings
there no alarum in your blood?"
Dante said nothing, but looked at me, and I supported Guido's theme.
"There are ladies in Florence as lovely as the city's lilies. I would
rather lie in white arms than dream dreams."
Dante shook his head, and he fluttered the pages of his book as he
answered us slowly: "Restless, feverish Titans, forever challenging the
great gods of Love and War. Give me the dappled shade of a green garden,
the sable shadows quivering on a ground of gold, a book of verse by me
to play with when I would be busy, and a swarm of sweet rhythms like
colored butterflies floating about my drowsy senses. What to me are wars
and rumors of wars in that delicious ease? What to me are the white
breasts of the fair Florentines?"
Guido and I looked at each other in wonder, and then Guido asked again,
"Tell me, comrade, have you ever been in love?"
Now, when Guido asked him that question, I expected to hear from Dante a
mocking answer, but instead, to my surprise, he sat quite still for a
little while, almost like a man in a trance, with his hands clasped
about his knees, and it seemed to me as if he were seeing, as indeed he
was seeing, things that we who were with him did not see and could not
see. After a while he spoke in a soft voice, and for the most part his
words came sharp and clear, like the words of a man that speaks in a
dream.
"Once, when I was still a child, I saw a child's face, a girl's face; it
lives in my memory as the face of an angel. It was a sunny morning, a
May morning, such a morning as this, one of those days that always make
one think of roses. I had a rose in my hand, and I was smelling at
it--and then I saw the child. She was younger than I--and I was very
young."
Now, although I am a liberal lover of women, I have, I thank Heaven,
such a nature that any talk of love pleases me and interests me, and I
can listen to any lover with content. But this talk of children only
tickled me, and I turned to my comrade Guido, that was known to be a
very devoted swain to his lady, and that served her in song and honor
with all fidelity, and pointed Dante out to him now, as if laughing at
the radiant gaze on his face. "Look at the early lover, Guido," I said,
and laughed; but Messer Guido would not humor me by laughing too, and he
told me later that he never found a love-tale a thing to laugh at.
Dante seemed neither to heed nor to be vexed at my mirth. "Laugh if you
like," he said, good-humoredly, "but I learned what love might mean
then, as I peeped over the red breast of the rose at the little maiden.
She was younger than I was; she had hair like woven sunlight, and her
wide eyes seemed to me bright with a better blue than heaven's. Oh, if I
had all the words in the world at my order, I could not truly tell you
all I thought then of that little child."
Guido said very gravely, "A boy may have great thoughts." And he said no
more, but looked steadfastly upon the rapt countenance of Dante.
Now by this time I was all afire with curiosity, for this strange talk
stirred me to wonder, and I entreated Messer Dante very zealously to
tell me who this child was. Dante went on as if he had not heard my
question, telling his tale in a measured voice. "She looked at me and
she looked at my red rose, and I felt suddenly as if that rose were the
most precious gift in the world, a gift for a god, and that I should
give it to her. I held out my hand to her with the rose in it, and she
took the flower, and her fingers touched my fingers as she took it. They
still thrill with the memory."
As I have but just recorded, to my shame, I took all this story of our
friend's in a spirit of mockery. "O father Socrates," I cried, "listen
to the philosopher!" And then, because I was still burning with desire
for more knowledge in this strange business, I repeated my question.
"Who was she?"
And this time Dante heeded me and answered me. "I do not know. I never
saw her again."
Guido's amazement at this answer found speech. "You never saw her
again?" he questioned. "A girl in Florence?"
And indeed it was a strange thing for our city, where one sees every one
every day.
But Dante nodded. "It is strange, but so it is. I never saw her again.
That is nine years ago now."
Guido's eyes were filled with a tender pity. Never before saw I true
lover so moved by a profession of true love. "Are you sure you ever
really saw her?" he questioned, somewhat sadly. "Are you sure that you
did not dream this wonder?"
Dante showed no anger at this doubt, though indeed at other times he was
quick enough to take offence if he found just cause. But I guessed then
what I know since, that he found this matter at once so simple and so
sacred that nothing any man could say concerning it could in any way vex
him. So he answered very mildly, "Sometimes I almost doubt, but the
scent of a red rose on a May morning always brings her back to me."
Now I grieve to record it, but the silly spirit of mockery within me had
so far infected my wits that I cried out in pretended astonishment, "O
marvellous fancy that can so ennoble a neighbor's brat!" The which was
very false and foolish of me, for I know well enough now, and knew very
well then, that love, while it lasts, can ennoble any child, maid, or
matron. Lord, the numbers of girls I have likened to Diana that were no
such matter, and the plump maids I have appraised as Venus, though,
indeed, they would have shown something clumsy if one had caught them
rising from the sea! But, as I say, Dante never heeded my jeers, and sat
there very quiet and silent, very much as if he had forgotten our
existence, and was thinking only of that gracious child he spoke of. And
I, my laughter being somewhat abashed by his gravity, and the edge of my
jest being blunted by his indifference, as well as by the reproof on
Guido's face, stood there awkwardly, not knowing whether to abide with
him or leave him, when there came, to break my embarrassment, the
presence of a mighty fair lady.