you, for an act of heresy.’ The boy lowered his head. ‘But not now. I will come back, to learn what I wish to know.’
Near the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova
‘ O H , D ANTE ! Always running, as if the Furies were after you!’
The poet froze, recognising the clumsy voice yelling abuse at him. The newcomer stood, legs spread, on the other side of the street, winking at him with a vulpine expression in his keen eyes. Then he raised his hand, gracefully moving his fingers like a flirtatious girl. His broad face was stamped with an ironic little smile.
‘Can I greet you, too? Or are only the Beatrices and your other girlfriends allowed to flash their eyes at you? And yet I too could make the air tremble as they do … with my farts, perhaps!’
The poet turned towards him, his fists clenched and his face bright red.
The other man shielded himself, with a comical expression of terror. ‘For the love of God, Prior, what a terrible face! The same one that I saw on the plain of Campaldino. That’s why we won: the Aretines had no one as terrible as you.’
Meanwhile Dante had reached him. He looked the man up and down, taking in his showy outfit. ‘Cecco, are you still here?’ he hissed. ‘You know there’s no place in Florence for debauchees and ne’er-do-wells. I thought you were already on your way to Rome: in the Eternal City there will certainly be more room for you and your enterprises, and the air there is more favourable to corruption.’
Cecco Angiolieri sat down on a stone at the corner of the crossroads, after carefully arranging his stockings and lifting his jerkin, the better to display his breeches.
‘And you should know that the laws of Florence forbid indecent and lubricious clothing. What in the devil’s name are you dressed like?’ the poet pressed him.
But the other man didn’t seem at all concerned. He gestured with his hands, indicating the people around him. ‘My friend, it is true that in the city of Boniface there are more taverns than stoups and more brothels than confessionals. And in fact it is there that my star revolves, regretting what I have done and gaining the indulgence of the
Centesimus
. But a stay in your virtuous city is obligatory for anyone setting off on the path of goodness and contrition. And as for my breeches,’ he went on, stretching out his squat legs and darting Dante a smug glance, ‘I must say that no one in Florence has complained, if the truth be known.’
Dante burst out laughing. ‘If you frequented our temples and lecture halls rather than our taverns, you would be less full of yourself.’
‘Ah, Dante, it’s the weight of terrible melancholy that is crushing me and dragging me from the good life. And, above all, an irritating lack of money. If my old man doesn’t decide to kick the bucket soon, and leave me the little he has left, I will be forced to beg. Unless you know of a decent opening somewhere. It looks as if things are going really well for you accursed Florentines. It could be that there’s a scrap of bread for me, too. I’m here to offer my services.’
‘To whom, might one know?’
‘Oh, there’s always someone who needs a sharp tongue or a ready hand. But you, on the other hand …’ Cecco winked at Dante, nudging him in the ribs. ‘Tell me about your work. What is the prince of Tuscan poets about to offer the world? I heard a rumour, among the Fedeli. A journey into the kingdom of the dead.’
‘Of the dead and those who will not die.’
‘Nothing less …’ Cecco murmured in an ironic voice. But Dante had plunged back into his reflections. ‘Apparently you want to match the French for arrogance,’ said the Sienese, pointing to the walls of the new Duomo, which were rising up behind Santa Reparata. ‘Vast cathedrals are being erected, with tall pinnacles and huge pointed vaults. It’s as if you want to build a stairway to God, rather than calling to him humbly here below, as we do in our churches.’
Dante, at
Near the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova
‘ O H , D ANTE ! Always running, as if the Furies were after you!’
The poet froze, recognising the clumsy voice yelling abuse at him. The newcomer stood, legs spread, on the other side of the street, winking at him with a vulpine expression in his keen eyes. Then he raised his hand, gracefully moving his fingers like a flirtatious girl. His broad face was stamped with an ironic little smile.
‘Can I greet you, too? Or are only the Beatrices and your other girlfriends allowed to flash their eyes at you? And yet I too could make the air tremble as they do … with my farts, perhaps!’
The poet turned towards him, his fists clenched and his face bright red.
The other man shielded himself, with a comical expression of terror. ‘For the love of God, Prior, what a terrible face! The same one that I saw on the plain of Campaldino. That’s why we won: the Aretines had no one as terrible as you.’
Meanwhile Dante had reached him. He looked the man up and down, taking in his showy outfit. ‘Cecco, are you still here?’ he hissed. ‘You know there’s no place in Florence for debauchees and ne’er-do-wells. I thought you were already on your way to Rome: in the Eternal City there will certainly be more room for you and your enterprises, and the air there is more favourable to corruption.’
Cecco Angiolieri sat down on a stone at the corner of the crossroads, after carefully arranging his stockings and lifting his jerkin, the better to display his breeches.
‘And you should know that the laws of Florence forbid indecent and lubricious clothing. What in the devil’s name are you dressed like?’ the poet pressed him.
But the other man didn’t seem at all concerned. He gestured with his hands, indicating the people around him. ‘My friend, it is true that in the city of Boniface there are more taverns than stoups and more brothels than confessionals. And in fact it is there that my star revolves, regretting what I have done and gaining the indulgence of the
Centesimus
. But a stay in your virtuous city is obligatory for anyone setting off on the path of goodness and contrition. And as for my breeches,’ he went on, stretching out his squat legs and darting Dante a smug glance, ‘I must say that no one in Florence has complained, if the truth be known.’
Dante burst out laughing. ‘If you frequented our temples and lecture halls rather than our taverns, you would be less full of yourself.’
‘Ah, Dante, it’s the weight of terrible melancholy that is crushing me and dragging me from the good life. And, above all, an irritating lack of money. If my old man doesn’t decide to kick the bucket soon, and leave me the little he has left, I will be forced to beg. Unless you know of a decent opening somewhere. It looks as if things are going really well for you accursed Florentines. It could be that there’s a scrap of bread for me, too. I’m here to offer my services.’
‘To whom, might one know?’
‘Oh, there’s always someone who needs a sharp tongue or a ready hand. But you, on the other hand …’ Cecco winked at Dante, nudging him in the ribs. ‘Tell me about your work. What is the prince of Tuscan poets about to offer the world? I heard a rumour, among the Fedeli. A journey into the kingdom of the dead.’
‘Of the dead and those who will not die.’
‘Nothing less …’ Cecco murmured in an ironic voice. But Dante had plunged back into his reflections. ‘Apparently you want to match the French for arrogance,’ said the Sienese, pointing to the walls of the new Duomo, which were rising up behind Santa Reparata. ‘Vast cathedrals are being erected, with tall pinnacles and huge pointed vaults. It’s as if you want to build a stairway to God, rather than calling to him humbly here below, as we do in our churches.’
Dante, at
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