by George Eliot
CHAPTER THREE.
THE BARBER'S SHOP.
"To tell you the truth," said the young stranger to Nello, as they got alittle clearer of the entangled vehicles and mules, "I am not sorry tobe handed over by that patron of mine to one who has a less barbarousaccent, and a less enigmatical business. Is it a common thing among youFlorentines for an itinerant trafficker in broken glass and rags to talkof a shop where he sells lutes and swords?"
"Common? No: our Bratti is not a common man. He has a theory, andlives up to it, which is more than I can say for any philosopher I havethe honour of shaving," answered Nello, whose loquacity, like anover-full bottle, could never pour forth a small dose. "Bratti means toextract the utmost possible amount of pleasure, that is to say, of hardbargaining, out of this life; winding it up with a bargain for theeasiest possible passage through purgatory, by giving Holy Church hiswinnings when the game is over. He has had his will made to that effecton the cheapest terms a notary could be got for. But I have often saidto him, `Bratti, thy bargain is a limping one, and thou art on the lameside of it. Does it not make thee a little sad to look at the picturesof the Paradiso? Thou wilt never be able there to chaffer for rags andrusty nails: the saints and angels want neither pins nor tinder; andexcept with San Bartolommeo, who carries his skin about in aninconvenient manner, I see no chance of thy making a bargain forsecond-hand clothing.' But God pardon me," added Nello, changing histone, and crossing himself, "this light talk ill beseems a morning whenLorenzo lies dead, and the Muses are tearing their hair--always apainful thought to a barber; and you yourself, Messere, are probablyunder a cloud, for when a man of your speech and presence takes up withso sorry a night's lodging, it argues some misfortune to have befallenhim."
"What Lorenzo is that whose death you speak of?" said the stranger,appearing to have dwelt with too anxious an interest on this point tohave noticed the indirect inquiry that followed it.
"What Lorenzo? There is but one Lorenzo, I imagine, whose death couldthrow the Mercato into an uproar, set the lantern of the Duomo leapingin desperation, and cause the lions of the Republic to feel under animmediate necessity to devour one another. I mean Lorenzo de' Medici,the Pericles of our Athens--if I may make such a comparison in the earof a Greek."
"Why not?" said the other, laughingly; "for I doubt whether Athens, evenin the days of Pericles, could have produced so learned a barber."
"Yes, yes; I thought I could not be mistaken," said the rapid Nello,"else I have shaved the venerable Demetrio Calcondila to little purpose;but pardon me, I am lost in wonder: your Italian is better than his,though he has been in Italy forty years--better even than that of theaccomplished Marullo, who may be said to have married the Italic Muse inmore senses than one, since he has married our learned and lovelyAlessandra Scala."
"It will lighten your wonder to know that I come of a Greek stockplanted in Italian soil much longer than the mulberry-trees which havetaken so kindly to it. I was born at Bari, and my--I mean, I wasbrought up by an Italian--and, in fact, I am a Greek, very much as yourpeaches are Persian. The Greek dye was subdued in me, I suppose, till Ihad been dipped over again by long abode and much travel in the land ofgods and heroes. And, to confess something of my private affairs toyou, this same Greek dye, with a few ancient gems I have about me, isthe only fortune shipwreck has left me. But--when the towers fall, youknow it is an ill business for the small nest-builders--the death ofyour Pericles makes me wish I had rather turned my steps towards Rome,as I should have done but for a fallacious Minerva in the shape of anAugustinian monk. `At Rome,' he said, `you will be lost in a crowd ofhungry scholars; but at Florence, every corner is penetrated by thesunshine of Lorenzo's patronage: Florence is the best market in Italyfor such commodities as yours.'"
"_Gnaffe_, and so it will remain, I hope," said Nello, "Lorenzo was notthe only patron and judge of learning in our city--heaven forbid!Because he was a large melon, every other Florentine is not a pumpkin, Isuppose. Have we not Bernardo Rucellai, and Alamanno Rinuccini, andplenty more? And if you want to be informed on such matters, I, Nello,am your man. It seems to me a thousand years till I can be of serviceto a _bel erudito_ like yourself. And, first of all, in the matter ofyour hair. That beard, my fine young man, must be parted with, were itas dear to you as the nymph of your dreams. Here at Florence, we lovenot to see a man with his nose projecting over a cascade of hair. But,remember, you will have passed the Rubicon, when once you have beenshaven: if you repent, and let your beard grow after it has acquiredstoutness by a struggle with the razor, your mouth will by-and-by showno longer what Messer Angelo calls the divine prerogative of lips, butwill appear like a dark cavern fringed with horrent brambles."
"That is a terrible prophecy," said the Greek, "especially if yourFlorentine maidens are many of them as pretty as the little Tessa Istole a kiss from this morning."
"Tessa? she is a rough-handed contadina: you will rise into the favourof dames who bring no scent of the mule-stables with them. But to thatend, you must not have the air of a _sgherro_, or a man of evil repute:you must look like a courtier, and a scholar of the more polished sort,such as our Pietro Crinito--like one who sins among well-bred, well-fedpeople, and not one who sucks down vile _vino di sotto_ in a chancetavern."
"With all my heart," said the stranger. "If the Florentine Gracesdemand it, I am willing to give up this small matter of my beard, but--"
"Yes, yes," interrupted Nello. "I know what you would say. It is the_bella zazzera_--the hyacinthine locks, you do not choose to part with;and there is no need. Just a little pruning--ecco!--and you will looknot unlike the illustrious prince Pico di Mirandola in his prime. Andhere we are in good time in the Piazza San Giovanni, and at the door ofmy shop. But you are pausing, I see: naturally, you want to look at ourwonder of the world, our Duomo, our Santa Maria del Fiore. Well, well,a mere glance; but I beseech you to leave a closer survey till you havebeen shaved: I am quivering with the inspiration of my art even to thevery edge of my razor. Ah, then, come round this way."
The mercurial barber seized the arm of the stranger, and led him to apoint, on the south side of the piazza, from which he could see at oncethe huge dark shell of the cupola, the slender soaring grace of Giotto'scampanile, and the quaint octagon of San Giovanni in front of them,showing its unique gates of storied bronze, which still bore thesomewhat dimmed glory of their original gilding. The inlaid marbleswere then fresher in their pink, and white, and purple, than they arenow, when the winters of four centuries have turned their white to therich ochre of well-mellowed meerschaum; the facade of the cathedral didnot stand ignominious in faded stucco, but had upon it the magnificentpromise of the half-completed marble inlaying and statued niches, whichGiotto had devised a hundred and fifty years before; and as thecampanile in all its harmonious variety of colour and form led the eyesupward, high into the clear air of this April morning, it seemed aprophetic symbol, telling that human life must somehow and some timeshape itself into accord with that pure aspiring beauty.
But this was not the impression it appeared to produce on the Greek.His eyes were irresistibly led upward, but as he stood with his armsfolded and his curls falling backward, there was a slight touch of scornon his lip, and when his eyes fell again they glanced round with ascanning coolness which was rather piquing to Nello's Florentine spirit.
"Well, my fine young man," he said, with some impatience, "you seem tomake as little of our Cathedral as if you were the Angel Gabriel comestraight from Paradise. I should like to know if you have ever seenfiner work than our Giotto's tower, or any cupola that would not look amere mushroom by the side of Brunelleschi's there, or any marbles fineror more cunningly wrought than these that our Signoria got from far-offquarries, at a price that would buy a dukedom. Come, now, have you everseen anything to equal them?"
"If you asked me that question with a scimitar at my throat, after theTurkish fashion, or even your own razor," said the young Greek, smilinggaily, and moving on towa
rds the gates of the Baptistery, "I daresay youmight get a confession of the true faith from me. But with my throatfree from peril, I venture to tell you that your buildings smack toomuch of Christian barbarism for my taste. I have a shuddering sense ofwhat there is inside--hideous smoked Madonnas; fleshless saints inmosaic, staring down idiotic astonishment and rebuke from the apse;skin-clad skeletons hanging on crosses, or stuck all over with arrows,or stretched on gridirons; women and monks with heads aside in perpetuallamentation. I have seen enough of those wry-necked favourites ofheaven at Constantinople. But what is this bronze door rough withimagery? These women's figures seem moulded in a different spirit fromthose starved and staring saints I spoke of: these heads in high reliefspeak of a human mind within them, instead of looking like an index toperpetual spasms and colic."
"Yes, yes," said Nello, with some triumph. "I think we shall show youby-and-by that our Florentine art is not in a state of barbarism. Thesegates, my fine young man, were moulded half a century ago, by ourLorenzo Ghiberti, when he counted hardly so many years as you do."
"Ah, I remember," said the stranger, turning away, like one whoseappetite for contemplation was soon satisfied. "I have heard that yourTuscan sculptors and painters have been studying the antique a little.But with monks for models, and the legends of mad hermits and martyrsfor subjects, the vision of Olympus itself would be of small use tothem."
"I understand," said Nello, with a significant shrug, as they walkedalong. "You are of the same mind as Michele Marullo, ay, and as AngeloPoliziano himself, in spite of his canonicate, when he relaxes himself alittle in my shop after his lectures, and talks of the gods awaking fromtheir long sleep and making the woods and streams vital once more. Buthe rails against the Roman scholars who want to make us all talk Latinagain: `My ears,' he says, `are sufficiently flayed by the barbarisms ofthe learned, and if the vulgar are to talk Latin I would as soon havebeen in Florence the day they took to beating all the kettles in thecity because the bells were not enough to stay the wrath of the saints.'Ah, Messer Greco, if you want to know the flavour of our scholarship,you must frequent my shop: it is the focus of Florentine intellect, andin that sense the navel of the earth--as my great predecessor,Burchiello, said of _his_ shop, on the more frivolous pretension thathis street of the Calimara was the centre of our city. And here we areat the sign of `Apollo and the Razor.' Apollo, you see, is bestowingthe razor on the Triptolemus of our craft, the first reaper of beards,the sublime _Anonimo_, whose mysterious identity is indicated by ashadowy hand."
"I see thou hast had custom already, Sandro," continued Nello,addressing a solemn-looking dark-eyed youth, who made way for them onthe threshold. "And now make all clear for this signor to sit down.And prepare the finest-scented lather, for he has a learned and ahandsome chin."
"You have a pleasant little adytum there, I see," said the stranger,looking through a latticed screen which divided the shop from a room ofabout equal size, opening into a still smaller walled enclosure, where afew bays and laurels surrounded a stone Hermes. "I suppose yourconclave of _eruditi_ meets there?"
"There, and not less in my shop," said Nello, leading the way into theinner room, in which were some benches, a table, with one book inmanuscript and one printed in capitals lying open upon it, a lute, a fewoil-sketches, and a model or two of hands and ancient masks. "For myshop is a no less fitting haunt of the Muses, as you will acknowledgewhen you feel the sudden illumination of understanding and the serenevigour of inspiration that will come to you with a clear chin. Ah! youcan make that lute discourse, I perceive. I, too, have some skill thatway, though the serenata is useless when daylight discloses a visagelike mine, looking no fresher than an apple that has stood the winter.But look at that sketch: it is a fancy of Piero di Cosimo's, a strangefreakish painter, who says he saw it by long looking at a mouldy wall."
The sketch Nello pointed to represented three masks--one a drunkenlaughing Satyr, another a sorrowing Magdalen, and the third, which laybetween them, the rigid, cold face of a Stoic: the masks restedobliquely on the lap of a little child, whose cherub features rose abovethem with something of the supernal promise in the gaze which paintershad by that time learned to give to the Divine Infant.
"A symbolical picture, I see," said the young Greek, touching the lutewhile he spoke, so as to bring out a slight musical murmur. "The child,perhaps, is the Golden Age, wanting neither worship nor philosophy. Andthe Golden Age can always come back as long as men are born in the formof babies, and don't come into the world in cassock or furred mantle.Or, the child may mean the wise philosophy of Epicurus, removed alikefrom the gross, the sad, and the severe."
"Ah! everybody has his own interpretation for that picture," said Nello;"and if you ask Piero himself what he meant by it, he says his picturesare an appendix which Messer Domeneddio has been pleased to make to theuniverse, and if any man is in doubt what they mean, he had betterinquire of Holy Church. He has been asked to paint a picture after thesketch, but he puts his fingers to his ears and shakes his head at that;the fancy is past, he says--a strange animal, our Piero. But now all isready for your initiation into the mysteries of the razor."
"Mysteries they may well be called," continued the barber, with risingspirits at the prospect of a long monologue, as he imprisoned the youngGreek in the shroud-like shaving-cloth; "mysteries of Minerva and theGraces. I get the flower of men's thoughts, because I seize them in thefirst moment after shaving. (Ah! you wince a little at the lather: ittickles the outlying limits of the nose, I admit.) And that is whatmakes the peculiar fitness of a barber's shop to become a resort of witand learning. For, look now at a druggist's shop: there is a dullconclave at the sign of `The Moor,' that pretends to rival mine; butwhat sort of inspiration, I beseech you, can be got from the scent ofnauseous vegetable decoctions?--to say nothing of the fact that you nosooner pass the threshold than you see a doctor of physic, like agigantic spider disguised in fur and scarlet, waiting for his prey; oreven see him blocking up the doorway seated on a bony hack, inspectingsaliva. (Your chin a little elevated, if it please you: contemplatethat angel who is blowing the trumpet at you from the ceiling. I had itpainted expressly for the regulation of my clients' chins.) Besides,your druggist, who herborises and decocts, is a man of prejudices: hehas poisoned people according to a system, and is obliged to stand upfor his system to justify the consequences. Now a barber can bedispassionate; the only thing he necessarily stands by is the razor,always providing he is not an author. That was the flaw in my greatpredecessor Burchiello: he was a poet, and had consequently a prejudiceabout his own poetry. I have escaped that; I saw very early thatauthorship is a narrowing business, in conflict with the liberal art ofthe razor, which demands an impartial affection for all men's chins.Ecco, Messer! the outline of your chin and lip is as clear as amaiden's; and now fix your mind on a knotty question--ask yourselfwhether you are bound to spell Virgil with an _i_ or an _e_, and say ifyou do not feel an unwonted clearness on the point. Only, if you decidefor the _i_, keep it to yourself till your fortune is made, for the _e_hath the stronger following in Florence. Ah! I think I see a gleam ofstill quicker wit in your eye. I have it on the authority of our youngNiccolo Macchiavelli, himself keen enough to discern _il pelo nell'uovo_, as we say, and a great lover of delicate shaving, though hisbeard is hardly of two years' date, that no sooner do the hairs begin topush themselves, than he perceives a certain grossness of apprehensioncreeping over him."
"Suppose you let me look at myself," said the stranger, laughing. "Thehappy effect on my intellect is perhaps obstructed by a little doubt asto the effect on my appearance."
"Behold yourself in this mirror, then; it is a Venetian mirror fromMurano, the true _nosce teipsum_, as I have named it, compared withwhich the finest mirror of steel or silver is mere darkness. See now,how by diligent shaving, the nether region of your face may preserve itshuman outline, instead of presenting no distinction from the physiognomyof a bearded owl or a Barbary ape. I hav
e seen men whose beards have soinvaded their cheeks, that one might have pitied them as the victims ofa sad, brutalising chastisement befitting our Dante's Inferno, if theyhad not seemed to strut with a strange triumph in their extravaganthairiness."
"It seems to me," said the Greek, still looking into the mirror, "thatyou have taken away some of my capital with your razor--I mean a year ortwo of age, which might have won me more ready credit for my learning.Under the inspection of a patron whose vision has grown somewhat dim, Ishall have a perilous resemblance to a maiden of eighteen in thedisguise of hose and jerkin."
"Not at all," said Nello, proceeding to clip the too extravagant curls;"your proportions are not those of a maiden. And for your age, I myselfremember seeing Angelo Poliziano begin his lectures on the Latinlanguage when he had a younger beard than yours; and between ourselves,his juvenile ugliness was not less signal than his precociousscholarship. Whereas you--no, no, your age is not against you; butbetween ourselves, let me hint to you that your being a Greek, though itbe only an Apulian Greek, is not in your favour. Certain of ourscholars hold that your Greek learning is but a wayside degenerate plantuntil it has been transplanted into Italian brains, and that now thereis such a plentiful crop of the superior quality, your native teachersare mere propagators of degeneracy. Ecco! your curls are now of theright proportion to neck and shoulders; rise, Messer, and I will freeyou from the encumbrance of this cloth. _Gnaffe_! I almost advise youto retain the faded jerkin and hose a little longer; they give you theair of a fallen prince."
"But the question is," said the young Greek, leaning against the highback of a chair, and returning Nello's contemplative admiration with alook of inquiring anxiety; "the question is, in what quarter I am tocarry my princely air, so as to rise from the said fallen condition. Ifyour Florentine patrons of learning share this scholarly hostility tothe Greeks, I see not how your city can be a hospitable refuge for me,as you seemed to say just now."
"_Pian piano_--not so fast," said Nello, sticking his thumbs into hisbelt and nodding to Sandro to restore order. "I will not conceal fromyou that there is a prejudice against Greeks among us; and though, as abarber unsnared by authorship, I share no prejudices, I must admit thatthe Greeks are not always such pretty youngsters as yourself: theirerudition is often of an uncombed, unmannerly aspect, and encrusted witha barbarous utterance of Italian, that makes their converse hardly moreeuphonious than that of a Tedesco in a state of vinous loquacity. Andthen, again, excuse me--we Florentines have liberal ideas about speech,and consider that an instrument which can flatter and promise socleverly as the tongue, must have been partly made for those purposes;and that truth is a riddle for eyes and wit to discover, which it were amere spoiling of sport for the tongue to betray. Still we have ourlimits beyond which we call dissimulation treachery. But it is said ofthe Greeks that their honesty begins at what is the hanging point withus, and that since the old Furies went to sleep, your Christian Greek isof so easy a conscience that he would make a stepping-stone of hisfather's corpse."
The flush on the stranger's face indicated what seemed so natural amovement of resentment, that the good-natured Nello hastened to atonefor his want of reticence.
"Be not offended, _bel giovane_; I am but repeating what I hear in myshop; as you may perceive, my eloquence is simply the cream which I skimoff my clients' talk. Heaven forbid I should fetter my impartiality byentertaining an opinion. And for that same scholarly objection to theGreeks," added Nello, in a more mocking tone, and with a significantgrimace, "the fact is, you are heretics, Messer; jealousy has nothing todo with it: if you would just change your opinion about leaven, andalter your Doxology a little, our Italian scholars would think it athousand years till they could give up their chairs to you. Yes, yes;it is chiefly religious scruple, and partly also the authority of agreat classic,--Juvenal, is it not? He, I gather, had his bile as muchstirred by the swarm of Greeks as our Messer Angelo, who is fond ofquoting some passage about their incorrigible impudence--_audaciaperdita_."
"Pooh! the passage is a compliment," said the Greek, who had recoveredhimself, and seemed wise enough to take the matter gaily--
"`Ingenium velox, audacia perdita, sermo Promptus, et Isaeo torrentior.'
"A rapid intellect and ready eloquence may carry off a littleimpudence."
"Assuredly," said Nello. "And since, as I see, you know Latinliterature as well as Greek, you will not fall into the mistake ofGiovanni Argiropulo, who ran full tilt against Cicero, and pronouncedhim all but a pumpkin-head. For, let me give you one bit of advice,young man--trust a barber who has shaved the best chins, and kept hiseyes and ears open for twenty years--oil your tongue well when you talkof the ancient Latin writers, and give it an extra dip when you talk ofthe modern. A wise Greek may win favour among us; witness our excellentDemetrio, who is loved by many, and not hated immoderately even by themost renowned scholars."
"I discern the wisdom of your advice so clearly," said the Greek, withthe bright smile which was continually lighting up the fine form andcolour of his young face, "that I will ask you for a little more. Whonow, for example, would be the most likely patron for me? Is there ason of Lorenzo who inherits his tastes? Or is there any other wealthyFlorentine specially addicted to purchasing antique gems? I have a fineCleopatra cut in sardonyx, and one or two other intaglios and cameos,both curious and beautiful, worthy of being added to the cabinet of aprince. Happily, I had taken the precaution of fastening them withinthe lining of my doublet before I set out on my voyage. Moreover, Ishould like to raise a small sum for my present need on this ring ofmine," (here he took out the ring and replaced it on his finger), "ifyou could recommend me to any honest trafficker."
"Let us see, let us see," said Nello, perusing the floor, and walking upand down the length of his shop. "This is no time to apply to Piero de'Medici, though he has the will to make such purchases if he could alwaysspare the money; but I think it is another sort of Cleopatra that hecovets most... Yes, yes, I have it. What you want is a man of wealth,and influence, and scholarly tastes--not one of your learned porcupines,bristling all over with critical tests, but one whose Greek and Latinare of a comfortable laxity. And that man is Bartolommeo Scala, thesecretary of our Republic. He came to Florence as a poor adventurerhimself--a miller's son--a `branny monster,' as he has been nicknamed byour honey-lipped Poliziano, who agrees with him as well as my teethagree with lemon-juice. And, by the by, that may be a reason why thesecretary may be the more ready to do a good turn to a strange scholar.For, between you and me, _bel giovane_--trust a barber who has shavedthe best scholars--friendliness is much such a steed as Ser Benghi's: itwill hardly show much alacrity unless it has got the thistle of hatredunder its tail. However, the secretary is a man who'll keep his word toyou, even to the halving of a fennel-seed; and he is not unlikely to buysome of your gems."
"But how am I to get at this great man?" said the Greek, ratherimpatiently.
"I was coming to that," said Nello. "Just now everybody of any publicimportance will be full of Lorenzo's death, and a stranger may find itdifficult to get any notice. But in the meantime, I could take you to aman who, if he has a mind, can help you to a chance of a favourableinterview with Scala sooner than anybody else in Florence--worth seeingfor his own sake too, to say nothing of his collections, or of hisdaughter Romola, who is as fair as the Florentine lily before it gotquarrelsome and turned red."
"But if this father of the beautiful Romola makes collections, whyshould he not like to buy some of my gems himself?"
Nello shrugged his shoulders. "For two good reasons--want of sight tolook at the gems, and want of money to pay for them. Our old Bardo de'Bardi is so blind that he can see no more of his daughter than, as hesays, a glimmering of something bright when she comes very near him:doubtless her golden hair, which, as Messer Luigi Pulci says of hisMeridiana's, `_raggia come stella per sereno_.' Ah! here come someclients of mine, and I shouldn't wonder if one of them could serve yourturn about
that ring."
