“‘Smell it,’ replied Flaxius calmly.
“‘The smell is all right, I admit,’ answered the guardian of the gold. ‘The perfume is delicious;’ here he sniffed at it deeply, being, like all his kind, enraptured with perfume, ‘and that much of it is, I grant, the real thing.’
“‘Now tell me,’ inquired Flaxius, ‘truly—religiosè testimonium dicere—by thy great ancestress Diana and her sister-double Herodias and her Nine Cats, by the Moon and the eternal Shadow, Endamone, and the word which Bergoia whispered into the ear of the Ox, and the Lamia whom thou lovest—what is it makes a man? Is it his soul or his body?’
“‘Man of mystery and master of the hidden lore,’ replied the awe-struck goblin, ‘it is his soul.’
“‘And is not the perfume of the rose its soul—that which breathes its life, in which it speaks to fairies or to men? Is not the voice in song or sweetened words the perfume of the spirit, ever true? Is not—’
“‘I give it up,’ replied the goblin. ‘The priest may turn in now for a long, long nap. Here, take his gold, and ne gioire tutto d’allegrezza—may you have a merry time with it. There is a great deal of good drinking in a thousand crowns; and if you ever try to ludere latrunculis vel aleis, or shake the bones or dice, I promise you three sixes. By the way, I’ll just keep this rose to remember you by. Addio—a rivederlei!’
“So the bedesman slept amid his ashes cold, and the good Flaxius, who was a stout carl for the nonce, with a broad back and a great beard, returned, bearing a mighty sack of ancient gold, which stood him in good stead for many a day. And the goblin is still there in the tower.”
“Hæc fabula docet,” wrote Flaxius as he revised the proof with a red-lead pencil, for which he had paid a penny in the Calzolaio. “This tale teaches that in this life there is naught
which hath not its ideal side or inner soul, which may raise us to higher reflection or greater profit, if we will but seek it. The lower the man the lower he looks, but it is all to his loss in the end. Now every chapter in this book, O my son—or daughter—may seem to thee only a rose of silk, yet do not stop at that, but try to find therein a perfume. For thou art thyself, I doubt not, such a rose, even if thy threads (as in most of us) be somewhat worn, torn, or faded, yet with a soul far better than many deem who see thee only afar off. And this my book is written for the perfume, not the silk of my reader. And there is no person who is better than what the world deems him or her to be who will not find in it marvellous comfort, solace, and satisfaction.”
Thus wrote Flaxius.