God of Love

Huntly McCarthy Justin

Description

pubOne.info thank you for your continued support and wish to present you this new edition. This is the book of Lappo Lappi, called by his friends the careless, the happy-go-lucky, the devil-may-take-it, the God-knows-what. Called by his enemies drinker, swinker, tumbler, tinker, swiver. Called by many women that liked him pretty fellow, witty fellow, light fellow, bright fellow, bad fellow, mad fellow, and the like. Called by some women who once loved him Lapinello, Lappinaccio, little Lappo. Called now in God as a good religious should be, Lappentarius, from a sweet saint myself discovered - or invented; need we quibble? - in an ancient manuscript. And it is my merry purpose now, in a time when I, that am no longer merry, look back upon days and hours and weeks and months and years that were very merry indeed, propose to set down something of my own jolly doings and lovings, and incidentally to tell some things about a friend of mine that was never so merry as I was, though a thousand times wiser; and never so blithe as I was, though a thousand times the better man. For it seems to me now, in this cool grim grayness of my present way, with the cloisters for my kingdom and the nimbused frescoes on the walls for my old-time ballads and romances, as if my life that was so sunburnt and wine-sweetened and woman-kissed, my life that seemed to me as bright, every second of it, as bright ducats rushing in a pleasant plenteous stream from one hand to another, was after all intended to be no more than a kind of ironic commentary on, and petty contrast to, the life of my friend

Sujets

• Love
• Love (disambiguation)

Informations

• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 23 octobre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819913641
• Langue: English

Extrait

I
THE MAY-DAY QUEEN
This is the book of Lappo Lappi, called by hisfriends the careless, the happy-go-lucky, the devil-may-take-it,the God-knows-what. Called by his enemies drinker, swinker,tumbler, tinker, swiver. Called by many women that liked him prettyfellow, witty fellow, light fellow, bright fellow, bad fellow, madfellow, and the like. Called by some women who once loved himLapinello, Lappinaccio, little Lappo. Called now in God as a goodreligious should be, Lappentarius, from a sweet saint myselfdiscovered – or invented; need we quibble? – in an ancientmanuscript. And it is my merry purpose now, in a time when I, thatam no longer merry, look back upon days and hours and weeks andmonths and years that were very merry indeed, propose to set downsomething of my own jolly doings and lovings, and incidentally totell some things about a friend of mine that was never so merry asI was, though a thousand times wiser; and never so blithe as I was,though a thousand times the better man. For it seems to me now, inthis cool grim grayness of my present way, with the cloisters formy kingdom and the nimbused frescoes on the walls for my old-timeballads and romances, as if my life that was so sunburnt andwine-sweetened and woman-kissed, my life that seemed to me asbright, every second of it, as bright ducats rushing in a pleasantplenteous stream from one hand to another, was after all intendedto be no more than a kind of ironic commentary on, and pettycontrast to, the life of my friend.
He and I lived our youth out in the greatest andfairest of all cities that the world has ever seen, greater athousand times than Troy or Nineveh, or Babylon or Rome, and when Isay this you will know, of course, that I speak of the city ofFlorence, and we lived and loved at the same time, lived and lovedin so strangely different a fashion that it seems to me that if thetwo lives were set side by side after the fashion of MesserPlutarch of old days, they would form as diverting a pair ofopposites as any student of humanity could desire for hisentertainment.
I shall begin, with the favor and permission ofHeaven, where I think the business may rightly be said to begin.The time was a May morning, the morning of May-day, warm and brightwith sunlight, one of those mornings which makes a clod seem like apoet and a poet seem like a god. The place was the Piazza SantaFelicita, with the Arno flowing pretty full and freely now betweenits borders of mud. I can see it all as I write, as I saw ityesterday, that yesterday so many years ago when Lappo Lappi wasyoung and Lappentarius never dreamed of.
There is no lovelier day of all the years of daysfor Florence than May-day. On that day everybody is or seems to behappy; on that day the streets of the city are as musical as thecourses of the spheres. Youths and maidens, garlanded and gaylyraimented, go about fifing and piping, and trolling the chosensongs of spring. I think if a stranger should chance to visitFlorence for the first time on a May-day, with the festival welltoward, he might very well think that he had fallen back byfortunate chance into the youth of the world, when there wasnothing better nor wiser to do than to dance and sing and makemerry and make love. I have heard Messer Brunetto Latini declare,with great eloquence, that of all the cities man has ever upbuildedwith his busy fingers, the dear city of Cecrops, which SaintAugustine called the dear City of God – in a word, Athens, wassurely the loveliest wherein to live. But with all respect toMesser Brunetto, I would maintain that no city of Heathendom orChristendom could be more beautiful than Florence at any season ofthe year. What if it be now and then windy; now and then chilly;now and then dusty? I have talked with a traveller that told me hehad found the winters mighty bitter in Greece. But I think that inall the history of Florence there never was a May-day like thatMay-day. It was gloriously green and gold, gloriously blue andwhite, gloriously hot, and yet with a little cool, kissing breezethat made the flaming hours delectable. And, as I remember so well,I sat on the parapet of the bridge of the Holy Felicity.
Where the parapet of the embankment joined thebeginning of the bridge of the Santa Felicita there stood, in thosedays, a large, square, ornamental fountain. May be it stands therenow. I was banished from Florence at the same time as my friend,and we left our Mother of the Lilies to seek and find verydissimilar fortunes. This fountain had a niche above it, in whichniche he that built the fountain designed, no doubt, to set someimage of his own design. But he never carried out his purpose, whyor wherefore I neither knew nor cared, and in that niche someMagnifico that was kindly minded to the people had set up a stoneimage, a relic of the old beautiful pagan days, that had beenunearthed in some garden of his elsewhere. It was the figure of avery comely youth that was clothed in a Grecian tunic, and because,when it was first dug up, it showed some traces of color on thetunic and the naked legs and arms and the face and the hair,therefore one of the artificers of the said Magnifico took it uponhimself to paint all as, so he said, it had once been painted. Andhe made the limbs a flesh color, and gave the face its pinks, andthe lips their carnation, and the eyes their blackness, very livelyto see; and he adorned the hair very craftily with gold-leaf, andhe painted the shirt of the adorable boy a very living crimson. Itwas a very beautiful piece of work with all these embellishments,and though there were some that said it was an idol and should notbe tolerated, yet, for the most part, the Florentines liked it wellenough, and it saved the cost of a new statue for the vacantspace.
So it stood there this day that I think of and writeof, a very brave and radiant piece of color, too, for the eye torest on that had wearied of looking at the gray stone palace hardby, the palace of Messer Folco Portinari, that showed so gray andgrim in all weathers, save where the brown rust on its great ironlamps and on the great rings in the wall lent its dulness some hintof pigment. Over the wall that hid the garden of the palace I sawand see crimson roses hang and scarlet pomegranate blossoms.Opposite this gloomy house of the great man that was so well likedof the Florentines, against the pillars of the arcade, there stood,as I recall it, a bookseller's booth, where manuscripts wereoffered for sale on a board. Here he that had the means and theinclination could treat himself at a price to the wisdom of theancient world. I fear I was never one of those so minded. Thewisdom of my own world contented me to the full, and ever it seemedto me that it mattered less what Messer Plato or Messer Cicero saidon this matter and on that matter than what Messer Lappo Lappi saidand did in those affairs that intimately concerned him.
Now, on this day, which I see again so clearly, Iwas seated, as I say, on the parapet of the bridge, propped againstthe fountain. If I turned my head to the left, I could pleasemyself with a sight of the briskly painted statue of the youngGreek youth. If I turned my head to the right, I could look on theriver and the smiling country beyond. But, as it happened, I turnedmy head neither to the left nor to the right, but straight beforeme and a little below me. For I was singing a song to a lute for anaudience of pretty girls who looked up at me, some admiringly andsome mockingly, but all very approvingly. One of the girls wasnamed Jacintha, and one was named Barbara, and another, that hadhair of a reddish-yellow and pale, strange eyes, was calledBrigitta. There were also many others to whom, at this time, Icannot give a name, though I seem to see their faces very clearlyand hear the sound of their voices, as well I might, for I was verygood friends with most of them then or thereafter. And this is thesong that I was singing: "Flower of the lily or flower of the rose,My heart is a leaf on each love-wind that blows. A face at thewindow, a form at the door, Can capture my fancy as never before.My fancy was captured, since-well, let us say Since last night, orthe night before last, when I lay In the arms of – but, hush, Imust needs be discreet; So farewell, with a kiss for your hands andyour feet. I worship your fingers, I worship your toes, Flower ofthe lily or flower of the rose."
Then the girl Brigitta, she that had the red-goldhair and the eyes like pale glass, thrust her face very near to meand said, laughing, "Messer Lappo, Messer Lappo, who is yoursweetheart?"
And I, who was ever ready with a brisk compliment topretty maid or pretty woman, or pretty matron, answered her asswiftly as you please, "She shall be named by your name, dainty, ifyou will lend me a kiss of the lips."
And, indeed, I wished she would give me my will, forat that time I had a great desire for Brigitta; but she onlypinched up her face to a grin, and answered me, teasingly, "Nay, Icannot kiss you; I think you have a Ghibelline mouth."
Now this seemed to me a foolish answer as well as apert one, for, besides that I was ever a Guelph and a Red, I thinkthat politics have no business to interfere with the pleasantcommerce and suave affairs of love, so I answered her reprovingly."Kisses have no causes," said I; "I will kiss Guelph-wise; I willkiss Ghibelline-wise; I will kiss Red; I will kiss Yellow; it's allone to me, so long as the mouth be like yours, as pink as a cleftpomegranate, and the teeth as white as its seeds."
Now at this Jacintha, who had eyes the color ofamethysts, and dark hair with a purplish stain in it, wagged afinger at me reprovingly, saying, "I fear you are a wanton wooer."And at this all the other girls laughed like the jolly wantons theywere.
But I pretended to take it all mighty seriously, andanswered as solemnly as any philosopher, "Never say it, never thinkit. I am the golden rose of constancy; I have loved a lass forthre