And now many years have passed, and the noble gentleman, Filippo
Brandolini is the poor monk Giuliano; the gorgeous clothes, velvets and
satins, have given way to the brown sackcloth of the Seraphic Father;
and instead of golden belts my waist is girt with a hempen cord. And in
me, what changes have taken place! The brown hair, which women kissed,
is a little circlet in sign of the Redeemer's crown, and it is as white
as snow. My eyes are dim and sunken, my cheeks are hollow, and the skin
of my youth is ashy and wrinkled; the white teeth of my mouth have gone,
but my toothless gums suffice for the monkish fare; and I am old and
bent and weak.
* * * * *
One day in the spring I came to the terrace which overlooks the plain,
and as I sat down to warm myself in the sunshine, gazing at the broad
country which now I knew so well, and the distant hills, the wish came
to me to write the history of my life.
And now that, too, is done. I have nothing more to tell except that
from the day when I arrived, weary of soul, to the cool shade of the fir
trees, I have never gone into the world again. I gave my lands and
palaces to my brother in the hope that he would make better use of his
life than I, and to him I gave the charge of seeing that heirs were
given to the ancient name. I knew I had failed in everything. My life
had gone wrong, I know not why; and I had not the courage to adventure
further. I withdrew from the battle in my unfitness, and let the world
pass on and forget my poor existence.
* * * * *
Checco lived on, scheming and intriguing, wearing away his life in
attempts to regain his fatherland, and always he was disappointed,
always his hopes frustrated, till at last he despaired. And after six
years, worn out with his fruitless efforts, mourning the greatness he
had lost, and pining for the country he loved so well, he died of a
broken heart, an exile.
Matteo went back to his arms and the reckless life of the soldier of
fortune, and was killed bravely fighting against the foreign invader,
and died, knowing that his efforts, too, had been in vain, and that the
sweet land of Italy lay fallen and enslaved.
And I do not know whether they had not the better lot; for they are at
peace, while I--I pursue my lonely pilgrimage through life, and the goal
is ever far off. Now it cannot be much longer, my strength is failing,
and soon I shall have the peace I wished for. Oh God, I do not ask You
for crowns of gold and heavenly raiment, I do not aspire to the bliss
which is the portion of the saint, but give me rest. When the great
Release comes, give me rest; let me sleep the long sleep without
awakening, so that at last I may forget and be at peace. O God, give me
rest!
Often, as I trudged along the roads barefooted to gather food and alms,
have I wished to lay myself in the ditch by the wayside and die.
Sometimes I have heard the beating of the wings of the Angel of Death;
but he has taken the strong and the happy, and left me to wander on.
The good man told me I should receive happiness; I have not even
received forgetfulness. I go along the roads thinking of my life and the
love that ruined me. Ah! how weak I am; but, forgive me, I cannot help
myself! Sometimes when I have been able to do good I have felt a strange
delight, I have felt the blessed joy of charity. And I love my people,
the poor folk of the country round. They come to me in their troubles,
and when I can help them I share their pleasure. But that is all I have.
Ah! mine has been a useless life, I have wasted it; and if of late I
have done a little good to my fellowmen, alas! how little!
I bear my soul in patience, but sometimes I cannot help rising up
against fate, and crying out that it is hard that all this should happen
to me. Why? What had I done that I should be denied the little happiness
of this world? Why should I be more unhappy than others? But then I
chide myself, and ask whether I have indeed been less happy. Are they
any of them happy? Or are those right who say that the world is misery,
and that the only happiness is to die? Who knows?
Ah, Giulia, how I loved thee!
O Ciechi, il tanto affaticar che giova?
Tutti tornate alla gran madre antica,
E'l nome vostro appena si ritrova.
. . . . . . . .
Blind that ye are! How doth this struggle profit you?
Return ye must to the great Antique Mother,
And even your name scarcely remains.