The youth of both sexes, and of all ranks, paraded the streets, crowned
with flowers, and singing the canzonets of the day. In the evening they
assembled in the _Piazza del Duomo_, and spent the hours in dancing. The
_Carroccio_ was led through the principal streets, the ringing of its
bell drowned in the peals that rang from every belfry in the city, and
in the music of fifes and drums which made a part of the procession that
followed it. The triumph of the reigning party in Florence caused them
to celebrate the anniversary of the first of May, 1268, with peculiar
splendour. They had indeed hoped that Charles d’Anjou, King of Naples,
the head of the Guelphs in Italy, and then _Vicare_ (President) of their
republic, would have been there to adorn the festival by his presence.
But the expectation of Corradino had caused the greater part of his
newly-conquered and oppressed kingdom to revolt, and he had hastily
quitted Tuscany to secure by his presence those conquests of which his
avarice and cruelty endangered the loss. But although Charles somewhat
feared the approaching contest with Corradino, the Florentine Guelphs,
newly reinstated in their city and possessions, did not permit a fear to
cloud their triumph. The principal families vied with each other in the
display of their magnificence during the festival. The knights followed
the _Carroccio_ on horseback, and the windows were filled with ladies
who leant upon gold-inwoven carpets, while their own dresses, at once
simple and elegant, their only ornaments, flowers, contrasted with the
glittering tapestry and the brilliant colours of the flags of the
various communities. The whole population of Florence poured into the
principal streets, and none were left at home, except the decrepit and
sick, unless it were some discontented Ghibelline, whose fear, poverty,
or avarice had caused him to conceal his party when it had been banished
from the city.
It was not the feeling of discontent which prevented Monna Gegia de’
Becari from being among the first of the revellers; and she looked
angrily on what she called her “Ghibelline leg,” which fixed her to her
chair on such a day of triumph. The sun shone in all its glory in an
unclouded sky, and caused the fair Florentines to draw their _fazioles_
(veils) over their dark eyes, and to bereave the youth of those beams
more vivifying than the sun’s rays. The same sun poured its full light
into the lonely apartment of Monna Gegia, and almost extinguished the
fire which was lighted in the middle of the room, over which hung the
pot of _minestra_, the dinner of the dame and her husband. But she had
deserted the fire, and was seated by her window, holding her beads in
her hand, while every now and then she peeped from her lattice (five
storeys high) into the narrow lane below; but no creature passed. She
looked at the opposite window; a cat slept there beside a pot of
heliotrope, but no human being was heard or seen,—they had all gone to
the _Piazza del Duomo_.
Monna Gegia was an old woman, and her dress of green _calrasio_ (stuff)
showed that she belonged to one of the _Arli Minori_ (working classes).
Her head was covered by a red kerchief, which, folded triangularly, hung
loosely over it; her grey hairs were combed back from her high and
wrinkled brow. The quickness of her eye spoke the activity of her mind,
and the slight irritability that lingered about the corners of her lips
might be occasioned by the continual war maintained between her bodily
and mental faculties. “Now, by St. John!” she said, “I would give my
gold cross to make one of them; though by giving that I should appear on
a _festa_, without that which no _festa_ yet ever found me wanting.” And
as she spoke she looked with great complacency on a large but thin gold
cross which was tied round her withered neck by a ribbon, once black,
now of a rusty brown. “Methinks this leg of mine is bewitched; and it
may well be that my Ghibelline husband has used the black art to hinder
me from following the _Carroccio_ with the best of them.”—A slight
sound, as of footsteps in the street far below, interrupted the good
woman’s soliloquy.—“Perhaps it is Monna Lisabetta, or Messer Giani dei
Agli, the weaver, who mounted the breach first when the castle of
Pagibonzi was taken.”—She looked down, but could see no one, and was
about to relapse into her old train of thoughts, when her attention was
again attracted by the sound of steps ascending the stairs: they were
slow and heavy, but she did not doubt who her visitant was when a key
was applied to the hole of the door; the latch was lifted up, and a
moment after, with an unassured mien and downcast eyes, her husband
entered.
He was a short, stunted man, more than sixty years of age; his shoulders
were broad and high; his lank hair was still coal-black; his brows were
overhanging and bushy; his eyes black and quick; his lips as it were
contradicted the sternness of the upper part of his face, for their
gentle curve betokened even delicacy of sentiment, and his smile was
inexpressibly sweet. He had on a low-crowned, red cloth cap, which he
drew over his eyes, and, seating himself on a low bench by the fire, he
heaved a deep sigh. He appeared disinclined to enter into any
conversation, but Monna Gegia was resolved that he should not enjoy his
melancholy mood uninterrupted.
“Have you been to mass, Cincolo?” she asked, beginning by a question
sufficiently removed from the point she longed to approach.—He shrugged
his shoulders uneasily, but did not reply.—“You are too early for your
dinner,” continued Gegia; “do you not go out again?”
Cincolo answered “No!” in an accent that denoted his disinclination to
further questioning. But this very impatience only served to feed the
spirit of contention that was fermenting in the bosom of Gegia.
“You are not used,” she said, “to pass your May days under your
chimney.”—No answer.—“Well,” she continued, “if you will not speak, I
have done!”—meaning that she intended to begin—“but by that lengthened
face of thine I see that some good news is stirring abroad, and I bless
the Virgin for it, whatever it may be. Come, tell me what happy tidings
make thee so woe-begone.”
Cincolo remained silent for awhile, then turning half round, but not
looking at his wife, he replied, “What if old Marzio the lion be dead?”
Gegia turned pale at the idea, but a smile that lurked in the
good-natured mouth of her husband reassured her.
“Nay, St. John defend us!” she began, “but that is not true. Old
Marzio’s death would not drive you within these four walls, except it
were to triumph over your old wife. By the blessing of St. John, not one
of our lions have died since the eve of the battle of Monte Aperto; and
I doubt not that they were poisoned; for Mari, who fed them that night,
was more than half a Ghibelline in his heart. Besides, the bells are
still ringing, and the drums still beating, and all would be silent
enough if old Marzio were to die. On the first of May too! Santa
Reparata is too good to us to allow such ill-luck;—and she has more
favour, I trust, in the seventh heaven than all the Ghibelline saints in
your calendar. No, good Cincolo, Marzio is not dead, nor the Holy
Father, nor Messer Carlo of Naples; but I would bet my gold cross
against the wealth of your banished men, that Pisa is taken—or
Corradino—or”—
“And I here! No, Gegia, old as I am, and much as you need my help (and
that last is why I am here at all), Pisa would not be taken while this
old body could stand in the breach; or Corradino die, till this lazy
blood were colder on the ground than it is in my body. Ask no more
questions, and do not rouse me: there is no news, no good or ill-luck,
that I know. But when I saw the Neri, the Pulci, the Buondelmonti, and
the rest of them, ride like kings through the streets, whose very hands
are hardly dry from the blood of my kindred; when I saw their daughter
crowned with flowers, and thought how the daughter of Arrigo dei Elisei
was mourning for her murdered father, with ashes on her head, by the
hearth of a stranger,—my spirit must be more dead than it is if such a
sight did not make me wish to drive among them; and methought I could
scatter their pomp with my awl for a sword. But I remembered thee, and
am here unstained with blood.”
“That thou wilt never be!” cried Monna Gegia, the colour rising in her
wrinkled cheeks. “Since the battle of Monte Aperto thou hast never been
well washed of that shed by thee and thy confederates; and how could ye?
for the Arno has never since run clear of the blood then spilt.”
“And if the sea were red with that blood, still, while there is any of
the Guelphs’ to spill, I am ready to spill it, were it not for thee.
Thou dost well to mention Monte Aperto, and thou wouldst do better to
remember over whom its grass now grows.”
“Peace, Cincolo; a mother’s heart has more memory in it than thou
thinkest; and I well recollect who spurned me as I knelt, and dragged my
only child, but sixteen years of age, to die in the cause of that
misbeliever Manfred. Let us indeed speak no more. Woe was the day when I
married thee! but those were happy times when there was neither Guelph
nor Ghibelline;—they will never return.”
“Never,—until, as thou sayest, the Arno run clear of the blood shed on
its banks;—never while I can pierce the heart of a Guelph;—never till
both parties are cold under one bier.”
“And thou and I, Cincolo?”
“Are two old fools, and shall be more at peace under ground than above
it. Rank Guelph as thou art, I married thee before I was a Ghibelline;
so now I must eat from the same platter with the enemy of Manfred, and
make shoes for Guelphs, instead of following the fortunes of Corradino,
and sending them, my battle-axe in my hand, to buy their shoes in
Bologna.”
“Hush! hush! good man, talk not so loud of thy party; hearest thou not
that some one knocks?”
Cincolo went to open the door with the air of a man who thinks himself
ill-used at being interrupted in his discourse, and is disposed to be
angry with the intruder, however innocent he might be of any intention
of breaking in upon his eloquent complaint. The appearance of his
visitor calmed his indignant feelings. He was a youth whose countenance
and person showed that he could not be more than sixteen; but there was
a self-possession in his demeanour, and a dignity in his physiognomy,
that belonged to a more advanced age. His figure was slight, and his
countenance, though beautiful, was pale as monumental marble; the thick
and curling locks of his chestnut hair clustered over his brow and round
his fair throat; his cap was drawn far down on his forehead. Cincolo was
about to usher him with deference into his humble room, but the youth
stayed him with his hand, and uttered the words “_Swabia, Cavalieri!_”
the words by which the Ghibellines were accustomed to recognise each
other. He continued in a low and hurried tone: “Your wife is within?”
“She is.”
“Enough. Although I am a stranger to you, I come from an old friend.
Harbour me until nightfall; we will then go out, and I will explain to
you the motives of my intrusion. Call me Ricciardo de’ Rossini of Milan,
travelling to Rome. I leave Florence this evening.”
Having said these words, without giving Cincolo time to reply, he
motioned that they should enter the room. Monna Gegia had fixed her eyes
on the door from the moment he had opened it, with a look of impatient
curiosity; when she saw the youth enter, she could not refrain from
exclaiming, “Gesu Maria!”—so different was he from any one she had
expected to see.
“A friend from Milan,” said Cincolo.
“More likely from Lucca,” replied his wife, gazing on her visitant. “You
are doubtless one of the banished men, and you are more daring than wise
to enter this town; however, if you be not a spy, you are safe with me.”
Ricciardo smiled and thanked her in a low, sweet voice. “If you do not
turn me out,” he said, “I shall remain under your roof nearly all the
time I remain in Florence, and I leave it soon after dusk.”
Gegia again gazed on her guest, nor did Cincolo scrutinize him with less
curiosity. His black cloth tunic reached below his knees, and was
confined by a black leather girdle at the waist. He had on trousers of
coarse scarlet stuff, over which were drawn short boots; a cloak of
common fox’s fur, unlined, hung from his shoulder. But, although his
dress was thus simple, it was such as was then worn by the young
Florentine nobility. At that time the Italians were simple in their
private habits: the French army led by Charles d’Anjou into Italy, first
introduced luxury into the palaces of the Cisalpines. Manfred was a
magnificent prince, but it was his saintly rival who was the author of
that trifling foppery of dress and ornaments which degrades a nation,
and is a sure precursor of their downfall. But of Ricciardo—his
countenance had all the regularity of a Grecian head; and his blue eyes,
shaded by very long, dark eyelashes, were soft, yet full of expression.
When he looked up, the heavy lids, as it were, unveiled the gentle light
beneath, and then again closed over them, as shading what was too
brilliant to behold. His lips expressed the deepest sensibility, and
something perhaps of timidity, had not the placid confidence of his
demeanour forbidden such an idea.
His host and hostess were at first silent; but he asked some natural
questions about the buildings of their city, and by degrees led them
into discourse. When mid-day struck, Cincolo looked towards his pot of
_minestra_, and Ricciardo followed his look, asked if that was not the
dinner. “You must entertain me,” he said, “for I have not eaten to-day.”
A table was drawn near the window, and the _minestra_, poured out into
one plate, was placed in the middle of it, a spoon was given to each,
and a jug of wine filled from a barrel. Ricciardo looked at the two old
people, and seemed somewhat to smile at the idea of eating from the same
plate with them; he ate, however, though sparingly, and drank of the
wine, though with still greater moderation. Cincolo, however, under
pretence of serving his guest, filled his jug a second time, and was
about to rise for the third measure, when Ricciardo, placing his small
white hand on his arm, said, “Are you a German, my friend, that you
cease not after so many draughts? I have heard that you Florentines were
a sober people.”
Cincolo was not much pleased with this reproof, but he felt that it was
timely; so, conceding the point, he sat down again, and, somewhat heated
with what he had already drank, he asked his guest the news from
Germany, and what hopes for the good cause? Gegia bridled at these
words, and Ricciardo replied, “Many reports are abroad, and high hopes
entertained, especially in the north of Italy, for the success of our
expedition. Corradino is arrived at Genoa, and it is hoped that,
although the ranks of his army were much thinned by the desertion of his
German troops, they will be quickly filled by Italians, braver and truer
than those foreigners, who, strangers to our soil, could not fight for
his cause with our ardour?”
“And how does he bear himself?”
“As beseems one of the house of Swabia, and the nephew of Manfred. He is
inexperienced and young. He is not more than sixteen. His mother would
hardly consent to this expedition, but wept at the fear of all he might
endure; for he has been nursed in every luxury, and habituated to the
tender care of a woman, who, although she be a princess, has waited on
him with anxious solicitude. But Corradino is of good heart; docile, but
courageous; obedient to his wiser friends, gentle to his inferiors, but
noble of soul, the spirit of Manfred seems to animate his unfolding
mind; and surely, if that glorious prince now enjoys the reward of his
surpassing virtues, he looks down with joy and approbation on him who
is, I trust, destined to fill his throne.”
The enthusiasm with which Ricciardo spoke suffused his pale countenance
with a slight blush, while his eyes swam in the lustre of the dew that
filled them. Gegia was little pleased with this harangue, but curiosity
kept her silent, while her husband proceeded to question his guest. “You
seem to be well acquainted with Corradino?”
“I saw him at Milan, and was closely connected with his most intimate
friend there. As I have said, he has arrived at Genoa, and perhaps has
even now landed at Pisa; he will find many friends in that town. Every
man there will be his friend; but during his journey southward he will
have to contend with our Florentine army, commanded by the Marshals of
the usurper Charles, and assisted by his troops. Charles himself has
left us, and is gone to Naples to prepare for this war. But he is
detested there, as a tyrant and a robber, and Corradino will be received
in the Regno as a saviour; so that if he once surmount the obstacles
which oppose his entrance, I do not doubt his success, and trust that he
will be crowned within a month at Rome, and the week after sit on the
throne of his ancestors in Naples.”
“And who will crown him?” cried Gegia, unable to contain herself. “Italy
contains no heretic base enough to do such a deed, unless it be a Jew;
or he send to Constantinople for a Greek, or to Egypt for a Mohammedan.
Cursed may the race of the Frederics ever be! Thrice cursed one who has
affinity to the miscreant Manfred! And little do you please me, young
man, by holding such discourse in my house.”
Cincolo looked at Ricciardo, as if he feared that so violent a partisan
for the house of Swabia would be irritated at his wife’s attack; but he
was looking on the aged woman with a regard of the most serene
benignity; no contempt even was mingled with the gentle smile that
played round his lips. “I will restrain myself,” he said, and, turning
to Cincolo, he conversed on more general subjects, describing the
various cities of Italy that he had visited; discussing their modes of
government, and relating anecdotes concerning their inhabitants, with an
air of experience that, contrasted with his youthful appearance, greatly
impressed Cincolo, who looked on him at once with admiration and
respect. Evening came on. The sound of bells died away after the _Ave
Maria_ had ceased to ring, but the distant sound of music was wafted to
them by the night air. Ricciardo was about to address Cincolo, when a
knocking at the gate interrupted him. It was Buzeccha, the Saracen, a
famous chess-player, who was used to parade about under the colonnades
of the Duomo, and challenge the young nobles to play; and sometimes much
stress was laid on these games, and the gain and loss became the talk of
Florence. Buzeccha was a tall and ungainly man, with all that
good-natured consequence of manner which the fame he had acquired by his
proficiency in so trifling a science, and the familiarity with which he
was permitted to treat those superior to him in rank, who were pleased
to measure their forces with him, might well bestow. He was beginning
with “Eh, Messere!” when perceiving Ricciardo, he cried, “Who have we
here?”
“A friend to good men,” replied Ricciardo, smiling.
“Then, by Mahomet, thou art my friend, my stripling.”
“Thou shouldst be a Saracen, by thy speech?” said Ricciardo.
“And through the help of the Prophet, so am I. One who in Manfred’s
time—but no more of that. We won’t talk of Manfred, eh, Monna Gegia? I
am Buzeccha, the chess-player, at your service, Messer lo Forestiere.”
The introduction thus made, they began to talk of the procession of the
day. After a while, Buzeccha introduced his favourite subject of
chess-playing; he recounted some wonderfully good strokes he had
achieved, and related to Ricciardo how before the _Palagio del Popolo_,
in the presence of Count Guido Novelle de’ Giudi, then _Vicare_ of the
city, he had played an hour at three chess-boards with three of the best
chess-players in Florence, playing two by memory and one by sight; and
out of three games which made the board, he had won two. This account
was wound up by a proposal to play with his host. “Thou art a
hard-headed fellow, Cincolo, and make better play than the nobles. I
would swear that thou thinkest of chess only as thou cobblest thy shoes;
every hole of your awl is a square of the board, every stitch a move,
and a finished pair paid for checkmate to your adversary; eh, Cincolo?
Bring out the field of battle, man.”
Ricciardo interposed: “I leave Florence in two hours, and before I go,
Messer Cincolo promised to conduct me to the _Piazza del Duomo_.”
“Plenty of time, good youth,” cried Buzeccha, arranging his men; “I only
claim one game, and my games never last more than a quarter of an hour;
and then we will both escort you, and you shall dance a set into the
bargain with a black-eyed houri, all Nazarine as thou art. So stand out
of my light, good youth, and shut the window, if you have heeding, that
the torch flare not so.”
Ricciardo seemed amused by the authoritative tone of the chess-player;
he shut the window and trimmed the torch which, stuck against the wall,
was the only light they had, and stood by the table, overlooking the
game. Monna Gegia had replaced the pot for supper, and sat somewhat
uneasily, as if she were displeased that her guest did not talk with
her. Cincolo and Buzeccha were deeply intent on their game, when a knock
was heard at the door. Cincolo was about to rise and open it, but
Ricciardo saying, “Do not disturb yourself,” opened it himself, with the
manner of one who does humble offices as if ennobling them, so that no
one action can be more humble to them than another.
The visitant was welcomed by Gegia alone, with “Ah! Messer Beppe, this
is kind, on May Day night.”
Ricciardo glanced slightly on him, and then resumed his stand by the
players. There was little in Messer Beppe to attract a favourable
regard. He was short, thin, and dry; his face long-drawn and liny; his
eyes deep-set and scowling, his lips straight, his nose hooked, and his
head covered by a close skull-cap, his hair cut close all round. He sat
down near Gegia, and began to discourse in a whining, servile, voice,
complimenting her on her good looks, launching forth into praise of the
magnificence of certain Guelph Florentines, and concluded by declaring
that he was hungry and tired.
“Hungry, Beppe?” said Gegia, “that should have been your first word,
friend. Cincolo, wilt thou give thy guest to eat? Cincolo, art thou
deaf? Art thou blind? Dost thou not hear? Wilt thou not see?—Here is
Messer Giuseppe de’ Bosticchi.”
Cincolo slowly, his eyes still fixed on the board, was about to rise.
But the name of the visitant seemed to have the effect of magic on
Ricciardo.
“Bosticchi!” he cried—“Giuseppe Bosticchi! I did not expect to find that
man beneath thy roof, Cincolo, all Guelph as thy wife is; for she also
has eaten of the bread of Elisei. Farewell! thou wilt find me in the
street below; follow me quickly.”
He was about to go, but Bosticchi placed himself before the door, saying
in a tone whose whine expressed mingled rage and servility, “In what
have I offended this young gentleman? Will he not tell me my offence?”
“Dare not to stop my way,” cried Ricciardo, passing his hand before his
eyes, “nor force me again to look on thee. Begone!”
Cincolo stopped him. “Thou art too hasty, and far too passionate, my
noble guest,” said he; “however this man may have offended thee, thou
art too violent.”
“Violent!” cried Ricciardo, almost suffocated by passionate emotion.
“Ay, draw thy knife, and show the blood of Arrigo dei Elisei, with which
it is still stained.”
A dead silence followed. Bosticchi slunk out of the room; Ricciardo hid
his face in his hands and wept. But soon he calmed his passion, and
said: “This is indeed childish. Pardon me; that man is gone; excuse and
forget my violence. Resume thy game, Cincolo, but conclude it quickly,
for time gains on us. Hark! an hour of night sounds from the Campanile.”
“The game is already concluded,” said Buzeccha sorrowfully; “thy cloak
overthrew the best checkmate this head ever planned—so God forgive
thee!”
“Checkmate!” cried the indignant Cincolo—“Checkmate! and my queen mowing
you down, rank and file!”
“Let us begone!” exclaimed Ricciardo. “Messer Buzeccha, you will play
out your game with Monna Gegia. Cincolo will return ere long.” So taking
his host by the arm, he drew him out of the room, and descended the
narrow high stairs with the air of one to whom those stairs were not
unknown.