Part 31 (1/2)

_Dante._ Ah, yes! the truest, the purest, the least perishable, but not the sweetest. Here are the rue and hyssop; but where the rose?

_Beatrice._ Wicked must be whatever torments you: and will you let love do it? Love is the gentlest and kindest breath of G.o.d. Are you willing that the tempter should intercept it, and respire it polluted into your ear? Do not make me hesitate to pray to the Virgin for you, nor tremble lest she look down on you with a reproachful pity. To her alone, O Dante, dare I confide all my thoughts! Lessen not my confidence in my only refuge.

_Dante._ G.o.d annihilate a power so criminal! Oh, could my love flow into your breast with hers! It should flow with equal purity.

_Beatrice._ You have stored my little mind with many thoughts; dear because they are yours, and because they are virtuous. May I not, O my Dante! bring some of them back again to your bosom; as the _contadina_ lets down the string from the cottage-beam in winter, and culls a few bunches of the soundest for the master of the vineyard? You have not given me glory that the world should shudder at its eclipse. To prove that I am worthy of the smallest part of it, I must obey G.o.d; and, under G.o.d, my father. Surely the voice of Heaven comes to us audibly from a parent's lips. You will be great, and, what is above, all greatness, good.

_Dante._ Rightly and wisely, my sweet Beatrice, have you spoken in this estimate. Greatness is to goodness what gravel is to porphyry: the one is a movable acc.u.mulation, swept along the surface of the earth; the other stands fixed and solid and alone, above the violence of war and of the tempest; above all that is residuous of a wasted world. Little men build up great ones; but the snow colossus soon melts: the good stand under the eye of G.o.d; and therefore stand.

_Beatrice._ Now you are calm and reasonable, listen to me, Bice. You must marry.

_Dante._ Marry?

_Beatrice._ Unless you do, how can we meet again unreservedly? Worse, worse than ever! I cannot bear to see those large heavy tears following one another, heavy and slow as nuns at the funeral of a sister. Come, I will kiss off one, if you will promise me faithfully to shed no more. Be tranquil, be tranquil; only hear reason. There are many who know you; and all who know you must love you. Don't you hear me? Why turn aside? and why go farther off? I will have that hand. It twists about as if it hated its confinement. Perverse and peevish creature! you have no more reason to be sorry than I have; and you have many to the contrary which I have not. Being a man, you are at liberty to admire a variety, and to make a choice. Is that no comfort to you?

_Dante._

Bid this bosom cease to grieve?

Bid these eyes fresh objects see?

Where's the comfort to believe None might once have rivall'd me?

What! my freedom to receive?

Broken hearts, are they the free?

For another can I live When I may not live for thee?

_Beatrice._ I will never be fond of you again if you are so violent.

We have been together too long, and we may be noticed.

_Dante._ Is this our last meeting? If it is ... and that it is, my heart has told me ... you will not, surely you will not refuse....

_Beatrice._ Dante! Dante! they make the heart sad after: do not wish it. But prayers ... oh, how much better are they, how much quieter and lighter they render it! They carry it up to heaven with them; and those we love are left behind no longer.

FRA FILIPPO LIPPI AND POPE EUGENIUS THE FOURTH

_Eugenius._ Filippo! I am informed by my son Cosimo de' Medici of many things relating to thy life and actions, and among the rest, of thy throwing off the habit of a friar. Speak to me as to a friend. Was that well done?

_Filippo._ Holy Father! it was done most unadvisedly.

_Eugenius._ Continue to treat me with the same confidence and ingenuousness; and, beside the remuneration I intend to bestow on thee for the paintings wherewith thou hast adorned my palace, I will remove with my own hand the heavy acc.u.mulation of thy sins, and ward off the peril of fresh ones, placing within thy reach every worldly solace and contentment.

_Filippo._ Infinite thanks, Holy Father! from the innermost heart of your unworthy servant, whose duty and wishes bind him alike and equally to a strict compliance with your paternal commands.

_Eugenius._ Was it a love of the world and its vanities that induced thee to throw aside the frock?

_Filippo._ It was indeed, Holy Father! I never had the courage to mention it in confession among my manifold offences.

_Eugenius._ Bad! bad! Repentance is of little use to the sinner, unless he pour it from a full and overflowing heart into the capacious ear of the confessor. Ye must not go straightforward and bluntly up to your Maker, startling Him with the horrors of your guilty conscience.