Messer Simone had in his service, as you know already who have read this
record of mine, a fellow named Maleotti that was of great use to his
master--a brisk, insidious villain that was ever on good terms with all
the world, and never on such good terms with a man as when he was minded
to do him an ill turn, assuming, of course, that such ill turn was to
his own advantage or in the service of his master, Messer Simone dei
Bardi. To Messer Simone this fellow Maleotti was altogether devoted, as,
indeed, he had a right to be, for Simone was a good paymaster to all
those that served him, and he knew the value of Maleotti's tongue when
it had a lying tale to tell, and Maleotti's hand when it had a knife in
it and a man to be killed standing or lying near to its point.
This Maleotti wisely, from his point of view, made it his business not
merely to serve Messer Simone to the best of his ability in those things
in which Messer Simone directly demanded his obedience and intelligence,
but he also was quick to be of use to him in matters concerning which
Messer Simone was either ignorant or gave no direct instructions. It was
Maleotti's pleasure to mingle amid crowds and overhear talk, on the
chance of gleaning some knowledge which might be serviceable to his
patron, and, indeed, in this way it was said that he had heard not a few
things spoken heedlessly about Messer Simone which were duly carried to
Messer Simone's ears, and wrought their speakers much mischief. Also he
would, if he could find himself in company where his person and service
were unknown, in the wine-house or elsewhere, endeavor to engage those
about him in conversation which he would ever lead deftly to the subject
of his master and his master's purpose, and so win by a side wind, as it
were, a knowledge of Florentine opinion that more than once had been
valuable to Simone.
Now it had occurred to this fellow, since the beginning of the feud
between Simone dei Bardi and Dante dei Alighieri, that it would be to
his master's advantage, and to his own, if thereby he pleased his
master, that he should set himself to spy upon Messer Dante and keep him
as frequently as might be under his eye. It was thus that Messer Simone
came to know--what, indeed, was no secret--that our Dante had devoted
himself very busily to the practice of arms, and was making great
progress therein. But this information, as I learned afterward, did
little more than to tickle Messer Simone and make him grin, for he
believed that he was invincible in arms, and that no man could stand
against him, in which belief he was somewhat excused by his long record
of successes, and it seemed to him no more than a sorry joke that a lad
and a scholar like Dante should really pit his pigmy self against
Simone's giantship. It was no information of Maleotti's that told Simone
the truth about the unknown poet. That, as you know, he found out for
himself, and if he did but despise any skill that Dante might attain in
arms, he had the clumsy man's horror of the thing he could not
understand, of the art of weaving words together to praise fair ladies
and win their hearts. Maleotti did not know what his master knew,
therefore, about Dante, but he came to know it on this night. For
Maleotti was among the hearers when Dante, yielding to Messer Guide's
insistence, consented to read the verses of the unknown poet, and his
quick eyes had been as keen as Messer Guido's to understand the meaning
of Dante's change of voice and color when Madonna Beatrice came into the
room.
Now this fellow Maleotti, having, as it seems, nothing better to do with
his petty existence, must have judged, after this discovery, that it
might please his master in some fashion to keep an eye upon Messer Dante
what time he was the guest of Messer Folco of the Portinari on that
evening of high summer. And I believe it to be little less than certain
that he must have observed the meeting and the greeting between Monna
Beatrice and me, although it is no less certain that he could have heard
none of our speech. So when our speech, whatever it was, for it was all
nothing to Maleotti, had come to an end, and I had glided quietly away
from Madonna Beatrice and carried her message to my friend, the Maleotti
rascal still continued his observation of Messer Dante and his actions.
As I learned afterward from one to whom Maleotti told the matter, he saw
at a later hour Messer Dante linger for a while in the garden as one
that is lost in thought. Maleotti swore that he seemed all of a sudden
to stiffen where he stood, even as a man in a catalepsy might do, and
that he stood so rigid and tense for the space, as it seemed to
Maleotti, of several minutes, though why he stood so or what the cause
of his immobility this Maleotti could in nowise conjecture. I, of
course, know very well that this was one of the moments when the God of
Love made itself manifest to him. But after a while, as he affirmed that
told it to me, Messer Dante seemed to shake off the trance or whatever
it was that held him possessed, and then, moving with the strange
steadiness of one that walks in his sleep, made through the most lonely
part of the garden for that wing of the house of Messer Folco where
Madonna Beatrice was lodged. Maleotti, creeping very stealthily at his
heels, saw how he came, after a space, to a little gate in the wall, and
how, as it seemed to Maleotti, the gate lay open before him, and how
Messer Dante straightway passed through the open gateway and so out of
his sight.
Now Maleotti, who was as familiar with the house of Messer Folco as he
was with his own garret in the dwelling of Messer Simone dei Bardi, knew
that this gateway gave on a winding flight of stairs that led to an open
loggia, on the farther side of which lay the door of Madonna Beatrice's
apartments. Whereupon it pleased this Maleotti, putting two and two
together, after the manner of his kind, and making God knows what of
them, to be quick with villanous suspicions and to be pricked with a
violent desire to let his master know what had happened, partly, as I
believe, knowing the vile nature of the man, because he thought the
knowledge he had to impart might prove a little galling to his master.
However that may be, for in his damnable way he was a faithful servant
to his lord, he waited awhile until he saw that Beatrice walked on the
loggia and that Dante came to her, and that she seemed to greet him as
one expected. Now it taxes no more the wit of a rogue than the wit of an
honest man to guess that when two young people stand apart and talk, it
is God's gold to the devil's silver that they talk love-talk. So as
Maleotti had seen enough, and durst not go nearer to hear aught, he made
his way back as swiftly as he could through the green and silent garden
to the noisy rooms within the house where folk still were dancing and
singing and eating and drinking and making merry, as if they knew not
when they should be merry again.
High at the table Maleotti spied his master, Messer Simone. He had now
disarmed, and sat, very big with meat and drink and very red of face,
talking loudly to a company of obsequious gentlemen who thought, or
seemed to think, his utterances oracular. A good way off, at the head of
his own table, sat Messer Folco, grave and gray and smiling, his one
thought seeming to be that those that came under his roof should be
happy in their own way, so long as that way accorded with the decorum
expected of Florentine citizens. I fancy that his glance must have
fallen more than once, and that unadmiringly, upon that part of the
table where Messer Simone sat and babbled and brawled and drank, as if
drinking were a new fashion which he was resolved to test to the
uttermost. Messer Simone, being such a mighty giant of a man, was
appropriately mighty in his appetites, and could, I truly believe, eat
more and drink more, and in other animal ways enjoy himself more, than
any man in all Italy. But though he would, and often did, drink himself
drunk at the feasts where he was a guest, as very notably in that case
where he made his wager with Monna Vittoria, he could, if need were, and
if occasion called for the use of his activities, shake off the stupor
of wine and the lethargy of gluttony and be ready for any business that
was fitted to the limitations of his intelligence and the strength of
his arms.
Such ways as Messer Simone's, however, were distasteful to the major
part of our Florentine gentry, who always cherished a certain decorum in
their bodily pleasures and admired a certain restraint at table, and
what they approved was naturally even more highly esteemed and commended
by Messer Folco Portinari, who was very fastidious in all his public
commerce with the world, and punctilious in the observance of the laws
and doctrines of good manners. How such a man could ever have consented
to consider Messer Simone for a single moment as a suitor for his
daughter passes my understanding. But Messer Simone was rich and
powerful and of a great house, and Messer Folco loved riches and power
and good birth as dearly as ever a woman loved jewels.
However that may be, our Maleotti got near to Simone, and after trying
unavailingly to catch the attention of his eye, made so bold as to come
hard by him and to pluck him by the sleeve of his doublet once or twice.
This failing to stir Messer Simone, who was thorough in his cups,
Maleotti spurred his resolve a pace further, and first whispered and
then shrieked a call into Messer Simone's ear. The whisper Messer Simone
passed unheeded, the shriek roused him. He turned in his seat with an
oath, and, gripping Maleotti by the shoulder, peered ferociously into
his face. Then, for all his drinking, being clear-headed enough to
recognize his henchman's countenance, he realized that the fellow might
have some immediate business with him, and, relaxing his grip, he asked
Maleotti none too affably what he wanted. Thereupon, Maleotti explained
that he needed some private speech with his master, and very anxiously
and urgently beckoned to him to quit the table and to come apart, the
which thing Messer Simone very unwillingly, and volubly cursing, did.
But when he had risen from the table and quitted the circle of the
revellers, and stood quite apart from curious ears, if any curious ears
there were, his manner changed as he listened to the hurried story that
Maleotti had to tell him. The news, as it filtered through his
wine-clogged brain, seemed to clarify his senses and quicken his wits.
He was, as I guess, no longer the truculent, wine-soaked ruffian, but
all of a sudden the man of action, as alert and responsive as if some
one had come to tell him that the enemy were thundering at the city's
gates. He asked Maleotti, as I understand, if he were very sure of what
he said and of what he saw, and when Maleotti persisted in his
statement, Messer Simone fell for a while into a musing mood that was no
stupor of intoxication. Once or twice he made as if to speak to his
fellow, and then paused to think again, and it was not until after some
minutes that he finally decided upon his course of action.
I think it would have pleased Messer Simone best if this spying creature
of his had waited for Dante when he came from his meeting, and stabbed
him as he passed. But he thought, as I believe, that what had not been
done by the man might very well be done by the master, and with that, as
I conceive, for his most immediate intention, he had Maleotti wait for
him in the garden. There in a little while he joined him, and the two
went together toward the part of the palace where Beatrice had her
dwelling. But when they came to the gateway beneath the loggia where
Beatrice had talked with Dante, the lovers had parted, and Dante had
gone his ways and Beatrice had returned to her rooms. Then Messer Simone
turned to his follower and bade him hasten to Messer Folco, where he sat
at his wine, and get his private ear, and tell him that a man was having
speech with his daughter on the threshold of her apartments. Messer
Simone knew well enough how great an effect such a piece of news would
have upon the austere nature of his host, and I make no doubt that his
red face grinned in the moonlight as he dispatched his fellow upon his
errand. When Maleotti had gone, Messer Simone slowly ascended the
staircase that conducted to the loggia, and concealed himself very
effectually behind a pillar in a dark corner hard by the door of
Beatrice's rooms.
I have stood upon that loggia in later years, and looked out upon
Florence when all the colors of summer were gay about the city. I know
that the prospect is as fair as man could desire to behold, and I know
that there was one exiled heart which ached to be denied that prospect
and who died in exile denied it forever. I dare swear that his latest
thoughts carried him back to that moon-lit night of July when he made
bold to climb the private stair and seek private speech with Madonna
Beatrice. I can guess very well how the scene showed that night in the
moonbeams--all the city stretched out below, a harlequin's coat of black
and silver, according to the disposition of the homes and the open
spaces with their lights and shadows. I can fancy how, through the
gilded air, came the cheerful sounds of the dancing and the luting and
the laughter and the festival, and how all Florence seemed to be, as it
were, one wonderful, perfect flower of warmth and color and joy.
It is all very long ago, this time of which I write, and it may very
well be that I exaggerate its raptures, as they say--though in this I do
not agree--is the way with elders when they recall the sweet,
honey-tinted, honey-tasting days of their youth. It would not be
possible for any man to overpraise the glories and beauties of Florence
in those days. Those glories, as I think, may be said to have come to an
end with the Jubilee of His Holiness Pope Boniface the Eighth, the poor
pope who was said to be killed by command of the French king, but who,
as I have heard tell, escaped from that fate and died a nameless hermit
in a forest of Greece.
However that may be, I am glad to think, for all that I am now so
chastened, and for all that I have learned patience, that I can recall
so clearly that pillared place with the moonbeams dappling the marble,
and can rekindle in my withered anatomy something of the noble fire that
burned in the heart of Dante, as he stood there in his youth and his
hope and his love, and looked into the eyes of his marvellous lady.
Also, I am glad to think that I know much of the words that passed
between the youth and the maid in that hour, and if not their exact
substance, at least their purport. For though Dante never made
confidence to me of a matter so sacred as the speech exchanged at such
an interview, yet he spoke of it to Messer Guido, whom, after he had
entered into terms of friendship with him, he loved and trusted, very
rightly, better than me. Also--for that was his way--he set much of
that night's discourse into the form of a song which he gave to Messer
Guido. Messer Guido, before his melancholy end, over which, as I
believe, the Muses still weep, knowing how great a concern I had in the
doings of Messer Dante, told me with great clarity the essence of what
Dante had told to him, and showed me the poem, not only allowing me to
read it, but granting me permission, if it so pleased me, to take a
copy. This, indeed, I should have done, but being, as I always have
been, a lazy knave, I neglected to do, thinking that any time would
serve as well as the present, and being, as I fear, entangled in some
pleasant pastime with a light o' love or two that interfered with such
serious interests as I owned in life, and of which certainly none should
have been more serious than any matter concerning my dear friend and
poet. Then, when it was too late for me to amend my error, came Messer
Guido's death, and no man knows now what became of those verses.
As for me, I cannot remember them, try I never so hard to cudgel my
brains for their meaning and sequence. Sometimes, indeed, at night, in
sleep, I seem to see them plain and staring before me on a smooth page
of parchment, every word clear, every rhyme legible, the beautiful
thoughts set forth in a beautiful hand of write; but when I wake they
have all vanished. Sometimes on an evening of late summer, when the
winds are blowing softly through the roses and filling the air with
odors almost unbearably sweet, it seems to me as if the sweet voices of
lovers were chanting those lines, and that I have only to listen
heedfully to have them for my own again. But it is all in vain that I
try to remember them to any profit. A few phrases buzz in my own brains,
but they are no more than phrases, such as I, or any man that was at all
nimble in the spinning of words, might use about love and a sweet lady,
and there are not enough of them left to build up again the noble
structure of so splendid a vision.
Well, as I say, Messer Dante, having quitted the festivity, made his way
into the garden, where he lingered a little while. Then it seemed to him
that the God of Love appeared to him in the same form as before, only
more glorious, and bade him follow, and he went, guided, as it seemed to
him, ever by that strange and luminous presence through this path and
that path, till he came to the appointed staircase and climbed it,
following ever the winged feet of Love. When he came to the top of the
stairway he passed through a little door on to the open, moon-drenched
loggia, and straightway his first thought was that he beheld the stars,
seeing that they seemed to him to shine so very brightly in heaven after
the blackness of the darkness through which he had passed. And I think
it must be some memory of that night which has made him thrice record
with much significant insistence his beholding of the stars.
In the mingled moonlight and starlight of the loggia the figure of the
God of Love showed, he said, as clearly to his eyes as when he had
ascended the winding stair, albeit differently, for whereas in the
darkness the shape of Love had appeared to him luminous and fluttering,
as if it had been composed of many living and tinted fires, now in the
clear light of that open space it showed more like a bodily presence,
not human indeed, but wearing such humanity as it pleased the gods of
old time to assume when they condescended to commune with mortals. I
remember how he said, in the poem which I spoke of, that he could have
counted, had he the leisure, every feather in Love's wings. But the god,
or the vision which he took to be a god, gave him no such leisure, for
he came to a halt, and he had his arrow in his hand, and with that arrow
he pointed before him, and then the image of the God of Love melted into
the moonlight and vanished, and the glory of the stars was forgotten,
and Dante knew of nothing and cared for nothing but that his lady
Beatrice stood there awaiting him.