First Impressions.
“Good-day, Messer Domenico,” said Nello to the foremost of the two
visitors who entered the shop, while he nodded silently to the other.
“You come as opportunely as cheese on macaroni. Ah! you are in
haste—wish to be shaved without delay—ecco! And this is a morning when
every one has grave matter on his mind. Florence orphaned—the very
pivot of Italy snatched away—heaven itself at a loss what to do next.
_Oimè_! Well, well; the sun is nevertheless travelling on towards
dinner-time again; and, as I was saying, you come like cheese ready
grated. For this young stranger was wishing for an honourable trader
who would advance him a sum on a certain ring of value, and if I had
counted every goldsmith and money-lender in Florence on my fingers, I
couldn’t have found a better name than Menico Cennini. Besides, he hath
other ware in which you deal—Greek learning, and young eyes—a double
implement which you printers are always in need of.”
The grave elderly man, son of that Bernardo Cennini, who, twenty years
before, having heard of the new process of printing carried on by
Germans, had cast his own types in Florence, remained necessarily in
lathered silence and passivity while Nello showered this talk in his
ears, but turned a slow sideway gaze on the stranger.
“This fine young man has unlimited Greek, Latin, or Italian at your
service,” continued Nello, fond of interpreting by very ample
paraphrase. “He is as great a wonder of juvenile learning as Francesco
Filelfo or our own incomparable Poliziano. A second Guarino, too, for
he has had the misfortune to be shipwrecked, and has doubtless lost a
store of precious manuscripts that might have contributed some
correctness even to your correct editions, Domenico. Fortunately, he
has rescued a few gems of rare value. His name is—you said your name,
Messer, was—?”
“Tito Melema,” said the stranger, slipping the ring from his finger,
and presenting it to Cennini, whom Nello, not less rapid with his razor
than with his tongue, had now released from the shaving-cloth.
Meanwhile the man who had entered the shop in company with the
goldsmith—a tall figure, about fifty, with a short trimmed beard,
wearing an old felt hat and a threadbare mantle—had kept his eye fixed
on the Greek, and now said abruptly—
“Young man, I am painting a picture of Sinon deceiving old Priam, and I
should be glad of your face for my Sinon, if you’d give me a sitting.”
Tito Melema started and looked round with a pale astonishment in his
face as if at a sudden accusation; but Nello left him no time to feel
at a loss for an answer: “Piero,” said the barber, “thou art the most
extraordinary compound of humours and fancies ever packed into a human
skin. What trick wilt thou play with the fine visage of this young
scholar to make it suit thy traitor? Ask him rather to turn his eyes
upward, and thou mayst make a Saint Sebastian of him that will draw
troops of devout women; or, if thou art in a classical vein, put myrtle
about his curls and make him a young Bacchus, or say rather a Phoebus
Apollo, for his face is as warm and bright as a summer morning; it made
me his friend in the space of a ‘credo.’”
“Ay, Nello,” said the painter, speaking with abrupt pauses; “and if thy
tongue can leave off its everlasting chirping long enough for thy
understanding to consider the matter, thou mayst see that thou hast
just shown the reason why the face of Messere will suit my traitor. A
perfect traitor should have a face which vice can write no marks
on—lips that will lie with a dimpled smile—eyes of such agate-like
brightness and depth that no infamy can dull them—cheeks that will rise
from a murder and not look haggard. I say not this young man is a
traitor: I mean, he has a face that would make him the more perfect
traitor if he had the heart of one, which is saying neither more nor
less than that he has a beautiful face, informed with rich young blood,
that will be nourished enough by food, and keep its colour without much
help of virtue. He may have the heart of a hero along with it; I aver
nothing to the contrary. Ask Domenico there if the lapidaries can
always tell a gem by the sight alone. And now I’m going to put the tow
in my ears, for thy chatter and the bells together are more than I can
endure: so say no more to me, but trim my beard.”
With these last words Piero (called “di Cosimo,” from his master,
Cosimo Rosselli) drew out two bits of tow, stuffed them in his ears,
and placed himself in the chair before Nello, who shrugged his
shoulders and cast a grimacing look of intelligence at the Greek, as
much as to say, “A whimsical fellow, you perceive! Everybody holds his
speeches as mere jokes.”
Tito, who had stood transfixed, with his long dark eyes resting on the
unknown man who had addressed him so equivocally, seemed recalled to
his self-command by Piero’s change of position, and apparently
satisfied with his explanation, was again giving his attention to
Cennini, who presently said—
“This is a curious and valuable ring, young man. This intaglio of the
fish with the crested serpent above it, in the black stratum of the
onyx, or rather nicolo, is well shown by the surrounding blue of the
upper stratum. The ring has, doubtless, a history?” added Cennini,
looking up keenly at the young stranger.
“Yes, indeed,” said Tito, meeting the scrutiny very frankly. “The ring
was found in Sicily, and I have understood from those who busy
themselves with gems and sigils, that both the stone and intaglio are
of virtue to make the wearer fortunate, especially at sea, and also to
restore to him whatever he may have lost. But,” he continued, smiling,
“though I have worn it constantly since I quitted Greece, it has not
made me altogether fortunate at sea, you perceive, unless I am to count
escape from drowning as a sufficient proof of its virtue. It remains to
be seen whether my lost chests will come to light; but to lose no
chance of such a result, Messer, I will pray you only to hold the ring
for a short space as pledge for a small sum far beneath its value, and
I will redeem it as soon as I can dispose of certain other gems which
are secured within my doublet, or indeed as soon as I can earn
something by any scholarly employment, if I may be so fortunate as to
meet with such.”
“That may be seen, young man, if you will come with me,” said Cennini.
“My brother Pietro, who is a better judge of scholarship than I, will
perhaps be able to supply you with a task that may test your
capabilities. Meanwhile, take back your ring until I can hand you the
necessary florins, and, if it please you, come along with me.”
“Yes, yes,” said Nello, “go with Messer Domenico, you cannot go in
better company; he was born under the constellation that gives a man
skill, riches, and integrity, whatever that constellation may be, which
is of the less consequence because babies can’t choose their own
horoscopes, and, indeed, if they could, there might be an inconvenient
rush of babies at particular epochs. Besides, our Phoenix, the
incomparable Pico, has shown that your horoscopes are all a nonsensical
dream—which is the less troublesome opinion. _Addio! bel giovane_!
don’t forget to come back to me.”
“No fear of that,” said Tito, beckoning a farewell, as he turned round
his bright face at the door. “You are to do me a great service:—that is
the most positive security for your seeing me again.”
“Say what thou wilt, Piero,” said Nello, as the young stranger
disappeared, “I shall never look at such an outside as that without
taking it as a sign of a lovable nature. Why, thou wilt say next that
Leonardo, whom thou art always raving about, ought to have made his
Judas as beautiful as Saint John! But thou art as deaf as the top of
Mount Morello with that accursed tow in thy ears. Well, well: I’ll get
a little more of this young man’s history from him before I take him to
Bardo Bardi.”