kings have not disdained to go into trade.

The German Emperor, for instance, has a pottery business which is said to yield a turnover of about £20,000 a year, of which sum £10,000 goes into his Imperial Majesty's pocket as clear profit.

The King of Wurtemburg owns two hotels which yield him a profit of £8,000 a year, while the King of Servia has a barber's shop and an apothecary's shop, and the Duke and Duchess Carl Theodore of Bavaria are the proprietors of a hotel at Tegernsee, not very far from Munich. The Duchess was the Infanta Marie Josepha of Portugal.

them. In the neighbourhood of Edgware Road is a millinery shop which is managed by Lady Hope; while Lady Rachael Byng, a daughter of the Earl of Strafford, is the head of an artistic needlework shop.

It may seem a curious thing for a woman connected with the aristocracy to keep a registry for servants, yet that is the occupation of Miss Edith Kerr, one of the daughters of the late Lord Frederick Kerr and a relation of Lord Lothian. Her establishment is in Lower Belgrave Street.

Among the many activities of the Countess of Warwick was a shop for ladies' underclothing which existed for some years in Bond Street. There was no attempt to disguise the identity of the noble owner, for the name "Countess of Warwick" was inscribed in large letters under the window.

In a similar way, the names of the Countess of Bessborough and the Countess Duncannon were inscribed in letters of gold over the doorway of the shop which they had near Bond Street.

Were one to go into more exalted circles it would be easy to lengthen this list, for even

The unpretentious shop whence emanate the wonderful creations of Lady Duff Gordon Photo, Record Press

Historical

Famous
Stories
Love Letters of Famous People
Love Scenes from Fiction

Love

Proposals of Yesterday and
To-day
Elopements in Olden Days,
etc., etc.

37.

NATURE has a supreme sense of the fitness of things. And so she made Dante a citizen of Florence. The city of beauty, the poet of beauty, unquestionably they belong to one another. As one wanders through the city, that city set in the world's most lovely garden, fanciful imaginings run riot. At every corner one sees some sweet association, in every stone some tender sentiment.

And yet the town in which the poet had his being was very different from the superbly splendid Florence of to-day. When he was born, not yet had the cathedral even been begun; the Campanile was still a treasure which the future held in store. One is apt to forget this, perhaps because it seems incredible that Dante should have lived so many as six centuries ago. But, still, Florence even then was Florence, and the blue of the Tuscan sky as incomparable as it is now. And Florence, of course, was Dante's home.

Indeed, even to-day, not far from the old church of San Martino, may be seen a narrow little doorway. This once was the entrance to the home of the Alighieri family, the house in which the Divina Poeta was born. Very little else remains of the original building. But in Dante's day it must have been a large and stately mansion, for in it the entire family lived. As more accommodation was required, new stories had been added, new wings built on. It was customary

for well-to-do Florentines thus to enlarge their homes. The neighbours of the Alighieri all had done the same-the Donati, a little further down the street, the Cerchi, the Portinari.

This corner of the city, therefore, soon became a little colony in itself, imperium in imperio. The residents were neighbours in the word's true meaning. And so, in 1275, when Folco Portinari decided to give a feast to his friends on May Day to celebrate the coming of the spring-a Tuscan spring; an occasion surely worthy of a feast!-it was only natural that he should invite his neighbours, the Alighieri.

Dante and Beatrice Meet

And with them went little Dante, then a boy some nine years old. Nor was he by any means the only small boy present. Indeed, Boccaccio has told us, quite a crowd of children assembled at the feast, and, among them was "a daughter of the above, named Folco, who was about beautiful in

eight years old, gay and her childish fashion and full, besides mere beauty, of so much candid loveliness that many thought her almost an angel."

But Dante-he thought her an angel quite. Indeed, that girl was none other than Beatrice, the Beatrice whose memory the poet's genius has immortalised. And even on that afternoon, when first she met his

gaze, he had eyes for nobody in all the house save her. Her loveliness, her beauty held him spellbound. He forgot about the other children. He could not bring himself to play with them. He just stood and gazed at Beatrice, worshipping and wondering. But speak to her-no; he could not, he dared not. Some great emotion stirred his little nine-year heart most strangely. He could not understand its meaning. And what was that emotion? Was it the passion men call love? Could it have been? Surely not; Dante was but nine years old, and Beatrice only eight, although, it is true, she was a dainty little maid, and must have looked truly charming in her dress of a most noble colour, a subdued and goodly crimson, girdled and adorned in such sort as best suited with her very tender age."

Then was it just simply a sublime, adoring admiration? Who can tell? And, surely, the answer matters not? Whatever may have been its nature, from that emotion sprang the noblest love the world has ever known. It is this which matters.

Still, Dante himself has declared emphatically that, from that very moment at which he first saw Beatrice, love governed his soul completely. This youngest daughter of the angels,' he wrote,

.

I

found her so noble and praiseworthy that certainly of her might have been said those words of the poet Homer, 'She seemed not to be the daughter of mortal man, but of God.'" But perhaps it is only right that the most perfect lover who has ever lived should have learned to love early. And then, of course, Dante and Beatrice both were Italians, and in the sunny south boys become men, and maidens women, more quickly than in the frigid North. Still, even Dante dared not say much of his earliest feelings. He feared to be ridiculed. "Were I," he wrote, to dwell overmuch on the passions of such early youth, my words might be counted something fabulous."

same

The Mystic Figure, Nine

And so, his narrative continues after the lapse of so many days that nine years exactly were completed since the abovewritten appearance of this most gracious being it happened that the wonderful lady appeared to me, dressed all in pure white, between two gentle ladies older than she. And, passing through a street, she turned her eyes thither where I stood sorely abashed, and by her courtesy . . she saluted me with so virtuous a bearing that I seemed then and there to behold the very limits of blessedness. The hour of her most sweet salutation was exactly the ninth of that day."

But could it have been that Dante had not seen Beatrice for nine long years? It seems incredible. Why, he and she lived next door to one another. Surely, then, he must have seen her sometimes, perhaps in

the church, perhaps in the market. But no -he has assured us that he did not. First he met her when he was nine years old; and then, again, exactly nine years later, on a May Day, too, and at the ninth hour of the day. And it would be sacrilege to regard this curious sequence of the figure nine merely as a poet's pretty, superstitious fancy. One must believe, then, that young Dante, favoured by fortune with a wealthy father, had been absent much from Florence during those years, pursuing learning in other cities, in Padua, in Bologna, studying philosophy, perhaps, and art and science, so that one day he might prove himself worthy of that creature of loveliness whose vision dwelt always in his mind.

Then he returned home. And then he met Beatrice again. And she smiled on him. This was rapture indeed. Forthwith, "betaking me to the loneliness of mine own room," he wrote, "I fell to thinking of this most courteous lady, thinking of whom I was overtaken by a pleasant slumber wherein a marvellous vision was presented

to me.

Dante's Vision

There appeared to be in my room a mist of the colour of fire, within the which I discerned the figure of a lord of terrible aspect. In his arms a person was sleeping I knew that it was the lady of the salutations who had deigned the day before to salute me. And he who held her held also in his hand a thing that was burning, and he said to me, 'Vide cor tuum.' (Behold your heart.) But when he had remained with me a little while.

he set himself to waken her that slept; after the which he made her to eat that thing which flamed in his hand, and she ate as one fearing. Then all his

joy was turned into most bitter weeping, and as he wept he gathered the lady into his arms, and went up with

her towards Heaven."

But what was the meaning of this dream? Its portent seemed somehow grimly tragic. And a great uneasiness preyed on young Dante's mind, until at last he became ill in body also. Nor was it hard to observe the nature of the malady. The man obviously was ill for the love of somebody.

But of whom? His friends grew curious to know, and taxed him with many questions. Dante, however, I looked into their faces, smiling, and spake no word in return." Still, even in the thirteenth century, inquisitive friends could not be thus easily appeased. They persisted with their questions. no; not one word would Dante say; their curiosity made him only the more determined to guard his secret. No breath of scandal, no word of idle gossip must ever be allowed to sully the fair name of Beatrice.

But

And so, hoping thereby to throw dust in the eyes of his suspecting friends, he singled out a certain girl in Florence, and

presumably he first asked her consent-ostentatiously addressed himself to her, paying her such marked attentions that, as he himself has said, those who had hitherto watched and wondered at me, now imagined they had found me out."

The ruse, in fact, proved brilliantly successful; not even Beatrice guessed the truth. And thus, Dante has declared, “I kept my secret concealed till some years were gone over." In fact, he was delighted with his subtle cunning, though soon, poor man, he had to pay a bitter penalty for his shyness and his folly.

But, you may ask, what need was there for all this secrecy? Why did he not straightway tell Beatrice of his love, and beg her to marry him? And why, indeed? Dante was not, as some authorities maintain, so greatly her inferior in rank that he could not even hope to marry her. No, he was not her inferior at all. And Boccaccio has declared that, had he but asked her for it, she would have given her hand gladly --and her heart.

Then what was the true reason? Could it have been that Dante knew that the Beatrice whom he loved was an ideal, an ideal of his own mind that never could be realised in life? Could it have been that he was more philosopher than poet? No; surely no. Dante, supreme among poets, never would have heeded a truth so mundane, so grossly cynical.

The Reason of Dante's Secrecy

No; the real reason, and there can be only one, was that Dante, oppressed by the weight of his own unworthiness, dared not to speak. And surely it is befitting to the world's most perfect lover to have been thus oppressed. What was he, he asked, that he could dare to lay his hopes before her virgin soul? What right had he to ask Beatrice, an angel of loveliness, to share with him his wretched life, and, for his sake, to thrust upon her the heavy crown of wifehood. No, a thousand times no; this he could never do. Self must be sacrificed. He would stand afar and gaze at her; gaze at her, and worship her and love her. This he could do; this he would do. And, perchance, his silent adoration might invoke some happiness to fall upon her. That she should smile on him sometimes-that would be reward enough

alone.

Because mine eyes can never fill

Of looking at my lady's lovely face,
I will so fix my gaze

That I may become blessed, beholding her.

And yet, before long, alas! even this smile she denied him. The misfortune came about in this way. The good lady who till now had acted as a mask to Dante's secret had occasion to go from Florence and take up her abode elsewhere. This was a sorry day for Dante. Without somebody to aid him, he knew that he could not preserve his secret. And preserve it he must, at all cost. What,

then, was there for him to do? Find another compliant inamorata ? Yes, surely; there seemed to be no alternative. Clearly he could not hope successfully to entertain a bogus passion for a lady in a distant city.

And so he searched through Florence for a substitute. But his second choice, unfortunately, proved to be a less happy one than had the first. And this really cannot be deemed a matter for surprise. In fact, for some strange reason, Dante neglected to take the lady into his confidence. She, therefore, as perhaps was only natural, believed his affection for her to be genuinefor a while, at any rate. In time she realised the truth, or, rather, what she thought to be the truth. Then the trouble began.

Outraged and indignant, a great anger seized hold of her; nothing would pacify it. Besides, ere now, maybe, she had learned to love the man and had yielded her love to him. This only fanned her wrath. Her love, in fact, turned all to hatred, and she protested bitterly-and, indeed, who can blame her?-against the cruelly unjust treatment which Dante had meted out to her. And the voice of her complainings reached the ears of Beatrice.

Now, Beatrice, for she, too, misunderstood the poet's motives, also was greatly angered. Until then she had thought well of him; indeed-oh, had he but known it-she had admired him greatly. But now he had done that for which she could never forgive him; he had wronged a woman, wronged her most infamously. And so, determined to vindicate the rights of her own fair sex, she denied him her salutation.

Love Torments the Poet

Then Dante, as surely befitted so true a lover, retired to a lonely place to bathe the ground with most bitter tears." "But," he has written," when, by this heat of weeping, I was somewhat relieved, I betook myself to my chamber where I could lament unheard." And there a most strange happening befell him. Love came to him in a vision, and after saying what had caused the gentle Beatrice to be wroth, bade him arise and send to her a poem to explain that he had offended only because he loved her, and had loved her now for many years.

So Dante arose and straightway sent Song forth on his mission, telling him first to seek out Love and go with him to the home of the dear lady. Then surely she could not withhold forgiveness. And it was with these words that he bade Song entreat :

"Lady, his poor heart

Is so confirmed in faith

That all its thoughts are but of serving thee; 'Twas early thine, and could not swerve apart." Then, if still she wavered, he begged Song,

"Bid her ask Love, who knows if these things be, And in the end, beg of her modestly To pardon so much boldness, saying, too, 'If thou declare his death to be thy due, The thing shall come to pass as doth behove.'"