“You are apt pupils,” said Escribo, and everyone laughed. Matt realized it was some sort of inside joke, but even as he was deciding not to ask, Arouetto said, “Whose words had you studied before, then?”
“Why, those of the courtiers who took rooms at our inn,” said Escribo, “for it is the finest in Venarra, and noblemen lodged there with their families, until King Boncorro could make room for them in the castle. That is why there was so frequently a week’s extra work for a dozen other younglings.”
“And why they were always hanging around, waiting for more.” Matt nodded. “So you overheard the noblemen talking of poetry?”
“More often their tutors, lecturing their sons over wine,” Escribo answered. “We began to find their talk fascinating, and tried our hands at it. But there were also the painters and sculptors that the king had brought to beautify his castle, and the builders of the new palace he is raising, and merchants coming to sell goods to the court, with tales of the wonders of the Moslem cities.”
“And the merchants had picked up some of the knowledge of the Moslem scholars?”
“Even some of the books,” a dark-haired young man said. “They allowed us to read a chapter or two while they dined.”
“But none of us have the gift of verse that our new friend has.” Escribo turned to Pascal. “And he says he has had no training in it!”
“I have not.” Pascal blushed. “And you are kind, but I have little skill.”
“Perhaps you are too modest,” Arouetto said. “Let us hear your verses.”
“Why, you did,” Escribo said, “even as you came up.”
“You sing your own words, then? Excellent! But we did not hear the beginning of it.”
“He sings of other things besides love,” a black-haired young man said. ‘Tell him of the work in the fields, Pascal.“
“Oh, no, good Lelio!” Pascal cried, alarmed. “To a few good friends, aye, but to a stranger…”
“You are too modest.” Flaminia slid up against him, resting her bead against his chest. “Let the words flow, Pascal, that I may be swept away on their tide.”
Pascal looked down at her in surprise, then smiled and said, “Well, for you, then, dear Flaminia, but not for him.”
“Let him eavesdrop,” she said. Pascal sighed and began to sing. Matt stood in a daze, listening to the syllables cascade from Pascal’s lips. They tinkled and swirled about him, dazzling and bearing him along in their flow, but somehow never lodging long enough for him to extract any meaning from them. Then it was over, and Matt caught his breath. The boy was fantastically talented! But the sense of the words had eluded him; the only coherent thought that stayed behind was that this song wouldn’t work much in the way of magic, for it had only been describing the land and the work and Pascal’s state of mind, and would make no change except to bring back the good feeling he bad gained from the land. Good feelings? Exultation! “You have a gift like that,” he said, “and you wanted to waste your time chasing a knighthood?”
Pascal’s face darkened; he lowered his gaze as his friends broke out in a chorus of protest. When they had quieted, he raised his gaze to Matt and said, “These are only idle amusements, Matthew-a wonderful pleasure in themselves, but surely only for filling the idle hour, never for a life’s work.”
The chorus of protest struck again, but this time Arouetto’s voice joined it, and went on when the others had quieted. “The souls of all men need rest and nourishment, young man, aye, and uplifting, too! If you are gifted in that, you may do more good than a whole company of knights!”
Pascal stared, astonished, but so did Escribo. He turned to Arouetto and demanded, “How can he, when it is all loveliness and no meaning?”
“Aye,” Lelio seconded. “Our friend Pascal makes the most lovely strains of sound in the world, but how can he enlighten men when the meaning slips from our grasp even as we listen?”
He smiled at Arouetto as he said it, but it was a challenge, with resentment against the intruder behind it. The scholar only smiled down at him, though, and said, “Have you never heard that a poem should not mean, but be?‘
Lelio stared-and so, for that matter, did the other young folks.Pascal finally broke the spell to protest, “But it does have meaning! It speaks of the way I felt as I labored, of the insight I gained suddenly, of the union between myself and the earth and Flaminia and us all!”
“It does, most surely,” Arouetto agreed, “and if we sit down and read through those words, we can extract that meaning and state it clearly and concisely-but it is far better to experience the poem as a sensory delight, and absorb the meaning in the process.”
“But might we not then be persuaded of a principle we would never approve, in clear and sober judgment?” a plump girl asked. “Well asked, Berylla!” Lelio seconded. “You might indeed,” Arouetto told her. “That is why you should analyze the poem before you have heard it too many times-but do not deprive yourself of the pleasure of hearing it without weighing it at least once, and better, several times.”
“Who are you?” Lelio asked. “Lelio!” Berylla cried, shocked. “No, it must be asked!” Lelio insisted. He leaned forward, frowning up at Arouetto. “For the same reason you have just told us to analyze a poem, we must know whose words we hear, that we may judge the lightness of any one idea of yours within the context of your whole philosophy. Who are you?”
“I am no philosopher, but only a poor scholar. My name is Arouetto.”
The circle of young folk froze, staring. Then Berylla stammered. “Not-Not the Arouetto who has translated Ovid and Virgil for us?”
“Not the Arouetto whose Story of Reme is the talk of all the tutors?”
“Not the Arouetto whose Geography is the boon companion of every merchant?”
“I must admit my culpability.” But there was a gleam of amusement and triumph in Arouetto’s eye.
“A chair for the scholar!” Lelio leaped up, offering his own, while Escribo ran to fetch another.
“Wine for the scholar!” Berylla filled a goblet and set it in front of him.
“Anything the scholar wants,” said another girl, with a deep soulful look.
“Why, I want what any scholar wants,” Arouetto sighed, “the company of keen minds and their questions, filled with the enthusiasm of youth.”
“Oh, that you shall have in plenty!” another young man assured him. “Is it true that you read Greek, but have not yet translated Homer?”
“I have not yet had that audacity,” Arouetto confirmed. “But you must! For if you do not, how shall we ever read those epics, which are fabled to be so excellent?”
“I cannot yet truly appreciate the spirit of the Athenians,” Arouetto protested. “But at least you can appreciate it-and we cannot, who have never read any book written by the Greeks!”
“What of Pythagoras?” Escribo pushed the extra chair over to Lelio and sat down in his own. “Can you explain why he was both mathematician and musician?”
“Ah! That, young man… What is your name?”
“Escribo, sir!”
“Escribo, Pythagoras was, above and beyond all else, a mystic, who sought nothing less than to understand the whole of the universe and the nature of human existence! Music and mathematics alike were means to understanding this whole, that is all.”
“Music, a means to understanding the universe?” Flaminia leaned forward, staring. “How can that be?”
Arouetto began to tell them. Saul sidled up to Matt and asked, “How’s it feel to be the Forgotten Man?”
“A little deflating,” Matt confessed, “but under the circumstances, I don’t mind at all.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because I think I’ve found just the thing to wangle a way into King Boncorro’s favor.”