Many confirm this, but, as is often the case, rather upon the assertion of others than from real observation. The demon of luxury and idleness rules the Florentines at the present time: like all the other nations of Europe, I will not say that they do not believe, but they trust little to a celestial Paradise; they have built a new terrestrial one without the tree of knowledge. It matters little, if they pluck flowers of a day and let them wither; as long as they are renewed, it is enough; whatever endures, wearies; to live and enjoy comprises the extreme limit of their wishes. Once the age doubted between good and evil; and this was surely a great labor for both heart and brain, yet the labor itself gave a proof of life: now the age believes, yes, believes, but its belief is not in the good. We all live as if the physician had given us over; and it would seem as if we feared that to-morrow the heavens might not cover the earth: no more pyramids, no more obelisks; the longest work we dare to undertake is making a garland of flowers: the spider's web seems too secular a thing, we form ourselves into a number of beings born to devour the wheat. Let us then adorn the brows of our heroes with poppies, let sleep be the Epic of our age, yawning its history. Greater life awaits us in the grave than on this earth, at least during the period of putrefaction. No one can give us reasonable reproof: we are for the age, the age for us: the niche and the saint harmonize wonderfully. Why wear ourselves out in procuring a fame we hate? Why attend to studies which make us doubt an existence, which we with all kinds of violence try to steep in oblivion? Our children will grow up worse or better than ourselves: if worse, every argument will be in vain; if better they will be ashamed of our miseries. Better then to sleep, be silent, enjoy, and die. This is truly the triumph of death!
Two plates were placed opposite each other upon the table. All was ready, and yet Cecchino seemed to have no desire to taste the food he had craved; he kept his face turned towards the head of the table, and all at once a tear trickled down his cheek, and he gave vent to a deep sigh.
His wife, seeing this sudden despondency, said anxiously:
"Holy Virgin! What is the matter? What troubles you, my dear? Tell me quickly, do not keep anything from your poor wife...."
"Ah! Mary, do you not remember when last seated at this table we were three?"
A long silence succeeded these words; Mary was the first to break it:
"Mother Laudomia has certainly gone to heaven. With how much joy did she see her last hour approach? How she talked with saints, who seemed near her, to assist in her soul's transition. This life had become a burden to her; the sweet light of day no longer cheered her loving eyes; and your mother, Cecchino, would never have seen your face again. She died as a bride going to her nuptials, and happy in knowing you so well trained in the way of the Lord, that nothing would ever cause you to forsake it. Her last thought was God's, her last but one yours. Tell him—she enjoined upon me in her last words—tell him I bless him, tell him his children shall honor him, because he was kind to his mother; and at last, when weary of life, his mother shall await him in heaven. Therefore be comforted, and do not give way to sorrow...."
"Certainly the good woman was old, and is now a dweller in a heavenly home; but it would have been a great comfort to me if I could have seen her again...."
"And how do we know but while we are talking she is near us? If, as we believe, we are soul and body, and that the soul feels love, may not God grant it to return and visit persons and places that were dear to it in this world? Console yourself, Cecchino; for time passes, and it is not always the worst thing to die, sometimes it is to live...."
Cecchino at last began to eat, but the desire for food had passed, so that the repast was soon finished; perhaps he drank, however, more than he meant. His wife, partly through curiosity, and partly to distract his sad thoughts, turned the conversation upon the Duke.