The great hall of Messer Folco's house where now he received his guests,
and me among the number, was a mighty handsome piece of work, very brave
with gay color and rich hangings and the costly pelts of Asian beasts,
and very splendidly lit with an infinity of lamps of bronze that had
once illumined Cæsarian revels, and flambeaux that stood in sconces of
silver and sconces of brass very rarely wrought. At the farther end the
room gave through a colonnade on to the spacious garden which it was
Messer Folco's privilege to possess, a garden which, it was said, had
belonged in old time to a great noble of the stately Roman days. This
colonnade, be it noted, for all it looked so open and amiable, could be
shut off, if need were, by sliding doors, so as to make the room
defensible whenever the war-cries rattled in the streets and Guelph and
Ghibelline or Red and Yellow met in deadly grips together.
When I arrived, and I was among the earliest visitors, for I dearly
loved all manner of merry-making, and thought it foolish to stand upon
my dignity and seem indifferent to mirth, and so come late and lose
pleasure--when I arrived, I say, the musicians were tuning their lutes
in the gallery on high, and Messer Folco was standing before the doorway
greeting his guests. Those that had forestalled me were moving hither
and thither over the smooth floor, and staring, for lack of other
employment, at the splendid tapestries, and impatient enough for the
dancing and the feasting to begin. And then, because I wished to be
courteous as becomes the careful guest, I wrung by his hand Messer
Folco, who, as I think, had no notion, or at best the dimmest, of who I
was, and I said to him, "Blessed be Heaven, Messer Folco, 'tis good to
have such a man as you in Florence."
To which Messer Folco answered, returning with dignity my friendly
pressure, "'Tis good for any man to be in Florence; there is no place
like Florence from here to world's end."
And then, as I stood something agape and framing a further speech,
another guest pushed by me and clasped Messer Folco's hand and addressed
him, saying, "So you have started a-building your new hospital. Will you
never have done being generous?"
And because it always amuses me to watch give and take of talk between
human beings, I stood off one side, Messer Folco having done with me and
forgotten me, and listened to the traffic of voices and the bandying of
compliments, and heard Messer Folco respond, "One that is happy enough
to be a citizen of Florence should be grateful for the favor."
"Well," said the new-comer, whom I knew very well to be one that made
the most of his great monies by usury--"well," says he, "a man cannot
spend money better than by benefiting the disinherited."
To which Messer Folco, eying him with gravity, and having, as I make no
doubt, his own opinion, answered, "So I think."
Now, by this time the enthusiastic usurer had said his say and had his
audience, and was straightway pushed on one side. Then my usurer, not
knowing me, though indeed I knew him, or not liking the looks of me, as
indeed his looks were distasteful to me, for I think a man's money greed
is ever written in bitter ink upon the parchment of his face, passed
away into the crowd beyond. Thereafter there accosted Messer Folco a man
whose name I knew at the time but for the life of me I cannot recall it
now, and all that I can remember of him is that he was fat and affable
and a notorious giver and gleaner of gossip, as well as one that aped
acquaintance with the arts.
"Messer Folco, your servant," he began, in a voice that was as fat as
his abdomen. Then went on, in a splutter of rapture, "Why, what a
company! Here is all Florence, from base to apex." He paused for a
moment, and said behind his hand, in a loud whisper which came easily to
my ears, "Is the mysterious poet of your fellowship?" And he glanced
around knowingly, as if he hoped to divine the unknown among the
arriving guests.
Messer Folco looked at him gravely. "What poet, friend?" he asked; and I
truly think he questioned in all honesty of ignorance as to the man's
meaning, and my jolly gossip answered, all agog with his knowledge:
"Why, the poet we in Florence that have an ear for sweet sounds are all
talking of; the poet whose name no man knows, whose rhymes are on all
men's lips; the fellow that praises fair ladies as never fair ladies
were praised before since Orpheus carolled in Arcady."
Then I noted how Messer Folco, with the air of one that did indeed
recall some idle rumor, looked at him curiously, as one that is puzzled
how busy men can interest themselves in such trifles as love rhymes, and
he answered, quietly, "I have given little heed to this wonder; I have
been too busy with bricks and mortar. Here comes one who may lighten our
darkness."
Even as he spoke my ever beloved friend and the ever beloved friend of
all who were young with me and of all good Florentines, Messer Guido
Cavalcanti, came into the room.
Messer Folco wrung him heartily by the hand, for he loved him no less
than the rest of us. "Messer Guido, ever welcome," he cried, "never more
than now. Perhaps you can tell us--"
But before he had time to say what he had to say, Messer Guido
Cavalcanti interrupted him, not uncivilly, but as one that wished to
spare a good man the pains of saying what his hearer already understood
as clearly as words could utter it. "I wager I know what you would say,"
he declared. "Do I know the name of the unknown poet?"
Messer Folco nodded. "Well, do you?" he asked, and those that were
standing about him, and especially my good fat gossip merchant that
aired his learning, pricked their ears to hear what Messer Guido might
have to say on a matter that tickled them. I, with my wider knowledge,
that I had kept steadfastly to myself, stood by and chuckled.
For I had that inside my jerkin against my breast which, though indeed
it belonged to Messer Guido, Messer Guido had never yet seen, and I had
brought it with me to deliver to him. And it concerned the
subject-matter of the speech of Folco and his friends.
But Messer Guido could say little to please them. "Why," he declared, "I
know no more than all Florence knows by this time, that some one has
written songs which all men sing, sonnets which all women sigh over.
There is a ballad of his addressed to all ladies that are learned in
love which is something more than beautiful."
My jolly gossip nodded sagaciously. "Aye, but who made it?" he
questioned, sententiously, and looked as complacent as if he had said
something really wise.