The Kingdom of Light Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Giulio Leoni
to have decorated his secret chapel in Palermo, after the Swabian had returned from across the sea. Dante had known him too, when for a brief period the sculptor had worked for the friars of Santa Croce. In those days the poet was barely a boy, first getting to grips with the verbal arts. But he clearly remembered the broken nose and unruly beard that gave the man the air of a satyr, his eyes lost in troubled images.
‘Master of the face of death … why?’ Dante asked again. He no longer heard anything of the hubbub around them, gripped solely by that single question.
‘I know how he did it,’ the old man repeated. ‘He cast it from the body of his dead lover. Lost flesh rather than wax … I saw it.’
A T THAT moment some people moved between them, pushed by others who were pressing forward, shouting behind them. The prior noticed the young student who had bumped into him before. He was staring at them as if he had been listening carefully to the speech of the old man, who was now disappearing into the crowd. There were other things Dante would have liked to ask him, but he refrained from following the old man when he heard his own name called out.
He turned round, trying to look beyond the throng, and gave a start. The man who had called him, and who was staring at him with his dark eyes, stood out a good six inches above the heads of the crowd. Dante moved in his direction until he finally reached him.
‘Messer Alighieri, you too at the court of miracles?’ the man asked with a smile, as they both went and stood in the shelter of a pillar.
Dante had half-closed his mouth in surprise. ‘Yes … like you, incidentally,’ he murmured, unable to think of anything better.
The other man went on smiling, shaking from his face the mass of still-black hair that was beginning to be veined with whitish stripes, in curious contrast to his beard, which was as white as snow. He moved towards Dante, dragging his right leg, which was slightly shorter than its fellow. ‘Curiosity is the first foundation of all science. You should know that: you too have tried to penetrate the secrets of nature, when we knew one another in Paris.’
Images of that brief period at the Faculty of Arts quickly passed through the poet’s mind. And amongst those the face of this man, Arrigo da Jesi, who had in those days held the chair of natural philosophy.
‘How long ago did you leave Paris?’ asked the poet.
‘Times have changed in the lands of France. After the attacks by the Pope’s followers, it became impossible to teach in peace. So I crossed the Alps and stayed for some time in various cities in the North. Most recently I taught in Toulouse.’
Dante’s initial surprise was melting away as the man’s paternal image required consistency in his memory. Arrigo had been the teacher who had struck him the most, in those days, by the lucidity with which he expounded the theses of the great ancient philosophers.
‘Why did you not look for me, Maestro?’ the poet affectionately rebuked him. ‘I would have welcomed you with the respect that you deserve, allowing for my modest means.’
Arrigo smiled again and cordially slapped his shoulder. ‘Thank you, but you mustn’t see me as an unhappy exile. I have sufficient resources to live, and from time to time I still give lectures. In fact I hoped to meet you at one of them, and thus renew our acquaintance in the space of words, the only space worthy of the wise man. His only kingdom,’ he concluded after a brief pause, looking at the chaos around them.
‘Public service has kept me from that kingdom. But I certainly haven’t forgotten the lesson you taught me. As I see that you haven’t forgotten my name.’
‘Could I have forgotten my most brilliant pupil?’
‘It seems that your attention does not turn solely to the mysteries of nature and of God,’ Dante went on, nodding at the spectacle behind them.
‘Knowledge is the wise man’s mission. And knowing everything is
‘Master of the face of death … why?’ Dante asked again. He no longer heard anything of the hubbub around them, gripped solely by that single question.
‘I know how he did it,’ the old man repeated. ‘He cast it from the body of his dead lover. Lost flesh rather than wax … I saw it.’
A T THAT moment some people moved between them, pushed by others who were pressing forward, shouting behind them. The prior noticed the young student who had bumped into him before. He was staring at them as if he had been listening carefully to the speech of the old man, who was now disappearing into the crowd. There were other things Dante would have liked to ask him, but he refrained from following the old man when he heard his own name called out.
He turned round, trying to look beyond the throng, and gave a start. The man who had called him, and who was staring at him with his dark eyes, stood out a good six inches above the heads of the crowd. Dante moved in his direction until he finally reached him.
‘Messer Alighieri, you too at the court of miracles?’ the man asked with a smile, as they both went and stood in the shelter of a pillar.
Dante had half-closed his mouth in surprise. ‘Yes … like you, incidentally,’ he murmured, unable to think of anything better.
The other man went on smiling, shaking from his face the mass of still-black hair that was beginning to be veined with whitish stripes, in curious contrast to his beard, which was as white as snow. He moved towards Dante, dragging his right leg, which was slightly shorter than its fellow. ‘Curiosity is the first foundation of all science. You should know that: you too have tried to penetrate the secrets of nature, when we knew one another in Paris.’
Images of that brief period at the Faculty of Arts quickly passed through the poet’s mind. And amongst those the face of this man, Arrigo da Jesi, who had in those days held the chair of natural philosophy.
‘How long ago did you leave Paris?’ asked the poet.
‘Times have changed in the lands of France. After the attacks by the Pope’s followers, it became impossible to teach in peace. So I crossed the Alps and stayed for some time in various cities in the North. Most recently I taught in Toulouse.’
Dante’s initial surprise was melting away as the man’s paternal image required consistency in his memory. Arrigo had been the teacher who had struck him the most, in those days, by the lucidity with which he expounded the theses of the great ancient philosophers.
‘Why did you not look for me, Maestro?’ the poet affectionately rebuked him. ‘I would have welcomed you with the respect that you deserve, allowing for my modest means.’
Arrigo smiled again and cordially slapped his shoulder. ‘Thank you, but you mustn’t see me as an unhappy exile. I have sufficient resources to live, and from time to time I still give lectures. In fact I hoped to meet you at one of them, and thus renew our acquaintance in the space of words, the only space worthy of the wise man. His only kingdom,’ he concluded after a brief pause, looking at the chaos around them.
‘Public service has kept me from that kingdom. But I certainly haven’t forgotten the lesson you taught me. As I see that you haven’t forgotten my name.’
‘Could I have forgotten my most brilliant pupil?’
‘It seems that your attention does not turn solely to the mysteries of nature and of God,’ Dante went on, nodding at the spectacle behind them.
‘Knowledge is the wise man’s mission. And knowing everything is