M

ESSER ENRICO CAPRA, the goldsmith of Bergamo, was in the year 1374, as certain veracious chronicles of his day instruct us, a famous man, justly admired and respected through all the neighboring country-side. His reputation for good workmanship had extended, on the one hand, far up the valleys of the Brembo and the Serio, those tributaries of the River Adda which encircle his native stronghold; and, on the other, it had travelled eastward at least as far as Brescia, where a fine crucifix from his hand stood in the old cathedral. If his name and fame had not spread abroad over the Lombard plain to its great capital of Milan, and, thence, with everwidening vibrations to the horizon's verge, why, that, according to his fellow-citizens, was entirely his own fault. For, while they could praise without reserve the excelling art which had brought him ease and wealth in middle life, they were compelled, with the same breath, to deplore its abrupt, ineffectual end. He had chosen to hide his talent in the earth at the moment of its perfection. And that, unhappily, was long ago; for fifteen years and more this talent had proved unfruitful. In art, not to produce incessantly is to cease to exist; and Messer Enrico Capra, at the age of sixtythree, still vigorous, intelligent, and lovable, had become, so far as art recognized him, a creature of the past; for present shortcomings, irresistibly compared by his friends and kindred to the unprofitable servant who was cast into outer darkness at the divine command.

Though he had remained a bachelor and lived alone, except for a houseful of servants, there was little of the recluse about him. The house stood upon a narrow street near the workshop, which had passed long since into other hands; outwardly, it was a modest abode, unadorned and unpretentious; within, it showed no lack of comfort. At the back, a sunny little garden, sloping to the southwest near an angle of the bastions, had a wide prosVOL. XXXVI.-69

pect over hill and plain; so wide that the guests, who were often entertained there unceremoniously, but sufficiently, could discern on a clear day the towers of three cities-Monza, Treviglio, and Milan. It was the last, undoubtedly, which suggested a byword, first whispered among these few, to pass current afterward in the townthe byword, namely, that Messer Enrico, the famous goldsmith, could walk in his own garden and look beyond his fame.

Messer Enrico, himself, hardly knew how often he had looked beyond it to those same distant towers of the Lombard capital. For beneath them had once lived for many years the man who, unwittingly at first, then despite his own urgent remonstrance, had been the sole cause of the goldsmith's strange cessation from artistic labor; the man who was the foremost scholar of his time, the leader of thought so distinguished that he burst all bonds of hampering tradition and freed the world of letters from the shackles of theology; no less a man than the great Petrarchpoet, philosopher, and historian, friend and counsellor of princes, hermit of Vaucluse and Arquà, sage of Venice and Padua, as well as of Milan, where, humblest if not least among his admirers, the worthy goldsmith of Bergamo was first admitted to his presence.

That the establishment of a personal relation with the master should have been to this devotee a difficult task is not surprising. The age was marked by a genuine interest in literature; Dante had but lately died, and Boccaccio's star had risen. Between the two shone Petrarch, whose transcendent lustre constituted him the supreme arbiter, to whom all literary craftsmen of any pretension appealed as a matter of course. And these competitors for the laurel were innumerable, even as the sands of the sea. For it was not only an age of great promise and performance, but also one of futile attempt and deadly imitation. The mania of authorship had grown into a malignant disorder, from which there seemed to be no immunity for

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denied them all, and, descending at Messer Enrico's house, delighted in its treasures; how, after a royal banquet, he slept upon a purple couch, surrounded by the choicest books, in a chamber glittering with gold, where none had slept before, and none ever should sleep again; finally, how, on the following day, he departed, oppressed with honors, escorted by the city fathers; and taking leave of his infatuated host, when the homeward journey was half over, actually feared that the good man might lose his reason, or die from excess of joy. But, on the contrary, since that eventful day of long ago, it could truly be said that Messer Enrico Capra had lived upon its recollection.

Into the master's life, however, time and circumstance brought many a change. The cares of Petrarch multiplied; he became involved in state affairs, was sent abroad to one foreign court after another upon diplomatic missions. To years of enforced wandering succeeded years of restlessness; he removed from Milan to Venice, thence to Padua, where age came upon him suddenly; and, in declining health, he made still another move-the final one. Twelve miles away, at Arquà, in the Euganean Hills, he built an ideal hermitage. There, amid his books and flowers, the closing years of his life were passed in perfect peace. Until his last hour the scholarly pursuits which he loved best never ceased to interest him. His motto was the text from Ecclesiasticus: "When a man hath done, then he beginneth; and when he leaveth off, then he shall be doubtful." Yet if, now and then, some remote rumor of the world penetrated to his quiet sanctuary, it brought him no disturbance. Upon the world's distractions he had turned his back forever.

Time, dealing thus with the master, wrought upon the disciple likewise its inevitable changes. For many years Messer Enrico's stream of life flowed calmly on with few reinforcements from the fountainhead. After Petrarch's departure from Milan, the goldsmith never looked upon his face again. Gradually even the correspondence languished, coming at last with a perceptible shade of bitterness to its end. For this some fault justly might have been alleged on both sides, yet its direct cause was the goldsmith's persistent endeavor to

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gain a boon which had never been absolutely denied him. He had long desired to possess a copy of Petrarch's Italian verses, prepared by the master's own hand. In the series of sonnets, so graceful, so melodious, of which unrequited love for Laurā forms the theme, Messer Enrico found the highest expression of his idol's genius; and the world has confirmed that judgment in manifold editions of the little book, proclaimed incomparable. But in the eyes its author, it was a youthful trifle, crude, immature, almost unworthy of preservation. While, therefore, he refrained from dismissing the goldsmith's request for the manuscript with a blunt refusal, and even consented to make the copy, he did not conceal the fact that his compliance was a reluctant one. With the procrastination which developed in his later life, he postponed the labor of love from day to day, from week to week, from year to year. In the meantime, relying upon the half-hearted assurance, Messer Enrico devoted himself to preparing a receptacle worthy of what would prove his richest treasure. He designed a golden casket, so splendid that its counterpart had never been imagined. It was adorned with reliefs illustrating the sonnets, the life and death of Laura; and these were upheld by groups of figures drawn from the argument of the immortal poem, wherein Death triumphed over Love, Fame over Death, Time over Fame, and Eternity over all. This, when finished, should be another wonder of the world, and the goldsmith, resuming the art he had long neglected, brought all his skill to bear upon it. Petrarch, duly advised of the scheme, at first professed keen interest. He renewed his promise, and began his copy of the manuscript; but the interest waned, the work was delayed, cast aside; and fulfilment of the promise seemed farther off than ever when the goldsmith's own work on the great casket drew near its end. Word reached him of his master's removal to Arquà, whither he sent an appeal, pathetically urgent. No answer came. The setting upon which he had toiled for years in secret had received its final touches, yet it still lacked the precious jewel. The good goldsmith was human; waiting vainly, he sometimes permitted his vexation to break forth in sharp reproaches; but these were. always followed by a mood of repentance

wherein he framed excuses for this cruel neglect which time must surely justify. After twenty years of blind faith, one journeys backward slowly to the point of recantation.

The casket, wrapped in cloth of gold, was hidden away in the richly furnished chamber, devoted to memorials of the master, which Messer Enrico revisited alone at long intervals. One brilliant day in spring he unlocked the door again, unbarred the shutters, flooded the room with light. The sunshine streamed upon its golden walls, playing about the heap of ashes on the hearth, touching lightly one half-burned brand there, which, alas! would never be rekindled. Opposite, on a small table at the bedside, lay a pile of books, just as the beloved hand had left them, long ago. They were buried in dust, but, at the risk of disturbing their arrangement, Messer Enrico would not brush away a grain of it. Sighing, he made his round, as he had often done before; and then, returning to the table, looked down at it in silence. The room was still as death; its windows opened upon the garden, and from without came only a murmur of the rose-leaves, with the call of a blackbird growing fainter in the distance. These were sounds too slight to hear. But, suddenly, a nearer and sharper sound behind him interrupted his reverie. He turned, with a start, to find that the only intruder was the playful breeze which, scattering the ash-heap, had tumbled the charred stick down upon the hearth-stone and broken it. But, in turning, he caught his robe upon a corner of the table; a book slipped off, opening as it fell; and a loose bit of parchment fluttered out between the leaves. He picked this up, perceiving, to his surprise, some lines of verse written upon it, in Petrarch's own handwriting. They were incomplete and blurred by corrections, breaking off in the middle of a phrase; but they were addressed "To My Good Friend, Messer Enrico Capra," whose eyes now filled with tears as he tried to read them. He soon discovered that he had lighted, by chance, upon an unfinished sonnet in which the master had intended to express sympathy with his courteous host, and to do him honor. The intention had never been carried out; yet the kindly thought was there in this rough draft, and its discovery

touched Messer Enrico deeply. All the force of his affection revived at once. Before the day was done he had dispatched to Arquà an account of his little adventure and its effect upon him, without even a reference to the unfulfilled obligation, or any note whatsoever of complaint. To omit all mention of his bitter disappointment at this time was to make a strong entreaty, as he well knew; and the master, reading between the lines of the letter, so understood it. His prompt reply was a prayer for tolerance. "Kind and devoted friend," he wrote, "thou art of all men the gentlest, the most forgiving. Know, then, that my broken covenant with thee is to me a weight of sorrow. Let thy indulgence absolve me. I have declined into the autumn of my years; but ere this year's harvest is fully garnered, the covenant shall be redeemed. To this I pledge my hand."

With infinite joy Messer Enrico returned thanks for the remorseful acknowledgment, and resigned himself again to patient waiting. Spring passed; midsummer came; the vintage would be an early one, they said, though it was still far off. He watched for that, noting each day the season's progress, smiling at the petty hopes of gain, so dear to his neighbors. And when evening fell, he strolled alone upon the city walls through the lengthening shadows, not to take delight in the sunset, but to look eastward over the plain. This habit grew, until his fellow-townsmen regarded it with wonder; and when he lingered at his favorite angle of the rampart, they shrugged their shoulders, whispering: "There is Messer Enrico on the watch again! What does he find to see, that we do not? What messenger is he expecting ?"

One July evening of the year 1374, as he stood musing in his wonted place, his attention was suddenly arrested by a strange excitement in the lower town. Along one of its narrow streets groups of men were forming to discuss some question eagerly. The news, whatever it was, spread from the door of one wine-shop to another, handed on with emphatic gestures. All this stir provoked him to inquiry. He hurried down the nearest flight of steps into the gloom of a vaulted passage, leading out below the walls. There, in the dark, he met the dreadful word. Petrarch was

dead! Stunned by the shock, as if a savage hand had struck him, he stumbled on, tracing the word to its source with incoherent questions, until he confirmed the news beyond a doubt. His noble master had died ten days before at Arquà, quietly, without pain, falling asleep in his chair, among his books, alone. This became clear, and at this point all struggle ceased. Nothing else was clear for a long time.

II

Six weeks later Messer Enrico came to himself, and was informed by Marcello, his faithful servant, that he had been desperately ill of a fever, wavering between life and death. When he learned the duration of his illness, his mind reverted at once to the vanishing point, and he brooded, in silence, upon the insupportable sorrow. An hour afterward he roused himself to ask, abruptly, if nothing in all these days and weeks had come from Arquà. Was there no letter? no message? In anxiety that he could not comprehend, his attendant, with a negative sign, entreated him to sleep. Not until his convalescence was it explained to him that this question, many times repeated, had been the haunting theme of his delirium. It haunted him still, though he was careful not to betray himself. Had nothing come from Arquà? No-nothing, nothing. Yet something would come, surely. To that hope he clung with obstinate persistence. Had he not his master's word for it? Would not that hold good, even though the master were in his grave ?

The cool, bright days of autumn restored him to his little world. He was a well man, now, he said. But others could perceive, though he did not, the ineffaceable signs of his long illness; in its course he had passed from vigor to old age. Health and strength might still be his, yet with a difference; it was clear that he must refrain from overtaxing them. Of this limitation, however, he seemed quite unconscious, when he walked and talked among his neighbors, planning a little journey that should give him necessary change to set the seal upon his recovery—a journey to Padua and Venice, as he took care to state. Thus, by slow degrees, he warned

them of his departure. And thus they heard, one day, without surprise, the news that he was gone.

Disregarding all advice to the contrary, he set forth entirely alone. But though his steps turned toward the East, neither to Padua nor Venice did he direct them. His goal of pilgrimage, so cautiously defended from cold indifference or idle jest, was Arquà only-Arquà, the simple mountain village-Árquà Petrarca, coup

led forevermore with the dead master's name. Journeying by easy stages, he turned at Este from the Paduan highway, and struck off into the hills. Through the haze of a fine October afternoon, he climbed the last slope, over a rough road that ended in a group of houses irregularly placed about the open square, dusty and grass-grown, which formed the nucleus of the little town. At one side stood the inn, denoted only by a withered branch above its door; and across the farther end stretched the long, low wall of a church, severe in line, without adornment. From its tower the call to vespers rang insistently, as if to hasten the steps of certain loiterers drawn tardily to the office; but that summons was not sharp enough; for while the stranger paused to look about him, a beadle enforced it sternly, driving the stragglers in like sheep. Messer Enrico was moved piously to follow them. But, as he crossed the square, his purpose changed; he stopped with a cry, kneeling then and there in the dust, at sight of the line carved upon a quaint monument which stood near the church-door in the shadow of the wall.

Frigida Francisci lapis hic tegit ossa Petrarce! This, then, was the master's tomb! This rude sarcophagus of red marble, raised upon four short columns above the level of vulgar life, to dignify the barren place and be its glory and its ornament till time should cease and earthly honor sweep into oblivion! The poor townsmen and their parish officer had passed it by, carelessly; they dispersed as they assembled, with slow indifference, while the stranger watched them from his window at the inn, whither he had turned for lodging. This, though the best which the town afforded, was of so primitive a sort that the host mumbled profuse apologies for its deficiencies; but the window