There is knowledge of these things to be had in the streets below, on the beloved marmi in front of the churches, and under the sheltering Loggie, where surely our citizens have still their gossip and debates, their bitter and merry jests as of old. For are not the well-remembered buildings all there? The changes have not been so great in those uncounted years. I will go down and hearI will tread the familiar pavement, and hear once again the speech of Florentines.
Go not down, good Spirit! for the changes are great and the speech of Florentines would sound as a riddle in your ears. Or, if you go, mingle with no politicians on the marmi, or elsewhere; ask no questions about trade in the Calimara; confuse yourself with no inquiries into scholarship, official or monastic. Only look at the sunlight and shadows on the grand walls that were built solidly, and have endured in their grandeur; look at the faces of the little children, making another sunlight amid the shadows of age; look, if you will, into the churches, and hear the same chants, see the same images as of oldthe images of willing anguish for a great end, of beneficent love and ascending glory; see upturned living faces, and lips moving to the old prayers for help. These things have not changed. The sunlight and shadows bring their old beauty and waken the old heart-strains at morning, noon, and eventide; the little children are still the symbol of the eternal marriage between love and duty; and men still yearn for the reign of peace and righteousnessstill own that life to be the highest which is a conscious voluntary sacrifice. For the Pope Angelico is not come yet.
Chapter One.
The Shipwrecked Stranger
The Loggia de Cerchi stood in the heart of old Florence, within a labyrinth of narrow streets behind the Badia, now rarely threaded by the stranger, unless in a dubious search for a certain severely simple doorplace, bearing this inscription:
Qui Nacque Il Divino Poeta.
To the ear of Dante, the same streets rang with the shout and clash of fierce battle between rival families; but in the fifteenth century, they were only noisy with the unhistorical quarrels and broad jests of woolcarders in the cloth-producing quarters of San Martino and Garbo.
Under this loggia, in the early morning of the 9th of April 1492, two men had their eyes fixed on each other: one was stooping slightly, and looking downward with the scrutiny of curiosity; the other, lying on the pavement, was looking upward with the startled gaze of a suddenly-awakened dreamer.
The standing figure was the first to speak. He was a grey-haired, broad-shouldered man, of the type which, in Tuscan phrase, is moulded with the fist and polished with the pickaxe; but the self-important gravity which had written itself out in the deep lines about his brow and mouth seemed intended to correct any contemptuous inferences from the hasty workmanship which Nature had bestowed on his exterior. He had deposited a large well-filled bag, made of skins, on the pavement, and before him hung a pedlars basket, garnished partly with small womans-ware, such as thread and pins, and partly with fragments of glass, which had probably been taken in exchange for those commodities.
Young man, he said, pointing to a ring on the finger of the reclining figure, when your chin has got a stiffer crop on it, youll know better than to take your nap in street-corners with a ring like that on your forefinger. By the holy vangels! if it had been anybody but me standing over you two minutes agobut Bratti Ferravecchi is not the man to steal. The cat couldnt eat her mouse if she didnt catch it alive, and Bratti couldnt relish gain if it had no taste of a bargain. Why, young man, one San Giovanni, three years ago, the Saint sent a dead body in my waya blind beggar, with his cap well-lined with piecesbut, if youll believe me, my stomach turned against the money Id never bargained for, till it came into my head that San Giovanni owed me the pieces for what I spend yearly at the Festa; besides, I buried the body and paid for a massand so I saw it was a fair bargain. But how comes a young man like you, with the face of Messer San Michele, to be sleeping on a stone bed with the wind for a curtain?
The deep guttural sounds of the speaker were scarcely intelligible to the newly-waked, bewildered listener, but he understood the action of pointing to his ring: he looked down at it, and, with a half-automatic obedience to the warning, took it off and thrust it within his doublet, rising at the same time and stretching himself.
Your tunic and hose match ill with that jewel, young man, said Bratti, deliberately. Anybody might say the saints had sent you a dead body; but if you took the jewels, I hope you buried himand you can afford a mass or two for him into the bargain.
Something like a painful thrill appeared to dart through the frame of the listener, and arrest the careless stretching of his arms and chest. For an instant he turned on Bratti with a sharp frown; but he immediately recovered an air of indifference, took off the red Levantine cap which hung like a great purse over his left ear, pushed back his long dark-brown curls, and glancing at his dress, said, smilingly
You speak truth, friend: my garments are as weather-stained as an old sail, and they are not old either, only, like an old sail, they have had a sprinkling of the sea as well as the rain. The fact is, Im a stranger in Florence, and when I came in footsore last night I preferred flinging myself in a corner of this hospitable porch to hunting any longer for a chance hostelry, which might turn out to be a nest of blood-suckers of more sorts than one.
A stranger, in good sooth, said Bratti, for the words come all melting out of your throat, so that a Christian and a Florentine cant tell a hook from a hanger. But youre not from Genoa? More likely from Venice, by the cut of your clothes?
At this present moment, said the stranger, smiling, it is of less importance where I come from than where I can go to for a mouthful of breakfast. This city of yours turns a grim look on me just here: can you show me the way to a more lively quarter, where I can get a meal and a lodging?
That I can, said Bratti, and it is your good fortune, young man, that I have happened to be walking in from Rovezzano this morning, and turned out of my way to Mercato Vecchio to say an Ave at the Badia. That, I say, is your good fortune. But it remains to be seen what is my profit in the matter. Nothing for nothing, young man. If I show you the way to Mercato Vecchio, youll swear by your patron saint to let me have the bidding for that stained suit of yours, when you set up a betteras doubtless you will.
Agreed, by San Niccolò, said the other, laughing. But now let us set off to this said Mercato, for I feel the want of a better lining to this doublet of mine which you are coveting.
Coveting? Nay, said Bratti, heaving his bag on his back and setting out. But he broke off in his reply, and burst out in loud, harsh tones, not unlike the creaking and grating of a cart-wheel: Chi abbarattabarattabrattachi abbaratta cenci e vetribratta ferri vecchi? (Who wants to exchange rags, broken glass, or old iron?)
Its worth but little, he said presently, relapsing into his conversational tone. Hose and altogether, your clothes are worth but little. Still, if youve a mind to set yourself up with a lute worth more than any new one, or with a sword thats been worn by a Ridolfi, or with a paternoster of the best mode, I could let you have a great bargain, by making an allowance for the clothes; for, simple as I stand here, Ive got the best-furnished shop in the Ferravecchi, and its close by the Mercato. The Virgin be praised! its not a pumpkin I carry on my shoulders. But I dont stay caged in my shop all day: Ive got a wife and a raven to stay at home and mind the stock. Chi abbarattabarattabratta? And now, young man, where do you come from, and whats your business in Florence?
Its worth but little, he said presently, relapsing into his conversational tone. Hose and altogether, your clothes are worth but little. Still, if youve a mind to set yourself up with a lute worth more than any new one, or with a sword thats been worn by a Ridolfi, or with a paternoster of the best mode, I could let you have a great bargain, by making an allowance for the clothes; for, simple as I stand here, Ive got the best-furnished shop in the Ferravecchi, and its close by the Mercato. The Virgin be praised! its not a pumpkin I carry on my shoulders. But I dont stay caged in my shop all day: Ive got a wife and a raven to stay at home and mind the stock. Chi abbarattabarattabratta? And now, young man, where do you come from, and whats your business in Florence?
I thought you liked nothing that came to you without a bargain, said the stranger. Youve offered me nothing yet in exchange for that information.
Well, well; a Florentine doesnt mind bidding a fair price for news: it stays the stomach a little though he may win no hose by it. If I take you to the prettiest damsel in the Mercato to get a cup of milkthat will be a fair bargain.
Nay; I can find her myself, if she be really in the Mercato; for pretty heads are apt to look forth of doors and windows. No, no. Besides, a sharp trader, like you, ought to know that he who bids for nuts and news, may chance to find them hollow.
Ah! young man, said Bratti, with a sideway glance of some admiration, you were not born of a Sundaythe salt-shops were open when you came into the world. Youre not a Hebrew, eh?come from Spain or Naples, eh? Let me tell you the Frati Minori are trying to make Florence as hot as Spain for those dogs of hell that want to get all the profit of usury to themselves and leave none for Christians; and when you walk the Calimara with a piece of yellow cloth in your cap, it will spoil your beauty more than a sword-cut across that smooth olive cheek of yours.Abbaratta, barattachi abbaratta?I tell you, young man, grey cloth is against yellow cloth; and theres as much grey cloth in Florence as would make a gown and cowl for the Duomo, and theres not so much yellow cloth as would make hose for Saint Christopherblessed be his name, and send me a sight of him this day!Abbaratta, baratta, brattachi abbaratta?
All that is very amusing information you are parting with for nothing, said the stranger, rather scornfully; but it happens not to concern me. I am no Hebrew.
See, now! said Bratti, triumphantly; Ive made a good bargain with mere words. Ive made you tell me something, young man, though youre as hard to hold as a lamprey. San Giovanni be praised! a blind Florentine is a match for two one-eyed men. But here we are in the Mercato.
They had now emerged from the narrow streets into a broad piazza, known to the elder Florentine writers as the Mercato Vecchio, or the Old Market. This piazza, though it had been the scene of a provision-market from time immemorial, and may, perhaps, says fond imagination, be the very spot to which the Fesulean ancestors of the Florentines descended from their high fastness to traffic with the rustic population of the valley, had not been shunned as a place of residence by Florentine wealth. In the early decades of the fifteenth century, which was now near its end, the Medici and other powerful families of the popolani grassi, or commercial nobility, had their houses there, not perhaps finding their ears much offended by the loud roar of mingled dialects, or their eyes much shocked by the butchers stalls, which the old poet Antonio Pucci accounts a chief glory, or dignita, of a market that, in his esteem, eclipsed the markets of all the earth beside. But the glory of mutton and veal (well attested to be the flesh of the right animals; for were not the skins, with the heads attached, duly displayed, according to the decree of the Signoria?) was just now wanting to the Mercato, the time of Lent not being yet over. The proud corporation, or Art, of butchers was in abeyance, and it was the great harvest-time of the market-gardeners, the cheesemongers, the vendors of macaroni, corn, eggs, milk, and dried fruits: a change which was apt to make the womens voices predominant in the chorus. But in all seasons there was the experimental ringing of pots and pans, the chinking of the money-changers, the tempting offers of cheapness at the old-clothes stalls, the challenges of the dicers, the vaunting of new linens and woollens, of excellent wooden-ware, kettles, and frying-pans; there was the choking of the narrow inlets with mules and carts, together with much uncomplimentary remonstrance in terms remarkably identical with the insults in use by the gentler sex of the present day, under the same imbrowning and heating circumstances. Ladies and gentlemen, who came to market, looked on at a larger amount of amateur fighting than could easily be seen in these later times, and beheld more revolting rags, beggary, and rascaldom, than modern householders could well picture to themselves. As the day wore on, the hideous drama of the gaming-house might be seen here by any chance open-air spectatorthe quivering eagerness, the blank despair, the sobs, the blasphemy, and the blows:
E vedesi chi perde con gran soffi,
E bestemmiar colla mano alia mascella,
E ricever e dar di molti ingoffi.
But still there was the relief of prettier sights: there were brood-rabbits, not less innocent and astonished than those of our own period; there were doves and singing-birds to be bought as presents for the children; there were even kittens for sale, and here and there a handsome gattuccio, or Tom, with the highest character for mousing; and, better than all, there were young, softly-rounded cheeks and bright eyes, freshened by the start from the far-off castello (walled village) at daybreak, not to speak of older faces with the unfading charm of honest goodwill in them, such as are never quite wanting in scenes of human industry. And high on a pillar in the centre of the placea venerable pillar, fetched from the church of San Giovannistood Donatellos stone statue of Plenty, with a fountain near it, where, says old Pucci, the good wives of the market freshened their utensils, and their throats also; not because they were unable to buy wine, but because they wished to save the money for their husbands.
But on this particular morning a sudden change seemed to have come over the face of the market. The deschi, or stalls, were indeed partly dressed with their various commodities, and already there were purchasers assembled, on the alert to secure the finest, freshest vegetables and the most unexceptionable butter. But when Bratti and his companion entered the piazza, it appeared that some common preoccupation had for the moment distracted the attention both of buyers and sellers from their proper business. Most of the traders had turned their backs on their goods, and had joined the knots of talkers who were concentrating themselves at different points in the piazza. A vendor of old-clothes, in the act of hanging out a pair of long hose, had distractedly hung them round his neck in his eagerness to join the nearest group; an oratorical cheesemonger, with a piece of cheese in one hand and a knife in the other, was incautiously making notes of his emphatic pauses on that excellent specimen of marzolino; and elderly market-women, with their egg-baskets in a dangerously oblique position, contributed a wailing fugue of invocation.