All this sorely vexed our honorable schoolteacher. He immediately wanted to lunge at the beggar, probably to drive him away from his post at the fence. For as we know, he was on the executive committee of the association for the poor and definitely opposed to begging in the streets. I held him back.

“These people are supported by us, indeed, we could even say, cared for,” he said heatedly. “If they go beyond that and beg in the street, then that is simply . . . insolence.”

“Esteemed sir,” I said, trying to calm him down, “I have to tell you a story.”

“Is that so urgent?” he asked with a touch of venom. I took him seriously.

“Right here and now. Before you forget what we just had the opportunity to observe.” The teacher had been suspicious of me since my last story. I read that on his face and reassured him, “Not about God, really not. The dear Lord does not appear in my story. It’s something historical.” With that, I won my case. One only has to say the word history, and immediately any teacher will prick up his ears. For history is something highly respectable, harmless, and often applicable pedagogically. I noted that our worthy schoolteacher was once again cleaning his spectacles, a sign that his power of vision had passed over into his ears. And I skillfully took advantage of this favorable moment, beginning as follows.

It was in Florence. Lorenzo de’ Medici—young and not yet a ruler—had just composed his poem “Trionfo di Bacco ed Arianna,” and already it was to be heard in every garden. In those days songs were alive. They ascended out of the poet’s darkness into people’s voices and sailed forth fearlessly on these, as in silver boats, into the unknown. The poet began a song and all those who sang it completed it. In the “Trionfo,” as in most of the songs of this time, life is feted—that violin with its bright, singing strings and its dark background, the rushing of the blood. Stanzas of unequal length mount into headlong celebration, but each time, at the point of breathlessness, a short, simple refrain enters, which steps back from the dizzy heights, fearful of the abyss, and seems to shut its eyes. It goes:

How wonderful is youth, our joy!

But who can hold on to it?

It flies away, it rues its day,

So if you want to be happy, be happy today,

For tomorrow, nothing is certain.