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Romola
By
George Eliot
Cont=
ents
Chapter 1 - The Shipwrecked Strang=
er
Chapter 2 - A Breakfast For Love=
span>
Chapter 5 - The Blind Scholar And =
His
Daughter
Chapter 7 - A Learned Squabble
Chapter 8 - A Face In The Crowd
Chapter 10 - Under The Plane-Tree<=
/span>
Chapter 12 - The Prize Is Nearly G=
rasped
Chapter 13 - The Shadow Of Nemesis=
Chapter 14 - The Peasants' Fair
Chapter 15 - The Dying Message
Chapter 16 - A Florentine Joke
Chapter 19 - The Old Man's Hope
Chapter 20 - The Day Of The Betrot=
hal
Chapter 21 - Florence Expects A Gu=
est
Chapter 25 - Outside The Duomo
Chapter 26 - The Garment Of Fear=
span>
Chapter 28 - The Painted Record
Chapter 29 - A Moment Of Triumph=
span>
Chapter 30 - The Avenger's Secret<=
/span>
Chapter 33 - Baldassarre Makes An
Acquaintance
Chapter 34 - No Place For Repentan=
ce
Chapter 35 - What Florence Was Thi=
nking Of
Chapter 36 - Ariadne Discrowns Her=
self
Chapter 37 - The Tabernacle Unlock=
ed
Chapter 38 - The Black Marks Become
Magical
Chapter 39 - A Supper In The Rucel=
lai
Gardens
Chapter 40 - An Arresting Voice
Chapter 42 - Romola In Her Place=
span>
Chapter 43 - The Unseen Madonna
Chapter 44 - The Visible Madonna=
span>
Chapter 45 - At The Barber's Shop<=
/span>
Chapter 49 - The Pyramid Of Vaniti=
es
Chapter 50 - Tessa Abroad And At H=
ome
Chapter 51 - Monna Brigida's Conve=
rsion
Chapter 54 - The Evening And The M=
orning
Chapter 57 - Why Tito Was Safe
Chapter 58 - A Final Understanding=
Chapter 64 - The Prophet In His Ce=
ll
Chapter 65 - The Trial By Fire
Chapter 66 - A Masque Of The Furie=
s
Chapter 67 - Waiting By The River<=
/span>
More than three centuries and a ha=
lf
ago, in the mid spring-time of 1492, we are sure that the angel of the dawn=
, as
he travelled with broad slow wing from the Levant to the Pillars of Hercule=
s,
and from the summits of the Caucasus across all the snowy Alpine ridges to =
the
dark nakedness of the Western isles, saw nearly the same outline of firm la=
nd
and unstable sea — saw the same great mountain shadows on the same
valleys as he has seen to-day — saw olive mounts, and pine forests, a=
nd
the broad plains green with young corn or rain-freshened grass — saw =
the
domes and spires of cities rising by the river-sides or mingled with the
sedge-like masts on the many-curved sea-coast, in the same spots where they
rise to-day. And as the faint light of his course pierced into the dwelling=
s of
men, it fell, as now, on the rosy warmth of nestling children; on the hagga=
rd
waking of sorrow and sickness; on the hasty uprising of the hard-handed lab=
ourer;
and on the late sleep of the night-student, who had been questioning the st=
ars
or the sages, or his own soul, for that hidden knowledge which would break
through the barrier of man’s brief life, and show its dark path, that
seemed to bend no whither, to be an arc in an immeasurable circle of light =
and
glory. The great river-courses which have shaped the lives of men have hard=
ly
changed; and those other streams, the life-currents that ebb and flow in hu=
man
hearts, pulsate to the same great needs, the same great loves and terrors. =
As
our thought follows close in the slow wake of the dawn, we are impressed wi=
th
the broad sameness of the human lot, which never alters in the main heading=
s of
its history — hunger and labour, seed-time and harvest, love and deat=
h.
Even if, instead of following the =
dim
daybreak, our imagination pauses on a certain historical spot and awaits the
fuller morning, we may see a world-famous city, which has hardly changed its
outline since the days of Columbus, seeming to stand as an almost unviolated
symbol, amidst the flux of human things, to remind us that we still resemble
the men of the past more than we differ from them, as the great mechanical
principles on which those domes and towers were raised must make a likeness=
in
human building that will be broader and deeper than all possible change. And
doubtless, if the spirit of a Florentine citizen, whose eyes were closed for
the last time while Columbus was still waiting and arguing for the three po=
or
vessels with which he was to set sail from the port of Palos, could return =
from
the shades and pause where our thought is pausing, he would believe that th=
ere
must still be fellowship and understanding for him among the inheritors of =
his
birthplace.
Let us suppose that such a Shade h=
as
been permitted to revisit the glimpses of the golden morning, and is standi=
ng
once more on the famous hill of San Miniato, which overlooks Florence from =
the
south.
The Spirit is clothed in his habit=
as
he lived: the folds of his well-lined black silk garment or lucco hang in g=
rave
unbroken lines from neck to ankle; his plain cloth cap, with its becchetto,=
or
long hanging strip of drapery, to serve as a scarf in case of need, surmoun=
ts a
penetrating face, not, perhaps, very handsome, but with a firm, well-cut mo=
uth,
kept distinctly human by a close-shaven lip and chin. It is a face charged =
with
memories of a keen and various life passed below there on the banks of the
gleaming river; and as he looks at the scene before him, the sense of
familiarity is so much stronger than the perception of change, that he thin=
ks
it might be possible to descend once more amongst the streets, and take up =
that
busy life where he left it. For it is not only the mountains and the
westward-bending river that he recognises; not only the dark sides of Mount
Morello opposite to him, and the long valley of the Arno that seems to stre=
tch
its grey low-tufted luxuriance to the far-off ridges of Carrara; and the st=
eep
height of Fiesole, with its crown of monastic walls and cypresses; and all =
the
green and grey slopes sprinkled with villas which he can name as he looks at
them. He sees other familiar objects much closer to his daily walks. For th=
ough
he misses the seventy or more towers that once surmounted the walls, and
encircled the city as with a regal diadem, his eyes will not dwell on that
blank; they are drawn irresistibly to the unique tower springing, like a ta=
ll
flower-stem drawn towards the sun, from the square turreted mass of the Old
Palace in the very heart of the city — the tower that looks none the
worse for the four centuries that have passed since he used to walk under i=
t.
The great dome, too, greatest in the world, which, in his early boyhood, had
been only a daring thought in the mind of a small, quick-eyed man — t=
here
it raises its large curves still, eclipsing the hills. And the well-known
bell-towers — Giotto’s, with its distant hint of rich colour,and
the graceful-spired Badia, and the rest — he looked at them all from =
the
shoulder of his nurse.
‘Surely,’ he thinks,
‘Florence can still ring her bells with the solemn hammer-sound that =
used
to beat on the hearts of her citizens and strike out the fire there. And he=
re,
on the right, stands the long dark mass of Santa Croce, where we buried our
famous dead, laying the laurel on their cold brows and fanning them with the
breath of praise and of banners. But Santa Croce had no spire then: we
Florentines were too full of great building projects to carry them all out =
in
stone and marble; we had our frescoes and our shrines to pay for, not to sp=
eak
of rapacious condottieri, bribed royalty, and purchased territories, and our
facades and spires must needs wait. But what architect can the Frati Minori
have employed to build that spire for them? If it had been built in my day,
Filippo Brunelleschi or Michelozzo would have devised something of another
fashion than that — something worthy to crown the church of
Arnolfo.’
At this the Spirit, with a sigh, l=
ets
his eyes travel on to the city walls, and now he dwells on the change there
with wonder at these modern times. Why have five out of the eleven convenie=
nt
gates been closed? And why, above all, should the towers have been levelled
that were once a glory and defence? Is the world become so peaceful, then, =
and
do Florentines dwell in such harmony, that there are no longer conspiracies=
to
bring ambitious exiles home again with armed bands at their back? These are
difficult questions: it is easier and pleasanter to recognise the old than =
to
account for the new. And there flows Arno, with its bridges just where they
used to be — the Ponte Vecchio, least like other bridges in the world,
laden with the same quaint shops where our Spirit remembers lingering a lit=
tle
on his way perhaps to look at the progress of that great palace which Messe=
r Luca
Pitti had set a-building with huge stones got from the Hill of Bogoli close
behind, or perhaps to transact a little business with the cloth-dressers in
Oltrarno. The exorbitant line of the Pitti roof is hidden from San Miniato;=
but
the yearning of the old Florentine is not to see Messer Luca’s too
ambitious palace which he built unto himself; it is to be down among those
narrow streets and busy humming Piazze where he inherited the eager life of=
his
fathers. Is not the anxious voting with black and white beans still going on
down there? Who are the Priorill in these months, eating soberly regulated
official dinners in the Palazzo Vecchio, with removes of tripe and boiled
partridges, seasoned by practical jokes against the ill-fated butt among th=
ose
potent signors? Are not the significant banners still hung from the windows
— still distributed with decent pomp under Orcagna’s Loggia eve=
ry
two months?
Life had its zest for the old
Florentine when he, too, trod the marble steps and shared in those dignitie=
s.
His politics had an area as wide as his trade, which stretched from Syria to
Britain, but they had also the passionate intensity, and the detailed pract=
ical
interest, which could belong only to a narrow scene of corporate action; on=
ly
to the members of a community shut in close by the hills and by walls of six
miles’ circuit, where men knew each other as they passed in the stree=
t,
set their eyes every day on the memorials of their commonwealth, and were
conscious of having not simply the right to vote, but the chance of being v=
oted
for. He loved his honours and his gains, the business of his counting-house=
, of
his guild, of the public council-chamber: he loved his enmities too, and
fingered the white bean which was to keep a hated name out of the borsa with
more complacency than if it had been a golden florin. He loved to strengthen
his family by a good alliance, and went home with a triumphant light in his
eyes after concluding a satisfactory marriage for his son or daughter under=
his
favourite loggia in the evening cool; he loved his game at chess under that
same loggia, and his biting jest, and even his coarse joke, as not beneath =
the
dignity of a man eligible for the highest magistracy. He had gained an insi=
ght
into all sorts of affairs at home and abroad: he had been of the
‘Ten’ who managed the war department, of the ‘Eight’
who attended to home discipline, of the Priori or Signori who were the head=
s of
the executive government; he had even risen to the supreme office of
Gonfaloniere; he had made one in embassies to the Pope and to the Venetians;
and he had been commissary to the hired army of the Republic, directing the
inglorious bloodless battles in which no man died of brave breast wounds
— virtuosi colpi — but only of casual falls and tramplings. And=
in
this way he had learned to distrust men without bitterness; looking on life
mainly as a game of skill, but not dead to traditions of heroism and
clean-handed honour. For the human soul is hospitable, and will entertain
conflicting sentiments and contradictory opinions with much impartiality. It
was his pride besides, that he was duly tinctured with the learning of his =
age,
and judged not altogether with the vulgar, but in harmony with the ancients:
he, too, in his prime, had been eager for the most correct manuscripts, and=
had
paid many florins for antique vases and for disinterred busts of the ancient
immortals — some, perhaps, truncis naribus, wanting as to the nose, b=
ut
not the less authentic; and in his old age he had made haste to look at the
first sheets of that fine Homer which was among the early glories of the
Florentine press. But he had not, for all that, neglected to hang up a waxen
image or double of himself under the protection of the Madonna Annunziata, =
or
to do penance for his sins in large gifts to the shrines of saints whose li=
ves
had not been modelled on the study of the classics; he had not even neglect=
ed
making liberal bequests towards buildings for the Frati, against whom he had
levelled many a jest.
For the Unseen Powers were mighty.=
Who
knew — who was sure — that there was any name given to them beh=
ind
which there was no angry force to be appeased, no intercessory pity to be w=
on?
Were not gems medicinal, though they only pressed the finger? Were not all
things charged with occult virtues? Lucretius might be right — he was=
an
ancicnt, and a great poet; Luigi Pulci, too, who was suspected of not belie=
ving
anything from the roof upward (dal tetto in su), had very much the air of b=
eing
right over the supper-table, when the wine and jests were circulating fast,
though he was only a poet in the vulgar tongue. There were even learned
personages who maintained that Aristotle, wisest of men (unless, indeed, Pl=
ato
were wiser?) was a thoroughly irreligious philosopher; and a liberal scholar
must entertain all speculations. But the negatives might, after all, prove
false; nay, seemed manifestly false, as the circling hours swept past him, =
and
turned round with graver faces. For had not the world become Christian? Had=
he
not been baptised in San Giovanni, where the dome is awful with the symbols=
of
coming judgment, and where the altar bears a crucified Image disturbing to
perfect complacency in one’s self and the world? Our resuscitated Spi=
rit
was not a pagan philosopher, nor a philosophising pagan poet, but a man of =
the
fifteenth century, inheriting its strange web of belief and unbelief; of
Epicurean levity and fetichistic dread; of pedantic impossible ethics utter=
ed
by rote, and crude passions acted out with childish impulsiveness; of
inclination towards a self-indulgent paganism, and inevitable subjection to
that human conscience which, in the unrest of a new growth, was filling the=
air
with strange prophecies and presentiments.
He had smiled, perhaps, and shaken=
his
head dubiously, as he heard simple folk talk of a Pope Angelico, who was to
come by-and-by and bring in a new order of things, to purify the Church from
simony, and the lives of the clergy from scandal — a state of affairs=
too
different from what existed under Innocent the Eighth for a shrewd merchant=
and
politician to regard the prospect as worthy of entering into his calculatio=
ns.
But he felt the evils of the time, nevertheless; for he was a man of public
spirit, and public spirit can never be wholly immoral, since its essence is
care for a common good. That very Quaresima or Lent of 1492 in which he die=
d,
still in his erect old age, he had listened in San Lorenzo, not without a
mixture of satisfaction, to the preaching of a Dominican Friar, named Girol=
amo
Savonarola, who denounced with a rare boldness the worldliness and vicious
habits of the clergy, and insisted on the duty of Christian men not to live=
for
their own ease when wrong was triumphing in high places, and not to spend t=
heir
wealth in outward pomp even in the churches, when their fellow-citizens were
suffering from want and sickness. The Frate carried his doctrine rather too=
far
for elderly ears; yet it was a memorable thing to see a preacher move his
audience to such a pitch that the women even took off their ornaments and
delivered them up to be sold for the benefit of the needy.
‘He was a noteworthy man, th=
at
Prior of San Marco,’ thinks our Spirit; ‘somewhat arrogant and
extreme, perhaps, especially in his denunciations of speedy vengeance. Ah,
Iddio non paga il Sabato — the wages of men’s sins often linger=
in
their payment, and I myself saw much established wickedness of long-standing
prosperity. But a Frate Predicatore who wanted to move the people — h=
ow
could he be moderate? He might have been a little less defiant and curt, th=
ough,
to Lorenzo de’ Medici, whose family had been the very makers of San
Marco: was that quarrel ever made up? And our Lorenzo himself, with the dim
outward eyes and the subtle inward vision, did he get over that illness at
Careggi? It was but a sad, uneasy-looking face that he would carry out of t=
he
world which had given him so much, and there were strong suspicions that his
handsome son would play the part of Rehoboam. How has it all turned out? Wh=
ich
party is likely to be banished and have its houses sacked just now? Is there
any successor of the incomparable Lorenzo, to whom the great Turk is so
gracious as to send over presents of rare animals, rare relics, rare
manuscripts or fugitive enemies, suited to the tastes of a Christian Magnif=
ico
who is at once lettered and devout — and also slightly vindictive? And
what famous scholar is dictating the Latin letters of the Republic — =
what
fiery philosopher is lecturing on Dante in the Duomo, and going home to wri=
te
bitter invectives against the father and mother of the bad critic who may h=
ave
found fault with his classical spelling? Are our wiser heads leaning towards
alliance with the Pope and the Regno, or are they rather inclining their ea=
rs
to the orators of France and of Milan?
‘There is knowledge of these=
things
to be had in the streets below, on the beloved marmi in front of the church=
es,
and under the sheltering Loggie, where surely our citizens have still their
gossip and debates, their bitter and merry jests as of old. For are not the
well-remembered buildings all there? The changes have not been so great in
those uncounted years. I will go down and hear — I will tread the
familiar pavement, and hear once again the speech of Florentines.’
Go not down, good Spirit! for the
changes are great and the speech of Florentines would sound as a riddle in =
your
ears. Or, if you go, mingle with no politicians on the marmi, or elsewhere;=
ask
no questions about trade in the Calimara; confuse yourself with no inquiries
into scholarship, official or monastic. Only look at the sunlight and shado=
ws
on the grand walls that were built solidly, and have endured in their grand=
eur;
look at the faces of the little children, making another sunlight amid the
shadows of age; look, if you will, into the churches, and hear the same cha=
nts,
see the same images as of old — the images of willing anguish for a g=
reat
end, of beneficent love and ascending glory; see upturned living faces, and
lips moving to the old prayers for help. These things have not changed. The
sunlight and shadows bring their old beauty and waken the old heart-strains=
at
morning, noon, and eventide; the little children are still the symbol of the
eternal marriage between love and duty; and men still yearn for the reign of
peace and righteousness — still own that life to be the highest which=
is
a conscious voluntary sacrifice. For the Pope Angelico is not come yet.
The Loggia de’ Cerchi stood =
in
the heart of old Florence, within a labyrinth of narrow streets behind the
Badia, now rarely threaded by the stranger, unless in a dubious search for a
certain severely simple door-place, bearing this inscription:
QUI NACQUE IL DIVINO POETA.
To the ear of Dante, the same stre=
ets
rang with the shout and clash of fierce battle between rival families; but =
in
the fifteenth century, they were only noisy with the unhistorical quarrels =
and
broad jests of wool-carders in the cloth-producing quarters of San Martino =
and
Garbo.
Under this loggia, in the early
morning of the 9th of April 1492, two men had their eyes fixed on each othe=
r:
one was stooping slightly, and looking downward with the scrutiny of curios=
ity;
the other, lying on the pavement, was looking upward with the startled gaze=
of
a suddenly-awakened dreamer.
The standing figure was the first =
to
speak. He was a grey-haired, broad-shouldered man, of the type which, in Tu=
scan
phrase, is moulded with the fist and polished with the pickaxe; but the
self-important gravity which had written itself out in the deep lines about=
his
brow and mouth seemed intended to correct any contemptuous inferences from =
the
hasty workmanship which Nature had bestowed on his exterior. He had deposit=
ed a
large well-filled bag, made of skins, on the pavement, and before him hung a
pedlar’s basket, garnished partly with small woman’s-ware, such=
as
thread and pins, and partly with fragments of glass, which had probably been
taken in exchange for those commodities.
‘Young man,’ he said,
pointing to a ring on the finger of the reclining figure, ‘when your =
chin
has got a stiffer crop on it, you’ll know better than to take your na=
p in
street corners with a ring like that on your forefinger. By the holy
‘vangels! if it had been anybody but me standing over you two minutes=
ago
— but Bratti Ferravecchi is not the man to steal. The cat couldn̵=
7;t
eat her mouse if she didn’t catch it alive, and Bratti couldn’t
relish gain if it had no taste of a bargain. Why, young man, one San Giovan=
ni
three years ago, the Saint sent a dead body in my way — a blind begga=
r,
with his cap well lined with pieces — but, if you’ll believe me=
, my
stomach turned against the money I’d never bargained for, till it came
into my head that San Giovanni owed me the pieces for what I spend yearly at
the Festa; besides, I buried the body and paid for a mass — and so I =
saw
it was a fair bargain. But how comes a young man like you, with the face of
Messer San Michele, to be sleeping on a stone bed with the wind for a
curtain?’
The deep guttural sounds of the
speaker were scarcely intelligible to the newly-waked, bewildered listener,=
but
he understood the action of pointing to his ring: he looked down at it, and,
with a half-automatic obedience to the warning, took it off and thrust it
within his doublet, rising at the same time and stretching himself.
‘Your tunic and hose match i=
ll
with that jewel, young man,’ said Bratti, deliberately. ‘Anybody
might say the saints had sent you a dead body; but if you took the jewels, I
hope you buried him — and you can afford a mass or two for him into t=
he
bargain.’
Something like a painful thrill
appeared to dart through the frame of the listener, and arrest the careless
stretching of his arms and chest. For an instant he turned on Bratti with a
sharp frown; but he immediately recovered an air of indifference, took off =
the
red Levantine cap which hung like a great purse over his left ear, pushed b=
ack
his long dark-brown curls, and glancing at his dress, said, smilingly ̵=
2;
‘You speak truth, friend: my
garments are as weather-stained as an old sail, and they are not old either,
only, like an old sail, they have had a sprinkling of the sea as well as the
rain. The fact is, I’m a stranger in Florence, and when I came in
footsore last night I preferred flinging myself in a corner of this hospita=
ble
porch to hunting any longer for a chance hostelry, which might turn out to =
be a
nest of blood-suckers of more sorts than one.’
‘A stranger, in good
sooth,’ said Bratti, ‘for the words come all melting out of your
throat, so that a Christian and a Florentine can’t tell a hook from a
hanger. But you’re not from Genoa? More likely from Venice, by the cu=
t of
your clothes ?’
‘At this present moment,R=
17;
said the stranger, smiling, ‘it is of less importance where I come fr=
om
than where I can go to for a mouthful of breakfast. This city of yours turn=
s a
grim look on me just here: can you show me the way to a more lively quarter,
where I can get a meal and a lodging?’
‘That I can,’ said Bra=
tti,
‘and it is your good fortune, young man, that I have happened to be
walking in from Rovezzano this morning, and turned out of my way to Mercato
Vecchio to say an Ave at the Badia. That, I say, is your good fortune. But =
it
remains to be seen what is my profit in the matter. Nothing for nothing, yo=
ung
man. If I show you the way to Mercato Vecchio, you’ll swear by your p=
atron
saint to let me have the bidding for that stained suit of yours, when you s=
et
up a better — as doubtless you will.’
‘Agreed, by San Niccolo,R=
17;
said the other, laughing. ‘But now let us set off to this said Mercat=
o,
for I feel the want of a better lining to this doublet of mine which you are
coveting.’
‘Coveting? Nay,’ said
Bratti, heaving his bag on his back and setting out. But he broke off in his
reply, and burst out in loud, harsh toncs, not unlike the creaking and grat=
ing
of a cart-wheel: ‘Chi abbaratta — baratta — b’ratta
— chi abbaratta cenci e vetri — b’ratta ferri vecchi?R=
17;
‘It’s worth but
little,’ he said presently, relapsing into his conversational tone.
‘Hose and altogether, your clothes are worth but little. Still, if
you’ve a mind to set yourself up with a lute worth more than any new =
one,
or with a sword that’s been worn by a Ridolfi, or with a paternoster =
of
the best mode, I could let you have a great bargain, by making an allowance=
for
the clothes; for, simple as I stand here, I’ve got the best furnished
shop in the Ferravecchi, and it’s close by the Mercato. The Virgin be
praised! it’s not a pumpkin I carry on my shoulders. But I don’t
stay caged in my shop all day: I’ve got a wife and a raven to stay at
home and mind the stock. Chi abbaratta — baratta — b’ratt=
a?
... And now, young man, where do you come from, and what’s your busin=
ess
in Florence?’
‘I thought you liked nothing
that came to you without a bargain,’ said the stranger.
‘You’ve offered me nothing yet in exchange for that information
’
‘Well, well; a Florentine
doesn’t mind bidding a fair price for news: it stays the stomach a li=
ttle
though he may win no hose by it. If I take you to the prettiest damsel in t=
he
Mercato to get a cup of milk — that will be a fair bargain.’
‘Nay; I can find her myself,=
if
she be really in the Mercato; for pretty heads are apt to look forth of doo=
rs
and windows. No, no. Besides, a sharp trader, like you, ought to know that =
he
who bids for nuts and news, may chance to find them hollow.’
‘Ah! young man,’ said
Bratti, with a sideway glance of some admiration, ‘you were not born =
of a
Sunday — the salt-shops were open when you came into the world.
You’re not a Hebrew, eh? — come from Spain or Naples, eh? Let me
tell you the Frati Minori are trying to make Florence as hot as Spain for t=
hose
dogs of hell that want to get all the profit of usury to themselves and lea=
ve
none for Christians; and when you walk the Calimara with a piece of yellow
cloth in your cap, it will spoil your beauty more than a sword-cut across t=
hat
smooth olive cheek of yours. — Abbaratta, baratta — chi abbarat=
ta?
— I tell you, young man, grey cloth is against yellow cloth; and
there’s as much grey cloth in Florence as would make a gown and cowl =
for
the Duomo, and there’s not so much yellow cloth as would make hose fo=
r St
Christopher — blessed be his name, and send me a sight of him this da=
y!
— Abbaratta, baratta, b’ratta — chi abbaratta?’
‘All that is very amusing
information you are parting with for nothing,’ said the stranger, rat=
her
scornfully; ‘but it happens not to concern me. I am no Hebrew.’=
‘See, now!’ said Bratt=
i,
triumphantly; ‘I’ve made a good bargain with mere words. I̵=
7;ve
made you tell me something, young man, though you’re as hard to hold =
as a
lamprey. San Giovanni be praised! a blind Florentine is a match for two
one-eyed men. But here we are in the Mercato.’
They had now emerged from the narr=
ow
streets into a broad piazza, known to the elder Florentine writers as the
Mercato Vecchio, or the Old Market. This piazza, though it had been the sce=
ne
of a provision-market from time immemorial, and may, perhaps, says fond
imagination, be the very spot to which the Fesulean ancestors of the
Florentines descended from their high fastness to traffic with the rustic
population of the valley, had not been shunned as a place of residence by
Florentine wealth. In the early decades of the fifteenth century, which was=
now
near its end, the Medici and other powerful families of the popolani grassi=
, or
commercial nobility, had their houses there, not perhaps finding their ears
much offended by the loud roar of mingled dialects, or their eyes much shoc=
ked
by the butchers’ stalls, which the old poet Antonio Pucci accounts a
chief glory, or dignita, of a market that, in his esteem, eclipsed the mark=
ets
of all the earth beside. But the glory of mutton and veal (well attested to=
be
the flesh of the right animals; for were not the skins, with the heads
attached, duly displayed, according to the decree of the Signoria?) was just
now wanting to the Mercato, the time of Lent not being yet over. The proud
corporation, or ‘Art,’ of butchers was in abeyance, and it was =
the
great harvest-time of the market-gardeners, the cheesemongers, the vendors =
of
macaroni, corn, eggs, milk, and dried fruits: a change which was apt to mak=
e the
women’s voices predominant in the chorus. But in all seasons there was
the experimental ringing of pots and pans, the chinking of the money-change=
rs,
the tempting offers of cheapness at the old-clothes stalls, the challenges =
of
the dicers, the vaunting of new linens and woollens, of excellent wooden-wa=
re,
kettles, and frying-pans; there was the choking of the narrow inlets with m=
ules
and carts, together with much uncomplimentary remonstrance in terms remarka=
bly
identical with the insults in use by the gentler sex of the present day, un=
der
the same imbrowning and heating circumstances. Ladies and gentlemen, who ca=
me
to market, looked on at a larger amoumt of amateur fighting than could easi=
ly
be seen in these later times, and beheld more revolting rags, beggary, and
rascaldom, than modern householders could well picture to themselves. As the
day wore on, the hideous drama of the gaming-house might be seen here by any
chance open-air spectator — the quivering eagerness, the blank despai=
r,
the sobs, the blasphemy, and the blows:
‘E vedesi chi perde con g=
ran
soffi,
E bestemmiar colla mano alla mascella,
E ricever e dar di molti ingoffi.’
But still there was the relief of
prettier sights: there were brood-rabbits, not less innocent and astonished
than those of our own period; there were doves and singing-birds to be boug=
ht
as presents for the children; there were even kittens for sale, and here and
there a handsome gattuccio, or ‘Tom,’ with the highest character
for mousing; and, better than all, there were young, softly-rounded cheeks =
and
bright eyes, freshened by the start from the far-off castello at daybreak, =
not
to speak of older faces with the unfading charm of honest goodwill in them,
such as are never quite wanting in scenes of human industry. And high on a
pillar in the centre of the place — a venerable pillar, fetched from =
the
church of San Giovanni — stood Donatello’s stone statue of Plen=
ty,
with a fountain near it, where, says old Pucci, the good wives of the market
freshened their utensils, and their throats also; not because they were una=
ble
to buy wine, but because they wished to save the money for their husbands.<=
o:p>
But on this particular morning a
sudden change seemed to have come over the face of the market. The deschi, =
or
stalls, were indeed partly dressed with their various commodities, and alre=
ady
there were purchasers assembled, on the alert to secure the finest, freshest
vegetables and the most unexceptionable butter. But when Bratti and his
companion entered the piazza, it appeared that some common preoccupation had
for the moment distracted the attention both of buyers and sellers from the=
ir
proper business. Most of the traders had turned their backs on their goods,=
and
had joined the knots of talkers who were concentrating themselves at differ=
ent
points in the piazza. A vendor of old clothes, in the act of hanging out a =
pair
of long hose, had distractedly hung them round his neck in his eagerness to
join the nearest group; an oratorical cheesemonger, with a piece of cheese =
in
one hand and a knife in the other, was incautiously making notes of his
emphatic pauses on that excellent specimen of marzolino; and elderly
market-women, with their egg-baskets in a dangerously oblique position,
contributed a wailing fugue of invocation.
In this general distraction, the
Florentine boys, who were never wanting in any street scene, and were of an
especially mischievous sort — as who should say, very sour crabs inde=
ed
— saw a great opportunity. Some made a rush at the nuts and dried fig=
s,
others preferred the farinaceous delicacies at the cooked provision stalls
— delicacies to which certain fourfooted dogs also, who had learned to
take kindly to Lenten fare, applied a discriminating nostril, and then
disappeared with much rapidity under the nearest shelter — while the
mules, not without some kicking and plunging among impeding baskets, were
stretching their muzzles towards the aromatic green-meat.
‘Diavolo!’ said Bratti=
, as
he and his companion came quite unnoticed, upon the noisy scene, ‘the
Mercato is gone as mad as if the Holy Father had excommunicated us again. I
must know what this is. But never fear: it seems a thousand years to you ti=
ll
you see the pretty Tessa, and get your cup of milk; but keep hold of me, and
I’ll hold to my bargain. Remember, I’m to have the first bid for
your suit, specially for the hose, which, with all their stains, are the be=
st
panno di garbo — as good as ruined, though, with mud and weather
stains.’
‘Ola, Monna Trecca,’
Bratti proceeded, turning towards an old woman on the outside of the nearest
group, who for the moment had suspended her wail to listen, and shouting cl=
ose
in her ear: ‘Here are the mules upsetting all your bunches of parsley=
: is
the world coming to an end, then?’ ‘Monna Trecca’ (equiva=
lent
to ‘Dame Greengrocer’) turned round at this unexpected trumpeti=
ng
in her right ear, with a half-fierce, half-bewildered look, first at the
speaker, then at her disarranged commodities, and then at the speaker again=
.
‘A bad Easter and a bad year=
to
you, and may you die by the sword!’ she burst out, rushing towards her
stall but directing this first volley of her wrath against Bratti, who wlth=
out
heeding the malediction, quietly slipped into her place, within hearing of =
the
narrative which had been absorbing her attention; making a sign at the same
time to the younger stranger to keep near him.
‘I tell you I saw it
myself,’ said a fat man, with a bunch of newly-purchased leeks in his
hand. ‘I was in Santa Maria Novella, and saw it myself. The woman sta=
rted
up and threw out her arms, and cried out and said she saw a big bull with f=
iery
horns coming down on the church to crush it. I saw it myself.’
‘Saw what, Goro?’ said=
a
man of slim figure, whose eye twinkled rather roguishly. He wore a close
jerkin, a skullcap lodged carelessly over his left ear as if it had fallen
there by chance, a delicate linen apron tucked up on one side, and a razor
stuck in his belt. ‘Saw the bull, or only the woman?’
‘Why, the woman, to be sure;=
but
it’s all one, mi pare: it doesn’t alter the meaning —
va!’ answered the fat man, with some contempt.
‘Meaning? no, no; that’=
;s
clear enough,’ said several voices at once, and then followed a confu=
sion
of tongues, in which ‘Lights shooting over San Lorenzo for three nigh=
ts
together’ — ‘Thunder in the clear starlight’ —=
; ‘Lantern
of the Duomo struck with the sword of St Michael’ —
‘Palle’ — ‘All smashed’ — ‘Lions
tearing each other to pieces’ — ‘Ah! and they might
well’ — ‘Boto caduto in Santissima Nunziata!’ ̵=
2;
‘Died like the best of Christians’ — ‘God will have
pardoned him’ — were often-repeated phrases, which shot across =
each
other like storm-driven hailstones, each speaker feeling rather the necessi=
ty
of utterance than of finding a listener. Perhaps the only silent members of=
the
group were Bratti, who, as a new-comer, was busy in mentally piecing togeth=
er
the flying fragments of information; the man of the razor; and a thin-lipped
eager-looking personage in spectacles, nearing a pen-and-ink case at his be=
lt.
‘Ebbene, Nello,’ said
Bratti, skirting the group till he was within hearing of the barber. ‘=
;It
appears the Magnifico is dead — rest his soul! — and the price =
of
wax will rise?’
‘Even as you say,’
answered Nello; and then added, with an air of extra gravity, but with
marvellous rapidity, ‘and his waxen image in the Nunziata fell at the
same moment, they say; or at some other time, whenever it pleases the Frati
Serviti, who know best. And several cows and women have had still-born calv=
es
this Quaresima; and for the bad eggs that have been broken since the Carniv=
al,
nobody has counted them. Ah! a great man — a great politician —=
a
greater poet than Dante. And yet the cupola didn’t fall, only the
lantern. Che miracolo!’
A sharp and lengthened
‘Pst!’ was suddenly heard darting across the pelting storm of
gutturals. It came from the pale man in spectacles, and had the effect he
intended; for the noise ceased, and all eyes in the group were fixed on him
with a look of expectation.
‘’Tis well said you
Florentines are blind,’ he began, in an incisive high voice. ‘It
appears to me, you need nothing but a diet of hay to make cattle of you. Wh=
at!
do you think the death of Lorenzo is the scourge God has prepared for Flore=
nce?
Go! you are sparrows chattering praise over the dead hawk. What! a man who =
was
trying to slip a noose over every neck in the Republic that he might tighte=
n it
at his pleasure! You like that; you like to have the election of your
magistrates turned into closet-work, and no man to use the rights of a citi=
zen
unless he is a Medicean. That is what is meant by qualification now: netto =
di
specchio no longer means that a man pays his dues to the Republic: it means
that he’ll wink at robbery of the people’s money — at rob=
bery
of their daughters’ dowries; that he’ll play the chamberer and =
the
philosopher by turns — listen to bawdy songs at the Carnival and cry =
‘Bellissimi!’
— and listen to sacred lauds and cry again ‘Bellissimi!’ =
But
this is what you love: you grumble and raise a riot over your quattrini
bianchi’ (white farthings); ‘but you take no notice when the pu=
blic
treasury has got a hole in the bottom for the gold to run into Lorenzo̵=
7;s
drains. You like to pay for footmen to walk before and behind one of your
citizens, that he may be affable and condescending to you. ‘See, what=
a
tall Pisan we keep,’ say you, ‘to march before him with the dra=
wn
sword flashing in our eyes! — and yet Lorenzo smiles at us. What
goodness!’ And you think the death of a man, who would soon have sadd=
led
and bridled you as the Sforza has saddled and bridled Milan — you thi=
nk
his death is the scourge God is warning you of by portents. I tell you ther=
e is
another sort of scourge in the air.’
‘Nay, nay, Ser Cioni, keep
astride your politics, and never mount your prophecy; politics is the better
horse,’ said Nello. ‘But if you talk of portents, what portents=
can
be greater than a pious notary? Balaam’s ass was nothing to it.’=
;
‘Ay, but a notary out of wor=
k,
with his inkbottle dry,’ said another bystander, very much out at elb=
ows.
‘Better don a cowl at once, Ser Cioni; everybody will believe in your=
fasting.’
The notary turned and left the gro=
up
with a look of indignant contempt, disclosing, as he did so, the sallow but
mild face of a short man who had been standing behind him, and whose bent
shoulders told of some sedentary occupation.
‘By San Giovanni, though,=
217;
said the fat purchaser of leeks, with the air of a person rather shaken in =
his
theories, ‘I am not sure there isn’t some truth in what Ser Cio=
ni
says. For I know I have good reason to find fault with the quattrini bianchi
myself. Grumble, did he say? Suffocation! I should think we do grumble; and,
let anybody say the word, I’ll turn out into the piazza with the
readiest, sooner than have our money altered in our hands as if the magistr=
acy
were so many necromancers. And it’s true Lorenzo might have hindered =
such
work if he would — and for the bull with the flaming horns, why, as S=
er
Cioni says, there may be many meanings to it, for the matter of that; it may
have more to do with the taxes than we think. For when God above sends a si=
gn,
it’s not to be supposed he’d have only one meaning.’
‘Spoken like an oracle,
Goro!’ said the barber. ‘Why, when we poor mortals can pack two=
or
three meanings into one sentence, it were mere blasphemy not to believe that
your miraculous bull means everything that any man in Florence likes it to
mean.’
‘Thou art pleased to scoff,
Nello,’ said the sallow, round-shouldered man, no longer eclipsed by =
the
notary, ‘but it is not the less true that every revelation, whether by
visions, dreams, portents, or the written word, has many meanings, which it=
is
given to the illuminated only to unfold.’
‘Assuredly,’ answered
Nello. ‘Haven’t I been to hear the Frate in San Lorenzo? But th=
en,
I’ve been to hear Fra Menico in the Duomo too; and according to him, =
your
Fra Girolamo, with his visions and interpretations, is running after the wi=
nd
of Mongibello, and those who follow him are like to have the fate of certain
swine that ran headlong into the sea — or some hotter place. With San
Domenico roaring e vero in one ear, and San Francisco screaming e falso in =
the
other, what is a poor barber to do — unless he were illuminated? But
it’s plain our Goro here is beginning to be illuminated, for he alrea=
dy
sees that the bull with the flaming horns means first himself, and secondly=
all
the other aggrieved taxpayers of Florence, who are determined to gore the
magistracy on the first opportunity.’
‘Goro is a fool!’ said=
a
bass voice, with a note that dropped like the sound of a great bell in the
midst of much tinkling. ‘Let him carry home his leeks and shake his
flanks over his wool-beating. He’ll mend matters more that way than by
showing his tun-shaped body in the piazza, as if everybody might measure his
grievances by the size of his paunch. The burdens that harm him most are his
heavy carcass and his idleness.’
The speaker had joined the group o=
nly
in time to hear the conclusion of Nello’s speech, but he was one of t=
hose
figures for whom all the world instinctively makes way, as it would for a
battering-ram. He was not much above the middle height, but the impression =
of
enormous force which was conveyed by his capacious chest and brawny arms ba=
red
to the shoulder, was deepened by the keen sense and quiet resolution expres=
sed
in his glance and in every furrow of his cheek and brow. He had often been =
an
unconscious model to Domenico Ghirlandajo, when that great painter was maki=
ng
the walls of the churches reflect the life of Florence, and translating pale
aerial traditions into the deep colour and strong lines of the faces he kne=
w.
The naturally dark tint of his skin was additionally bronzed by the same
powdery deposit that gave a polished black surface to his leathern apron: a
deposit which habit had probably made a necessary condition of perfect ease,
for it was not washed off with punctilious regularity.
Goro turned his fat cheek and glas=
sy
eye on the frank speaker with a look of deprecation rather than of resentme=
nt.
‘Why, Niccolo,’ he sai=
d,
in an injured tone, ‘I’ve heard you sing to another tune than t=
hat,
often enough, when you’ve been laying down the law at San Gallo on a
festa. I’ve heard you say yourself, that a man wasn’t a mill-wh=
eel,
to be on the grind, grind, as long as he was driven, and then stick in his
place without stirring when the water was low. And you’re as fond of =
your
vote as any man in Florence — ay, and I’ve heard you say, if
Lorenzo —’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Nicco=
lo.
‘Don’t you be bringing up my speeches again after you’ve
swallowed them, and handing them about as if they were none the worse. I vo=
te
and I speak when there’s any use in it: if there’s hot metal on=
the
anvil, I lose no time before I strike; but I don’t spend good hours in
tinkling on cold iron, or in standing on the pavement as thou dost, Goro, w=
ith
snout upward, like a pig under an oak-tree. And as for Lorenzo — dead=
and
gone before his time — he was a man who had an eye for curious iron-w=
ork
and if anybody says he wanted to make himself a tyrant, I say, ‘Sia;
I’ll not deny which way the wind blows when every man can see the
weathercock.’ But that only means that Lorenzo was a crested hawk, and
there are plenty of hawks without crests whose claws and beaks are as good =
for
tearing. Though if there was any chance of a real reform so that Marzocco m=
ight
shake his mane and roar again, instead of dipping his head to lick the feet=
of
anybody that will mount and ride him, I’d strike a good blow for
it.’
‘And that reform is not far =
off,
Niccolo,’ said the sallow, mild-faced man, seizing his opportunity li=
ke a
missionary among the too light-minded heathens; ‘for a time of tribul=
ation
is coming, and the scourge is at hand. And when the Church is purged of
cardinals and prelates who traffic in her inheritance that their hands may =
be
full to pay the price of blood and to satisfy their own lusts, the State wi=
ll
be purged too — and Florence will be purged of men who love to see
avarice and lechery under the red hat and the mitre because it gives them t=
he
screen of a more hellish vice than their own.’
‘Ay, as Goro’s broad b=
ody
would be a screen for my narrow person in case of missiles,’ said Nel=
lo;
‘but if that excellent screen happened to fall, I were stifled under =
it,
surely enough. That is no bad image of thine, Nanni — or, rather, of =
the
Frate’s; for I fancy there is no room in the small cup of thy
understanding for any other liquor than what he pours into it.’
‘And it were well for thee,
Nello,’ replied Nanni, ‘if thou couldst empty thyself of thy sc=
offs
and thy jests, and take in that liquor too. The warning is ringing in the e=
ars
of all men: and it’s no new story; for the Abbot Joachim prophesied of
the coming time three hundred years ago, and now Fra Girolamo has got the
message afresh. He has seen it in a vision, even as the prophets of old: he=
has
seen the sword hanging from the sky.’
‘Ay, and thou wilt see it
thyself, Nanni, if thou wilt stare upward long enough,’ said Niccolo;
‘for that pitiable tailor’s work of thine makes thy noddle so
overhang thy legs, that thy eyeballs can see nought above the stitching-boa=
rd
but the roof of thy own skull.’
The honest tailor bore the jest wi=
thout
bitterness, bent on convincing his hearers of his doctrine rather than of h=
is
dignity. But Niccolo gave him no opportunity for replying; for he turned aw=
ay
to the pursuit of his market business, probably considering further dialogu=
e as
a tinkling on cold iron.
‘Ebbene,’ said the man
with the hose round his neck, who had lately migrated from another knot of
talkers, ‘they are safest who cross themselves and jest at nobody. Do=
you
know that the Magnifico sent for the Frate at the last, and couldn’t =
die without
his blessing?’
‘Was it so — in
truth?’ said several voices. ‘Yes, yes — God will have
pardoned him.’ ‘He died like the best of Christians.’
‘Never took his eyes from the holy crucifix.’
‘And the Frate will have giv=
en
him his blessing?’
‘Well, I know no more,’
said he of the hosen; ‘only Guccio there met a footman going back to
Careggi, and he told him the Frate had been sent for yesternight, after the
Magnifico had confessed and had the holy sacraments.’
‘It’s likely enough the
Frate will tell the people something about it in his sermon this morning; i=
s it
not true, Nanni?’ said Goro. ‘What do you think?’
But Nanni had already turned his b=
ack
on Goro, and the group was rapidly thinning; some being stirred by the impu=
lse
to go and hear ‘new things’ from the Frate (‘new
things’ were the nectar of Florentines); others by the sense that it =
was
time to attend to their private business. In this general movement, Bratti =
got
close to the barber, and said —
‘Nello, you’ve a ready
tongue of your own, and are used to worming secrets out of people when
you’ve once got them well lathered. I picked up a stranger this morni=
ng
as I was coming in from Rovezzano, and I can spell him out no better than I=
can
the letters on that scarf I bought from the French cavalier. It isn’t=
my
wits are at fault, — I want no man to help me tell peas from
paternosters, — but when you come to foreign fashions, a fool may hap=
pen
to know more than a wise man.’
‘Ay, thou hast the wisdom of
Midas, who could turn rags and rusty nails into gold, even as thou dost,=
217;
said Nello, ‘and he had also something of the ass about him. But wher=
e is
thy bird of strange plumage?’
Bratti was looking round, with an =
air
of disappointment.
‘Diavolo!’ he said, wi=
th
some vexation. ‘The bird’s flown. It’s true he was hungry,
and I forgot him. But we shall find him in the Mercato, within scent of bre=
ad
and savours, I’ll answer for him.’
‘Let us make the round of the
Mercato, then,’ said Nello.
‘It isn’t his feathers
that puzzle me,’ continued Bratti, as they pushed their way together.
‘There isn’t much in the way of cut and cloth on this side the =
Holy
Sepulchre that can puzzle a Florentine.’
‘Or frighten him either,R=
17;
said Nello, ‘after he has seen an Englander or a German.’
‘No, no,’ said Bratti,
cordially; ‘one may never lose sight of the Cupola and yet know the
world, I hope. Besides, this stranger’s clothes are good Italian
merchandise, and the hose he wears were dyed in Ognissanti before ever they
were dyed with salt water, as he says. But the riddle about him is —&=
#8217;
Here Bratti’s explanation was
interrupted by some jostling as they reached one of the entrances of the
piazza, and before he could resume it they had caught sight of the enigmati=
cal
object they were in search of.
After Bratti had joined the knot of
talkers, the young stranger, hopeless of learning what was the cause of the
general agitation, and not much caring to know what was probably of little
interest to any but born Florentines, soon became tired of waiting for Brat=
ti's
escort; and chose to stroll round the piazza, looking out for some vendor of
eatables who might happen to have less than the average curiosity about pub=
lic
news. But as if at the suggestion of a sudden thought, he thrust his hand i=
nto
a purse or wallet that hung at his waist, and explored it again and again w=
ith
a look of frustration.
'Not an obolus, by Jupiter!' he
murmured, in a language which was not Tuscan or even Italian. 'I thought I =
had
one poor piece left. I must get my breakfast for love, then!'
He had not gone many steps farther
before it seemed likely that he had found a quarter of the market where that
medium of exchange might not be rejected.
In a corner, away from any group of
talkers, two mules were standing, well adorned with red tassels and collars.
One of them carried wooden milk-vessels, the other a pair of panniers filled
with herbs and salads. Resting her elbow on the neck of the mule that carri=
ed
the milk, there leaned a young girl, apparently not more than sixteen, with=
a
red hood surrounding her face, which was all the more baby-like in its
prettiness from the entire concealment of her hair. The poor child, perhaps,
was weary after her labour in the morning twilight in preparation for her w=
alk
to market from some castello three or four miles off, for she seemed to have
gone to sleep in that half-standing, half-leaning posture. Nevertheless, our
stranger had no compunction in awaking her; but the means he chose were so
gentle, that it seemed to the damsel in her dream as if a little sprig of t=
hyme
had touched her lips while she was stooping to gather the herbs. The dream =
was
broken, however, for she opened her blue baby-eyes, and started up with
astonishment and confusion to see the young stranger standing close before =
her.
She heard him speaking to her in a voice which seemed so strange and soft, =
that
even if she had been more collected she would have taken it for granted tha=
t he
said something hopelessly unintelligible to her, and her first movement was=
to
turn her head a little away, and lift up a corner of her green serge mantle=
as
a screen. He repeated his words -
'Forgive me, pretty one, for awaki=
ng
you. I'm dying with hunger, and the scent of milk makes breakfast seem more
desirable than ever.'
He had chosen the words 'muoio di
fame,' because he knew they would be familiar to her ears; and he had utter=
ed
them playfully, with the intonation of a mendicant. This time he was
understood; the corner of the mantle was dropped, and in a few moments a la=
rge
cup of fragrant milk was held out to him. He paid no further compliments be=
fore
raising it to his lips, and while he was drinking, the little maiden found
courage to look up at the long dark curls of this singular-voiced stranger,=
who
had asked for food in the tones of a beggar, but who, though his clothes we=
re
much damaged, was unlike any beggar she had ever seen.
While this process of survey was g=
oing
on, there was another current of feeling that carried her hand into a bag w=
hich
hung by the side of the mule, and when the stranger set down his cup, he sa=
w a
large piece of bread held out towards him, and caught a glance of the blue =
eyes
that seemed intended as an encouragement to him to take this additional gif=
t.
'But perhaps that is your own
breakfast,' he said. 'No, I have had enough without payment. A thousand tha=
nks,
my gentle one.'
There was no rejoinder in words; b= ut the piece of bread was pushed a little nearer to him, as if in impatience at his refusal; and as the long dark eyes of the stranger rested on the baby-f= ace, it seemed to be gathering more and more courage to look up and meet them. <= o:p>
'Ah, then, if I must take the brea=
d.'
he said, laying his hand on it, 'I shall get bolder still, and beg for anot=
her
kiss to make the bread sweeter.'
His speech was getting wonderfully
intelligible in spite of the strange voice, which had at first almost seeme=
d a
thing to make her cross herself. She blushed deeply, and lifted up a corner=
of
her mantle to her mouth again. But just as the too presumptuous stranger was
leaning forward, and had his fingers on the arm that held up the screening
mantle, he was startled by a harsh voice close upon his ear.
'Who are you - with a murrain to y=
ou?
No honest buyer. I'll warrant, but a hanger-on of the dicers - or something
worse. Go! dance off, and find fitter company, or I'll give you a tune to a
little quicker time than you'll like.'
The young stranger drew back and
looked at the speaker with a glance provokingly free from alarm and depreca=
tion
and his slight expression of saucy amusement broke into a broad beaming smi=
le
as he surveyed the figure of his threatener. She was a stout but brawny wom=
an,
with a man's jerkin slipped over her green serge gamurra or gown, and the
peaked hood of some departed mantle fastened round her sun-burnt face, whic=
h,
under all its coarseness and premature wrinkles, showed a half-sad,
half-ludicrous maternal resemblance to the tender baby-face of the little
maiden - the sort of resemblance which often seems a more croaking
shudder-creating prophecy than that of the death's-head.
There was something irresistibly
propitiating in that bright young smile, but Monna Ghita was not a woman to
betray any weakness, and she went on speaking, apparently with heightened
exasperation.
'Yes, yes, you can grin as well as
other monkeys in cap and jerkin. You're a minstrel or a mountebank, I'll be
sworn; you look for all the world as silly as a tumbler when he's been upsi=
de
down and has got on his heels again. And what fool's tricks hast thou been
after, Tessa?' she added, turning to her daughter, whose frightened face was
more inviting to abuse. 'Giving away the milk and victuals, it seems; ay, a=
y,
thoud'st carry water in thy cars for any idle vagabond that didn't like to
stoop for it, thou silly staring rabbit! Turn thy back, and lift the herbs =
out
of the panniers, else I'll make thee say a few Aves without counting.'
'Nay, Madonna,' said the stranger,
with a pleading smile, 'don't be angry with your pretty Tessa for taking pi=
ty
on a hungry traveller, who found himself unexpectedly without a quattrino. =
Your
handsome face looks so well when it frowns, that I long to see it illuminat=
ed
by a smile.'
'Va via! I know what paste you are
made of. You may tickle me with that straw a good long while before I shall
laugh, I can tell you. Get along, with a bad Easter! else I'll make a beauty
spot or two on that face of yours that shall spoil your kissing on this side
Advent.'
As Monna Ghita lifted her formidab=
le
talons by way of complying with the first and last requisite of eloquence,
Bratti, who had come up a minute or two before, had been saying to his
companion, 'What think you of this pretty parrot, Nello? Doesn't his tongue
smack of Venice?'
'Nay, Bratti,' said the barber in =
an
undertone, 'thy wisdom has much of the ass in it, as I told thee just now;
especially about the ears. This stranger is a Greek, else I'm not the barber
who has had the sole and exclusive shaving of the excellent Demetrio, and d=
rawn
more than one sorry tooth from his learned jaw. And this youth might be tak=
en
to have come straight from Olympus - at least when he has had a touch of my
razor.'
'Orsu! Monna Ghita!' continued Nel=
lo,
not sorry to see some sport; 'what has happened to cause such a thunderstor=
m?
Has this young stranger been misbehaving himself?'
'By San Giovanni!' said the cautio=
us
Bratti, who had not shaken off his original suspicions concerning the
shabbily-clad possessor of jewels, 'he did right to run away from me, if he
meant to get into mischief. I can swear I found him under the Loggia de'
Cerchi, with a ring on his finger such as I've seen worn by Bernardo Rucell=
ai
himself. Not another rusty nail's worth do I know about him.'
'The fact is,' said Nello, eyeing =
the
stranger good-humouredly, 'this bello giovane has been a little too
presumptuous in admiring the charms of Monna Ghita, and has attempted to ki=
ss
her while her daughter's back is turned; for I observe that the pretty Tess=
a is
too busy to look this way at present. Was it not so, Messer?' Nello conclud=
ed,
in a tone of courtesy.
'You have divined the offence like=
a
soothsayer,' said the stranger, laughingly. 'Only that I had not the good
fortune to find Monna Ghita here at first. I begged a cup of milk from her
daughter, and had accepted this gift of bread, for which I was making a hum=
ble
offering of gratitude, before I had the higher pleasure of being face to fa=
ce
with these riper charms which I was perhaps too bold in admiring.'
'Va, va! be off, every one of you,=
and
stay in purgatory till I pay to get you out, will you?' said Monna Ghita, f=
iercely,
elbowing Nello, and leading forward her mule so as to compel the stranger to
jump aside. 'Tessa, thou simpleton, bring forward thy mule a bit: the cart =
will
be upon us.'
As Tessa turned to take the mule's
bridle, she cast one timid glance at the stranger, who was now moving with
Nello out of the way of an approaching market-cart; and the glance was just
long enough to seize the beckoning movement of his hand, which indicated th=
at
he had been watching for this opportunity of an adieu.
'Ebbene,' said Bratti, raising his
voice to speak across the cart; 'I leave you with Nello, young man, for the=
re's
no pushing my bag and basket any farther, and I have business at home. But
you'll remember our bargain, because if you found Tessa without me, it was =
not my
fault. Nello will show you my shop in the Ferravecchi, and I'll not turn my
back on you.'
'A thousand thanks, friend!' said =
the
stranger, laughing, and then turned away with Nello up the narrow street wh=
ich
led most directly to the Piazza del Duomo.
'To tell you the truth,' said the
young stranger to Nello, as they got a little clearer of the entangled vehi=
cles
and mules, 'I am not sorry to be handed over by that patron of mine to one =
who
has a less barbarous accent, and a less enigmatical business. Is it a common
thing among you Florentines for an itinerant trafficker in broken glass and
rags to talk of a shop where he sells lutes and swords?'
'Common? No: our Bratti is not a
common man. He has a theory, and lives up to it, which is more than I can s=
ay
for any philosopher I have the honour of shaving,' answered Nello, whose
loquacity, like an over-full bottle, could never pour forth a small dose.
'Bratti means to extract the utmost possible amount of pleasure, that is to
say, of hard bargaining, out of this life; winding it up with a bargain for=
the
easiest possible passage through purgatory, by giving Holy Church his winni=
ngs
when the game is over. He has had his will made to that effect on the cheap=
est
terms a notary could be got for. But I have often said to him, ‘Bratt=
i,
thy bargain is a limping one, and thou art on the lame side of it. Does it =
not
make thee a little sad to look at the pictures of the Paradiso? Thou wilt n=
ever
be able there to chaffer for rags and rusty nails: the saints and angels wa=
nt
neither pins nor tinder; and except with San Bartolommeo, who carries his s=
kin
about in an inconvenient manner, I see no chance of thy making a bargain for
second-hand clothing.’ But God pardon me,' added Nello, changing his
tone, and crossing himself, 'this light talk ill beseems a morning when Lor=
enzo
lies dead, and the Muses are tearing their hair - always a painful thought =
to a
barber; and you yourself, Messere, are probably under a cloud, for when a m=
an
of your speech and presence takes up with so sorry a night's lodging, it ar=
gues
some misfortune to have befallen him.'
'What Lorenzo is that whose death =
you
speak of?' said the stranger, appearing to have dwelt with too anxious an
interest on this point to have noticed the indirect inquiry that followed i=
t.
'What Lorenzo? There is but one
Lorenzo, I imagine, whose death could throw the Mercato into an uproar, set=
the
lantern of the Duomo leaping in desperation, and cause the lions of the
Republic to feel under an immediate necessity to devour one another. I mean
Lorenzo de' Medici, the Pericles of our Athens - if I may make such a
comparison in the ear of a Greek.'
'Why not?' said the other, laughin=
gly;
'for I doubt whether Athens, even in the days of Pericles, could have produ=
ced
so learned a barber.'
'Yes, yes; I thought I could not be
mistaken,' said the rapid Nello, 'else I have shaved the venerable Demetrio
Calcondila to little purpose; but pardon me, I am lost in wonder: your Ital=
ian
is better than his, though he has been in Italy forty years - better even t=
han
that of the accomplished Marullo, who may be said to have married the Italic
Muse in more senses than one, since he has married our learned and lovely
Alessandra Scala.'
'It will lighten your wonder to kn=
ow
that I come of a Greek stock planted in Italian soil much longer than the
mulberry-trees which have taken so kindly to it. I was born at Bari, and my=
- I
mean, I was brought up by an Italian - and, in fact, I am a Greek, very muc=
h as
your peaches are Persian. The Greek dye was subdued in me, I suppose, till I
had been dipped over again by long abode and much travel in the land of gods
and heroes. And, to confess something of my private affairs to you, this sa=
me
Greek dye, with a few ancient gems I have about me, is the only fortune
shipwreck has left me. But - when the towers fall, you know it is an ill
business for the small nest-builders - the death of your Pericles makes me =
wish
I had rather turned my steps towards Rome, as I should have done but for a
fallacious Minerva in the shape of an Augustinian monk. ‘At Rome,R=
17;
he said, ‘you will be lost in a crowd of hungry scholars; but at
Florence, every corner is penetrated by the sunshine of Lorenzo's patronage:
Florence is the best market in Italy for such commodities as yours.’ =
'
'Gnaffe, and so it will remain, I
hope,' said Nello. 'Lorenzo was not the only patron and judge of learning in
our city - heaven forbid! Because he was a large melon, every other Florent=
ine
is not a pumpkin, I suppose. Have we not Bernardo Rucellai, and Alamanno
Rinuccini, and plenty more? And if you want to be informed on such matters,=
I,
Nello, am your man. It seems to me a thousand years till I can be of servic=
e to
a bel erudito like yourself. And, first of all, in the matter of your hair.
That beard, my fine young man, must be parted with, were it as dear to you =
as
the nymph of your dreams. Here at Florence, we love not to see a man with h=
is
nose projecting over a cascade of hair. But, remember, you will have passed=
the
Rubicon, when once you have been shaven: if you repent, and let your beard =
grow
after it has acquired stoutness by a struggle with the razor, your mouth wi=
ll
by-and-by show no longer what Messer Angelo calls the divine prerogative of
lips, but will appear like a dark cavern fringed with horrent brambles.'
'That is a terrible prophecy,' said
the Greek, 'especially if your Florentine maidens are many of them as prett=
y as
the little Tessa I stole a kiss from this morning.'
'Tessa? she is a rough-handed
contadina: you will rise into the favour of dames who bring no scent of the
mule-stables with them. But to that end, you must not have the air of a
sgherro, or a man of evil repute: you must look like a courtier, and a scho=
lar
of the more polished sort, such as our Pietro Crinito - like one who sins a=
mong
well-bred, well-fed people, and not one who sucks down vile vino di sotto i=
n a
chance tavern.'
'With all my heart,' said the
stranger. 'If the Florentine Graces demand it, I am willing to give up this
small matter of my beard, but -'
'Yes, yes,' interrupted Nello. 'I =
know
what you would say. It is the bella zazzera - the hyacinthine locks, you do=
not
choose to part with; and there is no need. Just a little pruning - ecco! - =
and
you will not look unlike the illustrious prince Pico di Mirandola in his pr=
ime.
And here we are in good time in the Piazza San Giovanni, and at the door of=
my
shop. But you are pausing, I see: naturally, you want to look at our wonder=
of
the world, our Duomo, our Santa Maria del Fiore. Well, well, a mere glance;=
but
I beseech you to leave a closer survey till you have been shaved: I am
quivering with the inspiration of my art even to the very edge of my razor.=
Ah,
then, come round this way.'
The mercurial barber seized the ar=
m of
the stranger, and led him to a point, on the south side of the piazza, from
which he could see at once the huge dark shell of the cupola, the slender
soaring grace of Giotto's campanile, and the quaint octagon of San Giovanni=
in
front of them, showing its unique gates of storied bronze, which still bore=
the
somewhat dimmed glory of their original gilding. The inlaid marbles were th=
en
fresher in their pink, and white, and purple, than they are now, when the
winters of four centuries have turned their white to the rich ochre of
well-mellowed meerschaum; the facade of the cathedral did not stand ignomin=
ious
in faded stucco, but had upon it the magnificent promise of the half-comple=
ted
marble inlaying and statued niches, which Giotto had devised a hundred and
fifty years before; and as the campanile in all its harmonious variety of
colour and form led the eyes upward, high into the clear air of this April
morning, it seemed a prophetic symbol, telling that human life must somehow=
and
some time shape itself into accord with that pure aspiring beauty.
But this was not the impression it
appeared to produce on the Greek. His eyes were irresistibly led upward, bu=
t as
he stood with his arms folded and his curls falling backward, there was a
slight touch of scorn on his lip, and when his eyes fell again they glanced
round with a scanning coolness which was rather piquing to Nello's Florenti=
ne
spirit.
'Well, my fine young man,' he said,
with some impatience, 'you seem to make as little of our Cathedral as if you
were the Angel Gabriel come straight from Paradise. I should like to know if
you have ever seen finer work than our Giotto's tower, or any cupola that w=
ould
not look a mere mushroom by the side of Brunelleschi's there, or any marbles
finer or more cunningly wrought than these that our Signoria got from far-o=
ff
quarries, at a price that would buy a dukedom. Come, now, have you ever seen
anything to equal them? '
'If you asked me that question wit=
h a
scimitar at my throat, after the Turkish fashion, or even your own razor,' =
said
the young Greek, smiling gaily, and moving on towards the gates of the
Baptistery, 'I daresay you might get a confession of the true faith from me.
But with my throat free from peril, I venture to tell you that your buildin=
gs
smack too much of Christian barbarism for my taste. I have a shuddering sen=
se
of what there is inside - hideous smoked Madonnas; fleshless saints in mosa=
ic,
staring down idiotic astonishment and rebuke from the apse; skin-clad skele=
tons
hanging on crosses, or stuck all over with arrows, or stretched on gridiron=
s;
women and monks with heads aside in perpetual lamentation. I have seen enou=
gh
of those wry-necked favourites of heaven at Constantinople. But what is this
bronze door rough with imagery? These women's figures seem moulded in a dif=
ferent
spirit from those starved and staring saints I spoke of: these heads in high
relief speak of a human mind within them, instead of looking like an index =
to
perpetual spasms and colic.'
'Yes, yes,' said Nello, with some
triumph. 'I think we shall show you by-and-by that our Florentine art is no=
t in
a state of barbarism. These gates, my fine young man, were moulded half a
century ago, by our Lorenzo Ghiberti, when he counted hardly so many years =
as
you do.'
'Ah, I remember,' said the strange=
r,
turning away, like one whose appetite for contemplation was soon satisfied.=
'I
have heard that your Tuscan sculptors and painters have been studying the
antique a little. But with monks for models, and the legends of mad hermits=
and
martyrs for subjects, the vision of Olympus itself would be of small use to
them.'
'I understand,' said Nello, with a
significant shrug, as they walked along. 'You are of the same mind as Miche=
le
Marullo, ay, and as Angelo Poliziano himself, in spite of his canonicate, w=
hen
he relaxes himself a little in my shop after his lectures, and talks of the
gods awaking from their long sleep and making the woods and streams vital o=
nce
more. But he rails against the Roman scholars who want to make us all talk
Latin again: ‘My ears,’ he says, ‘are sufficiently flayed=
by
the barbarisms of the learned, and if the vulgar are to talk Latin I would =
as
soon have been in Florence the day they took to beating all the kettles in =
the
city because the bells were not enough to stay the wrath of the saints.R=
17;
Ah, Messer Greco, if you want to know the flavour of our scholarship, you m=
ust
frequent my shop: it is the focus of Florentine intellect, and in that sense
the navel of the earth - as my great predecessor, Burchiello, said of his s=
hop,
on the more frivolous pretension that his street of the Calimara was the ce=
ntre
of our city. And here we are at the sign of ‘Apollo and the Razor.=
217;
Apollo, you see, is bestowing the razor on the Triptolemus of our craft, the
first reaper of beards, the sublime Anonimo, whose mysterious identity is
indicated by a shadowy hand.'
'I see thou hast had custom alread=
y,
Sandro,' continued Nello, addressing a solemn-looking dark-eyed youth, who =
made
way for them on the threshold. 'And now make all clear for this signor to s=
it
down. And prepare the finest-scented lather, for he has a learned and a
handsome chin.'
'You have a pleasant little adytum
there, I see,' said the stranger, looking through a latticed screen which
divided the shop from a room of about equal size, opening into a still smal=
ler
walled enclosure, where a few bays and laurels surrounded a stone Hermes. 'I
suppose your conclave of eruditi meets there?'
' There, and not less in my shop,'
said Nello, leading the way into the inner room, in which were some benches=
, a
table, with one book in manuscript and one printed in capitals lying open u=
pon
it, a lute, a few oil-sketches, and a model or two of hands and ancient mas=
ks.
'For my shop is a no less fitting haunt of the Muses, as you will acknowled=
ge
when you feel the sudden illumination of understanding and the serene vigou=
r of
inspiration that will come to you with a clear chin. Ah! you can make that =
lute
discourse, I perceive. I, too, have some skill that way, though the serenat=
a is
useless when daylight discloses a visage like mine, looking no fresher than=
an
apple that has stood the winter. But look at that sketch: it is a fancy of
Piero di Cosimo's, a strange freakish painter, who says he saw it by long
looking at a mouldy wall.'
The sketch Nello pointed to repres=
ented
three masks - one a drunken laughing Satyr, another a sorrowing Magdalen, a=
nd
the third, which lay between them, the rigid, cold face of a Stoic: the mas=
ks
rested obliquely on the lap of a little child, whose cherub features rose a=
bove
them with something of the supernal promise in the gaze which painters had =
by
that time learned to give to the Divine Infant.
'A symbolical picture, I see,' said
the young Greek, touching the lute while he spoke, so as to bring out a sli=
ght
musical murmur. 'The child, perhaps, is the Golden Age, wanting neither wor=
ship
nor philosophy. And the Golden Age can always come back as long as men are =
born
in the form of babies, and don't come into the world in cassock or furred
mantle. Or, the child may mean the wise philosophy of Epicurus, removed ali=
ke
from the gross, the sad, and the severe.'
'Ah! everybody has his own
interpretation for that picture,' said Nello; 'and if you ask Piero himself
what he meant by it, he says his pictures are an appendix which Messer
Domeneddio has been pleased to make to the universe, and if any man is in d=
oubt
what they mean, he had better inquire of Holy Church. He has been asked to
paint a picture after the sketch, but he puts his fingers to his ears and
shakes his head at that; the fancy is past, he says - a strange animal, our
Piero. But now all is ready for your initiation into the mysteries of the
razor.'
'Mysteries they may well be called=
,'
continued the barber, with rising spirits at the prospect of a long monolog=
ue,
as he imprisoned the young Greek in the shroud-like shaving-cloth; 'mysteri=
es
of Minerva and the Graces. I get the flower of men's thoughts, because I se=
ize
them in the first moment after shaving. (Ah! you wince a little at the lath=
er:
it tickles the outlying limits of the nose, I admit.) And that is what makes
the peculiar fitness of a barber's shop to become a resort of wit and learn=
ing.
For, look now at a druggist's shop: there is a dull conclave at the sign of=
‘The
Moor,’ that pretends to rival mine; but what sort of inspiration, I
beseech you, can be got from the scent of nauseous vegetable decoctions? - =
to
say nothing of the fact that you no sooner pass the threshold than you see a
doctor of physic, like a gigantic spider disguised in fur and scarlet, wait=
ing
for his prey; or even see him blocking up the doorway seated on a bony hack,
inspecting saliva. (Your chin a little elevated, if it please you: contempl=
ate
that angel who is blowing the trumpet at you from the ceiling. I had it pai=
nted
expressly for the regulation of my clients' chins.) Besides, your druggist,=
who
herborises and decocts, is a man of prejudices: he has poisoned people
according to a system, and is obliged to stand up for his system to justify=
the
consequences. Now a barber can be dispassionate; the only thing he necessar=
ily
stands by is the razor, always providing he is not an author. That was the =
flaw
in my great predecessor Burchiello: he was a poet, and had consequently a
prejudice about his own poetry. I have escaped that; I saw very early that
authorship is a narrowing business, in conflict with the liberal art of the
razor, which demands an impartial affection for all men's chins. Ecco, Mess=
er!
the outline of your chin and lip is as clear as a maiden's; and now fix your
mind on a knotty question - ask yourself whether you are bound to spell Vir=
gil
with an i or an e, and say if you do not feel an unwonted clearness on the
point. Only, if you decide for the i, keep it to yourself till your fortune=
is
made, for the e hath the stronger following in Florence. Ah! I think I see a
gleam of still quicker wit in your eye. I have it on the authority of our y=
oung
Niccolo Macchiavelli, himself keen enough to discern il pelo nell' uovo, as=
we
say, and a great lover of delicate shaving, though his beard is hardly of t=
wo
years' date, that no sooner do the hairs begin to push themselves, than he
perceives a certain grossness of apprehension creeping over him.'
'Suppose you let me look at myself=
,'
said the stranger, laughing. 'The happy effect on my intellect is perhaps o=
bstructed
by a little doubt as to the effect on my appearance.'
'Behold yourself in this mirror, t=
hen;
it is a Venetian mirror from Murano, the true nosce teipsum, as I have named
it, compared with which the finest mirror of steel or silver is mere darkne=
ss.
See now, how by diligent shaving, the nether region of your face may preser=
ve
its human outline, instead of presenting no distinction from the physiognom=
y of
a bearded owl or a Barbary ape. I have seen men whose beards have so invaded
their cheeks, that one might have pitied them as the victims of a sad,
brutalising chastisement befitting our Dante's Inferno, if they had not see=
med
to strut with a strange triumph in their extravagant hairiness.'
'It seems to me,' said the Greek,
still looking into the mirror, 'that you have taken away some of my capital
with your razor - I mean a year or two of age, which might have won me more
ready credit for my learning. Under the inspection of a patron whose vision=
has
grown somewhat dim, I shall have a perilous resemblance to a maiden of eigh=
teen
in the disguise of hose and jerkin.'
'Not at all,' said Nello, proceedi=
ng
to clip the too extravagant curls; 'your proportions are not those of a mai=
den.
And for your age, I myself remember seeing Angelo Poliziano begin his lectu=
res
on the Latin language when he had a younger beard than yours; and between
ourselves, his juvenile ugliness was not less signal than his precocious
scholarship. Whereas you - no, no, your age is not against you; but between
ourselves, let me hint to you that your being a Greek, though it be only an
Apulian Greek, is not in your favour. Certain of our scholars hold that your
Greek learning is but a wayside degenerate plant until it has been transpla=
nted
into Italian brains, and that now there is such a plentiful crop of the
superior quality, your native teachers are mere propagators of degeneracy.
Ecco! your curls are now of the right proportion to neck and shoulders; ris=
e,
Messer, and I will free you from the encumbrance of this cloth. Gnaffe! I a=
lmost
advise you to retain the faded jerkin and hose a little longer; they give y=
ou
the air of a fallen prince.'
'But the question is,' said the yo=
ung
Greek, leaning against the high back of a chair, and returning Nello's
contemplative admiration with a look of inquiring anxiety; 'the question is=
, in
what quarter I am to carry my princely air, so as to rise from the said fal=
len
condition. If your Florentine patrons of learning share this scholarly
hostility to the Greeks, I see not how your city can be a hospitable refuge=
for
me, as you seemed to say just now.'
'Pian piano - not so fast,' said
Nello, sticking his thumbs into his belt and nodding to Sandro to restore
order. 'I will not conceal from you that there is a prejudice against Greeks
among us; and though, as a barber unsnared by authorship, I share no
prejudices, I must admit that the Greeks are not always such pretty youngst=
ers
as yourself: their erudition is often of an uncombed, unmannerly aspect and
encrusted with a barbarous utterance of Italian, that makes their converse
hardly more euphonious than that of a Tedesco in a state of vinous loquacit=
y.
And then again, excuse me - we Florentines have liberal ideas about speech,=
and
consider that an instrument which can flatter and promise so cleverly as the
tongue, must have been partly made for those purposes; and that truth is a
riddle for eyes and wit to discover, which it were a mere spoiling of sport=
for
the tongue to betray. Still we have our limits beyond which we call
dissimulation treachery. But it is said of the Greeks that their honesty be=
gins
at what is the hanging point with us, and that since the old Furies went to
sleep, your Christian Greek is of so easy a conscience that he would make a
stepping-stone of his father's corpse.'
The flush on the stranger's face
indicated what seemed so natural a movement of resentment, that the
good-natured Nello hastened to atone for his want of reticence.
'Be not offended, bel giovane; I am
but repeating what I hear in my shop; as you may perceive, my eloquence is
simply the cream which I skim off my clients' talk. Heaven forbid I should
fetter my impartiality by entertaining an opinion. And for that same schola=
rly
objection to the Greeks,' added Nello, in a more mocking tone, and with a
significant grimace, 'the fact is, you are heretics, Messer - jealousy has
nothing to do with it: if you would just change your opinion about leaven, =
and
alter your Doxology a little, our Italian scholars would think it a thousand
years till they could give up their chairs to you. Yes, yes; it is chiefly
religious scruple, and partly also the authority of a great classic, - Juve=
nal,
is it not? He, I gather, had his bile as much stirred by the swarm of Greek=
s as
our Messer Angelo, who is fond of quoting some passage about their incorrig=
ible
impudence - audacia perdita.'
'Pooh! the passage is a compliment=
,'
said the Greek, who had recovered himself, and seemed wise enough to take t=
he
matter gaily -
'‘In=
genium
velox, audacia perdita, sermo
Promptus, et Isaeo torrentior.’
A rapid intellect and ready eloque=
nce
may carry off a little impudence.'
'Assuredly,' said Nello. 'And sinc=
e,
as I see, you know Latin literature as well as Greek, you will not fall into
the mistake of Giovanni Argiropulo, who ran full tilt against Cicero, and
pronounced him all but a pumpkin-head. For, let me give you one bit of advi=
ce,
young man - trust a barber who has shaved the best chins, and kept his eyes=
and
ears open for twenty years - oil your tongue well when you talk of the anci=
ent
Latin writers, and give it an extra dip when you talk of the modern. A wise
Greek may win favour among us; witness our excellent Demetrio, who is loved=
by
many, and not hated immoderately even by the most renowned scholars.'
'I discern the wisdom of your advi=
ce
so clearly,' said the Greek, with the bright smile which was continually
lighting up the fine form and colour of his young face, 'that I will ask you
for a little more. Who now, for example, would be the most likely patron for
me? Is there a son of Lorenzo who inherits his tastes? Or is there any other
wealthy Florentine specially addicted to purchasing antique gems? I have a =
fine
Cleopatra cut in sardonyx, and one or two other intaglios and cameos, both
curious and beautiful, worthy of being added to the cabinet of a prince.
Happily, I had taken the precaution of fastening them within the lining of =
my
doublet before I set out on my voyage. Moreover, I should like to raise a s=
mall
sum for my present need on this ring of mine' (here he took out the ring and
replaced it on his finger), 'if you could recommend me to any honest
trafficker.'
'Let us see, let us see,' said Nel=
lo,
perusing the floor, and walking up and down the length of his shop. 'This i=
s no
time to apply to Piero de' Medici, though he has the will to make such
purchases if he could always spare the money; but I think it is another sor=
t of
Cleopatra that he covets most . .. Yes, yes, I have it. What you want is a =
man
of wealth, and influence, and scholarly tastes - not one of your learned
porcupines, bristling all over with critical tests, but one whose Greek and
Latin are of a comfortable laxity. And that man is Bartolommeo Scala, the
secretary of our Republic. He came to Florence as a poor adventurer himself=
- a
miller's son - a ‘branny monster,’ as he has been nicknamed by =
our
honey-lipped Poliziano, who agrees with him as well as my teeth agree with
lemon-juice. And, by the by, that may be a reason why the secretary may be =
the
more ready to do a good turn to a strange scholar. For, between you and me,=
bel
giovane - trust a barber who has shaved the best scholars - friendliness is
much such a steed as Ser Benghi's: it will hardly show much alacrity unless=
it
has got the thistle of hatred under its tail. However, the secretary is a m=
an
who'll keep his word to you, even to the halving of a fennel-seed; and he is
not unlikely to buy some of your gems.'
'But how am I to get at this great
man?' said the Greek, rather impatiently.
'I was coming to that,' said Nello.
'Just now everybody of any public importance will be full of Lorenzo's deat=
h,
and a stranger may find it difficult to get any notice. But in the meantime=
, I
could take you to a man who, if he has a mind, can help you to a chance of a
favourable interview with Scala sooner than anybody else in Florence - worth
seeing for his own sake too, to say nothing of his collections, or of his
daughter Romola, who is as fair as the Florentine lily before it got
quarrelsome and turned red.'
'But if this father of the beautif=
ul
Romola makes collections, why should he not like to buy some of my gems
himself?'
Nello shrugged his shoulders. 'For=
two
good reasons - want of sight to look at the gems, and want of money to pay =
for
them. Our old Bardo de' Bardi is so blind that he can see no more of his
daughter than, as he says, a glimmering of something bright when she comes =
very
near him: doubtless her golden hair, which, as Messer Luigi Pulci says of h=
is
Meridiana's, ‘raggia come stella per sereno.’ Ah! here come some
clients of mine, and I shouldn't wonder if one of them could serve your turn
about that ring.'
'Good-day, Messer Domenico,' said
Nello to the foremost of the two visitors who entered the shop, while he no=
dded
silently to the other. 'You come as opportunely as cheese on macaroni. Ah! =
you
are in haste - wish to be shaved without delay - ecco! And this is a morning
when every one has grave matter on his mind. Florence orphaned - the very p=
ivot
of Italy snatched away - heaven itself at a loss what to do next. Oime! Wel=
l,
well; the sun is nevertheless travelling on towards dinner-time again; and,=
as
I was saying, you come like cheese ready grated. For this young stranger was
wishing for an honourable trader who would advance him a sum on a certain r=
ing
of value, and if I had counted every goldsmith and money-lender in Florence=
on
my fingers, I couldn't have found a better name than Menico Cennini. Beside=
s,
he hath other ware in which you deal - Greek learning, and young eyes - a
double implement which you printers are always in need of.'
The grave elderly man, son of that
Bernardo Cennini, who, twenty years before, having heard of the new process=
of
printing carried on by Germans, had cast his own types in Florence, remained
necessarily in lathered silence and passivity while Nello showered this tal=
k in
his ears, but turned a slow sideway gaze on the stranger.
'This fine young man has unlimited
Greek, Latin, or Italian at your service,' continued Nello, fond of
interpreting by very ample paraphrase. 'He is as great a wonder of juvenile
learning as Francesco Filelfo or our own incomparable Poliziano. A second
Guarino,' too, for he has had the misfortune to be ship-wrecked, and has
doubtless lost a store of precious manuscripts that might have contributed =
some
correctness even to your correct editions, Domenico. Fortunately, he has
rescued a few gems of rare value. His name is - you said your name, Messer,=
was
- ?'
'Tito Melema,' said the stranger,
slipping the ring from his finger, and presenting it to Cennini, whom Nello,
not less rapid with his razor than with his tongue, had now released from t=
he
shaving-cloth.
Meanwhile the man who had entered =
the
shop in company with the goldsmith - a tall figure, about fifty, with a sho=
rt
trimmed beard, wearing an old felt hat and a threadbare mantle - had kept h=
is
eye fixed on the Greek, and now said abruptly -
'Young man, I am painting a pictur=
e of
Sinon deceiving old Priam, and I should be glad of your face for my Sinon, =
if
you'd give me a sitting.'
Tito Melema started and looked rou=
nd
with a pale astonishment in his face as if at a sudden accusation; but Nello
left him no time to feel at a loss for an answer: 'Piero,' said the barber,
'thou art the most extraordinary compound of humours and fancies ever packed
into a human skin. What trick wilt thou play with the fine visage of this y=
oung
scholar to make it suit thy traitor? Ask him rather to turn his eyes upward,
and thou mayst make a Saint Sebastian of him that will draw troops of devout
women; or, if thou art in a classical vein, put myrtle about his curls and =
make
him a young Bacchus, or say rather a Phoebus Apollo, for his face is as warm
and bright as a summer morning; it made me his friend in the space of a =
216;credo.’'
'Ay, Nello,' said the painter,
speaking with abrupt pauses; 'and if thy tongue can leave off its everlasti=
ng
chirping long enough for thy understanding to consider the matter, thou may=
st
see that thou hast just shown the reason why the face of Messere will suit =
my
traitor. A perfect traitor should have a face which vice can write no marks=
on
- lips that will lie with a dimpled smile - eyes of such agate-like brightn=
ess
and depth that no infamy can dull them - cheeks that will rise from a murder
and not look haggard. I say not this young man is a traitor: I mean, he has=
a face
that would make him the more perfect traitor if he had the heart of one, wh=
ich
is saying neither more nor less than that he has a beautiful face, informed
with rich young blood, that will be nourished enough by food, and keep its
colour without much help of virtue. He may have the heart of a hero along w=
ith
it; I aver nothing to the contrary. Ask Domenico there if the lapidaries can
always tell a gem by the sight alone. And now I'm going to put the tow in my
ears, for thy chatter and the bells together are more than I can endure: so=
say
no more to me, but trim my beard.'
With these last words Piero (called
'di Cosimo,' from his master, Cosimo Rosselli) drew out two bits of tow,
stuffed them in his ears, and placed himself in the chair before Nello, who
shrugged his shoulders and cast a grimacing look of intelligence at the Gre=
ek,
as much as to say, 'A whimsical fellow, you perceive! Everybody holds his
speeches as mere jokes.'
Tito, who had stood transfixed, wi=
th
his long dark eyes resting on the unknown man who had addressed him so
equivocally, seemed recalled to his self-command by Piero's change of posit=
ion,
and apparently satisfied with his explanation, was again giving his attenti=
on
to Cennini, who presently said -
'This is a curious and valuable ri=
ng,
young man. This intaglio of the fish with the crested serpent above it, in =
the
black stratum of the onyx, or rather nicolo, is well shown by the surroundi=
ng
blue of the upper stratum. The ring has, doubtless, a history?' added Cenni=
ni,
looking up keenly at the young stranger.
'Yes, indeed,' said Tito, meeting =
the
scrutiny very frankly. 'The ring was found in Sicily, and I have understood
from those who busy themselves with gems and sigils, that both the stone and
intaglio are of virtue to make the wearer fortunate, especially at sea, and
also to restore to him whatever he may have lost. But,' he continued, smili=
ng,
'though I have worn it constantly since I quitted Greece, it has not made me
altogether fortunate at sea, you perceive, unless I am to count escape from
drowning as a sufficient proof of its virtue. It remains to be seen whether=
my
lost chests will come to light; but to lose no chance of such a result, Mes=
ser,
I will pray you only to hold the ring for a short space as pledge for a sma=
ll
sum far beneath its value, and I will redeem it as soon as I can dispose of
certain other gems which are secured within my doublet, or indeed as soon a=
s I
can earn something by any scholarly employment, if I may be so fortunate as=
to
meet with such.'
'That may be seen, young man, if y=
ou
will come with me,' said Cennini. 'My brother Pietro, who is a better judge=
of
scholarship than I, will perhaps be able to supply you with a task that may
test your capabilities. Meanwhile, take back your ring until I can hand you=
the
necessary florins, and, if it please you, come along with me.'
'Yes, yes,' said Nello, 'go with
Messer Domenico, you cannot go in better company; he was born under the
constellation that gives a man skill, riches, and integrity, whatever that =
constellation
may be, which is of the less consequence because babies can't choose their =
own
horoscopes, and, indeed, if they could, there might be an inconvenient rush=
of
babies at particular epochs. Besides, our Phoenix, the incomparable Pico, h=
as
shown that your horoscopes are all a nonsensical dream - which is the less
troublesome opinion. Addio! bel giovane! don't forget to come back to me.' =
'No fear of that,' said Tito,
beckoning a farewell, as he turned round his bright face at the door. 'You =
are
to do me a great service: - that is the most positive security for your see=
ing
me again.'
'Say what thou wilt, Piero,' said
Nello, as the young stranger disappeared, 'I shall never look at such an
outside as that without taking it as a sign of a lovable nature. Why, thou =
wilt
say next that Lionardo, whom thou art always raving about, ought to have ma=
de
his Judas as beautiful as St John! But thou art as deaf as the top of Mount
Morello with that accursed tow in thy ears. Well, well: I'll get a little m=
ore
of this young man's history from him before I take him to Bardo Bardi.'
The Via de' Bardi, a street noted =
in
the history of Florence. lies in Oltrarno, or that portion of the city which
clothes the southern bank of the river. It extends from the Ponte Vecchio to
the Piazza de' Mozzi at the head of the Ponte alle Grazie; its right-hand l=
ine
of houses and walls being backed by the rather steep ascent which in the
fifteenth century was known as the hill of Bogoli, the famous stonequarry
whence the city got its pavement - of dangerously unstable consistence when
penetrated by rains; its left-hand buildings flanking the river and making =
on
their northern side a length of quaint, irregularly-pierced facade, of whic=
h the
waters give a softened loving reflection as the sun begins to decline towar=
ds
the western heights. But quaint as these buildings are, some of them seem to
the historical memory a too modern substitute for the famous houses of the
Bardi family, destroyed by popular rage in the middle of the fourteenth
century.
They were a proud and energetic st=
ock,
these Bardi; conspicuous among those who clutched the sword in the earliest
world-famous quarrels of Florentines with Florentines when the narrow stree=
ts
were darkened with the high towers of the nobles, and when the old tutelar =
god
Mars, as he saw; the gutters reddened with neighbours' blood, might well ha=
ve
smiled at the centuries of lip-service paid to his rival the Baptist. But t=
he
Bardi hands were of the sort that not only clutch the sword-hilt with vigou=
r,
but love the more delicate pleasure of fingering minted metal: they were
matched, too, with true Florentine eyes, capable of discerning that power w=
as
to be won by other means than by rending and riving, and by the middle of t=
he
fourteenth century we find them risen from their original condition of
popolania to be possessors, by purchase, of lands and strongholds, and the
feudal dignity of Counts of Vernio, disturbing to the jealousy of their
republican fellow-citizens. These lordly purchases are explained by our see=
ing
the Bardi disastrously signalised only a few years later as standing in the
very front of European commerce - the Christian Rothschilds of that time -
undertaking to furnish specie for the wars of our Edward the Third, and hav=
ing
revenues 'in kind' made over to them, especially in wool, most precious of
freights for Florentine galleys. Their august debtor left them with an augu=
st
deficit, and alarmed Sicilian creditors made a too sudden demand for the
payment of deposits, causing a ruinous shock to the credit of the Bardi and=
of
associated houses, which was felt as a commercial calamity along all the co=
asts
of the Mediterranean. But, like more modern bankrupts, they did not, for all
that, hide their heads in humiliation; on the contrary, they seemed to have
held them higher than ever, and to have been among the most arrogant of tho=
se
grandees, who under certain noteworthy circumstances, open to all who will =
read
the honest pages of Giovanni Villani, drew upon themselves the exasperation=
of
the armed people in 1343. The Bardi, who had made themselves fast in their
street between the two bridges, kept these narrow inlets, like panthers at =
bay,
against the oncoming gonfalons of the people, and were only made to give wa=
y by
an assault from the hill behind them. Their houses by the river, to the num=
ber
of twenty-two (palagi e case grandi), were sacked and burnt, and many among=
the
chief of those who bore the Bardi name were driven from the city. But an old
Florentine family was many-rooted, and we find the Bardi maintaining import=
ance
and rising again and again to the surface of Florentine affairs in a more or
less creditable manner, implying an untold family history that would have
included even more vicissitudes and contrasts of dignity and disgrace, of
wealth and poverty, than are usually seen on the background of wide kinship.
But the Bardi never resumed their proprietorship in the old street on the b=
anks
of the river, which in 1492 had long been associated with other names of ma=
rk,
and especially with the Neri, who possessed a considerable range of houses =
on
the side towards the hill.
In one of these Neri houses there
lived, however, a descendant of the Bardi, and of that very branch which a
century and a half before had become Counts of Vernio: a descendant who had
inherited the old family pride and energy, the old love of pre-eminence, the
old desire to leave a lasting track of his footsteps on the fast-whirling
earth. But the family passions lived on in him under altered conditions: th=
is
descendant of the Bardi was not a man swift in street warfare, or one who l=
oved
to play the signor, fortifying strongholds and asserting the right to hang
vassals, or a merchant and usurer of keen daring, who delighted in the
generalship of wide commercial schemes: he was a man with a deep-veined hand
cramped by much copying of manuscripts, who ate sparing dinners, and wore
threadbare clothes, at first from choice and at last from necessity; who sat
among his books and his marble fragments of the past, and saw them only by =
the
light of those far-off younger days which still shone in his memory: he was=
a
moneyless, blind old scholar - the Bardo de' Bardi to whom Nello, the barbe=
r,
had promised to introduce the young Greek, Tito Melema.
The house in which Bardo lived was
situated on the side of the street nearest the hill, and was one of those l=
arge
sombre masses of stone building pierced by comparatively small windows, and
surmounted by what may be called a roofed terrace or loggia, of which there=
are
many examples still to be seen in the venerable city. Grim doors, with
conspicuous scrolled hinges, having high up on each side of them a small wi=
ndow
defended by iron bars, opened on a groined entrance-court, empty of everyth=
ing
but a massive lamp-iron suspended from the centre of the groin. A smaller g=
rim
door on the left hand admitted to the stone staircase, and the rooms on the
ground-floor. These last were used as a warehouse by the proprietor; so was=
the
first floor; and both were filled with precious stores, destined to be carr=
ied,
some perhaps to the banks of the Scheldt, some to the shores of Africa, som=
e to
the isles of the Egean, or to the banks of the Euxine. Maso, the old
serving-man, when he returned from the Mercato with the stock of cheap
vegetables, had to make his slow way up to the second storey before he reac=
hed
the door of his master, Bardo, through which we are about to enter only a f=
ew
mornings after Nello's conversation with the Greek.
We follow Maso across the antecham=
ber
to the door on the left hand, through which we pass as he opens it. He mere=
ly
looks in and nods, while a clear young voice says, 'Ah, you are come back,
Maso. It is well. We have wanted nothing.'
The voice came from the farther en=
d of
a long, spacious room, surrounded with shelves, on which books and antiquit=
ies
were arranged in scrupulous order. Here and there, on separate stands in fr=
ont
of the shelves, were placed a beautiful feminine torso; a headless statue, =
with
an uplifted muscular arm wielding a bladeless sword; rounded, dimpled,
infantine limbs severed from the trunk, inviting the lips to kiss the cold
marble; some well-preserved Roman busts; and two or three vases from Magna
Grecia. A large table in the centre was covered with antique bronze lamps a=
nd
small vessels in dark pottery. The colour of these objects was chiefly pale=
or
sombre: the vellum bindings, with their deep-ridged backs, gave little reli=
ef
to the marble, livid with long burial; the once splendid patch of carpet at=
the
farther end of the room had long been worn to dimness; the dark bronzes wan=
ted
sunlight upon them to bring out their tinge of green, and the sun was not y=
et
high enough to send gleams of brightness through the narrow windows that lo=
oked
on the Via de' Bardi.
The only spot of bright colour in =
the
room was made by the hair of a tall maiden of seventeen or eighteen, who was
standing before a carved leggio, or reading-desk, such as is often seen in =
the
choirs of Italian churches. The hair was of a reddish gold colour, enriched=
by
an unbroken small ripple, such as may be seen in the sunset clouds on grand=
est
autumnal evenings. It was confined by a black fillet above her small ears, =
from
which it rippled forward again, and made a natural veil for her neck above =
her
square-cut gown of black rascia, or serge. Her eyes were bent on a large vo=
lume
placed before her: one long white hand rested on the reading-desk, and the
other clasped the back of her father's chair.
The blind father sat with head
uplifted and turned a little aside towards his daughter, as if he were look=
ing
at her. His delicate paleness, set off by the black velvet cap which surmou=
nted
his drooping white hair, made all the more perceptible the likeness between=
his
aged features and those of the young maiden, whose cheeks were also without=
any
tinge of the rose. There was the same refinement of brow and nostril in bot=
h,
counterbalanced by a full though firm mouth and powerful chin, which gave an
expression of proud tenacity and latent impetuousness: an expression carried
out in the backward poise of the girl's head, and the grand line of her neck
and shoulders. It was a type of face of which one could not venture to say
whether it would inspire love or only that unwilling admiration which is mi=
xed
with dread: the question must be decided by the eyes, which often seem char=
ged
with a more direct message from the soul. But the eyes of the father had lo=
ng
been silent, and the eyes of the daughter were bent on the Latin pages of
Politian's 'Miscellanea,' from which she was reading aloud at the eightieth
chapter, to the following effect:
'There was a certain nymph of Theb=
es
named Chariclo, 'especially dear to Pallas; and this nymph was the mother of
'Teiresias. But once when in the heat of the summer, Pallas, in 'company wi=
th
Chariclo, was bathing her disrobed limbs in the 'Heliconian Hippocrene, it
happened that Teiresias coming as a 'hunter to quench his thirst at the same
fountain, inadvertently 'beheld Minerva unveiled, and immediately became bl=
ind.
For it 'is declared in the Saturnian laws, that he who beholds the gods
'against their will, shall atone for it by a heavy penalty... When 'Teiresi=
as
had fallen into this calamity, Pallas, moved by the 'tears of Chariclo, end=
owed
him with prophecy and length of 'days, and even caused his prudence and wis=
dom
to continue 'after he had entered among the shades, so that an oracle spake
'from his tomb: and she gave him a staff, wherewith, as by a 'guide, he mig=
ht
walk without stumbling... And hence, Nonnus, 'in the fifth book of the R=
16;Dionysiaca,’
introduces Actaeon 'exclaiming that he calls Teiresias happy, since, without
dying, 'and with the loss of his eyesight merely, he had beheld Minerva
'unveiled and thus, though blind, could for evermore carry 'her image in his
soul.'
At this point in the reading, the
daughter's hand slipped from the back of the chair and met her father's, wh=
ich
he had that moment uplifted; but she had not looked round, and was going on,
though with a voice a little altered by some suppressed feeling, to read the
Greek quotation from Nonnus, when the old man said -
'Stay, Romola; reach me my own cop=
y of
Nonnus. It is a more correct copy than any in Poliziano's hands, for I made
emendations in it which have not yet been communicated to any man. I finish=
ed
it in 1477, when my sight was fast failing me.'
Romola walked to the farther end of
the room, with the queenly step which was the simple action of her tall,
finely-wrought frame, without the slightest conscious adjustment of herself=
.
'Is it in the right place, Romola?'
asked Bardo, who was perpetually seeking the assurance that the outward fact
continued to correspond with the image which lived to the minutest detail in
his mind.
'Yes, father; at the west end of t= he room, on the third shelf from the bottom, behind the bust of Hadrian, above Apollonius Rhodius and Callimachus, and below Lucan and Silius Italicus.' <= o:p>
As Romola said this, a fine ear wo=
uld
have detected in her clear voice and distinct utterance, a faint suggestion=
of
weariness struggling with habitual patience. But as she approached her fath=
er
and saw his arms stretched out a little with nervous excitement to seize the
volume, her hazel eyes filled with pity; she hastened to lay the book on his
lap, and kneeled down by him, looking up at him as if she believed that the
love in her face must surely make its way through the dark obstruction that
shut out everything else. At that moment the doubtful attractiveness of
Romola's face, in which pride and passion seemed to be quivering in the bal=
ance
with native refinement and intelligence, was transfigured to the most lovab=
le
womanliness by mingled pity and affection: it was evident that the deepest
fount of feeling within her had not yet wrought its way to the less changef=
ul
features, and only found its outlet through her eyes.
But the father, unconscious of that
soft radiance, looked flushed and agitated as his hand explored the edges a=
nd
back of the large book.
'The vellum is yellowed in these
thirteen years, Romola.'
'Yes, father,' said Romola, gently;
'but your letters at the back are dark and plain still - fine Roman letters;
and the Greek character,' she continued, laying the book open on her father=
's
knee, 'is more beautiful than that of any of your bought manuscripts.'
'Assuredly, child,' said Bardo,
passing his finger across the page, as if he hoped to discriminate line and
margin. 'What hired amanuensis can be equal to the scribe who loves the wor=
ds
that grow under his hand, and to whom an error or indistinctness in the tex=
t is
more painful than a sudden darkness or obstacle across his path? And even t=
hese
mechanical printers who threaten to make learning a base and vulgar thing -
even they must depend on the manuscript over which we scholars have bent wi=
th
that insight into the poet's meaning which is closely akin to the mens divi=
nior
of the poet himself; unless they would flood the world with grammatical
falsities and inexplicable anomalies that would turn the very fountain of
Parnassus into a deluge of poisonous mud. But find the passage in the fifth
book, to which Poliziano refers - I know it very well.'
Seating herself on a low stool, cl=
ose
to her father's knee, Romola took the book on her lap and read the four ver=
ses
containing the exclamation of Actaeon.
'It is true, Romola,' said Bardo, =
when
she had finished; 'it is a true conception of the poet; for what is that
grosser, narrower light by which men behold merely the petty scene around t=
hem,
compared with that far-stretching, lasting light which spreads over centuri=
es of
thought, and over the life of nations, and makes clear to us the minds of t=
he
immortals who have reaped the great harvest and left us to glean in their
furrows? For me, Romola, even when I could see, it was with the great dead =
that
I lived; while the living often seemed to me mere spectres - shadows
dispossessed of true feeling and intelligence; and unlike those Lamiae, to =
whom
Poliziano, with that superficial ingenuity which I do not deny to him, comp=
ares
our inquisitive Florentines, because they put on their eyes when they went
abroad, and took them off when they got home again, I have returned from the
converse of the streets as from a forgotten dream, and have sat down among =
my
books, saying with Petrarca, the modern who is least unworthy to be named a=
fter
the ancients, ‘Libri medullitus delectant, colloquuntur, consulunt, et
viva quadam nobis atque arguta familiaritate junguntur.’ '
'And in one thing you are happier = than your favourite Petrarca, father,' said Romola, affectionately humouring the= old man's disposition to dilate in this way; 'for he used to look at his copy of Homer and think sadly that the Greek was a dead letter to him: so far, he h= ad the inward blindness that you feel is worse than your outward blindness.' <= o:p>
'True, child; for I carry within me
the fruits of that fervid study which I gave to the Greek tongue under the
teaching of the younger Crisolora, and Filelfo, and Argiropulo; though that
great work in which I had desired to gather, as into a firm web, all the
threads that my research had laboriously disentangled, and which would have
been the vintage of my life, was cut off by the failure of my sight and my =
want
of a fitting coadjutor. For the sustained zeal and unconquerable patience
demanded from those who would tread the unbeaten paths of knowledge are sti=
ll
less reconcilable with the wandering, vagrant propensity of the feminine mi=
nd
than with the feeble powers of the feminine body.'
'Father,' said Romola, with a sudd=
en
flush and in an injured tone, 'I read anything you wish me to read; and I w=
ill
look out any passages for you, and make whatever notes you want.'
Bardo shook his head, and smiled w=
ith
a bitter sort of pity. 'As well try to be a pentathlos and perform all the =
five
feats of the palaestra with the limbs of a nymph. Have I forgotten thy fain=
ting
in the mere search for the references I needed to explain a single passage =
of
Callimachus?'
'But, father, it was the weight of=
the
books, and Maso can help me; it was not want of attention and patience.'
Bardo shook his head again. 'It is=
not
mere bodily organs that I want: it is the sharp edge of a young mind to pie=
rce
the way for my somewhat blunted faculties. For blindness acts like a dam,
sending the streams of thought backward along the already-travelled channels
and hindering the course onward. If my son had not forsaken me, deluded by
debasing fanatical dreams, worthy only of an energumen whose dwelling is am=
ong
tombs, I might have gone on and seen my path broadening to the end of my li=
fe;
for he was a youth of great promise ... But it has closed in now,' the old =
man
continued, after a short pause; 'it has closed in now; - all but the narrow
track he has left me to tread - alone in my blindness.'
Romola started from her seat, and
carried away the large volume to its place again, stung too acutely by her
father's last words to remain motionless as well as silent; and when she tu=
rned
away from the shelf again, she remained standing at some distance from him,
stretching her arms downwards and clasping her fingers tightly as she looked
with a sad dreariness in her young face at the lifeless objects around her -
the parchment backs, the unchanging mutilated marble, the bits of obsolete
bronze and clay.
Bardo, though usually susceptible =
to
Romola's movements and eager to trace them, was now too entirely preoccupie=
d by
the pain of rankling memories to notice her departure from his side.
'Yes,' he went on, 'with my son to=
aid
me, I might have had my due share in the triumphs of this century: the name=
s of
the Bardi, father and son, might have been held reverently on the lips of
scholars in the ages to come; not on account of frivolous verses or
philosophical treatises, which are superfluous and presumptuous attempts to
imitate the inimitable, such as allure vain men like Panhormita, and from w=
hich
even the admirable Poggio did not keep himself sufficiently free; but becau=
se
we should have given a lamp whereby men might have studied the supreme
productions of the past. For why is a young man like Poliziano (who was not=
yet
born when I was already held worthy to maintain a discussion with Thomas of
Sarzana) to have a glorious memory as a commentator on the Pandects - why is
Ficino, whose Latin is an offence to me, and who wanders purblind among the
superstitious fancies that marked the decline at once of art, literature, a=
nd
philosophy, to descend to posterity as the very high priest of Platonism, w=
hile
I, who am more than their equal, have not effected anything but scattered w=
ork,
which will be appropriated by other men? Why? but because my son, whom I had
brought up to replenish my ripe learning with young enterprise, left me and=
all
liberal pursuits that he might lash himself and howl at
In these last words the old man's
voice, which had risen high in indignant protest, fell into a tone of repro=
ach
so tremulous and plaintive that Romola, turning her eyes again towards the
blind aged face, felt her heart swell with forgiving pity. She seated herse=
lf
by her father again, and placed her hand on his knee - too proud to obtrude
consolation in words that might seem like a vindication of her own value, y=
et
wishing to comfort him by some sign of her presence.
'Yes, Romola,' said Bardo,
automatically letting his left hand, with its massive prophylactic rings, f=
all
a little too heavily on the delicate blue-veined back of the girl's right, =
so
that she bit her lip to prevent herself from starting. 'If even Florence on=
ly
is to remember me, it can but be on the same ground that it will remember
Niccolo Niccoli - because I forsook the vulgar pursuit of wealth in commerce
that I might devote myself to collecting the precious remains of ancient art
and wisdom, and leave them, after the example of the munificent Romans, for=
an
everlasting possession to my fellow-citizens. But why do I say Florence onl=
y?
If Florence remembers me, will not the world remember me? . . . Yet,' added
Bardo, after a short pause, his voice falling again into a saddened key,
'Lorenzo's untimely death has raised a new diffficulty. I had his promise -=
I
should have had his bond - that my collection should always bear my name and
should never be sold, though the harpies might clutch everything else; but
there is enough for them - there is more than enough - and for thee, too,
Romola, there will be enough. Besides, thou wilt marry; Bernardo reproaches=
me
that I do not seek a fitting parentado for thee, and we will delay no longe=
r,
we will think about it.'
'No, no, father; what could you do?
besides, it is useless: wait till some one seeks me,' said Romola hastily. =
'Nay, my child, that is not the
paternal duty. It was not so held by the ancients, and in this respect
Florentines have not degenerated from their ancestral customs.'
'But I will study diligently,' said
Romola, her eyes dilating with anxiety. 'I will become as learned as Cassan=
dra
Fedele: I will try and be as useful to you as if I had been a boy, and then
perhaps some great scholar will want to marry me, and will not mind about a
dowry; and he will like to come and live with you, and he will be to you in
place of my brother . . . and you will not be sorry that I was a daughter.'=
There was a rising sob in Romola's
voice as she said the last words, which touched the fatherly fibre in Bardo=
. He
stretched his hand upward a little in search of her golden hair, and as she
placed her head under his hand, he gently stroked it, leaning towards her a=
s if
his eyes discerned some glimmer there.
'Nay, Romola mia, I said not so; i=
f I
have pronounced an anathema on a degenerate and ungrateful son, I said not =
that
I could wish thee other than the sweet daughter thou hast been to me. For w=
hat
son could have tended me so gently in the frequent sickness I have had of l=
ate?
And even in learning thou art not, according to thy measure, contemptible.
Something perhaps were to be wished in thy capacity of attention and memory,
not incompatible even with the feminine mind. But as Calcondila bore testim=
ony
when he aided me to teach thee, thou hast a ready apprehension, and even a
wide-glancing intelligence. And thou hast a man's nobility of soul: thou ha=
st
never fretted me with thy petty desires as thy mother did. It is true, I ha=
ve
been careful to keep thee aloof from the debasing influence of thy own sex,
with their sparrow-like frivolity and their enslaving superstition, except,
indeed, from that of our cousin Brigida, who may well serve as a scarecrow =
and
a warning. And though - since I agree with the divine Petrarca, when he
declares, quoting the ‘Aulularia’ of Plautus, who again was
indebted for the truth to the supreme Greek intellect, ‘Optimam foemi=
nam
nullam esse, alia licet alia pejor sit’ - I cannot boast that thou art
entirely lifted out of that lower category to which Nature assigned thee, n=
or
even that in erudition thou art on a par with the more learned women of this
age; thou art, nevertheless - yes, Romola mia,' said the old man, his pedan=
try
again melting into tenderness, 'thou art my sweet daughter, and thy voice i=
s as
the lower notes of the flute, ‘dulcis, durabilis, clara, pura, secans
aera et auribus sedens,’ according to the choice words of Quintilian;=
and
Bernardo tells me thou art fair, and thy hair is like the brightness of the
morning, and indeed it seems to me that I discern some radiance from thee. =
Ah!
I know how all else looks in this room, but thy form I only guess at. Thou =
art
no longer the little woman six years old, that faded for me into darkness; =
thou
art tall, and thy arm is but little below mine. Let us walk together.'
The old man rose, and Romola, soot=
hed
by these beams of tenderness, looked happy again as she drew his arm within
hers, and placed in his right hand the stick which rested at the side of his
chair. While Bardo had been sitting, he had seemed hardly more than sixty: =
his
face, though pale, had that refined texture in which wrinkles and lines are
never deep; but now that he began to walk he looked as old as he really was=
-
rather more than seventy; for his tall spare frame had the student's stoop =
of
the shoulders, and he stepped with the undecided gait of the blind.
'No, Romola,' he said, pausing aga=
inst
the bust of Hadrian, and passing his stick from the right to the left that =
he
might explore the familiar outline with a 'seeing hand.' 'There will be not=
hing
else to preserve my memory and carry down my name as a member of the great
republic of letters - nothing but my library and my collection of antiquiti=
es.
And they are choice,' continued Bardo, pressing the bust and speaking in a =
tone
of insistance. 'The collections of Niccolo I know were larger; but take any
collection which is the work of a single man - that of the great Boccaccio =
even
- mine will surpass it. That of Poggio was contemptible compared with mine.=
It
will be a great gift to unborn scholars. And there is nothing else. For eve=
n if
I were to yield to the wish of Aldo Manuzio when he sets up his press at
Venice, and give him the aid of my annotated manuscripts, I know well what
would be the result: some other scholar's name would stand on the title-pag=
e of
the edition - some scholar who would have fed on my honey, and then declare=
d in
his preface that he had gathered it all himself fresh from Hymettus. Else, =
why
have I refused the loan of many an annotated codex? why have I refused to m=
ake
public any of my translations? why? but becausc scholarship is a system of
licensed robbery, and your man in scarlet and turred robe who sits in judgm=
ent
on thieves, is himself a thief of the thoughts and the fame that belong to =
his
fellows. But against that robbery Bardo de' Bardi shall struggle - though b=
lind
and forsaken, he shall struggle. I too have a right to be remembered - as g=
reat
a right as Pontanus or Merula, whose names will be foremost on the lips of
posterity, because they sought patronage and found it; because they had ton=
gues
that could flatter, and blood that was used to be nourished from the client=
's
basket. I have a right to be remembered.'
The old man's voice had become at =
once
loud and tremulous, and a pink flush overspread his proud, delicately-cut
features, while the habitually raised attitude of his head gave the idea th=
at
behind the curtain of his blindness he saw some imaginary high tribunal to
which he was appealing against the injustice of Fame.
Romola was moved with sympathetic
indignation, for in her nature too there lay the same large claims, and the
same spirit of struggle against their denial. She tried to calm her father =
by a
still prouder word than his.
'Nevertheless, father, it is a gre=
at
gift to the gods to be born with a hatred and contempt of all injustice and
meanness. Yours is a higher lot, never to have lied and truckled, than to h=
ave
shared honours won by dishonour. There is strength in scorn, as there was in
the martial fury by which men became insensible to wounds.'
'It is well said, Romola. It is a Promethean word thou hast uttered,' answered Bardo, after a little interval= in which he had begun to lean on his stick again, and to walk on. 'And I indee= d am not to be pierced by the shafts of Fortune. My armour is the aes triplex of= a clear conscience, and a mind nourished by the precepts of philosophy. ̵= 6;For men,’ says Epictetus, ‘are disturbed not by things themselves, = but by their opinions or thoughts concerning those things.’ And again, = 8216;whosoever will be free, let him not desire or dread that which it is in the power of others either to deny or inflict: otherwis, he is a slave.’ And of all such gifts as are dependent on the caprice of fortune or of men, I have long ago learned to say, with Horace - who, however, is too wavering in his philosophy, vacillating between the precepts of Zeno and the less worthy ma= xims of Epicurus, and attempting, as we say, ‘duabus sellis sedere’ - concerning such accidents, I say, with the pregnant brevity of the poet - <= o:p>
‘Sunt qui non habeant, est q=
ui
non curat habere.’
He is referring to gems, and purpl=
e,
and other insignia of wealth; but I may apply his words not less justly to =
the
tributes men pay us with their lips and their pens, which are also matters =
of
purchase, and often with base coin. Yes, ‘inanis’ - hollow, emp=
ty -
is the epithet justly bestowed on Fame.'
They made the tour of the room in
silence after this; but Bardo's lip-born maxims were as powerless over the
passion which had been moving him, as if they had been written on parchment=
and
hung round his neck in a sealed bag; and he presently broke forth again in a
new tone of insistance.
'Inanis?' yes, if it is a lying fa=
me; but
not if it is the just meed of labour and a great purpose. I claim my right:=
it
is not fair that the work of my brain and my hands should not be a monument=
to
me - it is not just that my labour should bear the name of another man. It =
is
but little to ask,' the old man went on, bitterly, 'that my name should be =
over
the door - that men should own themselves debtors to the Bardi Library in
Florence. They will speak coldly of me, perhaps: ‘a diligent collector
and transcriber,’ they will say, ‘and also of some critical
ingenuity, but one who could hardly be conspicuous in an age so fruitful in
illustrious scholars. Yet he merits our pity, for in the latter years of his
life he was blind, and his only son, to whose education he had devoted his =
best
years -’ Nevertheless, my name will be remembered, and men will honour
me: not with the breath of flattery, purchased by mean bribes, but because I
have laboured, and because my labours will remain. Debts! I know there are
debts; and there is thy dowry, Romola, to be paid. But there must be enough=
-
or, at least, there can lack but a small sum, such as the Signoria might we=
ll
provide. And if Lorenzo had not died, all would have been secured and settl=
ed.
But now ...'
At this moment Maso opened the doo=
r,
and advancing to his master, announced that Nello, the barber, had desired =
him
to say, that he was come with the Greek scholar whom he had asked leave to
introduce.
'It is well,' said the old man. 'B=
ring
them in.'
Bardo, conscious that he looked mo=
re
dependent when he was walking, liked always to be seated in the presence of
strangers, and Romola, without needing to be told, conducted him to his cha=
ir.
She was standing by him at her full height, in quiet majestic self-possessi=
on,
when the visitors entered; and the most penetrating observer would hardly h=
ave
divined that this proud pale face, at the slightest touch on the fibres of
affection or pity, could become passionate with tenderness, or that this wo=
man,
who imposed a certain awe on those who approached her, was in a state of
girlish simplicity and ignorance concerning the world outside her father's
books.
When Maso opened the door again, a=
nd
ushered in the two visitors, Nello, first making a deep reverence to Romola,
gently pushed Tito before him, and advanced with him towards her father.
'Messer Bardo,' he said, in a more
measured and respectful tone than was usual with him, 'I have the honour of
presenting to you the Greek scholar, who has been eager to have speech of y=
ou,
not less from the report I have made to him of your learning and your price=
less
collections, than because of the furtherance your patronage may give him un=
der
the transient need to which he has been reduced by shipwreck. His name is T=
ito
Melema, at your service.'
Romola's astonishment could hardly
have been greater if the stranger had worn a panther-skin and carried a
thyrsus; for the cunning barber had said nothing of the Greek's age or
appearance; and among her father's scholarly visitors, she had hardly ever =
seen
any but middle-aged or grey-headed men. There was only one masculine face, =
at
once youthful and beautiful, the image of which remained deeply impressed on
her mind: it was that of her brother, who long years ago had taken her on h=
is
knee, kissed her, and never come back again: a fair face, with sunny hair, =
like
her own. But the habitual attitude of her mind towards strangers - a proud
self-dependence and determination to ask for nothing even by a smile -
confirmed in her by her father's complaints against the world's injustice, =
was
like a snowy embankment hemming in the rush of admiring surprise. Tito's br=
ight
face showed its rich-tinted beauty without any rivalry of colour above his
black sajo or tunic reaching to the knees. It seemed like a wreath of sprin=
g,
dropped suddenly in Romola's young but wintry life, which had inherited not=
hing
but memories - memories of a dead mother, of a lost brother, of a blind
father's happier time - memories of far-off light, love, and beauty, that l=
ay
embedded in dark mines of books, and could hardly give out their brightness
again until they were kindled for her by the torch of some known joy.
Nevertheless, she returned Tito's bow, made to her on entering, with the sa=
me
pale proud face as ever; but, as he approached, the snow melted, and when he
ventured to look towards her again, while Nello was speaking, a pink flush
overspread her face, to vanish again almost immediately, as if her imperious
will had recalled it. Tito's glance, on the contrary, had that gentle, bese=
eching
admiration in it which is the most propitiating of appeals to a proud, shy
woman, and is perhaps the only atonement a man can make for being too hands=
ome.
The finished fascination of his air came chiefly from the absence of demand=
and
assumption. It was that of a fleet, soft-coated, dark-eyed animal that deli=
ghts
you by not bounding away in indifference from you, and unexpectedly pillows=
its
chin on your palm, and looks up at you desiring to be stroked - as if it lo=
ved
you.
'Messere, I give you welcome,' said
Bardo, with some condescension; 'misfortune wedded to learning, and especia=
lly
to Greck learning, is a letter of credit that should win the ear of every
instructed Florentine; for, as you are doubtless aware, since the period wh=
en
your countryman, Manuelo Crisolora, diffused the light of his teaching in t=
he
chief cities of Italy, now nearly a century ago, no man is held worthy of t=
he
name of scholar who has acquired merely the transplanted and derivative
literature of the Latins; rather such inert students are stigmatised as opi=
ci
or barbarians according to the phrase of the Romans themselves, who frankly
replenished their urns at the fountain-head. I am, as you perceive, and as
Nello has doubtless forewarned you, totally blind: a calamity to which we F=
lorentines
are held especially liable, whether owing to the cold winds which rush upon=
us
in spring from the passes of the Appenines, or to that sudden transition fr=
om
the cool gloom of our houses to the dazzling brightness of our summer sun, =
by
which the lippi are said to have been made so numerous among the ancient
Romans; or, in fine, to some occult cause which eludes our superficial
surmises. But I pray you be seated: Nello, my friend, be seated.'
Bardo paused until his fine ear had
assured him that the visitors were seating themselves, and that Romola was
taking her usual chair at his right hand. Then he said -
'From what part of Greece do you c=
ome,
Messere? I had thought that your unhappy country had been almost exhausted =
of
those sons who could cherish in their minds any image of her original glory,
though indeed the barbarous Sultans have of late shown themselves not
indisposed to engraft on their wild stock the precious vine which their own
fierce bands have hewn down and trampled under foot. From what part of Gree=
ce
do you come?'
'I sailed last from Nauplia,' said
Tito; 'but I have resided both at Constantinople and Thessalonica, and have
travelled in various parts little visited by Western Christians since the
triumph of the Turkish arms. I should tell you, however, Messere, that I was
not born in Greece, but at Bari. I spent the first sixteen years of my life=
in
Southern Italy and Sicily.'
While Tito was speaking, some emot=
ion
passed, like a breath on the waters, across Bardo's delicate features; he
leaned forward, put out his right hand towards Romola, and turned his head =
as
if about to speak to her; but then, correcting himself, turned away again, =
and
said, in a subdued voice -
'Excuse me; is it not true - you a=
re
young?'
'I am three-and-twenty,' said Tito=
.
'Ah,' said Bardo, still in a tone =
of
subdued excitement, 'and you had, doubtless, a father who cared for your ea=
rly
instruction - who, perhaps, was himself a scholar?'
There was a slight pause before Ti=
to's
answer came to the ear of Bardo; but for Romo]a and Nello it began with a
slight shock that seemed to pass through him, and cause a momentary quiveri=
ng
of the lip; doubtless at the revival of a supremely painful remembrance.
'Yes,' he replied, 'at least a fat=
her
by adoption. He was a Neapolitan, and of accomplished scholarship, both Lat=
in
and Greek. But,' added Tito, after another slight pause, 'he is lost to me -
was lost on a voyage he too rashly undertook to Delos.'
Bardo sank backward again, too
delicate to ask another question that might probe a sorrow which he divined=
to
be recent. Romola, who knew well what were the fibres that Tito's voice had
stirred in her father, felt that this new acquaintance had with wonderful
suddenness got within the barrier that lay between them and the alien world.
Nello, thinking that the evident check given to the conversation offered a
graceful opportunity for relieving himself from silence, said -
'In truth, it is as clear as Venct=
ian
glass that this fine young man has had the best training; for the two Cenni=
ni
have set him to work at their Greek sheets already, and it seems to me they=
are
not men to begin cutting before they have felt the edge of their tools; they
tested him well beforehand, we may be sure, and if there are two things not=
to
be hidden - love and a cough - I say there is a third, and that is ignoranc=
e,
when once a man is obliged to do something besides wagging his head. The to=
nsor
inequalis is inevitably betrayed when he takes the shears in his hand; is it
not true, Messer Bardo? I speak after the fashion of a barber, but, as Luigi
Pulci says -
‘Per=
donimi
s'io fallo: chi m'ascolta
Intenda il mio volgar col suo latino.’
'Nay, my good Nello,' said Bardo, =
with
an air of friendly severity, 'you are not altogether illiterate, and might
doubtless have made a more respectable progress in learning if you had
abstained somewhat from the cicalata and gossip of the street-corner, to wh=
ich
our Florentines are excessively addicted; but still more if you had not clo=
gged
your memory with those frivolous productions of which Luigi Pulci has furni=
shed
the most peccant exemplar - a compendium of extravagances and incongruities=
the
farthest removed from the models of a pure age, and resembling rather the
grylli or conceits of a period when mystic meaning was held a warrant for
monstrosity of form; with this difference, that while the monstrosity is
retained, the mystic meaning is absent; in contemptible contrast with the g=
reat
poem of Virgil, who, as I long held with Filelfo, belore Landino had taken =
upon
him to expound the same opinion, embodied the deepest lessons of philosophy=
in
a graceful and well-knit fable. And I cannot but regard the multiplication =
of
these babbling, lawless productions, albeit countenanced by the patronage, =
and
in some dcgree the example of Lorenzo himself, otherwise a friend to true
learning, as a sign that the glorious hopes of this century are to be quenc=
hed
in gloom; nay. that they have been the delusive prologue to an age worse th=
an
that of iron - the age of tinsel and gossamer, in which no thought has
substance enough to be moulded into consistent and lasting form.'
'Once more, pardon,' said Nello,
opening his palms outwards, and shrugging his shoulders, 'I find myself kno=
wing
so many things in good Tuscan before I have time to think of the Latin for
them; and Messer Luigi's rhymes are always slipping off the lips of my
customers: - that is what corrupts me. And, indeed, talking of customers, I
have left my shop and my reputation too long in the custody of my slow Sand=
ro,
who does not deserve even to be called a tonsor inequalis, but rather to be
pronounced simply a bungler in the vulgar tongue. So with your permission,
Messer Bardo, I will take my leave - well understood that I am at your serv=
ice
whenever Maso calls upon me. It seems a thousand years till I dress and per=
fume
the damigella's hair, which deserves to shine in the heavens as a
constellation, though indeed it were a pity for it ever to go so far out of
reach.'
Three voices made a fugue of frien=
dly
farewells to Nello, as he retreated with a bow to Romola and a beck to Tito.
The acute barber saw that the pretty youngster, who had crept into his liki=
ng
by some strong magic, was well launched in Bardo's favourable regard; and
satisfied that his introduction had not miscarried so far, he felt the
propriety of retiring.
The little burst of wrath, called
forth by Nello's unlucky quotation, had diverted Bardo's mind from the feel=
ings
which had just before been hemming in further speech, and he now addressed =
Tito
again with his ordinary calmness.
'Ah! young man, you are happy in
having been able to unite the advantages of travel with those of study, and=
you
will be welcome among us as a bringer of fresh tidings from a land which has
become sadly strange to us, except through the agents of a now restricted
commerce and the reports of hasty pilgrims. For those days are in the far
distance which I myself witnessed, when men like Aurispa and Guarino went o=
ut
to Greece as to a storehouse, and came back laden with manuscripts which ev=
ery
scholar was eager to borrow - and, be it owned with shame, not always willi=
ng
to restore; nay, even the days when erudite Greeks flocked to our shores fo=
r a
refuge, seem far off now - farther off than the on-coming of my blindness. =
But
doubtless, young man, research after the treasures of antiquity was not ali=
en
to the purpose of your travels?'
'Assuredly not,' said Tito. 'On the
contrary, my companion - my father - was willing to risk his life in his ze=
al
for the discovery of inscriptions and other traces of ancient civilisation.=
'
'And I trust there is a record of =
his
researches and their results,' said Bardo, eagerly, 'since they must be even
more precious than those of Ciriaco, which I have diligently availed myself=
of,
though they are not always illuminated by adequate learning.'
'There was such a record,' said Ti=
to,
'but it was lost, like everything else, in the shipwreck I suffered below
Ancona. The only record left is such as remains in our - in my memory.'
'You must lose no time in committi=
ng
it to paper, young man,' said Bardo, with growing interest. 'Doubtless you
remember much, if you aided in transcription; for when I was your age, words
wrought themselves into my mind as if they had been fixed by the tool of the
graver; wherefore I constantly marvel at the capriciousness of my daughter's
memory, which grasps certain objects with tenacity, and lets fall all those
minutiae whereon depends accuracy, the very soul of scholarship. But I
apprehend no such danger with you, young man, if your will has seconded the
advantages of your training.'
When Bardo made this reference to = his daughter, Tito ventured to turn his eyes towards her, and at the accusation against her memory his face broke into its brightest smile, which was refle= cted as inevitably as sudden sunbeams in Romola's. Conceive the soothing delight= of that smile to her! Romola had never dreamed that there was a scholar in the world who would smile at a deficiency for which she was constantly made to = feel herself a culprit. It was like the dawn of a new sense to her - the sense of comradeship. They did not look away from each other immediately, as if the smile had been a stolen one; they looked and smiled with frank enjoyment. <= o:p>
'She is not really so cold and pro=
ud,'
thought Tito.
'Does he forget too, I wonder?'
thought Romola. 'Yet I hope not, else he will vex my father.'
But Tito was obliged to turn away,=
and
answer Bardo's question.
'I have had much practice in
transcription,' he said; 'but in the case of inscriptions copied in memorab=
le
scenes, rendered doubly impressive by the sense of risk and adventure, it m=
ay
have happened that my retention of written characters has been weakened. On=
the
plain of the Eurotas, or among the gigantic stones of Mycenae and Tyrins -
especially when the fear of the Turk hovers over one like a vulture - the m=
ind
wanders, even though the hand writes faithfully what the eye dictates. But
something doubtless I have retained,' added Tito, with a modesty which was =
not
false, though he was conscious that it was politic, 'something that might b=
e of
service if illustrated and corrected by a wider learning than my own.'
'That is well spoken, young man,' =
said
Bardo, delighted. 'And I will not withhold from you such aid as I can give,=
if
you like to communicate with me concerning your recollections. I foresee a =
work
which will be a useful supplement to the ‘Isolario’ of Christof=
oro
Buondelmonte, and which may take rank with the ‘Itineraria’ of
Ciriaco and the admirable Ambrogio Traversari. But we must prepare ourselves
for calumny, young man,' Bardo went on with energy, as if the work were alr=
eady
growing so fast that the time of trial was near; 'if your book contains
novelties you will be charged with forgery; if my elucidations should clash
with any principles of interpretation adopted by another scholar, our perso=
nal
characters will be attacked, we shall be impeached with foul actions; you m=
ust
prepare yourself to be told that your mother was a fishwoman, and that your
father was a renegade priest or a hanged malefactor. I myself, for having s=
hown
error in a single preposition, had an invective written against me wherein I
was taxed with treachery, fraud, indecency, and even hideous crimes. Such, =
my
young friend - such are the flowers with which the glorious path of scholar=
ship
is strewed! But tell me, then: I have learned much concerning Byzantium and
Thessalonica long ago from Demetrio Calcondila, who has but lately departed
from Florence; but you, it seems, have visited less familiar scenes?'
'Yes; we made what I may call a
pilgrimage full of danger, for the sake of visiting places which have almost
died out of the memory of the West, for they lie away from the track of
pilgrims; and my father used to say that scholars themselves hardly imagine
them to have any existence out of books. He was of opinion that a new and m=
ore
glorious era would open for learning when men should begin to look for their
commentaries on the ancient writers in the remains of cities and temples, n=
ay,
in the paths of the rivers, and on the face of the valleys and the mountain=
s.'
'Ah!' said Bardo. fervidly, 'your
father, then, was not a common man. Was he fortunate, may I ask? Had he many
friends?' These last words were uttered in a tone charged with meaning.
'No; he made enemies - chiefly, I
believe, by a certain impetuous candour; and they hindered his advancement,=
so
that he lived in obscurity. And he would never stoop to conciliate: he could
never forget an injury.'
'Ah!' said Bardo again, with a lon=
g,
deep intonation.
'Among our hazardous expeditions,'
continued Tito, will- ing to prevent further questions on a point so person=
al,
'I remember with particular vividness a hastily snatched visit to Athens. O=
ur
hurry, and the double danger of being seized as prisoners by the Turks, and=
of our
galley raising anchor before we could return, made it seem like a fevered
vision of the night - the wide plain, the girdling mountains, the ruined
porticos and columns, either standing far aloof, as if receding from our
hurried footsteps, or else jammed in confusedly among the dwellings of
Christians degraded into servitude, or among the forts and turrets of their
Moslem conquerors, who have their stronghold on the Acropolis.'
'You fill me with surprise,' said
Bardo. 'Athens, then, is not utterly destroyed and swept away, as I had
imagined?'
'No wonder you should be under that
mistake, for few even of the Greeks themselves, who live beyond the mountain
boundary of Attica, know anything about the present condition of Athens, or
Setine, as the sailors call it. I remember, as we were rounding the promont=
ory
of Sunium, the Greek pilot we had on board our Venetian galley pointed to t=
he
mighty columns that stand on the summit of the rock - the remains, as you k=
now
well, of the great temple erected to the goddess Athena, who looked down fr=
om
that high shrine with triumph at her conquered rival Poseidon; - well, our
Greek pilot, pointing to those columns, said, ‘That was the school of=
the
great philosopher Aristotle.’ And at Athens itself, the monk who acte=
d as
our guide in the hasty view we snatched, insisted most on showing us the sp=
ot
where St Philip baptised the Ethiopian eunuch, or some such legend.'
'Talk not of monks and their legen=
ds,
young man!' said Bardo, interrupting Tito impetuously. 'It is enough to ove=
rlay
human hope and enterprise with an eternal frost to think that the ground wh=
ich
was trodden by philosophers and poets is crawled over by those insect-swarm=
s of
besotted fanatics or howling hypocrites.'
'Perdio, I have no affection for
them,' said Tito, with a shrug; 'servitude agrees well with a religion like
theirs, which lies in the renunciation of all that makes life precious to o=
ther
men. And they carry the yoke that befits them: their matin chant is drowned=
by
the voice of the muezzin, who, from the gallery of the high tower on the
Acropolis, calls every Mussulman to his prayers. That tower springs from the
Parthenon itself; and every time we paused and directed our eyes towards it,
our guide set up a wail, that a temple which had once been won from the
diabolical uses of the pagans to become the temple of another virgin than
Pallas - the Virgin-Mother of God - was now again perverted to the accursed
ends of the Moslem. It was the sight of those walls of the Acropolis, which
disclosed themselves in the distance as we leaned over the side of our gall=
ey
when it was forced by contrary winds to anchor in the Piraeus, that fired my
father's mind with the determination to see Athens at all risks, and in spi=
te
of the sailors' warnings that if we lingered till a change of wind, they wo=
uld
depart without us: but, after all, it was impossible for us to venture near=
the
Acropolis, for the sight of men eager in examining ‘old stones’
raised the suspicion that we were Venetian spies, and we had to hurry back =
to
the harbour.'
'We will talk more of these things=
,'
said Bardo, eagerly. 'You must recall everything, to the minutest trace lef=
t in
your memory. You will win the gratitude of after-times by leaving a record =
of
the aspect Greece bore while yet the barbarians had not swept away every tr=
ace
of the structures that Pausanias and Pliny described: you will take those g=
reat
writers as your models; and such contribution of criticism and suggestion a=
s my
riper mind can supply shall not be wanting to you. There will be much to te=
ll;
for you have travelled, you said, in the Peloponnesus?'
'Yes; and in Boeotia also: I have
rested in the groves of Helicon, and tasted of the fountain Hippocrene. But=
on
every memorable spot in Greece conquest after conquest has set its seal, ti=
ll
there is a confusion of ownership even in ruins, that only close study and
comparison could unravel. High over every fastness, from the plains of
Lacedaemon to the straits of Thermopylae, there towers some huge Frankish
fortress, once inhabited by a French or Italian marquis, now either abandon=
ed
or held by Turkish bands.'
'Stay!' cried Bardo, whose mind was
now too thoroughly preoccupied by the idea of the future book to attend to
Tito's further narration. 'Do you think of writing in Latin or Greek? Doubt=
less
Greek is the more ready clothing for your thoughts, and it is the nobler
language. But on the other hand, Latin is the tongue in which we shall meas=
ure
ourselves with the larger and more famous number of modern rivals. And if y=
ou
are less at ease in it, I will aid you - yes. I will spend on you that
long-accumulated study which was to have been thrown into the channel of
another work - a work in which I myself was to have had a helpmate.'
Bardo paused a moment, and then ad=
ded
-
'But who knows whether that work m=
ay
not be executed yet? For you, too, young man, have been brought up by a fat=
her
who poured into your mind all the long-gathered stream of his knowledge and
experience. Our aid might be mutual.'
Romola, who had watched her father=
's
growing excitement, and divined well the invisible currents of feeling that
determined every question and remark, felt herself in a glow of strange
anxiety: she turned her eyes on Tito continually, to watch the impression h=
er
father's words made on him afraid lest he should be inclined to dispel these
visions of co-operation which were lighting up her father's face with a new
hope. But no! He looked so bright and gentle: he must feel, as she did, tha=
t in
this eagerness of blind age there was piteousness enough to call forth
inexhaustible paticnce. How much more strongly he would feel this if he knew
about her brother! A girl of eighteen imagines the feelings behind the face
that has moved her with its sympathetic youth, as easily as primitive people
imagined the humours of the gods in fair weather: what is she to believe in=
, if
not in this vision woven from within?
And Tito was really very far from
feeling impatient. He delighted in sitting there with the sense that Romola=
's
attention was fixed on him, and that he could occasionally look at her. He =
was
pleased that Bardo should take an interest in him; and he did not dwell with
enough seriousness on the prospect of the work in which he was to be aided,=
to
feel moved by it to anything else than that easy, good-humoured acquiescence
which was natural to him.
'I shall be proud and happy,' he s=
aid,
in answer to Bardo's last words, 'if my services can be held a meet offerin=
g to
the matured scholarship of Messere. But doubtless' - here he looked towards
Romola - 'the lovely damigella, your daughter, makes all other aid superflu=
ous;
for I have learned from Nello that she has been nourished on the highest
studies from her earliest years.'
'You are mistaken,' said Romola; '=
I am
by no means sufficient to my father: I have not the gifts that are necessary
for scholarship.'
Romola did not make this
self-depreciatory statement in a tone of anxious humility but with a proud
gravity.
'Nay, my Romola,' said her father,=
not
willing that the stranger should have too low a conception of his daughter's
powers; 'thou art not destitute of gifts; rather, thou art endowed beyond t=
he
measure of women; but thou hast withal the woman's delicate frame, which ev=
er
craves repose and variety, and so begets a wandering imagination. My daught=
er'
- turning to Tito - 'has been very precious to me, filling up to the best of
her power the place of a son. For I had once a son ...'
Bardo checked himself: he did not =
wish
to assume an attitude of complaint in the presence of a stranger, and he re=
membered
that this young man, in whom he had unexpectedly become so much interested,=
was
still a stranger, towards whom it became him rather to keep the position of=
a
patron. His pride was roused to double activity by the fear that he had
forgotten his dignity.
'But,' he resumed, in his original
tone of condescension, 'we are departing from what I believe is to you the =
most
important business. Nello informed me that you had certain gems which you w=
ould
fain dispose of, and that you desired a passport to some man of wealth and
taste who would be likely to become a purchaser.'
'It is true; for, though I have
obtained employment, as a corrector with the Cennini, my payment leaves lit=
tle
margin beyond the provision of necessaries, and would leave less but that my
good friend Nello insists on my hiring a lodging from him, and saying nothi=
ng
about the rent till better days.'
'Nello is a good-hearted prodigal,'
said Bardo; 'and though, with that ready ear and ready tongue of his, he is=
too
much like the ill-famed Margites - knowing many things and knowing them all
badly, as I hinted to him but now - he is nevertheless ‘abnormis sapi=
ens,’
after the manner of our born Florentines. But have you the gems with you? I
would willingly know what they are - yet it is useless: no, it might only
deepen regret. I cannot add to my store.'
'I have one or two intaglios of mu=
ch
beauty,' said Tito, proceeding to draw from his wallet a small case.
But Romola no sooner saw the movem=
ent
than she looked at him with significant gravity, and placed her finger on h=
er
lips,
'Con viso =
che
tocendo dicea, Taci.'
If Bardo were made aware that the =
gems
were within reach, she knew well he would want a minute description of them,
and it would become pain to him that they should go away from him, even if =
he
did not insist on some device for purchasing them in spite of poverty. But =
she
had no sooner made this sign than she felt rather guilty and ashamed at hav=
ing
virtually confessed a weakness of her father's to a stranger. It seemed that
she was destined to a sudden confidence and familiarity with this young Gre=
ek,
strangely at variance with her deep-seated pride and reserve; and this
consciousness again brought the unwonted colour to her cheeks.
Tito understood her look and sign,=
and
immediately withdrew his hand from the case, saying, in a careless tone, so=
as
to make it appear that he was merely following up his last words, 'But they=
are
usually in the keeping of Messer Domenico Cennini, who has strong and safe
places for these things. He estimates them as worth at least five hundred
ducats.'
'Ah, then, they are fine intagli,'
said Bardo. 'Five hundred ducats! Ah, more than a man's ransom!'
Tito gave a slight, almost
imperceptible start, and opened his long dark eyes with questioning surpris=
e at
Bardo's blind face, as if his words - a mere phrase of common parlance, at a
time when men were often being ransomed from slavery or imprisonment - had =
had
some special meaning for him. But the next moment he looked towards Romola,=
as
if her eyes must be her father's interpreters. She, intensely preoccupied w=
ith
what related to her father, imagined that Tito was looking to her again for
some guidance, and immediately spoke.
'Alessandra Scala delights in gems,
you know, father: she calls them her winter flowers; and the Segretario wou=
ld
be almost sure to buy any gems that she wished for. Besides, he himself sets
great store by rings and sigils, which he wears as a defence against pains =
in
the joints.'
'It is true,' said Bardo. 'Bartolo=
mmeo
has overmuch confidence in the efficacy of gems - a confidence wider than w=
hat
is sanctioned by Pliny, who clearly shows that he regards many beliefs of t=
hat
sort as idle superstitions; though not to the utter denial of medicinal vir=
tues
in gems. Wherefore, I myself, as you observe, young man, wear certain rings,
which the discreet Camillo Leonardi prescribed to me by letter when two yea=
rs
ago I had a certain infirmity of sudden numbness. But thou hast spoken well,
Romola. I will dictate a letter to Bartolommeo, which Maso shall carry. But=
it
were well that Messere should notify to thee what the gems are, together wi=
th
the intagli they bear, as a warrant to Bartolommeo that they will be worthy=
of
his attention.'
'Nay, father,' said Romola, whose
dread lest a paroxysm of the collector's mania should seize her father, gave
her the courage to resist his proposal. 'Your word will be sufficicnt that
Messere is a scholar and has travelled much. The Segretario will need no
further inducement to receive him.'
'True, child,' said Bardo, touched=
on
a chord that was sure to respond. 'I have no need to add proofs and argumen=
ts
in confirmation of my word to Bartolommeo. And I doubt not that this young
man's presence is in accord with the tones of his voice, so that, the door
being once opened, he will be his own best advocate.'
Bardo paused a few moments, but his
silence was evidently charged with some idea that he was hesitating to expr=
ess,
for he once leaned forward a little as if he were going to speak, then turn=
ed
his head aside towards Romola and sank backward again. At last, as if he had
made up his mind, he said in a tone which might have become a prince giving=
the
courteous signal of dismissal -
'I am somewhat fatigued this morni=
ng,
and shall prefer seeing you again to-morrow, when I shall be able to give y=
ou
the secretary's answer, authorising you to present yourself to him at some
given time. But before you go' - here the old man, in spite of himself, fell
into a more faltering tone - 'you will perhaps permit me to touch your hand=
? It
is long since I touched the hand of a young man.'
Bardo stretched out his aged white
hand, and Tito immediately placed his dark but delicate and supple fingers
within it. Bardo's cramped fingers closed over them, and he held them for a=
few
minutes in silence. Then he said -
'Romola, has this young man the sa=
me
complexion as thy brother - fair and pale?'
'No, father,' Romola answered, with
determined composure, though her heart began to beat violently with mingled
emotions. 'The hair of Messere is dark - his complexion is dark.' Inwardly =
she
said, 'Will he mind it? will it be disagreeable? No, he looks so gentle and
good-natured.' Then aloud again -
'Would Messere permit my father to
touch his hair and face?'
Her eyes inevitably made a timid e=
ntreating
appeal while she asked this, and Tito's met them with soft brightness as he
said, 'Assuredly,' and, leaning forward, raised Bardo's hand to his curls, =
with
a readiness of assent, which was the greater relief to her, because it was
unaccompanied by any sign of embarrassment.
Bardo passed his hand again and ag=
ain
over the long curls and grasped them a little, as if their spiral resistance
made his inward vision clearer; then he passed his hand over the brow and
cheek, tracing the profile with the edge of his palm and fourth finger, and
letting the breadth of his hand repose on the rich oval of the cheek.
'Ah,' he said, as his hand glided =
from
the face and rested on the young man's shoulder. 'He must be very unlike thy
brother, Romola: and it is the better. You see no visions, I trust, my young
friend?'
At this moment the door opened, and
there entered, unannounced, a tall elderly man in a handsome black silk luc=
co,
who, unwinding his becchetto from his neck and taking off his cap, disclose=
d a
head as white as Bardo's. He cast a keen glance of surprise at the group be=
lore
him - the young stranger leaning in that filial attitude, while Bardo's hand
rested on his shoulder, and Romola sitting near uith eyes dilated by anxiety
and agitation. But there was an instantaneous change: Bardo let fall his ha=
nd,
Tito raised himself from his stooping posture, and Romola rose to meet the
visitor with an alacrity which implied all the greater intimacy, because it=
was
unaccompanied by any smile.
'Well, god-daughter,' said the sta=
tely
man, as he touched Romola's shoulder; 'Maso said you had a visitor, but I c=
ame
in nevertheless.'
'It is thou, Bernardo,' said Bardo.
'Thou art come at a fortunate moment. This, young man,' he continued, while
Tito rose and bowed, 'is one of the chief citizens of Florcnce, Messer Bern=
ardo
del Nero, my oldest, I had almost said my only friend - whose good opinion,=
if
you can win it, may carry you far. He is but three-and-twenty, Bernardo, ye=
t he
can doubtless tell thee much which thou wilt care to hear; for though a
scholar, he has already travelled far, and looked on other things besides t=
he
manuscripts for which thou hast too light an esteem.'
'Ah, a Greek, as I augur,' said
Bernardo, returning Tito's reverence but slightly, and surveying him with t=
hat
sort of glance which seems almost to cut like fine steel. 'Newly arrived in
Florence, it appears. The name of Messere - or part of it, for it is doubtl=
ess
a long one?'
'On the contrary,' said Tito, with
perfect good-humour, 'it is most modestly free from polysyllabic pomp. My n=
ame
is Tito Melema.'
'Truly?' said Bernardo, rather
scornfully, as he took a seat; 'I had expected it to be at least as long as=
the
names of a city, a river. a province, and an empire all put together. We
Florentines mostly use names as we do prawns, and strip them of all flouris=
hes
before we trust them to our throats.'
'Well, Bardo,' he continued, as if=
the
stranger were not worth further notice, and changing his tone of sarcastic
suspicion for one of sadness, 'we have buried him.'
'Ah!' replied Bardo, with
corresponding sadness, 'and a new epoch has come for Florence - a dark one,=
I
fear. Lorenzo has left behind him an inheritance that is but like the
alchemist's laboratory when the wisdom of the alchemist is gone.'
'Not altogether so,' said Bernardo.
'Piero de' Medici has abundant intelligence; his faults are only the faults=
of
hot blood. I love the lad - lad he will always be to me, as I have always b=
een ‘little
father’ to him.'
'Yet all who want a new order of t=
hings
are likely to conceive new hopes,' said Bardo. 'We shall have the old strif=
e of
parties, I fear.'
'If we could have a new order of
things that was something else than knocking down one coat of arms to put up
another,' said Bernardo, 'I should be ready to say, ‘I belong to no
party: I am a Florentine.’ But as long as parties are in question, I =
am a
Medicean, and will be a Medicean till I die. I am of the same mind as Farin=
ata
degli Uberti: if any man asks me what is meant by siding with a party, I sa=
y,
as he did, ‘To wish ill or well, for the sake of past wrongs or
kindnesses.’'
During this short dialogue, Tito h=
ad
been standing, and now took his leave.
'But come again at the same hour
to-morrow,' said Bardo, graciously, before Tito left the room, 'that I may =
give
you Bartolommeo's answer.'
'From what quarter of the sky has =
this
pretty Greek youngster alighted so close to thy chair, Bardo?' said Bernardo
del Nero, as the door closed. He spoke with dry emphasis, evidently intende=
d to
convey something more to Bardo than was implied by the mere words.
'He is a scholar who has been
shipwrecked and has saved a few gems, for which he wants to find a purchase=
r. I
am going to send him to Bartolommeo Scala, for thou knowest it were more
prudent in me to abstain from further purchases.'
Bernardo shrugged his shoulders and
said, 'Romola, wilt thou see if my servant is without? I ordered him to wait
for me here.' Then, when Romola was at a sufficient distance, he leaned for=
ward
and said to Bardo in a low, emphatic tone -
'Remember, Bardo, thou hast a rare=
gem
of thy own; take care no one gets it who is not likely to pay a worthy pric=
e.
That pretty Greek has a lithe sleekness about him, that seems marvellously
fitted for slipping easily into any nest he fixes his mind on.'
Bardo was startled: the associatio=
n of
Tito with the image of his lost son had excluded instead of suggesting the
thought of Romola. But almost immediately there seemed to be a reaction whi=
ch
made him grasp the warning as if it had been a hope.
'But why not, Bernardo? If the you=
ng
man approved himself worthy - he is a scholar - and - and there would be no
difficulty about the dowry, which always makes thee gloomy.'
Bartolommeo Scala, secretary of the
Florentine Republic, on whom Tito Melema had been thus led to anchor his ho=
pes,
lived in a handsome palace close to the Porta Pinti, now known as the Casa
Gherardesca.' His arms - an azure ladder transverse on a golden field, with=
the
motto Gradatim placed over the entrance - told all comers that the miller's=
son
held his ascent to honours by his own efforts a fact to be proclaimed witho=
ut
wincing. The secretary was a vain and pompous man, but he was also an honest
one: he was sincerely convinced of his own merit, and could see no reason f=
or
feigning. The topmost round of his azure ladder had been reached by this ti=
me:
he had held the secretaryship these twenty years - had long since made his
orations on the ringhiera, or platform of the Old Palace, as the custom was=
, in
the presence of princely visitors, while Marzocco, the republican lion, wore
his gold crown on the occasion, and all the people cried, 'Viva Messer
Bartolommeo!' - had been on an embassy to Rome, and had there been made tit=
ular
Senator, Apostolical Secretary, Knight of the Golden Spur; and had, eight y=
ears
ago, been Gonfaloniere - last goal of the Florentine citizen's ambition.
Meantime he had got richer and richer, and more and more gouty, after the
manner of successful mortality; and the Knight of the Golden Spur had often=
to
sit with helpless cushioned heel under the handsome loggia he had built for
himself, overlooking the spacious gardens and lawn at the back of his palac=
e.
He was in this position on the day
when he had granted the desired interview to Tito Melema. The May afternoon=
sun
was on the flowers and the grass beyond the pleasant shade of the loggia; t=
he
too state]y silk lucco was cast aside, and the light loose mantle was thrown
over his tunic; his beautiful daughter Alessandra and her husband, the Greek
soldier-poet Marullo, where seated on one side of him: on the other, two
friends not oppressively illustrious, and therefore the better listeners. Y=
et,
to say nothing of the gout, Messer Bartolommeo's felicity was far from perf=
ect:
it was embittered by the contents of certain papers that lay before him,
consisting chiefly of a correspondence between himself and Politian. It was=
a
human foible at that period (incredible as it may seem) to recite quarrels,=
and
favour scholarly visitors with the communication of an entire and lengthy
correspondence; and this was neither the first nor the second time that Sca=
la
had asked the candid opinion of his friends as to the balance of right and
wrong in some half-score Latin letters between himself and Politian, all
springing out of certain epigrams written in the most playful tone in the
world. It was the story of a very typical and pretty quarrel, in which we a=
re
interested, because it supplied precisely that thistle of hatred necessary,
according to Nello, as a stimulus to the sluggish paces of the cautious ste=
ed,
Friendship.
Politian, having been a rejected
pretender to the love and the hand of Scala's daughter, kept a very sharp a=
nd
learned tooth in readiness against the too prosperous and presumptuous
secretary, who had declined the greatest scholar of the age for a son-in-la=
w.
Scala was a meritorious public servant, and, moreover, a lucky man - natura=
lly
exasperating to an offended scholar; but then - O beautiful balance of thin=
gs!
- he had an itch for authorship, and was a bad writer - one of those excell=
ent
people who, sitting in gouty slippers, 'penned poetical trifles' entirely f=
or
their own amusement, without any view to an audience, and, consequently, se=
nt
them to their friends in letters, which were the literary periodicals of the
fifteenth century. Now Scala had abundance of friends who were ready to pra=
ise
his writings: friends like Ficino and Landino - amiable browsers in the
Medicean park along with himself - who found his Latin prose style elegant =
and
masculine; and the terrible Joseph Scaliger, who was to pronounce him total=
ly
ignorant of Latinity, was at a comfortable distance in the next century. But
when was the fatal coquetry inherent in superfluous authorship ever quite
contented with the ready praise of friends? That critical supercilious Poli=
tian
- a fellow-browser, who was far from amiable - must be made aware that the
solid secretary showed, in his leisure hours, a pleasant fertility in verse=
s,
which indicated pretty clearly how much he might do in that way if he were =
not
a man of affairs.
Ineffable moment! when the man you
secretly hate sends you a Latin epigram with a false gender - hendecasyllab=
les
with a questionable elision, at least a toe too much - attempts at poetic
figures which are manifest solecisms. That moment had come to Politian: the
secretary had put forth his soft head from the official shell, and the terr=
ible
lurking crab was down upon him. Politian had used the freedom of a friend, =
and
pleasantly, in the form of a Latin epigram, corrected the mistake of Scala =
in
making the culex (an insect too well known on the banks of the Arno) of the
inferior or feminine gender. Scala replied by a bad joke, in suitable Latin
verses, referring to Politian's unsuccessful suit. Better and better. Polit=
ian
found the verses very pretty and highly facetious: the more was the pity th=
at
they were seriously incorrect, and inasmuch as Scala had alleged that he had
written them in imitation of a Greek epigram, Politian, being on such frien=
dly
terms, would enclose a Greek of his own, on the same interesting insect - n=
ot,
we may presume, out of any wish to humble Scala, but rather to instruct him;
said epigram containing a lively conceit about Venus, Cupid, and the culex,=
of
a kind much tasted at that period, founded partly on the zoological fact th=
at
the gnat, like Venus, was born from the waters. Scala, in reply, begged to =
say
that his verses were never intended for a scholar with such delicate
olfactories as Politian, nearest of all living men to the perfection of the
ancients, and of a taste so fastidious that sturgeon itself must seem insip=
id
to him; defended his own verses, nevertheless, though indeed they were writ=
ten
hastily, without correction, and intended as an agreeable distraction during
the summer heat to himself and such friends as were satisfied with mediocri=
ty,
he, Scala, not being like some other people, who courted publicity through =
the
booksellers. For the rest, he had barely enough Greek to make out the sense=
of
the epigram so graciously sent him, to say nothing of tasting its elegances;
but - the epigram was Politian's: what more need be said? Still, by way of
postscript, he feared that his incomparable friend's comparison of the gnat=
to
Venus, on account of it's origin from the waters, was in many ways ticklish=
. on
the one hand, Venus might be offended; and on the other, unless the poet
intended an allusion to the doctrine of Thales, that cold and damp origin
seemed doubtful to Scala in the case of a creature so fond of warmth; a fish
were perhaps the better comparison, or, when the power of flying was in
question, an eagle, or indeed, when the darkness was taken into considerati=
on,
a bat or an owl were a less obscure and more apposite parallel, &c. &am=
p;c.
Here was a great opportunity for Politian. He was not aware, he wrote, that
when he had Scala's verses placed before him, there was any question of
sturgeon, but rather of frogs and gudgeons: made short work with Scala's
defence of his own Latin, and mangled him terribly on the score of the stup=
id
criticisms he had ventured on the Greek epigram kindly forwarded to him as a
model. Wretched cavils, indeed! for as to the damp origin of the gnat, there
was the authority of Virgil himself, who had called it the 'alumnus of the
waters;' and as to what his dear dull friend had to say about the fish, the
eagle, and the rest, it was 'nihil ad rem;' for because the eagle could fly
higher, it by no means followed that the gnat could not fly at all, &c.
&c. He was ashamed, however, to dwell on such trivialities, and thus to
swell a gnat into an elephant; but, for his own part, would only add that he
had nothing deceitful or double about him, neither was he to be caught when
present by the false blandishments of those who slandered him in his absenc=
e,
agreeing rather with a Homeric sentiment on that head - which furnished a G=
reek
quotation to serve as powder to his bullet.
The quarrel could not end there. T=
he
logic could hardly get worse, but the secretary got more pompously
self-asserting and the scholarly poet's temper more and more venomous. Poli=
tian
had been generously willing to hold up a mirror, by which the too-inflated
secretary, beholding his own likeness, might be induced to cease setting up=
his
ignorant defences of bad Latin against ancient authorities whom the consent=
of
centuries had placed beyond question, - unless, indeed, he had designed to =
sink
in literature in proportion as he rose in honours, that by a sort of
compensation men of letters might feel themselves his equals. In return,
Politian was begged to examine Scala's writings: nowhere would he find a mo=
re
devout admiration of antiquity. The secretary was ashamed of the age in whi=
ch
he lived, and blushed for it. Some, indeed, there were who wanted to have t=
heir
own works praised and exalted to a level with the divine monuments of
antiquity; but he Scala, could not oblige them. And as to the honours which
were offensive to the envious, they had been well earned: witness his whole
life since he came in penury to Florence. The elegant scholar, in reply, was
not surprised that Scala found the Age distasteful to him, since he himself=
was
so distasteful to the Age; nay, it was with perfect accuracy that he, the
elegant scholar, had called Scala a branny monster, Inasmuch as he was form=
ed
from the offscourings of monsters, born amidst the refuse of a mill, and
eminently worthy the long-eared office of turning the paternal millstones (=
in
pistrini sordibus natus et quidem pistrino dignissimus)!
It was not without reference to Ti=
to's
appointed visit that the papers containing this correspondence were brought=
out
to-day. Here was a new Greek scholar whose accomplishments were to be teste=
d,
and on nothing did Scala more desire a dispassionate opinion from persons of
superior knowledge than on that Greek epigram of Politian's. After sufficie=
nt
introductory talk concerning Tito's travels, after a survey and discussion =
of
the gems, and an easy passasge from the mention of the lamented Lorenzo's
eagerness in collecting such specimens of ancient art to the subject of
classical tastes and studies in general and their present condition in
Florence, it was inevitable to mention Politian, a man of eminent ability
indeed, but a little too arrogant - assuming to be a Hercules, whose office=
it
was to destroy all the literary monstrosities of the age, and writing lette=
rs
to his elders without signing them, as if they were miraculous revelations =
that
could only have one source. And after all were not his own criticisms often
questionable and his taste perverse? He was fond of saying pungent things a=
bout
the men who thought they wrote like Cicero because they ended every sentence
with 'esse videtur: but while he was boasting of his freedom from servile
imitation, did he not fall into the other extreme, running after strange wo=
rds
and affected phrases? Even in his much-belauded 'Miscellanea' was every poi=
nt
tenable? And Tito, who had just been looking into the 'Miscellanea,' found =
so
much to say that was agreeable to the secretary - he would have done so fro=
m the
mere disposition to please, without further motive - that he showed himself
quite worthy to be made a judge in the notable correspondence concerning the
culex. Here was the Greek epigram which Politian had doubtless thought the
finest in the world, though he had pretended to believe that the 'transmari=
ni,'
the Greeks themselves, would make light of it: had he not been unintentiona=
lly
speaking the truth in his false modesty?
Tito was ready, and scarified the
epigram to Scala's content. O wise young judge! He could doubtless apprecia=
te
satire even in the vulgar tongue, and Scala - who, excellent man, not seeki=
ng
publicity through the booksellers, was never unprovided with 'hasty uncorre=
cted
trifles,' as a sort of sherbet for a visitor on a hot day, or, if the weath=
er
were cold, why then as a cordial - had a few little matters in the shape of
Sonnets, turning on well-known foibles of Politian's, which he would not li=
ke
to go any farther, but which would, perhaps, amuse the company.
Enough: Tito took his leave under =
an
urgent invitation to come again. His gems were interesting; especially the
agate, with the lusus naturae in it - a most wonderful semblance of Cupid
riding on the lion; and the 'Jew's stone,' with the lion-headed serpent
enchased in it; both of which the secretary agreed to buy - the latter as a
reinforcement of his preventives against the gout, which gave him such seve=
re
twinges that it was plain enough how intolerable it would be if he were not
well supplied with rings of rare virtue, and with an amulet worn close under
the right breast. But Tito was assured that he himself was more interesting
than his gems. He had won his way to the Scala Palace by the recommendation=
of
Bardo de' Bardi, who, to be sure, was Scala's old acquaintance and a worthy=
scholar,
in spite of his overvaluing himself a little (a frequent foible in the
secretary's friends); but he must come again on the ground of his own manif=
est
accomplishments.
The interview could hardly have en=
ded
more auspiciously for Tito, and as he walked out at the Porta Pinti that he
might laugh a little at his ease over the affair of the culex, he felt that
fortune could hardly mean to turn her back on him again at present, since s=
he
had taken him by the hand in this decided way.
It is easy to northern people to r=
ise
early on Midsummer morning to see the dew on the grassy edge of the dusty
pathway to notice the fresh shoots among the darker green of the oak and fi=
r in
the coppice, and to look over the gate at the shorn meadow, without
recollecting that it is the Nativity of St John the Baptist.
Not so to the Florentine - still l=
ess
to the Florentine of the fifteenth century: to him on that particular morni=
ng
the brightness of the eastern sun on the Arno had something special in it; =
the
ringing of the bells was articulate, and declared it to be the great summer
festival of Florence, the day of San Giovanni.
San Giovanni had been the patron s=
aint
of Florence for at least eight hundred years - ever since the time when the
Lombard Queen Theodolinda had commanded her subjects to do him peculiar hon=
our;
nay, says old Villani, to the best of his knowledge, ever since the days of
Constantine the Great and Pope Sylvester, when the Florentines deposed their
idol Mars, whom they were nevertheless careful not to treat with contumely;=
for
while they consecrated their beautiful and noble temple to the honour of God
and of the 'Beato Messere Santo Giovanni,' they placed old Mars respectfull=
y on
a high tower near the River Arno, finding in certain ancient memorials that=
he
had been elected as their tutelar deity under such astral influences that i=
f he
were broken, or otherwise treated with indignity, the city would suffer gre=
at
damage and mutation. But in the fifteenth century that discreet regard to t=
he
feelings of the Man-destroyer had long vanished: the god of the spear and
shield had ceased to frown by the side of the Arno, and the defences of the
Republic were held to lie in its craft and its coffers. For spear and shield
could be hired by gold florins, and on the gold florins there had always be=
en
the image of San Giovanni.
Much good had come to Florence sin=
ce
the dim time of struggle between the old patron and the new: some quarrelli=
ng
and bloodshed, doubtless, between Guelf and Ghibelline, between Black and
White, between orthodox sons of the Church and heretic Paterini; some flood=
s,
famine, and pestilence; but still much wealth and glory. Florence had achie=
ved
conquests over walled cities, once mightier than itself, and especially over
hated Pisa, whose marble buildings were too high and beautiful, whose masts
were too much honoured on Greek and Italian coasts. The name of Florence had
been growing prouder and prouder in all the courts of Europe, nay, in Africa
itself, on the strength of purest gold coinage, finest dyes and textures,
pre-eminent scholarship and poetic genius, and wits of the most serviceable
sort for statesmanship and banking: it was a name so omnipresent that a Pope
with a turn for epigram had called Florentines 'the fifth element.' And for
this high destiny, though it might partly depend on the stars and Madonna d=
el
Impruneta, and certainly depended on other higher Powers less often named, =
the
praise was greatly due to San Glovanni, whose image was on the fair gold
florins.
Therefore it was fitting that the =
day
of San Giovanni - that ancient Church festival already venerable in the day=
s of
St Augustine - should be a day of peculiar rejoicing to Florence, and shoul=
d be
ushered in by a vigil duly kept in strict old Florentine fashion, with much
dancing, with much street jesting, and perhaps with not a little stone-thro=
wing
and window-breaking, but emphatically with certain street sights such as co=
uld
only be provided by a city which held in its service a clever Cecca, engine=
er
and architect, valuable alike in sieges and in shows. By the help of Cecca,=
the
very saints, surrounded with their almond-shaped glory, and floating on clo=
uds
with their joyous companionship of winged cherubs, even as they may be seen=
to
this day in the pictures of Perugino, seemed, on the eve of San Giovanni to
have brought their piece of the heavens down into the narrow streets, and to
pass slowly through them, and, more wonderful still, saints of gigantic siz=
e,
with attendant angels might be seen, not seated, but moving in a slow
mysterious manner along the streets, like a procession of colossal figures =
come
down from the high domes and tribunes of the churches. The clouds were made=
of
good woven stuff, the saints and cherubs were unglorified mortals supported=
by
firm bars, and those mysterious giants were really men of very steady brain,
balancing themselves on stilts, and enlarged, like Greek tragedians, by huge
masks and stuffed shoulders; but he was a miserably unimaginative Florentin=
e who
thought only of that - nay, somewhat impious, for in the images of sacred
things was there not some of the virtue of sacred things themselves? And if,
after that, there came a company of merry black demons well armed with claws
and thongs, and other implements of sport, ready to perform impromptu farce=
s of
bastinadoing and clothes-tearing, why, that was the demons' way of keeping a
vigil, and they, too, might have descended from the domes and the tribunes.=
The
Tuscan mind slipped from the devout to the burlesque, as readily as water r=
ound
an angle; and the saints had already had their turn, had gone their way, and
made their due pause before the gates of San Giovanni, to do him honour on =
the
eve of his festa. And on the morrow, the great day thus ushered in, it was
fitting that the tributary symbols paid to Florence by all its dependent
cities, districts, and villages, whether conquered, protected, or of immemo=
rial
possession, should be offered at the shrine of San Giovanni in the old
octagonal church, once the cathedral and now the baptistery, where every
Florentine had had the sign of the Cross made with the anointing chrism on =
his
brow, that all the city, from the white-haired man to the stripling, and fr=
om
the matron to the lisping child, should be clothed in its best to do honour=
to
the great day, and see the great sight; and that again, when the sun was
sloping and the streets were cool, there should be the glorious race or Cor=
so
when the unsaddled horses, clothed in rich trappings, should run right acro=
ss
the city, from the Porta al Prato on the north-west, through the Mercato
Vecchio, to the Porta Santa Croce on the south-east, where the richest of
Palii, or velvet and brocade banners with silk linings and fringe of gold s=
uch
as hecame a city that half-clothed the well-dressed world, were mounted on a
triumphal car awaiting the winner or winner's owner.
And thereafter followed more danci=
ng;
nay, through the whole day, says an old chronicler at the beginning of that
century, there were weddings and the grandest gatherings, with so much pipi=
ng,
music and song, with balls and feasts and gladness and ornament, that this
earth might have been mistaken for Paradise!
In this year of 1492, it was, perh=
aps,
a little less easy to make that mistake. Lorenzo the magnificent and subtle=
was
dead, and an arrogant, incautious Piero was come in his room, an evil change
for Florence, unless, indeed, the wise horse prefers the bad rider, as more
easily thrown from the saddle, and already the regrets for Lorenzo were get=
ting
less predominant over the murmured desire for government on a broader basis=
, in
which corruption might be arrested, and there might be that free play for
everybody's jealousy and ambition, which made the ideal liberty of the good=
old
quarrelsome, struggling times, when Florence raised her great buildings, re=
ared
her own soldiers, drove out would-be tyrants at the sword's point, and was
proud to keep faith at her own loss. Lorenzo was dead, Pope Innocent was dy=
ing,
and a troublesome Neapolitan succession, with an intriguing, ambitious Mila=
n,
might set Italy by the ears before long: the times were likely to be diffic=
ult.
Still, there was all the more reason that the Republic should keep its
religious festivals.
And Midsummer morning, in this year
1492, was not less bright than usual. It was betimes in the morning that the
symbolic offerings to be carried in grand procession were all assembled at
their starting-point in the Piazza della Signoria - that famous piazza, whe=
re
stood then, and stand now, the massive turreted Palace of the People, called
the Palazzo Vecchio, and the spacious Loggia, built by Orcagna - the scene =
of
all grand State ceremonial. The sky made the fairest blue tent, and under it
the bells swung so vigorously that every evil spirit with sense enough to be
formidable, must long since have taken his flight; windows and terraced roo=
fs
were alive with human faces; sombre stone houses were bright with hanging
draperies; the boldly soaring palace tower, the yet older square tower of t=
he
Bargello, and the spire of the neighbouring Badia, seemed to keep watch abo=
ve;
and below, on the broad polygonal flags of the piazza, was the glorious sho=
w of
banners, and horses with rich trappings, and gigantic ceri, or tapers, that
were fitly called towers - strangely aggrandised descendants of those torch=
es
by whose faint light the Church worshipped in the Catacombs. Betimes in the
morning all processions had need to move under the Midsummer sky of Florenc=
e,
where the shelter of the narrow streets must every now and then be exchanged
for the glare of wide spaces; and the sun would be high up in the heavens
before the long pomp had ended its pilgrimage in the Piazza di San Giovanni=
.
But here, where the procession was=
to
pause, the magnificent city, with its ingenious Cecca, had provided another
tent than the sky; for the whole of the Piazza del Duomo, from the octagonal
baptistery in the centre to the facade of the cathedral and the walls of the
houses on the other sides of the quadrangle, was covered, at the height of
forty feet or more, with blue drapery, adorned with well-stitched yellow li=
lies
and the familiar coats of arms, while sheaves of many-coloured banners droo=
ped
at fit angles under this superincumbent blue - a gorgeous rainbow-lit shelt=
er
to the waiting spectators who leaned from the windows, and made a narrow bo=
rder
on the pavement, and wished for the coming of the show.
One of these spectators was Tito
Melema. Bright, in the midst of brightness, he sat at the window of the room
above Nello's shop, his right elbow resting on the red drapery hanging from=
the
window-sill, and his head supported in a backward position by the right han=
d,
which pressed the curls against his ear. His face wore that bland livelines=
s,
as far removed from excitability as from heaviness or gloom, which marks the
companion popular alike amongst men and women - the companion who is never
obtrusive or noisy from uneasy vanity or excessive animal spirits, and whose
brow is never contracted by resentment or indignation. He showed no other
change from the two months and more that had passed since his first appeara=
nce
in the weather-stained tunic and hose, than that added radiance of good
fortune, which is like the just perceptible perfecting of a flower after it=
has
drunk a morning's sunbeams. Close behind him, ensconced in the narrow angle
between his chair and the window-frame, stood the slim figure of Nello in
holiday suit, and at his left the younger Cennini - Pietro, the erudite
corrector of proof-sheets, not Domenico the practical. Tito was looking
alternately down on the scene below, and upward at the varied knot of gazers
and talkers immediately around him, some of whom had come in after witnessi=
ng
the commencement of the procession in the Piazza della Signoria. Piero di
Cosimo was raising a laugh among them by his grimaces and anathemas at the
noise of the bells, against which no kind of ear-stuffing was a sufficient
barricade, since the more he stuffed his ears the more he felt the vibratio=
n of
his skull; and declaring that he would bury himself in the most solitary sp=
ot
of the Valdarno on a festa, if he were not condemned, as a painter, to lie =
in
wait for the secrets of colour that were sometimes to be caught from the
floating of banners and the chance grouping of the multitude.
Tito had just turned his laughing =
face
away from the whimsical painter to look down at the small drama going on am=
ong
the checkered border of spectators, when at the angle of the marble steps in
front of the Duomo, nearly opposite Nello's shop, he saw a man's face uptur=
ned
towards him, and fixing on him a gaze that seemed to have more meaning in it
than the ordinary passing observation of a stranger. It was a face with
tonsured head, that rose above the black mantle and white tunic of a Domini=
can
friar - a very common sight in Florence; but the glance had something pecul=
iar
in it for Tito. There was a faint suggestion in it, certainly not of an
unpleasant kind. Yet what pleasant association had he ever had with monks?
None. The glance and the suggestion hardly took longer than a flash of
lightning.
'Nello!' said Tito, hastily, but
immediately added, in a tone of disappointment, 'Ah, he has turned round. It
was that tall, thin friar who is going up the steps. I wanted you to tell m=
e if
you knew aught of him?'
'One of the Frati Predicatori,' sa=
id
Nello, carelessly; you don't expect me to know the private history of the
crows.'
'I seem to remember something about
his face,' said ' Tito. 'It is an uncommon face.'
'What? you thought it might be our=
Fra
Girolamo? Too tall; and he never shows himself in that chance way.'
'Besides, that loud-barking ‘=
;hound
of the Lord’ is not in Florence just now,' said Francesco Cei, the
popular poet: 'he has taken Piero de' Medici's hint, to carry his railing
prophecies on a journey for a while.'
'The Frate neither rails nor
prophesies against any man,' said a middle-aged personage seated at the oth=
er
corner of the window; 'he only prophesies against vice. If you think that an
attack on your poems, Francesco, it is not the Frate's fault.'
'Ah, he's gone into the Duomo now,'
said Tito, who had watched the figure eagerly. 'No, I was not under that
mistake, Nello. Your Fra Girolamo has a high nose and a large under-lip. I =
saw
him once - he is not handsome; but this man . . .'
'Truce to your description!' said
Cennini. 'Hark! see! Here come the horsemen and the banners. That standard,=
' he
continued, laying his hand familiarly on Tito's shoulder, - 'that carried on
the horse with white trappings - that with the red eagle holding the green
dragon between his talons. and the red lily over the eagle - is the Gonfalo=
n of
the Guelf party, and those cavaliers close round it are the chief officers =
of
the Guelf party. That is one of our proudest banners, grumble as we may; it
means the triumph of the Guelfs, which means the triumph of Florentine will,
which means triumph of the popolani.'
'Nay, go on, Cennini,' said the
middle-aged man, seated at the window, 'which means triumph of the fat popo=
lani
over the lean, which again means triumph of the fattest popolano over those=
who
are less fat.'
'Cronaca, you are becoming
sententious,' said the printer: 'Fra Girolamo's preaching will spoil you, a=
nd
make you take life by the wrong handle. Trust me, your cornices will lose h=
alf
their beauty if you begin to mingle bitterness with them; that is the manie=
ra
Tedesca which you used to declaim against when you came from Rome. The next
palace you build we shall see you trying to put the Frate's doctrine into
stone.'
'That is a goodly show of cavalier=
s,' said
Tito, who had learned by this time the best way to please Florentines; 'but=
are
there not strangers among them? I see foreign costumes. '
'Assuredly,' said Cennini; 'you see
there the Orators from France, Milan, and Venice, and behind them are Engli=
sh
and German nobles; for it is customary that all foreign visitors of distinc=
tion
pay their tribute to San Giovanni in the train of that gonfalon. For my par=
t, I
think our Florentine cavaliers sit their horses as well as any of those
cut-and-thrust northerners, whose wits lie in their heels and saddles; and =
for
yon Venetian, I fancy he would feel himself more at ease on the back of a
dolphin. We ought to know something of horsemanship, for we excel all Italy=
in
the sports of the Giostra,' and the money we spend on them. But you will se=
e a
finer show of our chief men by-and-by, Melema; my brother himself will be a=
mong
the officers of the Zecca.'
'The banners are the better sight,'
said Piero di Cosimo, forgetting the noise in his delight at the winding st=
ream
of colour as the tributary standards advanced round the piazza. 'The Floren=
tine
men are so-so; they make but a sorry show at this distance with their patch=
of
sallow flesh-tint above the black garments; but those banners with their
velvet, and satin, and minever, and brocade, and their endless play of deli=
cate
light and shadow! - Va! your human talk and doings are a tame jest; the only
passionate life is in form and colour.'
'Ay, Piero, if Satanasso could pai=
nt,
thou wouldst sell thy soul to learn his secrets,' said Nello. 'But there is
little likelihood of it, seeing the blessed angels themselves are such poor
hands at chiaroscuro, if one may judge from their capo-d'opera, the Madonna
Nunziata.'
'There go the banners of Pisa and
Arezzo,' said Cennini. 'Ay, Messer Pisano, it is no use for you to look sul=
len;
you may as well carry your banner to our San Giovanni with a good grace. =
8216;Pisans
false, Florentines blind’ - the second half of that proverb will hold=
no
longer. There come the ensigns of our subject towns and signories, Melema; =
they
will all be suspended in San Giovanni until this day next year, when they w=
ill
give place to new ones.'
'They are a fair sight,' said Tito;
'and San Giovanni will surely be as well satisfied with that produce of Ita=
lian
looms as Minerva with her peplos, especially as he contents himself with so
little drapery. But my eyes are less delighted with those whirling towers,
which would soon make me fall from the window in sympathetic vertigo.'
The 'towers' of which Tito spoke w=
ere
a part of the procession esteemed very glorious by the Florentine populace:=
and
being perhaps chiefly a kind of hyperbole for the all-efficacious wax taper,
were also called ceri. But inasmuch as hyperbole is impracticable in a real=
and
literal fashion, these gigantic ceri, some of them so large as to be of
necessity carried on wheels, were not solid but hollow, and had their surfa=
ce
made not solely of wax, but of wood and pasteboard, gilded, carved, and
painted, as real sacred tapers often are, with successive circles of figure=
s -
warriors on horseback, foot-soldiers with lance and shield, dancing maidens,
animals, trees and fruits, and in fine, says the old chronicler, 'all things
that could delight the eye and the heart;' the hollowness having the further
advantage that men could stand inside these hyperbolic tapers and whirl them
continually, so as to produce a phantasmagoric effect, which, considering t=
he
towers were numerous, must have been calculated to produce dizziness on a t=
ruly
magnificent scale.
'Pestilenza!' said Piero di Cosimo,
moving from the window, 'those whirling circles one above the other are wor=
se
than the jangling of all the bells. Let me know when the last taper has
passed.'
'Nay, you will surely like to be
called when the contadini come carrying their torches,' said Nello; 'you wo=
uld
not miss the country-folk of the Mugello and the Casentino, of whom your
favourite Lionardo would make a hundred grotesque sketches.'
'No,' said Piero, resolutely, 'I w=
ill
see nothing till the car of the Zecca comcs. I have seen clowns enough hold=
ing
tapers aslant, both with and without cowls, to last me for my life.'
Here it comes, then, Piero - the c=
ar
of the Zecca,' called out Nello, after an interval during which towers and
tapers in a descending scale of size had been making their slow transit.
'Fediddio!' exclaimed Francesco Ce=
i,
'that is a well-tanned San Giovanni! some sturdy Romagnole beggar-man, I'll
warrant. Our Signoria plays the host to all the Jewish and Christian scum t=
hat
every other city shuts its gates against, and lets them fatten on us like St
Anthony's swine.'
The car of the Zecca or Mint, which
had just rolled into sight, was originally an immense wooden tower or cero
adorned aftcr the same fashion as the other tributary ceri, mounted on a
splendid car, and dravn by two mouse-coloured oxen, whose mild heads looked=
out
from rich trappings bearing the arms of the Zecca. But the latter half of t=
he
century was getting rather ashamed of the towers with their circular or spi=
ral
paintings, which had delighted the eyes and the hearts of the other half, so
that they had become a contemptuous proverb, and any ill-painted figure
looking, as will sometimes happen to figures in the best ages of art, as if=
it
had been boned for a pie, was called a fantoccio da cero, a tower-puppet;
consequently improved taste, with Cecca to help it, had devised for the
magnificent Zecca a triumphal car like a pyramidal catafalque, with ingenio=
us
wheels warranted to turn all corners easily. Round the base were living fig=
ures
of saints and angels arrayed in sculpturesque fashion; and on the summit, at
the height of thirty feet well bound to an iron rod and holding an iron cro=
ss
also firmly infixed, stood a living representative of St John the Baptist, =
with
arms and legs bare, a garment of tiger-skins about his body, and a golden
nimbus fastened on his head - as the Precursor was wont to appear in the
cloisters and churches, not having yet revealed himself to painters as the
brown and sturdy boy who made one of the Holy Family. For where could the i=
mage
of the patron saint be more fitly placed than on the symbol of the Zecca? W=
as
not the royal prerogative of coining money the surest token that a city had=
won
its independence? and by the blessing of San Giovanni this 'beautiful
sheepfold' of his had shown that token earliest among the Italian cities.
Nevertheless, the annual function of representing the patron saint was not
among the high prizes of public life; it was paid for with something like t=
en
shillings, a cake weighing fourteen pounds, two bottles of wine, and a hand=
some
supply of light eatables; the money being furnished by the magnificent Zecc=
a,
and the payment in kind being by peculiar 'privilege' presented in a basket
suspended on a pole from an upper window of a private house, whereupon the
eidolon of the austere saint at once invigorated himself with a reasonable
share of the sweets and wine, threw the remnants to the crowd, and embraced=
the
mighty cake securely with his right arm through the remainder of his passag=
e.
This was the attitude in which the mimic San Giovanni presented himself as =
the
tall car jerked and vibrated on its slow way round the piazza to the northe=
rn
gate of the Baptistery.
'There go the Masters of the Zecca,
and there is my brother - you see him, Melema?' cried Cennini, with an
agreeable stirring of pride at showing a stranger what was too familiar to =
be
remarkable to fellow-citizens. 'Behind come the members of the Corporation =
of
Calimara, the dealers in foreign cloth, to which we have given our Florenti=
ne
finish; men of ripe years, you see, who were matriculated before you were b=
orn;
and then comes the famous Art of Money-changers.'
'Many of them matriculated also to=
the
noble art of usury before you were born,' interrupted Francesco Cei, 'as you
may discern by a certain fitful glare of the eye and sharp curve of the nose
which manifest their descent from the ancient Harpies, whose portraits you =
saw
supporting the arms of the Zecca. Shaking off old prejudices now, such a
procession as that of some four hundred passably ugly men carrying their ta=
pers
in open daylight, Diogenes-fashion, as if they were looking for a lost
quattrino, would make a merry spectacle for the Feast of Fools.'
'Blaspheme not against the usages =
of
our city,' said Pietro Cennini, much offended. 'There are new wits who think
they see things more truly because they stand on their heads to look at the=
m,
like tumblers and mountebanks, instead of keeping the attitude of rational =
men.
Doubtless it makes little difference to Maestro Vaiano's monkeys whether th=
ey
see our Donatello's statue of Judith with their heads or their tails
uppermost.'
'Your solemnity will allow some
quarter to playful fancy, I hope,' said Cei, with a shrug, 'else what becom=
es
of the ancients, whose example you scholars are bound to revere, Messer Pie=
tro?
Life was never anything but a perpetual see-saw between gravity and jest.' =
'Keep your jest then till your end=
of
the pole is uppermost,' said Cennini, still angry, 'and that is not when the
great bond of our Republic is expressing itself in ancient symbols, without
which the vulgar would be conscious of nothing beyond their own petty wants=
of
back and stomach, and never rise to the sense of community in religion and =
law.
There has been no great people without processions, and the man who thinks
himself too wise to be moved by them to anything but contempt, is like the
puddle that was proud of standing alone while the river rushed by.'
No one said anything after this
indignant burst of Cennini's till he himself spoke again.
'Hark! the trumpets of the Signori=
a:
now comes the last stage of the show, Melema. That is our Gonfaloniere in t=
he
middle, in the starred mantle, with the sword carried before him. Twenty ye=
ars
ago we used to see our foreign Podesta, who was our judge in civil causes,
walking on his right hand; but our Republic has been over-doctored by clever
Medici. That is the Proposto of the Priori on the left; then come the other
seven Priori; then all the other magistracies and officials of our Republic.
You see your patron the Segretario?'
'There is Messer Bernardo del Nero
also,' said Tito; 'his visage is a fine and venerable one, though it has wo=
rn
rather a petrifying look towards me.'
'Ah,' said Nello, 'he is the dragon
that guards the remnant of old Bardo's gold, which, I fancy, is chiefly that
virgin gold that falls about the fair Romola's head and shoulders; eh, my
Apollino?' he added, patting Tito's head.
Tito had the youthful grace of
blushing, but he had also the adroit and ready speech that prevents a blush
from looking like embarrassment. He replied at once -
'And a very Pactolus it is - a str=
eam
with golden ripples. If I were an alchemist -'
He was saved from the need for fur=
ther
speech by the sudden fortissimo of drums and trumpets and fifes, bursting i=
nto
the breadth of the piazza in a grand storm of sound - a roar, a blast, and a
whistling, well befitting a city famous for its musical instruments, and
reducing the members of the closest group to a state of deaf isolation.
During this interval Nello observed
Tito's fingers moving in recognition of some one in the crowd below, but not
seeing the direction of his glance he failed to detect the object of this
greeting - the sweet round blue-eyed face under a white hood - immediately =
lost
in the narrow border of heads, where there was a continual eclipse of round
contadina cheeks by the harsh-lined features or bent shoulders of an old
spadesman, and where profiles turned as sharply from north to south as
weathercocks under a shifting wind.
But when it was felt that the show=
was
ended - when the twelve prisoners released in honour of the day, and the ve=
ry
barberi or race-horses, with the arms of their owners embroidered on their
cloths, had followed up the Signoria, and been duly consecrated to San
Giovanni, and every one was moving from the window - Nello, whose Florentine
curiosity was of that lively canine sort which thinks no trifle too despica=
ble
for investigation, put his hand on Tito's shoulder and said -
'What acquaintance was that you we=
re
making signals to, eh, giovane mio?'
'Some little contadina who probably mistook me for an acquaintance, for she had honoured me with a greeting.' <= o:p>
'Or who wished to begin an
acquaintance,' said Nello. 'But you are bound for the Via de' Bardi and the
feast of the Muses: there is no counting on you for a frolic, else we might
have gone in search of adventures together in the crowd, and had some pleas=
ant
fooling in honour of San Giovanni. But your high fortune has come on you too
soon: I don't mean the professor's mantle - that is roomy enough to hide a =
few
stolen chickens, but - Messer Endymion minded his manners after that singul=
ar
good fortune of his and what says our Luigi Pulci?
‘Da =
quel
giorno in qua ch'amor m'accese
Per lei son fatto e gentile e cortese.’'
'Nello, amico mio, thou hast an
intolerable trick of making life stale by forestalling it with thy talk,' s=
aid
Tito, shrugging his shoulders, with a look of patient resignation, which was
his nearest approach to anger: 'not to mention that such ill-founded babbli=
ng
would be held a great offence by that same goddess whose humble worshipper =
you
are always professing yourself.'
'I will be mute,' said Nello, layi=
ng
his finger on his lips, with a responding shrug. 'But it is only under our =
four
eyes that I talk any folly about her.'
'Pardon! you were on the verge of =
it
just now in the hearing of others. If you want to ruin me in the minds of B=
ardo
and his daughter -'
'Enough, enough!' said Nello. 'I a=
m an
absurd old barber. It all comes from that abstinence of mine, in not making=
bad
verses in my youth: for want of letting my folly run out that way when I was
eighteen, it runs out at my tongue's end now I am at the unseemly age of fi=
fty.
But Nello has not got his head muffled for all that; he can see a buffalo in
the snow. Addio, giovane mio.'
Tito was soon down among the crowd,
and, notwithstanding his indifferent reply to Nello's question about his ch=
ance
acquaintance, he was not without a passing wish, as he made his way round t=
he
piazza to the Corso degli Adimari, that he might encounter the pair of blue
eyes which had looked up towards him from under the square bit of white lin=
en
drapery that formed the ordinary hood of the contadina at festa time. He was
perfectly well aware that that face was Tessa's; but he had not chosen to s=
ay
so. What had Nello to do with the matter? Tito had an innate love of retice=
nce
- let us say a talent for it - which acted as other impulses do, without any
conscious motive, and, like all people to whom concealment is easy, he would
now and then conceal something which had as little the nature of a secret as
the fact that he had seen a flight of crows.
But the passing wish about pretty
Tessa was almost immediately eclipsed by the recurrent recollection of that
friar whose face had some irrecoverable association for him. Why should a
sickly fanatic, worn with fasting, have looked at him in particular, and wh=
ere
in all his travels could he remember encountering that face before? Folly! =
such
vague memories hang about the mind like cobwebs, with tickling importunity -
best to sweep them away at a dash: and Tito had pleasanter occupation for h=
is
thoughts. By the time he was turning out of the Corso degli Adimari into a
side-street he was caring only that the sun was high, and that the processi=
on
had kept him longer than he had intended from his visit to that room in the=
Via
de' Bardi, where his coming, he knew, was anxiously awaited. He felt the sc=
ene
of his entrance beforehand: the joy beaming diffusedly in the blind face li=
ke
the light in a semi-transparent lamp: the transient pink flush on Romola's =
face
and neck, which subtracted nothing from her majesty, but only gave it the
exquisite charm of womanly sensitiveness, heightened still more by what see=
med
the paradoxical boy-like frankness of her look and smile. They were the best
comrades in the world during the hours they passed together round the blind
man's chair: she was constantly appealing to Tito, and he was informing her,
yet he felt himself strangely in subjection to Romola with that simplicity =
of
hers: he felt for the first time, without defining it to himself, that lovi=
ng
awe in the presence of noble womanhood, which is perhaps something like the
worship paid of old to a great nature-goddess, who was not all-knowing, but
whose life and power were something deeper and more primordial than knowled=
ge.
They had never been alone together, and he could frame to himself no probab=
le
image of love-scenes between them: he could only fancy and wish wildly - wh=
at
he knew was impossible - that Romola would some day tell him that she loved
him. One day in Greece, as he was leaning over a wall in the sunshine, a li=
ttle
black-eyed peasant girl, who had rested her waterpot on the wall, crept gra=
dually
nearer and nearer to him, and at last shyly asked him to kiss her, putting =
up
her round olive cheek very innocently. Tito was used to love that came in t=
his
unsought fashion. But Romola's love would never come in that way: would it =
ever
come at all? - and yet it was that topmost apple on which he had set his mi=
nd.
He was in his fresh youth - not passionate, but impressible: it was as
inevitable that he should feel lovingly towards Romola as that the white ir=
ises
should be reflected in the clear sunlit stream; but he had no coxcombry, an=
d he
had an intimate sense that Romola was something very much above him. Many m=
en
have felt the same before a large-eyed, simple child.
Nevertheless, Tito had had the rap=
id
success which would have made some men presuming, or would have warranted h=
im
in thinking that there would be no great presumption in entertaining an
agreeable confidence that he might one day be the husband of Romola - nay, =
that
her father himself was not without a vision of such a future for him. His f=
irst
auspicious interview with Bartolommeo Scala had proved the commencement of a
growing favour on the secretary's part, and had led to an issue which would
have been enough to make Tito decide on Florence as the place in which to
establish himself, even if it had held no other magnet. Politian was profes=
sor
of Greek as well as Latin at Florence, professorial chairs being maintained
there, although the university had been removed to Pisa; but for a long time
Demetrio Calcondila, one of the most eminent and respectable among the emig=
rant
Greeks, had also held a Greek chair, simultaneously with the too predominant
Italian. Calcondila was now gone to Milan, and there was no counterpoise or
rival to Politian such as was desired for him by the friends who wished him=
to
be taught a little propriety and humility. Scala was far from being the only
friend of this class, and he found several who, if they were not among those
thirsty admirers of mediocrity that were glad to be refreshed with his vers=
es
in hot weather, were yet quite willing to join him in doing that moral serv=
ice
to Politian. It was finally agreed that Tito should be supported in a Greek
chair, as Demetrio Calcondila had been by Lorenzo himself, who, being at the
same time the affectionate patron of Politian, had shown by precedent that
there was nothing invidious in such a measure, but only a zeal for true
learning and for the instruction of the Florentine youth.
Tito was thus sailing under the
fairest breeze, and besides convincing fair judges that his talents squared
with his good fortune, he wore that fortune so easily and unpretentiously t=
hat
no one had yet been offended by it. He was not unlikely to get into the best
Florentine society: society where there was much more plate than the circle=
of
enamelled silver in the centre of the brass dishes, and where it was not
forbidden by the Signory to wear the richest brocade. For where could a
handsome young scholar not be welcome when he could touch the lute and trol=
l a
gay song? That bright face, that easy smile, that liquid voice, seemed to g=
ive
life a holiday aspect; just as a strain of gay music and the hoisting of
colours make the workworn and the sad rather ashamed of showing themselves.
Here was a professor likely to render the Greek classics amiable to the son=
s of
great houses.
And that was not the whole of Tito=
's
good fortune; for he had sold all his jewels, except the ring he did not ch=
oose
to part with, and he was master of full five hundred gold florins.
Yet the moment when he first had t=
his
sum in his possession was the crisis of the first serious struggle his faci=
le,
good-humoured nature had known. An importunate thought, of which he had till
now refused to see more than the shadow as it dogged his footsteps, at last
rushed upon him and grasped him: he was obliged to pause and decide whether=
he
would surrender and obey, or whether he would give the refusal that must ca=
rry
irrevocable consequences. It was in the room above Nello's shop, which Tito=
had
now hired as a lodging, that the elder Cennini handed him the last quota of=
the
sum on behalf of Bernardo Rucellai, the purchaser of the two most valuable
gems.
'Ecco, giovane mio!' said the
respectable printer and goldsmith, 'you have now a pretty little fortune; a=
nd
if you will take my advice, you will let me place your florins in a safe
quarter, where they may increase and multiply, instead of slipping through =
your
fingers for banquets and other follies which are rife among our Florentine
youth. And it has been too much the fashion of scholars, especially when, l=
ike
our Pietro Crinito, they think their scholarship needs to be scented and
broidered, to squander with one hand till they have been fain to beg with t=
he
other. I have brought you the money, and you are free to make a wise choice=
or
an unwise: I shall see on which side the balance dips. We Florentines hold =
no
man a member of an Art till he has shown his skill and been matriculated: a=
nd
no man is matriculated to the art of life till he has been well tempted. If=
you
make up your mind to put your florins out to usury, you can let me know
to-morrow. A scholar may marry, and should have something in readiness for =
the
morgen-cap. Addio.'
As Cennini closed the door behind =
him,
Tito turned round with the smile dying out of his face, and fixed his eyes =
on
the table where the florins lay. He made no other movement, but stood with =
his
thumbs in his belt, looking down, in that transfixed state which accompanies
the concentration of consciousness on some inward image.
'A man's ransom!' - who was it that
had said five hundred florins was more than a man's ransom? If now, under t=
his
mid-day sun, on some hot coast far away, a man somewhat stricken in years -=
a
man not without high thoughts and with the most passionate heart - a man who
long years ago had rescued a little boy from a life of beggary, filth, and
cruel wrong, had reared him tenderly, and been to him as a father - if that=
man
were now under this summer sun toiling as a slave, hewing wood and drawing
water, perhaps being smitten and buffeted because he was not deft and activ=
e?
If he were saying to himself, 'Tito will find me: he had but to carry our
manuscripts and gems to Venice; he will have raised money, and will never r=
est
till he finds me out'? If that were certain, could he, Tito, see the price =
of
the gems lying before him, and say, 'I will stay at Florence, where I am fa=
nned
by soft airs of promised love and prosperity: I will not risk myself for his
sake'? No, surely not, if it were certain. But nothing could be farther from
certainty. The galley had been taken by a Turkish vessel on its way to Delo=
s:
that was known by the report of the companion galley, which had escaped. But
there had been resistance, and probable bloodshed; a man had been seen fall=
ing
overboard: who were the survivors, and what had befallen them amongst all t=
he
multitude of possibilities? Had not he, Tito, suffered shipwreck, and narro=
wly
escaped drowning? He had good cause for feeling the omnipresence of casualt=
ies
that threatened all projects with futility. The rumour that there were pira=
tes
who had a settlement in Delos was not to be depended on, or might be nothin=
g to
the purpose. What, probably enough, would be the result if he were to quit
Florence and go to Venice; get authoritative letters - yes, he knew that mi=
ght
be done - and set out for the Archipelago? Why, that he should be himself
seized, and spend all his florins on preliminaries, and be again a destitute
wanderer - with no more gems to sell.
Tito had a clearer vision of that
result than of the possible moment when he might find his father again, and
carry him deliverance. It would surely be an unfairness that he, in his full
ripe youth, to whom life had hitherto had some of the stint and subjection =
of a
school, should turn his back on promised love and distinction, and perhaps
never be visited by that promise again. 'And yet,' he said to himself, 'if I
were certain that Baldassarre Calvo was alive, and that I could free him, by
whatever exertions or perils, I would go now - now I have the money: it was
useless to debate the matter before. I would go now to Bardo and Bartolommeo
Scala, and tell them the whole truth.' Tito did not say to himself so
distinctly that if those two men had known the whole truth he was aware the=
re
would have been no alternative for him but to go in search of his benefacto=
r,
who, if alive, was the rightful owner of the gems, and whom he had always
equivocally spoken of as 'lost;' he did not say to himself - what he was not
ignorant of - that Greeks of distinction had made sacrifices, taken voyages
again and again, and sought help from crowned and mitred heads for the sake=
of
freeing relatives from slavery to the Turks. Public opinion did not regard =
this
as exceptional virtue.
This was his first real colloquy w=
ith
himself: he had gone on following the impulses of the moment, and one of th=
ose
impulses had been to conceal half the fact; he had never considered this pa=
rt
of his conduct long enough to face the consciousness of his motives for the
concealment. What was the use of telling the whole? It was true, the thought
had crossed his mind several times since he had quitted Nauplia that, after
all, it was a great relief to be quit of Baldassarre, and he would have lik=
ed
to know who it was that had fallen overboard. But such thoughts spring
inevitably out of a relation that is irksome. Baldassarre was exacting, and=
had
got stranger as he got older: he was constantly scrutinising Tito's mind to=
see
whether it answered to his own exaggerated expectations: and age - the age =
of a
thick-set, heavy-browed, bald man beyond sixty, whose intensity and eagerne=
ss
in the grasp of ideas have long taken the character of monotony and repetit=
ion,
may be looked at from many points of view without being found attractive. S=
uch
a man, stranded among new acquaintances, unless he had the philosopher's st=
one,
would hardly find rank, youth, and beauty at his feet. The feelings that ga=
ther
fervour from novelty will be of little help towards making the world a home=
for
dimmed and faded human beings; and if there is any love of which they are n=
ot
widowed, it must be the love that is rooted in memories and distils perpetu=
ally
the sweet balms of fidelity and forbearing tenderness.
But surely such memories were not
absent from Tito's mind? Far in the backward vista of his remembered life, =
when
he was only seven years old, Baldassarre had rescued him from blows, had ta=
ken
him to a home that seemed like opened paradise, where there was sweet food =
and
soothing caresses, all had on Baldassarre's knee; and from that time till t=
he
hour they had parted, Tito had been the one centre of Baldassarre's fatherly
cares.
And he had been docile, pliable, q=
uick
of apprehension, ready to acquire: a very bright lovely boy, a youth of even
splendid grace, who seemed quite without vices, as if that beautiful form
represented a vitality so exquisitely poised and balanced that it could kno=
w no
uneasy desires, no unrest - a radiant presence for a lonely man to have won=
for
himself. If he were silent when his father expected some response, still he=
did
not look moody; if he declined some labour - why, he flung himself down with
such a charming, half-smiling, half-pleading air, that the pleasure of look=
ing
at him made amends to one who had watched his growth with a sense of claim =
and
possession: the curves of Tito's mouth had ineffable good humour in them. A=
nd
then, the quick talent to which everything came readily, from philosophical
systems to the rhymes of a street ballad caught up at a hearing! Would any =
one
have said that Tito had not made a rich return to his benefactor, or that h=
is
gratitude and affection would fail on any great demand?
He did not admit that his gratitude
had failed; but it was not certain that Baldassarre was in slavery, not cer=
tain
that he was living.
'Do I not owe something to myself?'
said Tito, inwardly, with a slight movement of his shoulders, the first he =
had
made since he had turned to look down at the florins. 'Before I quit
everything, and incur again all the risks of which I am even now weary, I m=
ust
at least have a reasonable hope. Am I to spend my life in a wandering searc=
h? I
believe he is dead. Cennini was right about my florins: I will place them in
his hands to-morrow.'
When, the next morning, Tito put t=
his
determination into act he had chosen his colour in the game, and had given =
an
inevitable bent to his wishes. He had made it impossible that he should not
from henceforth desire it to be the truth that his father was dead; impossi=
ble
that he should not be tempted to baseness rather than that the precise fact=
s of
his conduct should not remain for ever concealed.
Under every guilty secret there is
hidden a brood of guilty wishes, whose unwholesome infecting life is cheris=
hed
by the darkness. The contaminating effect of deeds often lies less in the
commission than in the consequent adjustment of our desires - the enlistmen=
t of
our self-interest on the side of falsity; as, on the other hand, the purify=
ing
influence of public confession springs from the fact, that by it the hope in
lies is for ever swept away, and the soul recovers the noble attitude of
simplicity.
Besides, in this first distinct
colloquy with himself the ideas which had previously been scattered and
interrupted had now concentrated themselves- the little rills of selfishness
had united and made a channel, so that they could never again meet with the
same resistance. Hitherto Tito had left in vague indecision the question
whether, with the means in his power, he would not return, and ascertain his
father's fate: he had now made a definite excuse to himself for not taking =
that
course; he had avowed to himself a choice which he would have been ashamed =
to
avow to others, and which would have made him ashamed in the resurgent pres=
ence
of his father. But the inward shame, the reflex of that outward law which t=
he
great heart of mankind makes for every individual man, a reflex which will
exist even in the absence of the sympathetic impulses that need no law, but
rush to the deed of fidelity and pity as inevitably as the brute mother shi=
elds
her young from the attack of the hereditary enemy - that inward shame was
showing its blushes in Tito's determined assertion to himself that his fath=
er
was dead, or that at least search was hopeless.
On the day of San Giovanni it was
already three weeks ago that Tito had handed his florins to Cennini, and we
have seen that as he set out towards the Via de' Bardi he showed all the
outward signs of a mind at ease. How should it be otherwise? He never jarred
with what was immediately around him, and his nature was too joyous, too
unapprehensive, for the hidden and the distant to grasp him in the shape of=
a
dread. As he turned out of the hot sunshine into the shelter of a narrow
street, took off the black cloth berretta, or simple cap with upturned lapp=
et,
which just crowned his brown curls, pushing his hair and tossing his head
backward to court the cooler air, there was no brand of duplicity on his br=
ow;
neither was there any stamp of candour: it was simply a finely-formed, squa=
re,
smooth young brow. And the slow absent glance he cast around at the upper
windows of the houses had neither more dissimulation in it, nor more
ingenuousness, than belongs to a youthful well-opened eyelid with its unwea=
ried
breadth of gaze; to perfectly pellucid lenses; to the undimmed dark of a ri=
ch
brown iris; and to a pure cerulean-tinted angle of whiteness streaked with =
the
delicate shadows of long eyelashes. Was it that Tito's face attracted or
repelled according to the mental attitude of the observer? Was it a cypher =
with
more than one key? The strong, unmistakable expression in his whole air and
person was a negative one, and it was perfectly veracious; it declared the
absence of any uneasy claim, any restless vanity, and it made the admiration
that followed him as he passed among the troop of holiday-makers a thorough=
ly
willing tribute.
For by this time the stir of the F=
esta
was felt even in the narrowest side-streets; the throng which had at one ti=
me
been concentrated in the lines through which the procession had to pass, was
now streaming out in all directions in pursuit of a new object. Such interv=
als
of a Festa are precisely the moments when the vaguely active animal spirits=
of
a crowd are likely to be the most petulant and most ready to sacrifice a st=
ray
individual to the greater happiness of the greater number. As Tito entered =
the
neighbourhood of San Martino, he found the throng rather denser; and near t=
he
hostelry of the Bertucce, or Baboons, there was evidently some object which=
was
arresting the passengers and forming them into a knot. It needed nothing of
great interest to draw aside passengers unfreighted with a purpose, and Tito
was preparing to turn aside into an adjoining street, when, amidst the loud
laughter, his ear discerned a distressed childish voice crying, 'Loose me! =
Holy
Virgin, help me!' which at once determined him to push his way into the kno=
t of
gazers. He had just had time to perceive that the distressed voice came fro=
m a
young contadina, whose white hood had fallen off in the struggle to get her
hands free from the grasp of a man in the parti-coloured dress of a cerreta=
no,
or conjuror, who was making laughing attempts to soothe and cajole her,
evidently carrying with him the amused sympathy of the spectators. These, b=
y a
persuasive variety of words signifying simpleton, for which the Florentine
dialect is rich in equivalents, seemed to be arguing with the contadina aga=
inst
her obstinacy. At the first moment the girl's face was turned away, and he =
saw
only her light-brown hair plaited and fastened with a long silver pin; but =
in
the next, the struggle brought her face opposite Tito's, and he saw the baby
features of Tessa, her blue eyes filled with tears, and her under-lip
quivering. Tessa, too, saw him, and through the mist of her swelling tears
there beamed a sudden hope, like that in the face of a little child, when, =
held
by a stranger against its will, it sees a familiar hand stretched out.
In an instant Tito had pushed his =
way
through the barrier of bystanders, whose curiosity made them ready to turn
aside at the sudden interference of this handsome young signor, had grasped
Tessa's waist, and had said, 'Loose this child! What right have you to hold=
her
against her will?'
The conjuror - a man with one of t=
hose
faces in which the angles of the eyes and eyebrows, of the nostrils, mouth,=
and
sharply-defined jaw, all tend upward - showed his small regular teeth in an
impish but not ill-natured grin, as he let go Tessa's hands, and stretched =
out
his own backward, shrugging his shoulders, and bending them forward a littl=
e in
a half-apologetic, half-protesting manner.
'I mean the ragazza' no evil in the
world, Messere: ask this respectable company. I was only going to show them=
a
few samples of my skill, in which this little damsel might have helped me t=
he
better because of her kitten face, which would have assured them of open
dealing; and I had promised her a lapful of confetti as a reward. But what
then? Messer has doubtless better confetti at hand, and she knows it.'
A general laugh among the bystande=
rs
accompanied these last words of the conjuror, raised, probably, by the look=
of
relief and confidence with which Tessa clung to Tito's arm, as he drew it f=
rom
her waist, and placed her hand within it. She only cared about the laugh as=
she
might have cared about the roar of wild beasts from which she was escaping,=
not
attaching any meaning to it; but Tito, who had no sooner got her on his arm
than he foresaw some embarrassment in the situation, hastened to get clear =
of
observers who, having been despoiled of an expccted amusement, were sure to
re-establish the balance by jests.
'See, see, little one! here is your
hood,' said the conjuror, throwing the bit of white drapery over Tessa's he=
ad.
'Orsu, bear me no malice; come back to me when Messere can spare you.'
'Ah! Maestro Vaiano, she'll come b=
ack
presently, as the toad said to the harrow,' called out one of the spectator=
s,
seeing how Tessa started and shrank at the action of the conjuror.
Tito pushed his way vigorously tow=
ards
the corner of a side street, a little vexed at this delay in his progress to
the Via de' Bardi, and intending to get rid of the poor little contadina as
soon as possible. The next street, too, had its passengers inclined to make
holiday remarks on so unusual a pair; but they had no sooner entered it tha=
n he
said, in a kind but hurried manner, 'Now, little one, where were you going?=
Are
you come by yourself to the Festa?'
'Ah, no!' said Tessa, looking
frightened and distressed again; 'I have lost my mother in the crowd - her =
and
my father-in-law. They will be angry - he will beat me. It was in the crowd=
in
San Pulinari - somebody pushed me along and I couldn't stop myself, so I got
away from them. Oh, I don't know where they're gone! Please, don't leave me=
!'
Her eyes had been swelling with te=
ars
again, and she ended with a sob.
Tito hurried along again: the Chur=
ch
of the Badia was not far off. They could enter it by the cloister that open=
ed
at the back, and in the church he could talk to Tessa - perhaps leave her. =
No!
it was an hour at which the church was not open; but they paused under the
shelter of the cloister, and he said, 'Have you no cousin or friend in
Florence, my little Tessa, whose house you could find; or are you afraid of
walking by yourself since you have been frightened by the conjuror? I am in=
a
hurry to get to Oltrarno, but if I could take you anywhere near -'
'Oh, I am frightened: he was the d=
evil
- I know he was. And I don't know where to go. I have nobody: and my mother
meant to have her dinner somewhere, and I don't know where. Holy Madonna! I
shall be beaten.'
The corners of the pouting mouth w=
ent
down piteously, and the poor little bosom with the beads on it above the gr=
een
serge gown heaved so, that there was no longer any help for it: a loud sob
would come, and the big tears fell as if they were making up for lost time.
Here was a situation! It would have been brutal to leavc her, and Tito's na=
ture
was all gentleness. He wished at that moment that he had not been expected =
in
the Via de' Bardi. As he saw her lifting up her holiday apron to catch the
hurrying tears, he laid his hand, too, on the apron, and rubbed one of the
cheeks and kissed the baby-like roundness.
'My poor little Tessa! leave off
crying. Let us see what can be done. Where is your home - where do you live=
?'
There was no answer, but the sobs
began to subside a little and the drops to fall less quickly.
'Come! I'll take you a little way,=
if
you'll tell me where you want to go.'
The apron fell, and Tessa's face b=
egan
to look as contented as a cherub's budding from a cloud. The diabolical
conjuror, the anger and the beating, seemed a long way off.
'I think I'll go home, if you'll t=
ake
me,' she said, in a half whisper, looking up at Tito with wide blue eyes, a=
nd
with something sweeter than a smile - with a childlike calm.
'Come, then, little one,' said Tit= o, in a caressing tone, putting her arm within his again. 'Which way is it?' <= o:p>
'Beyond Peretola - where the large
pear-tree is.'
'Peretola? Out of which gate,
pazzarella? I am a stranger, you must remember.'
'Out at the Por del Prato,' said
Tessa, moving along with a very fast hold on Tito's arm.
He did not know all the turnings w=
ell
enough to venture on an attempt at choosing the quietest streets; and besid=
es,
it occurred to him that where the passengers were most numerous there was,
perhaps, the most chance of meeting with Monna Ghita and finding an end to =
his
knight-errantship. So he made straight for Porta Rossa, and on to Ognissant=
i,
showing his usual bright propitiatory face to the mixed observers who threw
their jests at him and his little heavy-shod maiden with much liberality.
Mingled with the more decent holiday-makers there were frolicsome apprentic=
es,
rather envious of his good fortune; bold-eyed women with the badge of the
yellow veil; beggars who thrust forward their caps for alms, in derision at
Tito's evident haste; dicers, sharpers, and loungers of the worst sort; boys
whose tongues were used to wag in concert at the most brutal street games: =
for
the streets of Florence were not always a moral spectacle in those times, a=
nd
Tessa's terror at being lost in the crowd was not wholly unreasonable.
When they reached the Piazza
d'Ognissanti, Tito slackened his pace: they were both heated with their hur=
ried
walk, and here was a wider space where they could take breath. They sat dow=
n on
one of the stone benches which were frequent against the walls of old
Florentine houses.
'Holy Virgin' said Tessa; 'I am gl=
ad
we have got away from those women and boys; but I was not frightened, becau=
se
you could take care of me.'
'Pretty little Tessa!' said Tito,
smiling at her. 'What makes you feel so safe with me?'
'Because you are so beautiful - li=
ke
the people going into Paradise: they are all good.'
'It is a long while since you had =
your
breakfeast, Tessa,' said Tito, seeing some stalls near, with fruit and
sweetmeats upon them. 'Are you hungry?'
'Yes, I think I am - if you will h=
ave
some too.'
Tito bought some apricots, and cak=
es,
and comfits, and put them into her apron.
'Come,' he said, 'let us walk on to
the Prato, and then perhaps you will not be afraid to go the rest of the way
alone.'
'But you will have some of the
apricots and things,' said Tessa, rising obediently and gathering up her ap=
ron
as a bag for her store.
'We will see,' said Tito aloud; an=
d to
himself he said, 'Here is a little contadina who might inspire a better idyl
than Lorenzo de' Medici's ‘Nencia da Barberino,’ that Nello's
friends rave about; if I were only a Theocritus, or had time to cultivate t=
he
necessary experience by unseasonable walks of this sort! However, the misch=
ief
is done now: I am so late already that another half-hour will make no
difference. Pretty little pigeon!'
'We have a garden and plenty of
pears,' said Tessa, 'and two cows, besides the mules; and I'm very fond of
them. But my father-in-law is a cross man: I wish my mother had not married
him. I think he is wicked; he is very ugly.'
'And does your mother let him beat
you, poverina? You said you were afraid of being beaten.'
'Ah, my mother herself scolds me: =
she
loves my young sister better, and thinks I don't do work enough. Nobody spe=
aks
kindly to me, only the Pievano (parish priest) when I go to confession. And=
the
men in the Mercato laugh at me and make fun of me. Nobody ever kissed me and
spoke to me as you do; just as I talk to my little black-faced kid, because=
I'm
very fond of it.'
It seemed not to have entered Tess=
a's
mind that there was any change in Tito's appearance since the morning he be=
gged
the milk from her, and that he looked now like a personage for whom she must
summon her little stock of reverent words and signs. He had impressed her t=
oo
differently from any human being who had ever come near her before, for her=
to
make any comparison of details; she took no note of his dress; he was simpl=
y a
voice and a face to her, something come from Paradise into a world where mo=
st
things seemed hard and angry; and she prattled with as little restraint as =
if
he had been an imaginary companion born of her own lovingness and the sunsh=
ine.
They had now reached the Prato, wh=
ich
at that time was a large open space within the walls, where the Florentine
youth played at their favourite Calcio - a peculiar kind of football - and
otherwise exercised themselves. At this midday time it was forsaken and qui=
et
to the very gates, where a tent had been erected in preparation for the rac=
e.
On the border of this wide meadow, Tito paused and said -
'Now, Tessa, you will not be
frightened if I leave you to walk the rest of the way by yourself. Addio! S=
hall
I come and buy a cup of milk from you in the Mercato to-morrow morning, to =
see
that you are quite safe?'
He added this question in a soothi=
ng
tone, as he saw her eyes widening sorrowfully, and the corners of her mouth
falling. She said nothing at first; she only opened her apron and looked do=
wn
at her apricots and sweetmeats. Then she looked up at him again and said
complainingly -
'I thought you would have some, an=
d we
could sit down under a tree outside the gate, and eat them together.'
'Tessa, Tessa, you little siren, y=
ou
would ruin me,' said Tito, laughing, and kissing both her cheeks. 'I ought =
to
have been in the Via de' Bardi long ago. No! I must go back now; you are in=
no
danger. There - I'll take an apricot. Addio!'
He had already stepped two yards f=
rom
her when he said the last word. Tessa could not have spoken; she was pale, =
and
a great sob was rising; but she turned round as if she felt there was no ho=
pe
for her, and stepped on, holding her apron so forgetfully that the apricots
began to roll out on the grass.
Tito could not help looking after =
her,
and seeing her shoulders rise to the bursting sob, and the apricots fall -
could not help going after her and picking them up. It was very hard upon h=
im:
he was a long way off the Via de' Bardi, and very near to Tessa.
'See, my silly one,' he said, pick=
ing
up the apricots. 'Come, leave off crying, I will go with you, and we'll sit
down under the tree. Come, I don't like to see you cry; but you know I must=
go
back some time.'
So it came to pass that they found=
a
great plane-tree not far outside the gates, and they sat down under it, and=
all
the feast was spread out on Tessa's lap, she leaning her back against the t=
runk
of the tree, and he stretched opposite to her, resting his elbows on the ro=
ugh
green growth cherished by the shade, while the sunlight stole through the
boughs and played about them like a winged thing. Tessa's face was all
contentment again, and the taste of the apricots and sweetmeats seemed very
good.
'You pretty bird!' said Tito, look=
ing
at her as she sat eyeing the remains of the feast with an evident mental de=
bate
about saving them, since he had said he would not have any more. 'To think =
of
any one scolding you! What sins do you tell of at confession, Tessa?'
'Oh, a great many. I am often naug=
hty.
I don't like work and I can't help being idle, though I know I shall be bea=
ten
and scolded; and I give the mules the best fodder when nobody sees me, and =
then
when the Madre is angry I say I didn't do it, and that makes me frightened =
at
the devil. I think the conjuror was the devil. I am not so frightened after
I've been to confession. And see, I've got a Breve here that a good father,=
who
came to Prato, preaching this Easter, blessed and gave us all.' Here Tessa =
drew
from her bosom a tiny bag carefully fastened up. 'And I think the holy Mado=
nna
will take care of me; she looks as if she would, and perhaps if I wasn't id=
le,
she wouldn't let me be beaten.'
'If they are so cruel to you, Tess=
a,
shouldn't you like to leave them, and go and live with a beautiful lady who
would be kind to you, if she would have you to wait upon her ? '
Tessa seemed to hold her breath fo=
r a
moment or two. Then she said doubtfully, 'I don't know.'
'Then should you like to be my lit=
tle
servant, and live with me?' said Tito, smiling. He meant no more than to see
what sort of pretty look and answer she would give.
There was a flush of joy immediate=
ly.
'Will you take me with you now? Ah! I shouldn't go home and be beaten then.'
She paused a little while, and then added more doubtfully, 'But I should li=
ke
to fetch my black-faced kid.'
'Yes, you must go back to your kid=
, my
Tessa,' said Tito, rising, 'and I must go the other way.'
'By Jupiter!' he added, as he went
from under the shade of the tree, 'it is not a pleasant time of day to walk
from here to the Via de' Bardi; I am more inclined to lie down and sleep in
this shade.'
It ended so. Tito had an unconquer=
able
aversion to anything unpleasant, even when an object very much loved and
desired was on the other side of it. He had risen early; had waited; had se=
en
sights, and had been already walking in the sun: he was inclined for a sies=
ta,
and inclined all the more because little Tessa was there, and seemed to make
the air softer. He lay down on the grass again, putting his cap under his h=
ead
on a green tuft by the side of Tessa. That was not quite comfortable; so he
moved again, and asked Tessa to let him rest his head against her lap; and =
in
that way he soon fell asleep. Tessa sat quiet as a dove on its nest, just
venturing, when he was fast asleep, to touch the wonderful dark curls that =
fell
backward from his ear. She was too happy to go to sleep - too happy to think
that Tito would wake up, and that then he would leave her, and she must go
home. It takes very little water to make a perfect pool for a tiny fish, wh=
ere
it will find its world and paradise all in one, and never have a presentime=
nt
of the dry bank. The fretted summer shade, and stillness, and the gentle
breathing of some loved life near - it would be paradise to us all, if eager
thought, the strong angel with the implacable brow, had not long since clos=
ed
the gates.
It really was a long while before =
the
waking came - before the long dark eyes opened at Tessa, first with a little
surprise, and then with a smile, which was soon quenched by some preoccupyi=
ng
thought. Tito's deeper sleep had broken into a doze, in which he felt himse=
lf
in the Via de' Bardi, explaining his failure to appear at the appointed tim=
e.
The clear images of that doze urged him to start up at once to a sitting
posture, and as he stretched his arms and shook his cap, he said -
'Tessa, little one, you have let me
sleep too long. My hunger and the shadows together tell me that the sun has
done much travel since I fell asleep. I must lose no more time. Addio,' he
ended, patting her cheek with one hand, and settling his cap with the other=
.
She said nothing, but there were s=
igns
in her face which made him speak again in as serious and as chiding a tone =
as
he could command -
'Now, Tessa, you must not cry. I s=
hall
be angry; I shall not love you if you cry. You must go home to your black-f=
aced
kid, or if you like you may go back to the gate and see the horses start. B=
ut I
can stay with you no longer, and if you cry, I shall think you are troubles=
ome
to me.'
The rising tears were checked by
terror at this change in Tito's voice. Tessa turned very pale, and sat in
trembling silence, with her blue eyes widened by arrested tears.
'Look now,' Tito went on, soothing= ly, opening the wallet that hung at his belt, 'here is a pretty charm that I ha= ve had a long while - ever since I was in Sicily, a country a long way off.' <= o:p>
His wallet had many little matters=
in
it mingled with small coins, and he had the usual difficulty in laying his
finger on the right thing. He unhooked his wallet, and turned out the conte=
nts
on Tessa's lap. Among them was his onyx ring.
'Ah, my ring!' he exclaimed. slipp=
ing
it on the forefinger of his right hand. 'I forgot to put it on again this
morning. Strange, I never missed it! See, Tessa,' he added, as he spread out
the smaller articles, and selected the one he was in search of. 'See this
pretty little pointed bit of red coral - like your goat's horn, is it not? -
and here is a hole in it, so you can put it on the cord round your neck alo=
ng
with your Breve, and then the evil spirits can't hurt you: if you ever see =
them
coming in the shadow round the corner, point this little coral horn at them,
and they will run away. It is a ‘buona fortuna,’ and will keep =
you
from harm when I am not with you. Come, undo the cord.'
Tessa obeyed with a tranquillising
sense that life was going to be something quite new, and that Tito would be
with her often. All who remember their childhood remember the strange vague
sense, when some new experience came, that everything else was going to be
changed, and that there would be no lapse into the old monotony. So the bit=
of
coral was hung beside the tiny bag with the scrap of scrawled parchment in =
it,
and Tessa felt braver.
'And now you will give me a kiss,'
said Tito, economising time by speaking while he swept in the contents of t=
he
wallet and hung it at his waist-again, 'and look happy, like a good girl, a=
nd
then -'
But Tessa had obediently put forwa=
rd
her lips in a moment, and kissed his cheek as he hung down his head.
'Oh, you pretty pigeon!' cried Tit=
o,
laughing, pressing her round cheeks with his hands and crushing her features
together so as to give them a general impartial kiss.
Then he started up and walked away,
not looking round till he was ten yards from her, when he just turned and g=
ave
a parting beck. Tessa was looking after him, but he could see she was makin=
g no
signs of distress. It was enough for Tito if she did not cry while he was
present. The softness of his nature required that all sorrow should be hidd=
en
away from him.
'I wonder when Romola will kiss my
cheek in that way?' thought Tito, as he walked along. It seemed a tiresome
distance now, and he almost wished he had not been so softhearted, or so
tempted to linger in the shade. No other excuse was needed to Bardo and Rom=
ola
than saying simply that he had been unexpectedly hindered: he felt confident
their proud delicacy would inquire no farther. He lost no time in getting to
Ognissanti, and hastily taking some food there, he crossed the Arno by the
Ponte alla Carraja, and made his way as directly as possible towards the Via
de' Bardi.
But it was the hour when all the w=
orld
who meant to be in particularly good time to see the Corso were returning f=
rom
the Borghi, or villages just outside the gates, where they had dined and
reposed themselves; and the thoroughfares leading to the bridges were of co=
urse
the issues towards which the stream of sightseers tended. Just as Tito reac=
hed
the Ponte Vecchio and the entrance of the Via de' Bardi, he was suddenly ur=
ged
back towards the angle of the intersecting streets. A company on horseback,
coming from the Via Guicciardini, and turning up the Via de' Bardi, had
compelled the foot-passengers to recede hurriedly. Tito had been walking, as
his manner was, with the thumb of his right hand resting in his belt; and a=
s he
was thus forced to pause and was looking carelessly at the passing cavalier=
s,
he felt a very thin cold hand laid on his. He started round, and saw the
Dominican friar whose upturned face had so struck him in the morning. Seen
closer, the face looked more evidently worn by sickness and not by age; and
again it brought some strong but indefinite reminiscences to Tito.
'Pardon me, but - from your face a=
nd
your ring,' said the friar, in a faint voice, 'is not your name Tito Melema=
?'
'Yes,' said Tito, also speaking
faintly, doubly jarred by the cold touch and the mystery. He was not
apprehensive or timid through his imagination, but through his sensations a=
nd
perceptions he could easily be made to shrink and turn pale like a maiden. =
'Then I shall fulfil my commission=
.'
The friar put his hand under his
scapulary, and drawing out a small linen bag which hung round his neck, took
from it a bit of parchment, doubled and stuck firmly together with some bla=
ck
adhesive substance, and placed it in Tito's hand. On the outside uas writte=
n in
Italian, in a small but distinct character -
'Tito Melenma, aged twenty-three, =
with
a dark, beautiful face, long dark curls, the brightest smile, and a large o=
nyx
ring on his right forefinger.'
Tito did not look at the friar, but
tremblingly broke open the bit of parchment. Inside, the words were -
'I am sold for a slave: I think th= ey are going to take me to Antioch. The gems alone will serve to ransom me.' <= o:p>
Tito looked round at the friar, but
could only ask a question with his eyes.
'I had it at Corinth,' the friar s=
aid,
speaking with difficulty, like one whose small strength had been overtaxed =
- 'I
had it from a man who was dying.'
'He is dead, then?' said Tito, wit=
h a
bounding of the heart.
'Not the writer. The man who gave =
it
me was a pilgrim, like myself, to whom the writer had intrusted it, because=
he
was journeying to Italy.'
'You know the contents?'
'I do not know them, but I conject=
ure
them. Your friend is in slavery: you will go and release him. But I am unab=
le
to talk now.' The friar, whose voice had become feebler an feebler, sank do=
wn
on the stone bench against the wall from which he had risen to touch Tito's
hand, adding -
'I am at San Marco; my name is Fra
Luca.'
When Fra Luca had ceased to speak,
Tito still stood by him in irresolution and it was not till, the pressure of
the passen-gers being removed, the friar rose and walked slowly into the ch=
urch
of Santa Felicita, that Tito also went on his way along the Via de' Bardi. =
'If this monk is a Florentine,' he
said to himself; 'if he is going to remain at Florence, everything must be
disclosed.' He felt that a new crisis had come, but he was not, for all tha=
t,
too evidently agitated to pay his visit to Bardo, and apologise for his
previous non-appearance. Tito's talent for concealment was fast being devel=
oped
into something less neutral. It was still possible - perhaps it might be
inevitable - for him to accept frankly the altered conditions, and avow
Baldassarre's existence; but hardly without casting an unpleasant light
backward on his original reticence as studied equivocation in order to avoid
the fulfilment of a secretly recognized claim, to say nothing of his quiet
settlement of himself and investment of his florins, when, it would be clea=
r,
his benefactor's fate had not been certified. It was at least provisionally
wise to act as if nothing had happened, and for the present he would suspend
decisive thought; there was all the night for meditation, and no one would =
know
the precise moment at which he had received the letter.
So he entered the room on the seco=
nd
storey - where Romola and her father sat among the parchment and the marble,
aloof from the life of the streets on holidays as well as on common days - =
with
a face only a little less bright than usual, from regret at appearing so la=
te:
a regret which wanted no testimony, since he had given up the sight of the
Corso in orcler to express it; and then set himself to throw extra animation
into the evening, though all the while his consciousness was at work like a
machine with complex action, leaving deposits quite distinct from the line =
of
talk; and by the time he descended the stone stairs and issued from the grim
door in the starlight, his mind had really reached a new stage in its forma=
tion
of a purpose.
And when, the next day, after he w=
as
free from his professional work, he turned up the Via del Cocomero towards =
the
convent of San Marco, his purpose was fully shaped. He was going to ascerta=
in
from Fra Luca precisely how much he conjectured of the truth, and on what
grounds he conjectured it; and, further, how long he was to remain at San
Marco. And on that fuller knowledge he hoped to mould a statement which wou=
ld
in any case save him from the necessity of quitting Florence. Tito had never
had occasion to fabricate an ingenious lie before: the occasion was come no=
w -
the occasion which circumstance never fails to beget on tacit falsity; and =
his
ingenuity was ready. For he had convinced himself that he was not bound to =
go
in search of Baldassarre. He had once said that on a fair assurance of his
father's existence and whereabout, he would unhesitatingly go after him. Bu=
t,
after all, why was he bound to go? What, looked at closely, was the end of =
all
life, but to extract the utmost sum of pleasure? And was not his own bloomi=
ng
life a promise of incomparably more pleasure, not for himself only, but for
others, than the withered wintry life of a man who was past the time of keen
enjoyment, and whose ideas had stiffened into barren rigidity?' Those ideas=
had
all been sown in the fresh soil of Tito's mind, and were lively germs there:
that was the proper order of things - the order of nature, which treats all
maturity as a mere nidus for youth. Baldassarre had done his work, had had =
his
draught of life: Tito said it was his turn now.
And the prospect was so vague: - 'I
think they are going to take me to Antioch:' here was a vista! After a long
voyage, to spend months, perhaps years, in a search for which even now there
was no guarantee that it would not prove vain: and to leave behind at start=
ing
a life of distinction and love: and to find, if he found anything, the old
exacting companionship which was known by rote beforehand. Certainly the ge=
ms
and therefore the florins were, in a sense, Baldassarre's: in the narrow se=
nse
by which the right of possession is determined in ordinary affairs; but in =
that
large and more radically natural view by which the world belongs to youth a=
nd
strength, they were rather his who could extract the most pleasure out of t=
hem.
That, he was conscious, was not the sentiment which the complicated play of
human feelings had engendered in society. The men around him would expect t=
hat he
should immediately apply those florins to his benefactor's rescue. But what=
was
the sentiment of society? - a mere tangle of anomalous traditions and opini=
ons,
which no wise man would take as a guide, except so far as his own comfort w=
as
concerned. Not that he cared for the florins save perhaps for Romola's sake=
: he
would give up the florins readily enough. It was the joy that was due to him
and was close to his lips, which he felt he was not bound to thrust away fr=
om
him and so travel on, thirsting. Any maxims that required a man to fling aw=
ay
the good that was needed to make existence sweet, were only the lining of h=
uman
selfishness turned outward: they were made by men who wanted others to
sacrifice themselves for their sake. He would rather that Baldassarre should
not suffer: he liked no one to suffer; but could any philosophy prove to him
that he was bound to care for another's suffering more than for his own? To=
do
so he must have loved Baldassarre devotedly, and he did not love him: was t=
hat
his own fault? Gratitude! seen closely, it made no valid claim: his father's
life would have been dreary without him: are we convicted of a debt to men =
for
the pleasures they give themselves ?
Having once begun to explain away
Baldassarre's claim, Tito's thought showed itself as active as a virulent a=
cid,
eating its rapid way through all the tissues of sentiment. His mind was
destitute of that dread which has been erroneously decried as if it were
nothing higher than a man's animal care for his own skin: that awe of the
Divine Nemesis which was felt by religious pagans, and, though it took a mo=
re
positive form under Christianity, is still felt by the mass of mankind simp=
ly
as a vague fear at anything which is called wrong-doing. Such terror of the
unseen is so far above mere sensual cowardice that it will annihilate that
cowardice: it is the initial recognition of a moral law restraining desire,=
and
checks the hard bold scrutiny of imperfect thought into obligations which c=
an
never be proved to have any sanctity in the abscnce of feeling. 'It is good=
,'
sing the old Eumenides, in Aeschylus, 'that fear should sit as the guardian=
of
the soul, forcing it into wisdom - good that men should carry a threatening
shadow in their hearts under the full sunshine; else, how should they learn=
to
revere the right?' That guardianship may become needless; but only when all
outward law has become needless - only when duty and love have united in one
stream and made a common force.
As Tito entered the outer cloister=
of
San Marco, and inquired for Fra Luca, there was no shadowy presentiment in =
his
mind: he felt himself too cultured and sceptical for that: he had been nurt=
ured
in contempt for the tales of priests whose impudent lives were a proverb, a=
nd
in erudite familiarity with disputes concerning the Chief Good, which had a=
fter
all, he considered, left it a matter of taste. Yet fear was a strong elemen=
t in
Tito's nature - the fear of what he believed or saw was likely to rob him of
pleasure: and he had a definite fear that Fra Luca might be the means of
driving him from Florence.
'Fra Luca? ah, he is gone to Fieso=
le -
to the Dominican monastery there. He was taken on a litter in the cool of t=
he
morning. The poor Brother is very ill. Could you leave a message for him?' =
This answer was given by a fra
converso, or lay brother, whose accent told plainly that he was a raw
contadino, and whose dull glance implied no curiosity.
'Thanks; my business can wait.'
Tito turned away with a sense of
relief. 'This friar is not likely to live,' he said to himself. 'I saw he w=
as
worn to a shadow. And at Fiesole there will be nothing to recall me to his
mind. Besides, if he should come back, my explanation will serve as well th=
en
as now. But I wish I knew what it was that his face recalled to me.'
Tito walked along with a light ste=
p,
for the immediate fear had vanished; the usual joyousness of his disposition
reassumed its predominance, and he was going to see Romola. Yet Romola's li=
fe
seemed an image of that loving, pitying devotedness, that patient endurance=
of
irksome tasks, from which he had shrunk and excused himself. But he was not=
out
of love with goodness, or prepared to plunge into vice: he was in his fresh
youth, with soft pulses for all charm and loveliness; he had still a healthy
appetite for ordinary human joys, and the poison could only work by degrees=
. He
had sold himself to evil, but at present life seemed so nearly the same to =
him
that he was not conscious of the bond. He meant all things to go on as they=
had
done before, both within and without him: he meant to win golden opinions by
meritorious exertion, by ingenious learning, by amiable compliance: he was =
not
going to do anything that would throw him out of harmony with the beings he
cared for. And he cared supremely for Romola; he wished to have her for his
beautiful and loving wife. There might be a wealthier alliance within the
ultimate reach of successful accomplishments like his, but there was no wom=
an
in all Florence like Romola. When she was near him, and looked at him with =
her
sincere hazel eyes, he was subdued by a delicious influence as strong and
inevitable as those musical vibrations which take possession of us with a
rhythmic empire that no sooner ceases than we desire it to begin again.
As he trod the stone stairs, when =
he
was still outside the door, with no one but Maso near him, the influence se=
emed
to have begun its work by the mere nearness of anticipation.
'Welcome, Tito mio,' said the old
man's voice, before Tito had spoken. There was a new vigour in the voice, a=
new
cheerfulness in the blind face, since that first interview more than two mo=
nths
ago. 'You have brought fresh manuscript, doubtless; but since we were talki=
ng
last night I have had new ideas: we must take a wider scope - we must go ba=
ck
upon our footsteps.'
Tito paying his homage to Romola a=
s he
advanced, went, as his custom was, straight to Bardo's chair, and put his h=
and
in the palm that was held to receive it, placing himself on the cross-legged
leather seat with scrolled ends, close to Bardo's elbow.
'Yes,' he said in his gentle way; =
'I
have brought the new manuscript, but that can wait your pleasure. I have yo=
ung
limbs, you know, and can walk back up the hill without any difficulty.'
He did not look at Romola as he sa=
id
this, but he knew quite well that her eyes were fixed on him with delight. =
'That is well said, my son.' Bardo=
had
already addressed Tito in this way once or twice of late. 'And I perceive w=
ith
gladness that you do not shrink from labour, without which, the poet has wi=
sely
said, life has given nothing to mortals. It is too often the ‘palma s=
ine
pulvere,’ the prize of glory without the dust of the race, that attra=
cts
young ambition. But what says the Greek? ‘In the morning of life, wor=
k;
in the mid-day, give counsel; in the evening, pray.’ It is true, I mi=
ght
be thought to have reached that helpless evening; but not so, while I have
counsel within me which is yet unspoken. For my mind, as I have often said,=
was
shut up as by a dam; the plenteous waters lay dark and motionless; but you,=
my
Tito, have opened a duct for them, and they rush forward with a force that
surprises myself. And now, what I want is, that we should go over our
preliminary ground again, with a wider scheme of comment and illustration:
otherwise I may lose opportunities which I now see retrospectively, and whi=
ch
may never occur again. You mark what I am saying, Tito?'
He had just stooped to reach his
manuscript, which had rolled down, and Bardo's jealous ear was alive to the=
slight
movement.
Tito might have been excused for
shrugging his shoulders at the prospect before him, but he was not naturally
impatient; moreover, he had been bred up in that laborious erudition, at on=
ce
minute and copious, which was the chief intellectual task of the age; and w=
ith
Romola near, he was floated along by waves of agreeable sensation that made
everything seem easy.
'Assuredly,' he said; 'you wish to
enlarge your comments on certain passages we have cited.'
'Not only so; I wish to introduce =
an
occasional excursus, where we have noticed an author to whom I have given
special study; for I may die too soon to achieve any separate work. And thi=
s is
not a time for scholarly integrity and wellsifted learning to lie idle, whe=
n it
is not only rash ignorance that we have to fear, but when there are men like
Calderino, who, as Poliziano has well shown, have recourse to impudent
falsities of citation to serve the ends of their vanity and secure a triump=
h to
their own mistakes. Wherefore, my Tito, I think it not well that we should =
let
slip the occasion that lies under our hands. And now we will turn back to t=
he
point where we have cited the passage from Thucydides, and I wish you, by w=
ay
of preliminary, to go with me through all my notes on the Latin translation
made by Lorenzo Valla, for which the incomparable Pope Nicholas V. - with w=
hose
personal notice I was honoured while I was yet young, and when he was still
Thomas of Sarzana - paid him (I say not unduly) the sum of five hundred gold
scudi. But inasmuch as Valla, though otherwise of dubious fame, is held in =
high
honour for his severe scholarship, whence the epigrammatist has jocosely sa=
id
of him that since he went among the shades, Pluto himself has not dared to
speak in the ancient languages, it is the more needful that his name should=
not
be as a stamp warranting false wares; and therefore I would introduce an
excursus on Thucydides, wherein my castigations of Valla's text may find a
fitting place. My Romola, thou wilt reach the needful volumes - thou knowest
them - on the fifth shelf of the cabinet.'
Tito rose at the same moment with
Romola, saying, 'I will reach them, if you will point them out,' and follow=
ed
her hastily into the adjoining small room, where the walls were also covered
with ranges of books in perfect order.
'There they are,' said Romola,
pointing upward; 'every book is just where it was when my father ceased to =
see
them.'
Tito stood by her without hastenin=
g to
reach the books. They had never been in this room together before.
'I hope,' she continued, turning h=
er
eyes full on Tito, with a look of grave confidence - 'I hope he will not we=
ary
you; this work makes him so happy.'
'And me too, Romola - if you will =
only
let me say, I love you - if you will only think me worth loving a little.' =
His speech was the softest murmur,=
and
the dark beautiful face, nearer to hers than it had ever been before, was
looking at her with besecching tenderness.
'I do love you,' murmured Romola; =
she
looked at him with the same simple majesty as ever, but her voice had never=
in
her life before sunk to that murmur. It seemed to them both that they were
looking at each other a long while before her lips moved again; yet it was =
but
a moment till she said, 'I know now what it is to be happy.'
The faces just met, and the dark c=
urls
mingled for an instant with the rippling gold. Quick as lightning after tha=
t,
Tito set his foot on a projecting ledge of the book-shelves and reached down
the needful volumes. They were both contented to be silent and separate, fo=
r that
first blissful experience of mutual consciousness was all the more exquisite
for being unperturbed by immediate sensation.
It had all been as rapid as the
irreversible mingling of waters, for even the eager and jealous Bardo had n=
ot
become impatient.
'You have the volumes, my Romola?'=
the
old man said, as they came near him again. 'And now you will get your pen
ready; for, as Tito marks off the scholia we determine on extracting, it wi=
ll
be well for you to copy them without delay - numbering them carefully, mind=
, to
correspond with the numbers in the text which he will write.'
Romola always had some task which =
gave
her a share in this joint work. Tito took his stand at the leggio, where he
both wrote and read, and she placed herself at a table just in front of him,
where she was ready to give into her father's hands anything that he might
happen to want, or relieve him of a volume that he had done with. They had
always been in that position since the work began, yet on this day it seemed
new; it was so different now for them to be opposite each other; so differe=
nt
for Tito to take a book from her, as she lifted it from her father's knee. =
Yet
there was no finesse to secure an additional look or touch. Each woman crea=
tes
in her own likeness the love-tokens that are offered to her; and Romola's d=
eep
calm happiness encompassed Tito like the rich but quiet evening light which
dissipates all unrest.
They had been two hours at their w=
ork,
and were just desisting because of the fading light, when the door opened a=
nd
there entered a figure strangely incongruous with the current of their thou=
ghts
and with the suggestions of every object around them. It was the figure of a
short stout black-eyed woman, about fifty, wearing a black velvet berretta,=
or
close cap, embroidered with pearls, under which surprisingly massive black
braids surmounted the little bulging forehead, and fell in rich plaited cur=
ves
over the ears, while an equally surprising carmine tint on the upper region=
of
the fat cheeks contrasted with the surrounding sallowness. Three rows of pe=
arls
and a lower necklace of gold reposed on the horizontal cushion of her neck;=
the
embroidered border of her trailing black-velvet gown and her embroidered
long-drooping sleeves of rose-coloured damask, were slightly faded, but they
conveyed to the initiated eye the satisfactory assurance that they were the
splendid result of six months' labour by a skilled workman; and the
rose-coloured petticoat, with its dimmed white fringe and seed-pearl
arabesques, was duly exhibited in order to suggest a similar pleasing
reflection. A handsome coral rosary hung from one side of an inferential be=
lt,
which emerged into certainty with a large clasp of silver wrought in niello;
and, on the other side, where the belt again became inferential, hung a
scarsella, or large purse, of crimson velvet, stitched with pearls. Her lit=
tle
fat right hand, which looked as if it had been made of paste, and had risen=
out
of shape under partial baking, held a small book of devotions, also splendi=
d with
velvet, pearls and silver.
The figure was already too familia=
r to
Tito to be startling, for Monna Brigida was a frequent visitor at Bardo's,
being excepted from the sentence of banishment passed on feminine trivialit=
y,
on the ground of her cousinship to his dead wife and her early care for Rom=
ola,
who now looked round at her with an affectionate smile, and rose to draw the
leather seat to a due distance from her father's chair, that the coming gus=
h of
talk might not be too near his ear.
'La cugina' said Bardo,
interrogatively, detecting the short steps and the sweeping drapery.
'Yes, it is your cousin,' said Mon=
na
Brigida, in an alert voice, raising her fingers smilingly to Tito, and then
lifting up her face to be kissed by Romola. 'Always the troublesome cousin
breaking in on your wisdom,' she went on, seating herself and beginning to =
fan
herself with the white veil hanging over her arm. 'Well, well; if I didn't
bring you some news of the world now and then, I do believe you'd forget th=
ere
was anything in life but these mouldy ancients, who want sprinkling with ho=
ly
water if all I hear about them it true. Not but what the world is bad enough
nowadays, for the scandals that turn up under one's nose at every corner - I
don't want to hear and see such things, but one can't go about with one's h=
ead
in a bag; and it was only yesterday - well, well, you needn't burst out at =
me,
Bardo, I'm not going to tell anything; if I'm not as wise as the three king=
s, I
know how many legs go into one boot. But, nevertheless, Florence is a wicked
city - is it not true, Messer Tito? for you go into the world. Not but what=
one
must sin a little - Messer Domeneddio expects that of us, else what are the
blessed sacraments for? And what I say is, we've got to reverence the saint=
s, and
not to set ourselves up as if we could be like them, else life would be
unbearable; as it will be if things go on after this new fashion. For what =
do
you think? I've been at the wedding to-day - Dianora Acciajoli's with the y=
oung
Albizzi that there has been so much talk of - and everybody wondered at its
being to-day instead of yesterday; but, cieli! such a wedding as it was mig=
ht
have been put off till the next Quaresima for a penance. For there was the
bride looking like a white nun - not so much as a pearl about her - and the
bridegroom as solemn as San Giuseppe. It's true! And half the people invited
were Piagnoni - they call them Piagnoni now, these new saints of Fra Girola=
mo's
making. And to think of two families like the Albizzi and the Acciajoli tak=
ing
up such notions, when they could afford to wear the best! Well, well, they
invited me - but they could do no other, seeing my husband was Luca Antonio=
's
uncle by the mother's side - and a pretty time I had of it while we waited
under the canopy in front of the house, before they let us in. I couldn't s=
tand
in my clothes, it seemed, without giving offence; for there was Monna Berta,
who has had worse secrets in her time than any I could tell of myself, look=
ing
askance at me from under her hood like a pinzochera, and telling me to read=
the
Frate's book about widows, from which she had found great guidance. Holy
Madonna! it seems as if widows had nothing to do now but to buy their coffi=
ns,
and think it a thousand years till they get into them, instead of enjoying
themselves a little when they've got their hands free for the first time. A=
nd
what do you think was the music we had, to make our dinner lively? A long
discourse from Fra Domenico of San Marco, about the doctrines of their bles=
sed
Fra Girolamo - the three doctrines we are all to get by heart; and he kept
marking them off on his fingers till he made my flesh creep: and the first =
is,
Florence, or the Church - I don't know which, for first he said one and then
the other - shall be scourged; but if he means the pestilence, the Signory
ought to put a stop to such preaching, for it's enough to raise the swelling
under one's arms with fright: but then, after that, he says Florence is to =
be
regenerated; but what will be the good of that when we're all dead of the
plague, or something else? And then, the third thing, and what he said
oftenest, is, that it's all to be in our days: and he marked that off on his
thumb, till he made me tremble like the very jelly before me. They had jell=
ies,
to be sure, with the arms of the Albizzi and the Acciajoli raised on them in
all colours; they've not turned the world quite upside down yet. But all th=
eir
talk is, that we are to go back to the old ways: for up starts Francesco
Valori, that I've danced with in the Via Larga when he was a bachelor and as
fond of the Medici as anybody, and he makes a speech about the old times,
before the Florentines had left off crying ‘Popolo’ and begun to
cry ‘Palle’ - as if that had anything to do with a wedding! - a=
nd
how we ought to keep to the rules the Signory laid down heaven knows when, =
that
we were not to wear this and that, and not to eat this and that - and how o=
ur
manners were corrupted and we read bad books; though he can't say 4hat of m=
e -'
'Stop, cousin!' said Bardo, in his=
imperious
tone, for he had a remark to make, and only desperate measures could arrest=
the
rattling lengthiness of Monna Brigida's discourse. But now she gave a little
start, pursed up her mouth, and looked at him with round eyes.
'Francesco Valori is not altogether
wrong,' Bardo went on. 'Bernardo, indeed, rates him not highly, and is rath=
er
of opinion that he christens private grudges by the name of public zeal; th=
ough
I must admit that my good Bernardo is too slow of belief in that unalloyed
patriotism which was found in all its lustre amongst the ancients. But it is
true Tito, that our manners have degenerated somewhat from that noble fruga=
lity
which, as has been well seen in the public acts of our citizens, is the par=
ent
of true magnificence. For men, as I hear, will now spend on the transient s=
how
of a Giostra sums which would suffice to found a library, and confer a last=
ing
possession on mankind. Still, I conceive, it remains true of us Florentines
that we have more of that magnanimous sobriety which abhors a trivial
lavishness that it may be grandly open-handed on grand occasions, than can =
be
found in any other city of Italy; for I understand that the Neapolitan and
Milanese courtiers laugh at the scarcity of our plate, and think scorn of o=
ur
great families for borrowing from each other that furniture of the table at
their entertainments. But in the vain laughter of folly wisdom hears half i=
ts
applause.'
'Laughter, indeed!' burst forth Mo=
nna
Brigida again, the moment Bardo paused. 'If anyhody wanted to hear laughter=
at
the wedding to-day they were disappointed, for when young Niccolo Macchiave=
lli
tried to make a joke, and told stories out of Franco Sacchetti's book, how =
it
was no use for the Signoria to make rules for us women, because we were
cleverer than all the painters, and architects, and doctors of logic in the
world, for we could make black look white, and yellow look pink, and crooked
look straight, and, if anything was forbidden, we could find a new name for=
it
- Holy Virgin! the Piagnoni looked more dismal than before, and somebody sa=
id
Sacchetti's book was wicked. Well, I don't read it - they can't accuse me of
reading anything. Save me from going to a wedding again, if that's to be the
fashion; for all of us who were not Piagnoni were as comfortable as wet
chickens. I was never caught in a worse trap but once before, and that was =
when
I went to hear their precious Frate last Quaresima in San Lorenzo. Perhaps I
never told you about it, Messer Tito? - it almost freezes my blood when I t=
hink
of it. How he rated us poor women! and the men, too, to tell the truth, but=
I
didn't mind that so much. He called us cows, and lumps of flesh, and wanton=
s,
and mischief-makers - and I could just bear that, for there were plenty oth=
ers
more fleshy and spiteful than I was, though every now and then his voice sh=
ook
the very bench under me like a trumpet; but then he came to the false hair,
and, O misericordia! he made a picture - I see it now - of a young woman ly=
ing
a pale corpse, and us light-minded widows - of course he meant me as well as
the rest, for I had my plaits on, for if one is getting old, one doesn't wa=
nt
to look as ugly as the Befana, - us widows rushing up to the corpse, like
bare-pated vultures as we were, and cutting off its young dead hair to deck=
our
old heads with. Oh, the dreams I had after that! And then he cried, and wru=
ng
his hands at us, and I cried too. And to go home, and to take off my jewels,
this very clasp, and everything, and to make them into a packet, fu tutt'un=
o;
and I was within a hair of sending them to the Good Men of St Martin to giv=
e to
the poor, but, by heaven's mercy, I bethought me of going first to my
confessor, Fra Cristoforo, at Santa Croce, and he told me how it was all the
work of the devil, this preaching and prophesying of their Fra Girolamo, and
the Dominicans were trying to turn the world upside down, and I was never t=
o go
and hear him again, else I must do penance for it; for the great preachers =
Fra
Mariano and Fra Menico had shown how Fra Girolamo preached lies - and that =
was
true, for I hear them both in the Duomo - and how the Pope's dream of San
Francesco propping up the Church with his arms was being fulfilled still, a=
nd
the Dominicans were beginning to pull it down. Well and good: I went away c=
on
Dio, and made myself easy. I am not going to be frightened by a Frate
Predicatore again. And all I say is, I wish it hadn't been the Dominicans t=
hat
poor Dino joined years ago, for then I should have been glad when I heard t=
hem
say he was come back -'
'Silenzio!' said Bardo, in a loud
agitated voice, while Romola half started from her chair, clasped her hands,
and looked round at Tito, as if now she might appeal to him. Monna Brigida =
gave
a little scream, and bit her lip.
'Donna!' said Bardo, again, 'hear =
once
more my will. Bring no reports about that name to this house; and thou, Rom=
ola,
I forbid thee to ask. My son is dead.'
Bardo's whole frame seemed vibrati=
ng
with passion, and no one dared to break silence again. Monna Brigida lifted=
her
shoulders and her hands in mute dismay; then she rose as quietly as possibl=
e,
gave many significant nods to Tito and Romola, motioning to them that they =
were
not to move, and stole out of the room like a culpable fat spaniel who has
barked unseasonably.
Meanwhile, Tito's quick mind had b=
een
combining ideas with lightning-like rapidity. Bardo's son was not really de=
ad,
then, as he had supposed: he was a monk; he was 'come back: ' and Fra Luca -
yes! it was the likeness to Bardo and Romola that had made the face seem
half-known to him. If he were only dead at Fiesole at that moment! This
importunate selfish wish inevitably thrust itself before every other though=
t.
It was true that Bardo's rigid will was a sufficient safeguard against any
intercourse between Romola and her brother; but not against the betrayal of
what he knew to others, especially when the subject was suggested by the
coupling of Romola's name with that of the very Tito Melema whose descripti=
on
he had carried round his neck as an index. No! nothing but Fra Luca's death=
could
remove all danger; but his death was highly probable, and after the momenta=
ry
shock of the discovery, Tito let his mind fall back in repose on that confi=
dent
hope.
They had sat in silence, and in a
deepening twilight for many minutes, when Romola ventured to say -
'Shall I light the lamp, father, a=
nd
shall we go on?'
'No, my Romola, we will work no mo=
re
to-night. Tito, come and sit by me here.'
Tito moved from the reading-desk, =
and
seated himself on the other side of Bardo, close to his left elbow.
'Come nearer to me, figliuola mia,'
said Bardo again, after a moment's pause. And Romola seated herself on a low
stool and let her arm rest on her father's right knee, that he might lay his
hand on her hair, as he was fond of doing
'Tito, I never told you that I had
once a son,' said Bardo, forgetting what had fallen from him in the emotion
raised by their first interview. The old man had been deeply shaken, and was
forced to pour out his feelings in spite of pride. 'But he left me - he is =
dead
to me. I have disowned him for ever. He was a ready scholar as you are, but
more fervid and impatient, and yet sometimes rapt and self-absorbed, like a
flame fed by some fitful source; showing a disposition from the very first =
to
turn away his eyes from the clear lights of reason and philosophy, and to
prostrate himself under the influences of a dim mysticism which eludes all
rules of human duty as it eludes all argument. And so it ended. We will spe=
ak
no more of him: he is dead to me. I wish his face could be blotted from that
world of memory in which the distant seems to grow clearer and the near to
fade.'
Bardo paused, but neither Romola n=
or
Tito dared to speak - his voice was too tremulous, the poise of his feelings
too doubtful. But he presently raised his hand and found Tito's shoulder to
rest it on, while he went on speaking, with an effort to be calmer.
'But you have come to me, Tito - n=
ot
quite too late. I will lose no time in vain regret. When you are working by=
my
side I seem to have found a son again.'
The old man, preoccupied with the
governing interest of his life, was only thinking of the much-meditated book
which had quite thrust into the background the suggestion, raised by Bernar=
do
del Nero's warning, of a possible marriage between Tito and Romola. But Tito
could not allow the moment to pass unused.
'Will you let me be always and
altogether your son? Will you let me take care of Romola - be her husband? I
think she will not deny me. She has said she loves me. I know I am not equa=
l to
her in birth - in anything; but I am no longer a destitute stranger.'
'Is it true, my Romola?' said Bard=
o,
in a lower tone, an evident vibration passing through him and dissipating t=
he
saddened aspect of his features.
'Yes, father,' said Romola, firmly=
. 'I
love Tito - I wish to marry him, that we may both be your children and never
part.'
Tito's hand met hers in a strong c=
lasp
for the first time, while she was speaking, but their eyes were fixed anxio=
usly
on her father.
'Why should it not be?' said Bardo=
, as
if arguing against any opposition to his assent, rather than assenting. 'It
would be a happiness to me; and thou, too, Romola, wouldst be the happier f=
or
it.'
He stroked her long hair gently and
bent towards her.
'Ah, I have been apt to forget that
thou needest some other love than mine. And thou wilt be a noble wife. Bern=
ardo
thinks I shall hardly find a husband for thee. And he is perhaps right. For
thou art not like the herd of thy sex: thou art such a woman as the immortal
poets had a vision of when they sang the lives of the heroes - tender but
strong, like thy voice, which has been to me instead of the light in the ye=
ars
of my blindness . . . And so thou lovest him?'
He sat upright again for a minute,=
and
then said, in the same tone as before, 'Why should it not be? I will think =
of
it; I will talk with Bernardo.'
Tito felt a disagreeable chill at =
this
answer, for Bernardo del Nero's eyes had retained their keen suspicion when=
ever
they looked at him, and the uneasy remembrance of Fra Luca converted all
uncertainty into fear.
'Speak for me, Romola,' he said,
pleadingly. 'Messer Bernardo is sure to be against me.'
'No, Tito,' said Romola, 'my godfa=
ther
will not oppose what my father firmly wills. And it is your will that I sho=
uld
marry Tito - is it not true, father? Nothing has ever come to me before tha=
t I
have wished for strongly: I did not think it possible that I could care so =
much
for anything that could happen to myself.'
It was a brief and simple plea; bu=
t it
was the condensed story of Romola's self-repressing colourless young life,
which had thrown all its passion into sympathy with aged sorrows, aged
ambition, aged pride and indignation. It had never occurred to Romola that =
she
should not speak as directly and emphatically of her love for Tito as of any
other subject.
'Romola mia!' said her father fond=
ly,
pausing on the words, 'it is true thou hast never urged on me any wishes of=
thy
own. And I have no will to resist thine; rather, my heart met Tito's entrea=
ty
at its very first utterance. Nevertheless, I must talk with Bernardo about =
the
measures needful to be observed. For we must not act in haste, or do anythi=
ng
unbeseeming my name. I am poor, and held of little account by the wealthy of
our family - nay, I may consider myself a lonely man - but I must neverthel=
ess
remember that generous birth has its obligations. And I would not be reproa=
ched
by my fellow-citizens for rash haste in bestowing my daughter. Bartolommeo
Scala gave his Alessandra to the Greek Marullo, but Marullo's lineage was w=
ell
known, and Scala himself is of no extraction. I know Bernardo will hold tha=
t we
must take time: he will, perhaps, reproach me with want of due forethought.=
Be
patient, my children: you are very young.'
No more could be said, and Romola's
heart was perfectly satisfied. Not so Tito's. If the subtle mixture of good=
and
evil prepares suffering for human truth and purity, there is also suffering
prepared for the wrong-doer by the same mingled conditions. As Tito kissed
Romola on their parting that evening, the very strength of the thrill that
moved his whole being at the sense that this woman, whose beauty it was har=
dly
possible to think of as anything but the necessary consequence of her noble
nature, loved him with all the tenderness that spoke in her clear eyes, bro=
ught
a strong reaction of regret that he had not kept himself free from that fir=
st
deceit which had dragged him into the danger of being disgraced before her.
There was a spring of bitterness mingling with that fountain of sweets. Wou=
ld
the death of Fra Luca arrest it? He hoped it would.
It was the lazy afternoon time on =
the
seventh of September, more than two months after the day on which Romola and
Tito had confessed their love to each other.
Tito, just descended into Nello's
shop, had found the barber stretched on the bench with his cap over his eye=
s;
one leg was drawn up, and the other had slipped towards the ground, having
apparently carried with it a manuscript volume of verse, which lay with its
leaves crushed. In a corner sat Sandro, playing a game at mora by himself, =
and
watching the slow reply of his left fingers to the arithmetical demands of =
his
right with solemn-eyed interest.
Treading with the gentlest step, T=
ito
snatched up the lute, and bending over the barber, touched the strings ligh=
tly
while he sang,-
'Quant' e
bella giovinezza
Che si fug=
ge
tuttavia!
Chi vuol e=
sser
lieto sia,
Di doman non c'e certezza.'
Nello was as easily awaked as a bi=
rd.
The cap was off his eyes in an instant, and he started up.
'Ah, my Apollino! I am somewhat la=
te
with my siesta on this hot day, it seems. That comes of not going to sleep =
in
the natural way, but taking a potion of potent poesy. Hear you, how I am
beginning to match my words by the initial letter, like a Trovatore? That is
one of my bad symptoms: I am sorely afraid that the good wine of my
understanding is going to run off at the spigot of authorship, and I shall =
be
left an empty cask with an odour of dregs, like many another incomparable
genius of my acquaintance. What is it, my Orpheus?' here Nello stretched out
his arms to their full length, and then brought them round till his hands
grasped Tito's curls, and drew them out playfully. 'What is it you want of =
your
well-tamed Nello? For I perceive a coaxing sound in that soft strain of you=
rs.
Let me see the very needle's eye of your desire, as the sublime poet says,'
that I may thread it.'
'That is but a tailor's image of y=
our
sublime poet's,' said Tito, still letting his fingers fall in a light dropp=
ing
way on the strings. 'But you have divined the reason of my affcctionate
impatience to see your eyes open. I want you to give me an extra touch of y=
our
art - not on my chin, no; but on the zazzera, which is as tangled as your
Florentine politics. You have an adroit way of inserting your comb, which
flatters the skin, and stirs the animal spirits agreeably in that region; a=
nd a
little of your most delicate orange-scent would not be amiss, for I am boun=
d to
the Scala palace, and am to present myself in radiant company. The young
Cardinal Giovanni de' Medici is to be there, and he brings with him a certa=
in
young Bernardo Dovizi of Bibbiena, whose wit is so rapid that I see no way =
of
outrivalling it save by the scent of orange-blossoms.'
Nello had already seized and flour=
ished
his comb, and pushed Tito gently backward into the chair, wrapping the cloth
round him.
'Never talk of rivalry, bel giovane
mio: Bernardo Dovizi is a keen youngster, who will never carry a net out to
catch the wind; but he has something of the same sharp-muzzled look as his
brother Ser Piero, the weasel that Piero de' Medici keeps at his beck to sl=
ip
through small holes for him. No! you distance all rivals, and may soon touch
the sky with your forefinger. They tell me you have even carried enough hon=
ey
with you to sweeten the sour Messer Angelo; for he has pronounced you less =
of
an ass than might have been expected, considering there is such a good
understanding between you and the Secretary.'
'And between ourselves, Nello mio,
that Messer Angelo has more genius and erudition than I can find in all the
other Florentine scholars put together. It may answer very well for them to=
cry
me up now, when Poliziano is beaten down with grief, or illness, or somethi=
ng
else; I can try a flight with such a sparrow-hawk as Pietro Crinito, but for
Poliziano, he is a large-beaked eagle who would swallow me, feathers and al=
l,
and not feel any difference.'
'I will not contradict your modesty
there, if you will have it so; but you don't expect us clever Florentines t=
o keep
saying the same things over again every day of our lives, as we must do if =
we
always told the truth. We cry down Dante, and we cry up Francesco Cei, just=
for
the sake of variety; and if we cry you up as a new Poliziano, heaven has ta=
ken
care that it shall not be quite so great a lie as it might have been. And a=
re
you not a pattern of virtue in this wicked city? with vour ears double-waxed
against all siren invitations that would lure you from the Via de' Bardi, a=
nd
the great work which is to astonish posterity?'
'Posterity in good truth, whom it =
will
probably astonish as the universe does, by the impossibility of seeing what=
was
the plan of it.'
'Yes, something like that was being
prophesied here the other day. Cristoforo Landino said that the excellent B=
ardo
was one of those scholars who lie overthrown in their learning, like cavali=
ers
in heavy armour, and then get angry because they are over-ridden - which pi=
thy
remark, it seems to me, was not a herb out of his own garden, for of all me=
n,
for feeding one with an empty spoon and gagging one with vain expectation by
long discourse, Messer Cristoforo is the pearl. Ecco! you are perfect now.'
Here Nello drew away the cloth. 'Impossible to add a grace more! But love is
not always to be fed on learning, eh? I shall have to dress the zazzera for=
the
betrothal before long - is it not true?'
'Perhaps,' said Tito, smiling, 'un=
less
Messer Bernardo should next recommend Bardo to require that I should yoke a
lion and a wild boar to the car of the Zecca before I can win my Alcestis. =
But
I confess he is right in holding me unworthy of Romola, she is a Pleiad that
may grow dim by marrying any mortal.'
'Gnaffe, your modesty is in the ri=
ght
place there. Yet fate seems to have measured and chiselled you for the niche
that was left empty by the old man's son, who, by the way Cronaca was telli=
ng
me, is now at San Marco. Did you know?'
A slight electric shock passed thr=
ough
Tito as he rose from the chair, but it was not outwardly perceptible, for he
immediately stooped to pick up the fallen book, and busied his fingers with
flattening the leaves, while he said -
'No; he was at Fiesole, I thought.=
Are
you sure he is come back to San Marco?'
'Cronaca is my authority,' said Ne=
llo,
with a shrug. 'I don't frequent that sanctuary, but he does. Ah,' he added,
taking the book from Tito's hands, 'my poor Nencia da Barberino! It jars yo=
ur
scholarly feelings to see the pages dog's-eared. I was lulled to sleep by t=
he
well-rhymed charms of that rustic maiden - ‘prettier than the turnip-=
flower,’
‘with a cheek more savoury than cheese.’ But to get such a
well-scented notion of the contadina, one must lie on velvet cushions in the
Via Larga - not go to look at the Fierucoloni stumping in to the Piazza del=
la
Nunziata this evening after sundown.'
'And pray who are the Fierucoloni?'
said Tito, indifferently, settling his cap.
'The contadine who came from the
mountains of Pistoia, and the Casentino, and heaven knows where, to keep th=
eir
vigil in the church of the Nunziata, and sell their yarn and dried mushroom=
s at
the Fierucola, as we call it. They make a queer show, with their paper
lanterns, howling their hymns to the Virgin on this eve of her nativity - if
you had the leisure to see them. No? - well, I have had enough of it myself,
for there is wild work in the Piazza. One may happen to get a stone or two
about one's ears or shins without asking for it, and I was never fond of th=
at
pressing attention. Addio.'
Tito carried a little uneasiness w=
ith
him on his visit, which ended earlier than he had expected, the boy-cardinal
Giovanni de' Medici, youngest of red-hatted fathers, who has since presented
his broad dark cheek very conspicuously to posterity as Pope Leo the Tenth,
having been detained at his favourite pastime of the chase, and having fail=
ed
to appear. It still wanted half an hour of sunset as he left the door of the
Scala palace, with the intention of proceeding forthwith to the Via de' Bar=
di;
but he had not gone far when, to his astonishment, he saw Romola advancing
towards him along the Borgo Pinti.
She wore a thick black veil and bl=
ack
mantle, but it was impossible to mistake her figure and her walk; and by her
side was a short stout form, which he recognised as that of Monna Brigida, =
in
spite of the unusual plainness of her attire. Romola had not been bred up to
devotional observances, and the occasions on which she took the air elsewhe=
re
than under the loggia on the roof of the house, were so rare and so much dw=
elt
on beforehand, because of Bardo's dislike to be left without her, that Tito
felt sure there must have been some sudden and urgent ground for an absence=
of
which he had heard nothing the day before. She saw him through her veil and
hastened her steps.
'Romola, has anything happened?' s=
aid
Tito, turning to walk by her side.
She did not answer at the first
moment, and Monna Brigida broke in.
'Ah, Messer Tito, you do well to t=
urn
round, for we are in haste. And is it not a misfortune? - we are obliged to=
go
round by the walls and turn up the Via del Maglio, because of the Fair; for=
the
contadine coming in block up the way by the Nunziata, which would have take=
n us
to San Marco in half the time.'
Tito's heart gave a great bound, a=
nd
began to beat violently.
'Romola,' he said, in a lower tone,
'are you going to San Marco?'
They were now out of the Borgo Pin=
ti
and were under the city walls, where they had wide gardens on their left ha=
nd,
and all was quiet. Romola put aside her veil for the sake of breathing the =
air,
and he could see the subdued agitation in her face.
'Yes, Tito mio,' she said, looking
directly at him with sad eyes. 'For the first time I am doing something unk=
nown
to my father. It comforts me that I have met you, for at least I can tell y=
ou.
But if you are going to him, it will be well for you not to say that you met
me. He thinks I am only gone to my cousin, because she sent for me. I left =
my
godfather with him: he knows where I am going, and why. You remember that
evening when my brother's name was mentioned and my father spoke of him to
you?'
'Yes,' said Tito, in a low tone. T=
here
was a strange complication in his mental state. His heart sank at the
probability that a great change was coming over his prospects, while at the
same time his thoughts were darting over a hundred details of the course he
would take when the change had come; and yet he returned Romola's gaze with=
a
hungry sense that it might be the last time she would ever bend it on him w=
ith
full unquestioning confidence.
'The cugina had heard that he was =
come
back, and the evening before - the evening of San Giovanni - as I afterwards
found, he had been seen by our good Maso near the door of our house; but wh=
en
Maso went to inquire at San Marco, Dino, that is, my brother - he was
christened Bernardino, after our godfather, but now he calls himself Fra Lu=
ca -
had been taken to the monastery at Fiesole, because he was ill. But this
morning a message came to Maso, saying that he was come back to San Marco, =
and
Maso went to him there. He is very ill, and he has adjured me to go and see
him. I cannot refuse it, though I hold him guilty; I still remember how I l=
oved
him when I was a little girl before I knew that he would forsake my father.=
And
perhaps he has some word of penitence to send by me. It cost me a struggle =
to
act in opposition to my father's feeling, which I have always held to be ju=
st.
I am almost sure you will think I have chosen rightly, Tito, because I have
noticed that your nature is less rigid than mine, and nothing makes you ang=
ry:
it would cost you less to be forgiving; though, if you had seen your father
forsaken by one to whom he had given his chief love - by one in whom he had
planted his labour and his hopes - forsaken when his need was becoming grea=
test
- even you, Tito, would find it hard to forgive.'
What could he say? He was not equa=
l to
the hypocrisy of telling Romola that such offences ought not to be pardoned;
and he had not the courage to utter any words of dissuasion.
'You are right, my Romola; you are
always right, except in thinking too well of me.'
There was really some genuineness =
in
those last words, and Tito looked very beautiful as he uttered them, with an
unusual pallor in his face, and a slight quivering of his lip. Romola,
interpreting all things largely, like a mind prepossessed with high beliefs,
had a tearful brightness in her eyes as she looked at him, touched with keen
joy that he felt so strongly whatever she felt. But without pausing in her
walk, she said -
'And now, Tito, I wish you to leave
me, for the cugina and I shall be less noticed if we enter the piazza alone=
.'
'Yes, it were better you should le=
ave
us,' said Monna Brigida; 'for to say the truth, Messer Tito, all eyes follow
you, and let Romola muffle herself as she will, every one wants to see what
there is under her veil, for she has that way of walking like a procession.=
Not
that I find fault with her for it, only it doesn't suit my steps. And, inde=
ed,
I would rather not have us seen going to San Marco, and that's why I am dre=
ssed
as if I were one of the Piagnoni themselves, and as old as Sant' Anna; for =
if
it had been anybody but poor Dino, who ought to be forgiven if he's dying, =
for
what's the use of having a grudge against dead people? - make them feel whi=
le
they live, say I -'
No one made a scruple of interrupt=
ing
Monna Brigida, and Tito, having just raised Romola's hand to his lips, and
said, 'I understand, I obey you,' now turned away, lifting his cap - a sign=
of
reverence rarely made at that time by native Florentines, and which excited
Bernardo del Nero's contempt for 'Tito as a fawning Greek, while to Romola,=
who
loved homage, it gave him an exceptional grace.
He was half glad of the dismissal,
half disposed to cling to Romola to the last moment in which she would love=
him
without suspicion. For it seemed to him certain that this brother would bef=
ore
all things want to know, and that Romola would before all things confide to
him, what was her father's position and her own after the years which must =
have
brought so much change. She would tell him that she was soon to be publicly
betrothed to a young scholar, who was to fill up the place left vacant long=
ago
by a wandering son. He foresaw the impulse that would prompt Romola to dwel=
l on
that prospect, and what would follow on the mention of the future husband's
name. Fra Luca would tell all he knew and conjectured, and Tito saw no poss=
ible
falsity by which he could now ward off the worst consequences of his former
dissimulation. It was all over with his prospects in Florence. There was Me=
sser
Bernardo del Nero, who would be delighted at seeing confirmed the wisdom of=
his
advice about deferring the betrothal until Tito's character and position had
been establishecl by a longer residence; and the history of the young Greek
professor, whose benefactor was in slavery, would be the talk under every l=
oggia.
For the first time in his life he felt too fevered and agitated to trust his
power of self-command; he gave up his intended visit to Bardo, and walked up
and down under the walls until the yellow light in the west had quite faded,
when, without any distinct purpose, he took the first turning, which happen=
ed
to be the Via San Sebastiano, leading him directly towards the Piazza dell'
Annunziata.
He was at one of those lawless mom=
ents
which come to us all if we have no guide but desire, and if the pathway whe=
re
desire leads us seems suddenly closed, he was ready to follow any beckoning
that offered him an immediate purpose.
The moving crowd and the strange
mixture of noises that burst on him at the entrance of the piazza, reminded
Tito of what Nello had said to him about the Fierucoloni, and he pushed his=
way
into the crowd with a sort of pleasure in the hooting and elbowing, which
filled the empty moments, and dulled that calculation of the future which h=
ad
so new a dreariness for him, as he foresaw himself wandering away solitary =
in
pursuit of some unknown fortune, that his thought had even glanced towards
going in search of Baldassarre after all.
At each of the opposite inlets he = saw people struggling into the piazza, while above them paper lanterns, held al= oft on sticks, were waving uncertainly to and fro. A rude monotonous chant made= a distinctly traceable strand of noise, across which screams, whistles, gibing chants in piping boyish voices, the beating of drums, and the ringing of li= ttle bells, met each other in confused din. Every now and then one of the dim floating lights disappeared with a smash from a stone launched more or less vaguely in pursuit of mischief, followed by a scream and renewed shouts. Bu= t on the outskirts of the whirling tumult there were groups who were keeping this vigil of the Nativity of the Virgin in a more methodical manner than by fit= ful stone-throwing and gibing. Certain ragged men, darting a hard sharp glance around them while their tongues rattled merrily, were inviting country peop= le to game with them on fair and open-handed terms; two masquerading figures on stilts, who had snatched lanterns from the crowd, were swaying the lights to and fro in meteoric fashion, as they strode hither and thither; a sage trad= er was doing a profitable business at a small covered stall, in hot berlingozz= i, a favourite farinaceous delicacy; one man standing on a barrel, with his back firmly planted against a pillar of the loggia in front of the Foundling Hos= pital (Spedale degl' Innocenti), was selling efficacious pills, invented by a doc= tor of Salerno, warranted to prevent toothache and death by drowning; and not f= ar off, against another pillar, a tumbler was showing off his tricks on a small platform; while a handful of 'prentices, despising the slack entertainment = of guerilla stone-throwing, were having a private concentrated match of that favourite Florentine sport at the narrow entrance of the Via de' Febbrai. <= o:p>
Tito, obliged to make his way thro=
ugh
chance openings in the crowd, found himself at one moment close to the trot=
ting
procession of barefooted, hard-heeled contadine, and could see their sun-dr=
ied,
bronzed faces, and their strange, fragmentary garb, dim with hereditary dirt
and of obsolete stuffs and fashions, that made them look in the eyes of the
city people, like a way-worn ancestry returning from a pilgrimage on which =
they
had set out a century ago. Just then it was the hardy, scant-feeding
peasant-women from the mountains of Pistoia, who were entering with a year's
labour in a moderate bundle of yarn on their backs and in their hearts that
meagre hope of good and that wide dim fear of harm, which were somehow to be
cared for by the Blessed Virgin, whose miraculous image, painted by the ang=
els,
was to have the curtain drawn away from it on this Eve of her Nativity, that
its potency might stream forth without obstruction.
At another moment he was forced aw=
ay
towards the boundary of the piazza, where the more stationary candidates for
attention and small coin had judiciously placed themselves, in order to be =
safe
in their rear. Among these Tito recognised his acquaintance Bratti, who sto=
od
with his back against a pillar, and his mouth pursed up in disdainful silen=
ce,
eyeing every one who approached him with a cold glance of superiority, and
keeping his hand fast on a serge covering which concealed the contents of t=
he
basket slung before him. Rather surprised at a deportment so unusual in an
anxious trader, Tito went nearer and saw two women go up to Bratti's basket
with a look of curiosity, whereupon the pedlar drew the covering tighter, a=
nd
looked another way. It was quite too provoking. and one of the women was fa=
in
to ask what there was in his hasket?
'Before I answer that, Monna, I mu=
st
know whether you mean to buy. I can't show such wares as mine in this fair =
for
every fly to settle on and pay nothing. My goods are a little too choice for
that. Besides, I've only two left, and I've no mind to sell them; for with =
the
chances of the pestilence that wise men talk of, there is likelihood of the=
ir
being worth their weight in gold. No, no: andate con Dio.' The two women lo=
oked
at each other. 'And what may be the price?' said the second.
'Not within what you are likely to
have in your purse, buona donna,' said Bratti, in a compassionately
supercilious tone. 'I recommend you to trust in Messer Domeneddio and the
saints: poor people can do no better for themselves.'
'Not so poor!' said the second wom=
an,
indignantly, drawing out her money-bag. 'Come, now! what do you say to a
grosso?'
'I say you may get twenty-one
quattrini for it,' said Bratti, coolly; 'but not of me, for I haven't got t=
hat
small change.'
'Come: two, then?' said the woman,
getting exasperated, while her companion looked at her with some envy. 'It =
will
hardly be above two, I think.'
After further bidding, and further
mercantile coquetry Bratti put on an air of concession.
'Since you've set your mind on it,=
' he
said, slowly raising the cover, 'I should be loth to do you a mischief; for=
Maestro
Gabbadeo used to say, when a woman sets her mind on a thing and doesn't get=
it,
she's in worse danger of the pestilence than before. Ecco! I have but two l=
eft;
and let me tell you, the fellow to them is on the finger of Maestro Gabbade=
o,
who is gone to Bologna - as wise a doctor as sits at any door.'
The precious objects were two clum=
sy
iron rings, beaten into the fashion of old Roman rings, such as were someti=
mes
disinterred. The rust on them, and the entirely hidden character of their
potency, were so satisfactory, that the grossi were paid without grumbling,=
and
the first woman destitute of those handsome coins, succeeded after much sho=
w of
reluctance on Bratti's part in driving a bargain with some of her yarn, and
carried off the remaining ring in triumph. Bratti covered up his basket, wh=
ich
was now filled with miscellanies, probably obtained under the same sort of
circumstances as the yarn, and, moving from his pillar, came suddenly upon
Tito, who, if he had had time, would have chosen to avoid recognition.
'By the head of San Giovanni, now,'
said Bratti, drawing Tito back to the pillar, 'this is a piece of luck. For=
I
was talking of you this morning, Messer Greco; but, I said, he is mounted up
among the signori now - and I'm glad of it, for I was at the bottom of his
fortune - but I can rarely get speech of him, for he's not to be caught lyi=
ng
on the stones now - not he! But it's your luck, not mine, Messer Greco, save
and except some small trifle to satisfy me for my trouble in the transactio=
n.'
'You speak in riddles, Bratti,' sa=
id
Tito. 'Remember, I don't sharpen my wits, as you do, by driving hard bargai=
ns
for iron rings: you must be plain.'
'By the Holy 'Vangels! it was an e=
asy
bargain I gave them. If a Hebrew gets thirty-two per cent, I hope a Christi=
an
may get a little more. If I had not borne a conscience, I should have got t=
wice
the money and twice the yarn. But, talking of rings, it is your ring - that
very ring you've got on your finger - that I could get you a purchaser for;=
ay,
and a purchaser with a deep money-bag.'
'Truly?' said Tito, looking at his
ring and listening.
'A Genoese who is going straight a=
way
into Hungary, as I understand. He came and looked all over my shop to see i=
f I
had any old things I didn't know the price of; I warrant you, he thought I =
had
a pumpkin on my shoulders. He had been rummaging all the shops in Florence.=
And
he had a ring on - not like yours, but something of the same fashion; and a=
s he
was talking of rings, I said I knew a fine young man, a particular acquaint=
ance
of mine, who had a ring of that sort. And he said, ‘Who is he, pray? =
Tell
him I'll give him his price for it.’ And I thought of going after you=
to
Nello's to-morrow; for it's my opinion of you, Messer Greco, that you're not
one who'd see the Arno run broth, and stand by without dipping your finger.=
'
Tito had lost no word of what Brat=
ti
had said, yet his mind had been very busy all the while. Why should he keep=
the
ring? It had been a mere sentiment, a mere fancy, that had prevented him fr=
om selling
it with the other gems; if he had been wiser and had sold it, he might perh=
aps
have escaped that identification by Fra Luca. It was true that it had been
taken from Baldassarre's finger and put on his own as soon as his young hand
had grown to the needful size; but there was really no valid good to anybod=
y in
those superstitious scruplcs about inanimate objects. The ring had helped
towards the recognition of him. Tito had begun to dislike recognition, which
was a claim from the past. This foreigner's offer, if he would really give a
good price, was an opportunity for getting rid of the ring without the trou=
ble
of seeking a purchaser.
'You speak with your usual wisdom,
Bratti,' said Tito. 'I have no objection to hear what your Genoese will off=
er.
But when and where shall I have speech of him?'
'To-morrow, at three hours after
sunrise, he will be at my shop, and if your wits are of that sharpness I ha=
ve
always taken them to be, Messer Greco, you will ask him a heavy price; for =
he
minds not money. It's my belief he's buying for somebody else, and not for
himself - perhaps for some great signor.'
'It is well,' said Tito. 'I will b=
e at
your shop, if nothing hinders.'
'And you will doubtless deal nobly=
by
me for old acquaintance' sake, Messer Greco, so I will not stay to fix the
small sum you will give me in token of my service in the matter. It seems t=
o me
a thousand years now till I get out of the piazza, for a fair is a dull, no=
t to
say a wicked thing, when one has no more goods to sell.'
Tito made a hasty sign of assent a=
nd
adieu, and moving away from the pillar, again found himself pushed towards =
the
middle of the piazza and back again, without the power of determining his o=
wn
course. In this zigzag way he was carried along to the end of the piazza op=
posite
the church, where, in a deep recess formed by an irregularity in the line of
houses, an entertainment was going forward which seemed to be especially
attractive to the crowd. Loud bursts of laughter interrupted a monologue wh=
ich
was sometimes slow and oratorical, at others rattling and buffoonish. Here a
girl was being pushed forward into the inner circle with apparent reluctanc=
e,
and there a loud laughing minx was finding a way with her own elbows. It wa=
s a
strange light that was spread over the piazza. There were the pale stars
breaking out above, and the dim waving lanterns below leaving all objects
indistinct except when they were seen close under the fitfully moving light=
s;
but in this recess there was a stronger light, against which the heads of t=
he
encircling spectators stood in dark relief as Tito was gradually pushed tow=
ards
them, while above them rose the head of a man wearing a white mitre with ye=
llow
cabalistic figures upon it.
'Behold, my children!' Tito heard =
him
saying, 'behold your opportunity! neglect not the holy sacrament of matrimo=
ny
when it can be had for the small sum of a white quattrino - the cheapest
matrimony ever offered, and dissolved by special bull beforehand at every m=
an's
own will and pleasure. Behold the bull!' Here the speaker held up a piece of
parchment with huge seals attached to it. 'Behold the indulgence granted by=
his
Holiness Alexander the Sixth, who, being newly elected Pope for his peculiar
piety, intends to reform and purify the Church, and wisely begins by abolis=
hing
that priestly abuse which keeps too large a share of this privileged matrim=
ony
to the clergy and stints the laity. Spit once, my sons, and pay a white
quattrino! This is the whole and sole price of the indulgence. The quattrin=
o is
the only difference the Holy Father allows to be put any longer between us =
and
the clergy - who spit and pay nothing.'
Tito thought he knew the voice, wh=
ich
had a peculiarly sharp ring, but the face was too much in shadow from the
lights behind for him to be sure of the features. Stepping as near as he co=
uld,
he saw within the circle behind the speaker an altar-like table raised on a
small platform, and covered with a red drapery stitched all over with yellow
cabalistical figures. Half-a-dozen thin tapers burned at the back of this
table, which had a conjuring apparatus scattered over it, a large open book=
in
the centre, and at one of the front angles a monkey fastened by a cord to a
small ring and holding a small taper, which in his incessant fidgety moveme=
nts
fell more or less aslant, whilst an impish boy in a white surplice occupied
himself chiefly in cuffing the monkey, and adjusting the taper. The man in =
the
mitre also wore a surplice, and over it a chasuble on which the signs of the
zodiac were rudely marked in black upon a yellow ground. Tito was sure now =
that
he recognised the sharp upward-tending angles of the face under the mitre: =
it
was that of Maestro Vaiano, the mountebank, from whom he had rescued Tessa.
Pretty little Tessa! Perhaps she too had come in among the troops of contad=
ine.
'Come, my maidens! This is the time
for the pretty who can have many chances, and for the ill-favoured who have
few. Matrimony to be had - hot, eaten, and done with as easily as berlingoz=
zi!
And see!' here the conjuror held up a cluster of tiny bags. 'To every bride=
I
give a Breve with a secret in it - the secret alone worth the money you pay=
for
the matrimony. The secret how to - no, no, I will not tell you what the sec=
ret
is about, and that makes it a double secret. Hang it round your neck if you
like, and never look at it; I don't say that will not be the best, for then=
you
will see many things you don't expect: though if you open it you may break =
your
leg, e vero, but you will know a secret! Something nobody knows but me! And=
mark
- I give you the Breve, I don't sell it, as many another holy man would: the
quattrino is for the matrimony, and the Breve you get for nothing. Orsu,
giovanetti, come like dutiful sons of the Church and buy the Indulgence of =
his
Holiness Alexander the Sixth.'
This buffoonery just fitted the ta=
ste
of the audience; the fierucola was but a small occasion, so the townsmen mi=
ght
be contented with jokes that were rather less indecent than those they were
accustomed to hear at every carnival, put into easy rhyme by the Magnifico =
and
his poetic satellites; while the women, over and above any relish of the fu=
n,
really, began to have an itch for the Brevi. Several couples had already go=
ne
through the ceremony, in which the conjuror's solemn gibberish and grimaces=
over
the open book, the antics of the monkey, and even the preliminary spitting,=
had
called forth peals of laughter; and now a well-looking, merry-eyed youth of
seventeen, in a loose tunic and red cap, pushed forward, holding by the han=
d a
plump brunette, whose scanty ragged dress displayed her round arms and legs
very picturesquely.
'Fetter us without delay, Maestro!'
said the youth, 'for I have got to take my bride home and paint her under t=
he
light of a lantern.'
'Ha! Mariotto, my son, I commend y=
our
pious observance . . .' The conjuror was going on, when a loud chattering
behind warned him that an unpleasant crisis had arisen with his monkey.
The temper of that imperfect acoly=
th
was a little tried by the over-active discipline of his colleague in the su=
rplice,
and a sudden cuff administered as his taper fell to a horizontal position,
caused him to leap back with a violence that proved too much for the slacke=
ned
knot by which his cord was fastened. His first leap was to the other end of=
the
table, from which position his remonstrances were so threatening that the i=
mp
in the surplice took up a wand by way of an equivalent threat, whereupon the
monkey leaped on to the head of a tall woman in the foreground, dropping his
taper by the way, and chattering with increased emphasis from that eminence.
Great was the screaming and confusion, not a few of the spectators having a
vague dread of the Maestro's monkey, as capable of more hidden mischief than
mere teeth and claws could inflict; and the conjuror himself was in some al=
arm
lest any harm should happen to his familiar. In the scuffle to seize the
monkey's string, Tito got out of the circle, and, not caring to contend for=
his
place again, he allowed himself to be gradually pushed towards the church of
the Nunziata, and to enter amongst the worshippers.
The brilliant illumination within
seemed to press upon his eyes with palpable force after the pale scattered
lights and broad shadows of the piazza, and for the first minute or two he
could see nothing distinctly. That yellow splendour was in itself something
supernatural and heavenly to many of the peasant-women, for whom half the s=
ky
was hidden by mountains, and who went to bed in the twilight; and the
uninterrupted chant from the choir was repose to the ear after the hellish
hubbub of the crowd outside. Gradually the scene became clearer, though sti=
ll
there was a thin yellow haze from incense mingling with the breath of the
multitude. In a chapel on the left hand of the nave, wreathed with silver
lamps, was seen unveiled the miraculous fresco of the Annunciation, which, =
in
Tito's oblique view of it from the right-hand side of the nave, seemed dark
with the excess of light around it. The whole area of the great church was
filled with peasant-women, some kneeling, some standing; the coarse bronzed
skins, and the dingy clothing of the rougher dwellers on the mountains,
contrasting with the softer-lined faces and white or red head-drapery of the
well-to-do dwellers in the valley, who were scattered in irregular groups. =
And
spreading high and far over the walls and ceiling there was another multitu=
de,
also pressing close against each other, that they might be nearer the potent
Virgin. It was the crowd of votive waxen images, the effigies of great
personages, clothed in their habit as they lived: Florentines of high name =
in
their black silk lucco, as when they sat in council; popes, emperors, kings,
cardinals, and famous condottieri with plumed morion seated on their charge=
rs;
all notable strangers who passed through Florence or had aught to do with i=
ts
affairs - Mohammedans, even, in well-tolerated companionship with Christian
cavaliers; some of them with faces blackened and robes tattered by the
corroding breath of centuries, others fresh and bright in new red mantle or=
steel
corselet, the exact doubles of the living. And wedged in with all these were
detached arms, legs, and other members, with only here and there a gap where
some image had been removed for public disgrace, or had fallen ominously, as
Lorenzo's had done six months before. It was a perfect resurrection-swarm of
remote mortals and fragments of mortals, reflecting, in their varying degre=
es
of freshness, the sombre dinginess and sprinkled brightness of the crowd be=
low.
Tito's glance wandered over the wi=
ld
multitude in search of something. He had already thought of Tessa, and the
white hoods suggested the possibility that he might detect her face under o=
ne
of them. It was at least a thought to be courted, rather than the vision of
Romola looking at him with changed eyes. But he searched in vain; and he was
leaving the church, weary of a scene which had no variety, when, just again=
st
the doorway, he caught sight of Tessa, only two yards off him. She was knee=
ling
with her back against the wall, behind a group of peasant-women, who were
standing and looking for a spot nearer to the sacred image. Her head hung a
little aside with a look of weariness and her blue eyes were directed rather
absently towards an altar-piece where the Archangel Michael stood in his ar=
mour,
with young face and floating hair, amongst bearded and tonsured saints. Her
right hand, holding a bunch of cocoons, fell by her side listlessly, and her
round cheek was paled, either by the light or by the weariness that was
expressed in her attitude: her lips were pressed poutingly together, and ev=
ery
now and then her eyelids half fell: she was a large image of a sweet sleepy
child. Tito felt an irresistible desire to go up to her and get her pretty
trusting looks and prattle: this creature who was without moral judgment th=
at
could condemn him, whose little loving ignorant soul made a world apart, wh=
ere
he might feel in freedom from suspicions and exacting demands, had a new
attraction for him now. She seemed a refuge from the threatened isolation t=
hat
would come with disgrace. He glanced cautiously round, to assure himself th=
at
Monna Ghita was not near, and then, slipping quietly to her side, kneeled on
one knee, and said, in the softest voice, ‘Tessa!' She hardly started,
any more than she would have started at a soft breeze that fanned her gently
when she was needing it. She turned her head and saw Tito's face close to h=
er:
it was very much more beautiful than the Archangel Michael's, who was so mi=
ghty
and so good that he lived with the Madonna and all the saints and was praye=
d to
along with them. She smiled in happy silence, for that nearness of Tito qui=
te
filled her mind.
'My little Tessa! you look very ti=
red.
How long have you been kneeling here?'
She seemed to be collecting her
thoughts for a minute or two, and at last she said -
'I'm very hungry.'
'Come, then; come with me.'
He lifted her from her knees, and =
led
her out under the cloisters surrounding the atrium, which were then open, a=
nd
not yet adorned with the frescoes of Andrea del Sarto.
'How is it you are all by yourself,
and so hungry, Tessa?'
'The Madre is ill; she has very bad pains in her legs, and sent me to bring these cocoons to the Santissima Nunziata, because they're so wonderful; see!' - she held up the bunch of cocoons, which were arranged with fortuitous regularity on a stem, - 'and s= he had kept them to bring them herself, but she couldn't, and so she sent me because she thinks the Holy Madonna may take away her pains; and somebody t= ook my bag with the bread and chestnuts in it, and the people pushed me back, a= nd I was so frightened coming in the crowd, and I couldn't get anywhere near the Holy Madonna, to give the cocoons to the Padre, but I must - oh, I must.' <= o:p>
'Yes, my little Tessa, you shall t=
ake
them; but first come and let me give you some berlingozzi. There are some t=
o be
had not far off.'
'Where did you come from?' said Te=
ssa,
a little bewildered. 'I thought you would never come to me again, because y=
ou
never came to the Mercato for milk any more. I set myself Aves to say, to s=
ee
if they would bring you back, but I left off, because they didn't.'
'You see I come when you want some=
one
to take care of you, Tessa. Perhaps the Aves fetched me, only it took them a
long while. But what shall you do if you are here all alone? Where shall you
go?'
'Oh, I shall stay and sleep in the
church - a great many of them do - in the church and all about here - I did
once when I came with my mother; and the patrigno is coming with the mules =
in
the morning.'
They were out in the piazza now, w=
here
the crowd was rather less riotous than before, and the lights were fewer, t=
he
stream of pilgrims having ceased. Tessa clung fast to Tito's arm in satisfi=
ed
silence, while he led her towards the stall where he remembered seeing the
eatables. Their way was the easier because there was just now a great rush
towards the middle of the piazza, where the masqued figures on stilts had f=
ound
space to execute a dance. It was very pretty to see the guileless thing giv=
ing
her cocoons into Tito's hand, and then eating her berlingozzi with the reli=
sh
of a hungry child. Tito had really come to take care of her, as he did befo=
re,
and that wonderful happiness of being with him had begun again for her. Her
hunger was soon appeased, all the sooner for the new stimulus of happiness =
that
had roused her from her languor, and, as they turned away from the stall, s=
he
said nothing about going into the church again, but looked round as if the
sights in the piazza were not without attraction to her now she was safe un=
der
Tito's arm.
'How can they do that?' she exclai=
med,
looking up at the dancers on stilts. Then, after a minute's silence, 'Do you
think Saint Christopher helps them?'
'Perhaps. What do you think about =
it,
Tessa?' said Tito slipping his right arm round her, and looking down at her
fondly.
'Because Saint Christopher is so v=
ery
tall; and he is very good: if anybody looks at him he takes care of them all
day. He is on the wall of the church - too tall to stand up there - but I s=
aw
him walking through the streets one San Giovanni, carrying the little Gesu.=
'
'You pretty pigeon! Do you think
anybody could help taking care of you, if you looked at them?'
'Shall you always come and take ca=
re
of me?' said Tessa, turning her face up to him, as he crushed her cheek with
his left hand. 'And shall you always be a long while first?'
Tito was conscious that some
bystanders were laughing at them, and though the licence of street fun, amo=
ng
artists and young men of the wealthier sort as well as among the populace, =
made
few adventures exceptional, still less disreputable, he chose to move away
towards the end of the piazza.
'Perhaps I shall come again to you
very soon, Tessa,' he answered, rather dreamily, when they had moved away. =
He
was thinking that when all the rest had turned their backs upon him, it wou=
ld
be pleasant to have this little creature adoring him and nestling against h=
im.
The absence of presumptuous self-conceit in Tito made him feel all the more
defenceless under prospective obloquy: he needed soft looks and caresses too
much ever to be impudent.
'In the Mercato?' said Tessa. 'Not
to-morrow morning, because the patrigno will be there, and he is so cross. =
Oh!
but you have money, and he will not be cross if you buy some salad. And the=
re
are some chestnuts. Do you like chestnuts ? '
He said nothing, but continued to =
look
down at her with a dreamy gentleness, and Tessa felt herself in a state of
delicious wonder; everything seemed as new as if she were being carried on a
chariot of clouds.
'Holy Virgin!' she exclaimed again
presently. 'There is a holy father like the Bishop I saw at Prato.'
Tito looked up too, and saw that he
had unconsciously advanced to within a few yards of the conjuror, Maestro
Vaiano, who for the moment was forsaken by the crowd. His face was turned a=
way
from them, and he was occupied with the apparatus on his altar or table,
preparing a new diversion by the time the interest in the dancing should be
exhausted. The monkey was imprisoned under the red cloth, out of reach of
mischief, and the youngster in the white surplice was holding a sort of dis=
h or
salver, from which his master was taking some ingredient. The altar-like ta=
ble,
with its gorgeous cloth, the row of tapers, the sham episcopal costume, the
surpliced attendant, and even the movements of the mitred figure, as he
alternately bent his head and then raised something before the lights, were=
a
sufficiently near parody of sacred things to rouse poor little Tessa's
veneration; and there was some additional awe produced by the mystery of th=
eir apparition
in this spot, for when she had seen an altar in the street before, it had b=
een
on Corpus Christi Day, and there had been a procession to account for it. S=
he
crossed herself and looked up at Tito, but then, as if she had had time for
reflection, said, 'It is because of the Nativita.'
Meanwhile Vaiano had turned round,
raising his hands to his mitre with the intention of changing his dress, wh=
en
his quick eye recognised Tito and Tessa who were both looking at him, their
faces being shone upon by the light of his tapers, while his own was in sha=
dow.
'Ha! my children!' he said, instan=
tly,
stretching out his hands in a benedictory attitude, 'you are come to be
married. I commend your penitence - the blessing of Holy Church can never c=
ome
too late.'
But whilst he was speaking, he had
taken in the whole meaning of Tessa's attitude and expression, and he disce=
rned
an opportunity for a new kind of joke which required him to be cautious and
solemn.
'Should you like to be married to =
me,
Tessa?' said Tito, softly, half enjoying the comedy, as he saw the pretty
childish seriousness on her face, half prompted by hazy previsions which
belonged to the intoxication of despair.
He felt her vibrating before she
looked up at him and said, timidly, 'Will you let me?'
He answered only by a smile, and by leading her forward in front of the cerretano, who, seeing an excellent jes= t in Tessa's evident delusion, assumed a surpassing sacerdotal solemnity, and we= nt through the mimic ceremony with a liberal expenditure of lingua furbesca or thieves' Latin. But some symptoms of a new movement in the crowd urged him = to bring it to a speedy conclusion and dismiss them with hands outstretched in= a benedictory attitude over their kneeling figures. Tito, disposed always to cultivate goodwill, though it might be the least select, put a piece of four grossi into his hand as he moved away, and was thanked by a look which, the conjuror felt sure, conveyed a perfect understanding of the whole affair. <= o:p>
But Tito himself was very far from=
that
understanding, and did not, in fact, know whether, the next moment, he shou=
ld
tell Tessa of the joke and laugh at her for a little goose, or whether he
should let her delusion last, and see what would come of it - see what she would say and do next.=
'Then you will not go away from me again,' said Tessa, after they had walked a few steps, 'and you will take m= e to where you live.' She spoke meditatively, and not in a questioning tone. But presently she added, 'I must go back once to the Madre though, to tell her I brought the cocoons, and that I am married, and shall not go back again.' <= o:p>
Tito felt the necessity of speaking
now; and in the rapid thought prompted by that necessity, he saw that by
undeceiving Tessa he should be robbing himself of some at least of that pre=
tty
trustfulness which might, by-and-by, be his only haven from contempt. It wo=
uld
spoil Tessa to make her the least particle wiser or more suspicious.
'Yes, my little Tessa,' he said,
caressingly, 'you must go back to the Madre; but you must not tell her you =
are
married - you must keep that a secret from everybody; else some very great =
harm
would happen to me, and you would never see me again.'
She looked up at him with fear in =
her
face.
'You must go back and feed your go=
ats
and mules, and do just as you have always done before, and say no word to a=
ny
one about me.'
The corners of her mouth fell a
little.
'And then, perhaps, I shall come a=
nd
take care of you again when you want me, as I did before. But you must do j=
ust
what I tell you, else you will not see me again.'
'Yes, I will, I will,' she said, i=
n a
loud whisper, frightened at that blank prospect.
They were silent a little while; a=
nd
then Tessa, looking at her hand, said -
'The Madre wears a betrothal ring.=
She
went to church and had it put on, and then after that, another day, she was
married. And so did the cousin Nannina. But then she married Gollo,' added =
the
poor little thing, entangled in the difficult comparison between her own ca=
se
and others within her experience.
'But you must not wear a betrothal
ring, my Tessa, because no one must know you are married,' said Tito, feeli=
ng
some insistance necessary. 'And the buona fortuna that I gave you did just =
as
well for betrothal. Some people are betrothed with rings and some are not.'=
'Yes, it is true, they would see t=
he
ring,' said Tessa, trying to convince herself that a thing she would like v=
ery
much was really not good for her.
They were now near the entrance of=
the
church again, and she remembered her cocoons which were still in Tito's han=
d.
'Ah, you must give me the boto,' s=
he
said; 'and we must go in, and I must take it to the Padre, and I must tell =
the
rest of my beads, because I was too tired before.'
'Yes, you must go in, Tessa; but I
will not go in. I must leave you now,' said Tito, too feverish and weary to
re-enter that stifling heat, and feeling that this was the least difficult =
way
of parting with her.
'And not come back? Oh, where do y=
ou
go?' Tessa's mind had never formed an image of his whereabout or his doings
when she did not see him: he had vanished, and her thought, instead of
following him, had stayed in the same spot where he was with her.
'I shall come back some time, Tess=
a,'
said Tito, taking her under the cloisters to the door of the church. 'You m=
ust
not cry - you must go to sleep, when you have said your beads. And here is
money to buy your breakfast. Now kiss me, and look happy, else I shall not =
come
again.'
She made a great effort over herse=
lf
as she put up her lips to kiss him, and submitted to be gently turned round,
with her face towards the door of the church. Tito saw her enter; and then =
with
a shrug at his own resolution, leaned against a pillar, took off his cap,
rubbed his hair backward, and wondered where Romola was now, and what she w=
as thinking
of him. Poor little Tessa had disappeared behind the curtain among the crow=
d of
peasants; but the love which formed one web with all his worldly hopes, with
the ambitions and pleasures that must make the solid part of his days - the
love that was identified with his larger self - was not to be banished from=
his
consciousness. Even to the man who presents the most elastic resistance to
whatever is unpleasant, there will come moments when the pressure from with=
out
is too strong for him, and he must feel the smart and the bruise in spite of
himself. Such a moment had come to Tito. There was no possible attitude of
mind, no scheme of action by which the uprooting of all his newly-planted h=
opes
could be made otherwise than painful.
When Romola arrived at the entranc=
e of
San Marco she found one of the Frati waiting there in expectation of her
arrival. Monna Brigida retired into the adjoining church, and Romola was
conducted to the door of the chapter-house in the outer cloister, whither t=
he
invalid had been conveyed; no woman being allowed admission beyond this
precinct.
When the door opened, the subdued
external light blending with that of two tapers placed behind a truckle-bed,
showed the emaciated face of Fra Luca, with the tonsured crown of golden ha=
ir
above it, and with deep-sunken hazel eyes fixed on a small crucifix which he
held before him. He was propped up into nearly a sitting posture; and Romola
was just conscious, as she threw aside her veil, that there was another monk
standing by the bed, with the black cowl drawn over his head, and that he m=
oved
towards the door as she entered; just conscious that in the background there
was a crucified form rising high and pale on the frescoed wall, and pale fa=
ces
of sorrow looking out from it below.
The next moment her eyes met Fra
Luca's as they looked up at her from the crucifix, and she was absorbed in =
that
pang of recognition which identified this monkish emaciated form with the i=
mage
of her fair young brother.
'Dino!' she said, in a voice like a
low cry of pain. But she did not bend towards him; she held herself erect, =
and
paused at two yards' distance from him. There was an unconquerable repulsion
for her in that monkish aspect; it seemed to her the brand of the dastardly
undutifulness which had left her father desolate - of the grovelling
superstition which could give such undutifulness the name of piety. Her fat=
her,
whose proud sincerity and simplicity of life had made him one of the few fr=
ank
pagans of his time, had brought her up with a silent ignoring of any claims=
the
Church could have to regulate the belief and action of beings with a cultiv=
ated
reason. The Church, in her mind, belonged to that actual life of the mixed
multitude from which they had always lived apart, and she had no ideas that
could render her brother's course an object of any other feeling than
incurious, indignant contempt. Yet the lovingness of Romola's soul had clun=
g to
that image in the past, and while she stood rigidly aloof, there was a year=
ning
search in her eyes for something too faintly discernible.
But there was no corresponding emo=
tion
in the face of the monk. He looked at the little sister returned to him in =
her
full womanly beauty, with the far-off gaze of a revisiting spirit.
'My sister!' he said, with a feeble
and interrupted but yet distinct utterance, 'it is well thou hast not longer
delayed to come, for I have a message to deliver to thee, and my time is
short.'
Romola took a step nearer: the
message, she thought, would be one of affectionate penitence to her father,=
and
her heart began to open. Nothing could wipe out the long years of desertion;
but the culprit, looking back on those years with the sense of irremediahle
wrong committed, would call forth pity. Now, at the last, there would be
understanding and forgiveness. Dino would pour out some natural filial feel=
ing;
he would ask questions about his father's blindness - how rapidly it had co=
me
on? how the long dark days had been filled? what the life was now in the ho=
me
where he himself had been nourished? - and the last message from the dying =
lips
would be one of tenderness and regret.
'Romola,' Fra Luca began, 'I have =
had
a vision concerning thee. Thrice I have had it in the last two months: each
time it has been clearer. Therefore I came from Fiesole, deeming it a messa=
ge
from heaven that I was bound to deliver. And I gather a promise of mercy to
thee in this, that my breath is preserved in order to -'
The difficult breathing which
continually interrupted him would not let him finish the sentence.
Romola had felt her heart chilling
again. It was a vision, then, this message - one of those visions she had so
often heard her father allude to with bitterness. Her indignation rushed to=
her
lips.
'Dino, I thought you had some word=
s to
send to my father. You forsook him when his sight was failing; you made his
life very desolate. Have you never cared about that? never repented? What is
this religion of yours, that places visions before natural duties?'
The deep-sunken hazel eyes turned
slowly towards her, and rested upon her in silence for some moments, as if =
he
were meditating whether he should answer her.
'No,' he said at last; speaking as
before, in a low passionless tone, as of some spirit not human, speaking
through dying human organs. 'No; I have never repented fleeing from the
stifling poison-breath of sin that was hot and thick around me, and threate=
ned
to steal over my senses like besotting wine. My father could not hear the v=
oice
that called me night and day; he knew nothing of the demon-tempters that tr=
ied
to drag me back from following it. My father has lived amidst human sin and
misery without believing in them: he has been like one busy picking shining
stones in a mine, while there was a world dying of plague above him. I spok=
e,
but he listened with scorn. I told him the studies he wished me to live for
were either childish trifling - dead toys - or else they must be made warm =
and
living by pulses that beat to worldly ambitions and fleshly lusts, for worl=
dly
ambitions and fleshly lusts made all the substance of the poetry and histor=
y he
wanted me to bend my eyes on continually.'
'Has not my father led a pure and
noble life, then?' Romola burst forth, unable to hear in silence this impli=
ed
accusation against her father. 'He has sought no worldly honours; he has be=
en
truthful; he has denied himself all luxuries; he has lived like one of the
ancient sages. He never wished you to live for worldly ambitions and fleshly
lusts; he wished you to live as he himself has done, according to the purest
maxims of philosophy, in which he brought you up.'
Romola spoke partly by rote, as all
ardent and sympathetic young creatures do; but she spoke with intense belie=
f.
The pink flush was in her face, and she quivered from head to foot. Her bro=
ther
was again slow to answer; looking at her passionate face with strange
passionless eyes.
'What were the maxims of philosoph=
y to
me? They told me to be strong, when I felt myself weak; when I was ready, l=
ike
the blessed Saint Benedict, to roll myself among thorns, and court smarting
wounds as a deliverance from temptation. For the Divine love had sought me,=
and
penetrated me, and created a great need in me; like a seed that wants room =
to
grow. I had been brought up in carelessness of the true faith; I had not
studied the doctrines of our religion; but it seemed to take possession of =
me
like a rising flood. I felt that there was a life of perfect love and purity
for the soul; in which there would be no uneasy hunger after pleasure, no
tormenting questions, no fear of suffering. Before I knew the history of the
saints, I had a foreshadowing of their ecstasy. For the same truth had
penetrated even into pagan philosophy: that it is a bliss within the reach =
of
man to die to mortal needs, and live in the life of God as the Unseen
Perfectness. But to attain that I must forsake the world: I must have no
affection, no hope, wedding me to that which passeth away; I must live with=
my
fellow-beings only as human souls related to the eternal unseen life. That =
need
was urging me continually: it came over me in visions when my mind fell away
weary from the vain words which record the passions of dead men: it came ov=
er
me after I had been tempted into sin and had turned away with loathing from=
the
scent of the emptied cup. And in visions I saw the meaning of the Crucifix.=
'
He paused, breathing hard for a mi=
nute
or two: but Romola was not prompted to speak again. It was useless for her =
mind
to attempt any contact with the mind of this unearthly brother: as useless =
as
for her hand to try and grasp a shadow. When he spoke again his heaving che=
st
was quieter.
'I felt whom I must follow: but I =
saw
that even among the servants of the Cross who professed to have renounced t=
he
world, my soul would he stifled with the fumes of hypocrisy, and lust, and
pride. God had not chosen me, as he chose Saint Dominic and Saint Francis, =
to
wrestle with evil in the Church and in the world. He called upon me to flee=
: I
took the sacred vows and I fled - fled to lands where danger and scorn and =
want
bore me continually, like angels, to repose on the bosom of God. I have liv=
ed
the life of a hermit, I have ministered to pilgrims; but my task has been
short: the veil has worn very thin that divides me from my everlasting rest=
. I
came back to Florence that -'
'Dino, you did want to know if my
father was alive,' interrupted Romola, the picture of that suffering life
touching her again with the desire for union and forgiveness.
'- that before I died I might urge
others of our brethren to study the Eastern tongues, as I had not done, and=
go
out to greater ends than I did; and I find them already bent on the work. A=
nd
since I came, Romola, I have felt that I was sent partly to thee - not to r=
enew
the bonds of earthly affection, but to deliver the heavenly warning conveye=
d in
a vision. For I have had that vision thrice. And through all the years since
first the Divine voice called me, while I was yet in the world, I have been
taught and guided by visions. For in the painful linking together of our wa=
king
thoughts we can never be sure that we have not mingled our own error with t=
he
light we have prayed for; but in visions and dreams we are passive, and our
souls are as an instrument in the Divine hand. Therefore listen, and speak =
not
again - for the time is short.'
Romola's mind recoiled strongly fr=
om
listening to this vision. Her indignation had subsided, but it was only bec=
ause
she had felt the distance between her brother and herself widening. But whi=
le
Fra Luca was speaking, the figure of another monk had entered, and again st=
ood
on the other side of the bed, with the cowl drawn over his head.
'Kneel, my daughter, for the Angel=
of
Death is present, and waits while the message of heaven is delivered: bend =
thy
pride before it is bent for thee by a yoke of iron,' said a strong rich voi=
ce,
startingly in contrast with Fra Luca's.
The tone was not that of imperious
command, but of quiet self-possession and assurance of the right, blended w=
ith
benignity. Romola, vibrating to the sound, looked round at the figure on the
opposite side of the bed. His face was hardly discernible under the shadow =
of
the cowl, and her eyes fell at once on his hands, which were folded across =
his
breast and lay in relief on the edge of his black mantle. They had a marked
physiognomy which enforced the influence of the voice: they were very beaut=
iful
and almost of transparent delicacy. Romola's disposition to rebel against
command, doubly active in the presence of monks, whom she had been taught to
despise, would have fixed itself on any repulsive detail as a point of supp=
ort.
But the face was hidden, and the hands seemed to have an appeal in them aga=
inst
all hardness. The next moment the right hand took the crucifix to relieve t=
he
fatigued grasp of Fra Luca, and the left touched his lips with a wet sponge
which lay near. In the act of bending, the cowl was pushed back, and the
features of the monk had the full light of the tapers on them. They were ve=
ry
marked features, such as lend themselves to popular description. There was =
the high
arched nose, the prominent under lip, the coronet of thick dark hair above =
the
brow, all seeming to tell of energy and passion; there were the blue-grey e=
yes,
shining mildly under auburn eyelashes, seeming, like the hands, to tell of
acute sensitiveness. Romola felt certain they were the features of Fra Giro=
lamo
Savonarola, the prior of San Marco, whom she had chiefly thought of as more
offensive than other monks, because he was more noisy. Her rebellion was ri=
sing
against the first impression, which had almost forced her to bend her knees=
.
'Kneel, my daughter,' the penetrat=
ing
voice said again, 'the pride of the body is a barrier against the gifts that
purify the soul.'
He was looking at her with mild
fixedness while he spoke, and again she felt that subtle mysterious influen=
ce
of a personality by which it has been given to some rare men to move their
fellows.
Slowly Romola fell on her knees, a=
nd
in the very act a tremor came over her; in the renunciation of her proud
erectness, her mental attitude seemed changed, and she found herself in a n=
ew
state of passiveness. Her brother began to speak again -
'Romola, in the deep night, as I l=
ay
awake, I saw my father's room - the library - with all the books and the
marbles and the leggio, where I used to stand and read; and I saw you - you
were revealed to me as I see you now, with fair long hair, sitting before my
father's chair. And at the leggio stood a man whose face I could not see. I
looked, and looked, and it was a blank to me, even as a painting effaced; a=
nd I
saw him move and take thee, Romola, by the hand; and then I saw thee take my
father by the hand; and you all three went down the stone steps into the
streets, the man whose face was a blank to me leading the way. And you stoo=
d at
the altar in Santa Croce, and the priest who married you had the face of de=
ath;
and the graves opened, and the dead in their shrouds rose and followed you =
like
a bridal train. And you passed on through the streets and the gates into the
valley, and it seemed to me that he who led you hurried you more than you c=
ould
bear, and the dead were weary of following you, and turned back to their
graves. And at last you came to a stony place where there was no water, and=
no
trees or herbage; but instead of water, I saw written parchment unrolling
itself everywhere, and instead of trees and herbage I saw men of bronze and
marble springing up and crowding round you. And my father was faint for wan=
t of
water and fell to the ground; and the man whose face was a blank loosed thy
hand and departed: and as he went I could see his face; and it was the face=
of
the Great Tempter. And thou, Romola, didst wring thy hands and seek for wat=
er,
and there was none. And the bronze and marble figures seemed to mock thee a=
nd
hold out cups of water, and when thou didst grasp them and put them to my
father's lips, they turned to parchment. And the bronze and marble figures
seemed to turn into demons and snatch my father's body from thee, and the
parchments shrivelled up, and blood ran everywhere instead of them, and fire
upon the blood, till they all vanished, and the plain was bare and stony ag=
ain,
and thou wast alone in the midst of it. And then it seemed that the night f=
ell
and I saw no more ... Thrice I have had that vision, Romola. I believe it i=
s a
revelation meant for thee: to warn thee against marriage as a temptation of=
the
enemy; it calls upon thee to dedicate thyself -'
His pauses had gradually become lo=
nger
and more frequent, and he was now compelled to cease by a severe fit of
gasping, in which his eyes were turned on the crucifix as on a light that w=
as
vanishing. Presently he found strength to speak again, but in a feebler,
scarcely audible tone.
'To renounce the vain philosophy a=
nd
corrupt thoughts of the heathens: for in the hour of sorrow and death their
pride will turn to mockery, and the unclean gods will -'
The words died away.
In spite of the thought that was at
work in Romola, telling her that this vision was no more than a dream, fed =
by
youthful memories and ideal convictions, a strange awe had come over her. H=
er
mind was not apt to be assailed by sickly fancies; she had the vivid intell=
ect
and the healthy human passion, which are too keenly alive to the constant
relations of things to have any morbid craving after the exceptional. Still=
the
images of the vision she despised jarred and distressed her like painful and
cruel cries. And it was the first time she had witnessed the struggle with
approaching death: her young life had been sombre, but she had known nothin=
g of
the utmost human needs; no acute suffering - no heart-cutting sorrow; and t=
his
brother, come back to her in his hour of supreme agony, was like a sudden a=
wful
apparition from an invisible world. The pale faces of sorrow in the fresco =
on
the opposite wall seemed to have come nearer, and to make one company with =
the
pale face on the bed.
'Frate,' said the dying voice.
Fra Girolamo leaned down. But no o=
ther
word came for some moments.
'Romola,' it said next.
She leaned forward too: but again
there was silence. The words were struggling in vain.
'Fra Girolamo, give her -'
'The crucifix,' said the voice of =
Fra
Girolamo.
No other sound came from the dying
lips.
'Dino!' said Romola, with a low but
piercing cry, as the certainty came upon ber that the silence of misunderst=
anding
could never be broken.
'Take the crucifix, my daughter,' =
said
Fra Girolamo, after a few minutes 'His eyes behold it no more.'
Romola stretched out her hand to t=
he
crucifix, and this act appeared to relieve the tension of her mind. A great=
sob
burst from her. She bowed her head by the side of her dead brother, and wept
aloud.
It seemed to her as if this first
vision of death must alter the daylight for her for evermore.
Fra Girolamo moved towards the doo=
r,
and called in a lay Brother who was waiting outside. Then he went up to Rom=
ola
and said in a tone of gentle command, 'Rise, my daughter, and be comforted.=
Our
brother is with the blessed. He has left you the crucifix, in remembrance of
the heavenly warning - that it may be a beacon to you in the darkness.'
She rose from her knees, trembling,
folded her veil over her head, and hid the crucifix under her mantle. Fra
Girolamo then led the way out into the cloistered court, lit now only by the
stars and by a lantern which was held by some one near the entrance. Several
other figures in the dress of the dignified laity were grouped about the sa=
me
spot. They were some of the numerous frequenters of San Marco, who had come=
to
visit the Prior, and having heard that he was in attendance on the dying
Brother in the chapter-house, had awaited him here.
Romola was dimly conscious of
footsteps and rustling forms moving aside: she heard the voice of Fra Girol=
amo
saying, in a low tone, 'Our brother is departed;' she felt a hand laid on h=
er
arm. The next moment the door was opened, and she was out in the wide piazz=
a of
San Marco, with no one but Monna Brigida, and the servant carrying the lant=
ern.
The fresh sense of space revived h=
er,
and helped her to recover her self-mastery. The scene which had just closed
upon her was terribly distinct and vivid, but it began to narrow under the
returning impressions of the life that lay outside it. She hastened her ste=
ps,
with nervous anxiety to be again with her father - and with Tito - for were
they not together in her absence? The images of that vision, while they clu=
ng
about her like a hideous dream not yet to be shaken off, made her yearn all=
the
more for the beloved faces and voices that would assure her of her waking l=
ife.
Tito, we know, was not with Bardo;=
his
destiny was being shaped by a guilty consciousness, urging on him the
despairing belief that by this time Romola possessed the knowledge which wo=
uld
lead to their final separation.
And the lips that could have conve=
yed
that knowledge were for ever closed. The prevision that Fra Luca's words had
imparted to Romola had been such as comes from the shadowy region where hum=
an
souls seek wisdom apart from the human sympathies which are the very life a=
nd
substance of our wisdom; the revelation that might have come from the simple
questions of filial and brotherly affection had been carried into irrevocab=
le
silence.
Early the next morning Tito was
returning from Bratti's shop in the narrow thoroughfare of the Ferravecchi.=
The
Genoese stranger had carried away the onyx ring, and Tito was carrying away
fifty florins. It did just cross his mind that if, after all, Fortune, by o=
ne
of her able devices, saved him from the necessity of quitting Florence, it
would be better for him not to have parted with his ring, since he had been
understood to wear it for the sake of peculiar memories and predilections;
still, it was a slight matter, not worth dwelling on with any emphasis, and=
in
those moments he had lost his confidence in fortune. The feverish excitemen=
t of
the first alarm which had impelled his mind to travel into the future had g=
iven
place to a dull, regretful lassitude. He cared so much for the pleasures th=
at
could only come to him through the good opinion of his fellow-men, that he
wished now he had never risked ignominy by shrinking from what his fellow-m=
en
called obligations.
But our deeds are like children th=
at
are born to us; they live and act apart from our own will. Nay, children ma=
y be
strangled, but deeds never: they have an indestructible life both in and ou=
t of
our consciousness; and that dreadful vitality of deeds was pressing hard on
Tito for the first time.
He was going back to his lodgings = in the Piazza di San Giovanni, but he avoided passing through the Mercato Vecc= hio, which was his nearest way, lest he should see Tessa. He was not in the humo= ur to seek anything; he could only await the first sign of his altering lot. <= o:p>
The piazza with its sights of beau=
ty
was lit up by that warm morning sunlight under which the autumn dew still
lingers, and which invites to an idlesse undulled by fatigue. It was a fest=
ival
morning, too, when the soft warmth seems to steal over one with a special
invitation to lounge and gaze. Here, too, the signs of the fair were presen=
t;
in the spaces round the octagonal baptistery, stalls were being spread with
fruit and flowers, and here and there laden mules were standing quietly
absorbed in their nose-bags, while their drivers were perhaps gone through =
the
hospitable sacred doors to kneel before the blessed Virgin on this morning =
of
her Nativity. On the broad marble steps of the Duomo there were scattered
groups of beggars and gossiping talkers: here an old crone with white hair =
and
hard sunburnt face encouraging a round-capped baby to try its tiny bare fee=
t on
the warmed marble, while a dog sitting near snuffed at the performance
suspiciously; there a couple of shaggy-headed boys leaning to watch a small
pale cripple who was cutting a face on a cherry-stone; and above them on the
wide platform men were making changing knots in laughing desultory chat, or
else were standing in close couples gesticulating eagerly.
But the largest and most important
company of loungers was that towards which Tito had to direct his steps. It=
was
the busiest time of the day with Nello, and in this warm season and at an h=
our
when clients were numerous, most men preferred being shaved under the pretty
red and white awning in front of the shop rather than within narrow walls. =
It
is not a sublime attitude for a man, to sit with lathered chin thrown backw=
ard,
and have his nose made a handle of; but to be shaved was a fashion of
Florentine respectability, and it is astonishing how gravely men look at ea=
ch
other when they are all in the fashion. It was the hour of the day, too, wh=
en
yesterday's crop of gossip was freshest, and the barber's tongue was always=
in
its glory when his razor was busy; the deft activity of those two instrumen=
ts
seemed to be set going by a common spring. Tito foresaw that it would be
impossible for him to escape being drawn into the circle; he must smile and
retort, and look perfectly at his ease. Well! it was but the ordeal of
swallowing bread and cheese pills after all. The man who let the mere
anticipation of discovery choke him was simply a man of weak nerves.
But just at that time Tito felt a =
hand
laid on his shoulder, and no amount of previous resolution could prevent the
very unpleasant sensation with which that sudden touch jarred him. His face=
, as
he turned it round, betrayed the inward shock; but the owner of the hand th=
at
seemed to have such evil magic in it broke into a light laugh. He was a you=
ng
man about Tito's own age, with keen features, small close-clipped head, and
close-shaven lip and chin, giving the idea of a mind as little encumbered as
possible with material that was not nervous. The keen eyes were bright with
hope and friendliness, as so many other young eyes have been that have
afterwards closed on the world in bitterness and disappointment; for at that
time there were none but pleasant predictions about Niccolo Macchiavelli, a=
s a
young man of promise, who was expected to mend the broken fortunes of his
ancient family.
'Why, Melema, what evil dream did =
you
have last night, that you took my light grasp for that of a sbirro or somet=
hing
worse?'
'Ah, Messer Niccolo!' said Tito,
recovering himself immediately; 'it must have been an extra amount of dulne=
ss
in my veins this morning that shuddered at the approach of your wit. But the
fact is, I have had a bad night.'
'That is unlucky, because you will=
be
expected to shine without any obstructing fog to-day in the Rucellai Garden=
s. I
take it for granted you are to be there.'
'Messer Bernardo did me the honour=
to
invite me,' said Tito; 'but I shall be engaged elsewhere.'
'Ah! I remember, you are in love,'
said Macchiavelli, with a shrug, 'else you would never have such inconvenie=
nt
engagements. Why, we are to eat a peacock and ortolans under the loggia amo=
ng
Bernardo Rucellai's rare trees; there are to be the choicest spirits in
Florence and the choicest wines. Only, as Piero de' Medici is to be there, =
the
choice spirits may happen to be swamped in the capping of impromptu verses.=
I
hate that game; it is a device for the triumph of small wits, who are always
inspired the most by the smallest occasions.'
'What is that you are saying about
Piero de' Medici and small wits, Messer Niccolo?' said Nello, whose light
figure was at that moment predominating over the Herculean frame of Niccolo
Caparra.
That famous worker in iron, whom we
saw last with bared muscular arms and leathern apron in the Mercato Vecchio,
was this morning dressed in holiday suit, and as he sat submissively while
Nello skipped round him, lathered him, seized him by the nose, and scraped =
him
with magical quickness, he looked much as a lion might if it had donned lin=
en
and tunic and was preparing to go into society.
'A private secretary will never ri=
se
in the world if he couples great and small in that way,' continued Nello. '=
When
great men are not allowed to marry their sons and daughters as they like, s=
mall
men must not expect to marry their words as they like. Have you heard the n=
ews
Domenico Cennini, here, has been telling us? - that Pagolantonio Soderini h=
as
given Ser Picro da Bibbiena a box on the ear for setting on Piero de' Medic=
i to
interfere with the marriage between young Tommaso Soderini ancl Fiammetta
Strozzi, and is to be sent ambassador to Venice as a punishment?'
'I don't know which I envy him mos= t,' said Macchiavelli, 'the offence or the punishment. The offence will make him the most popular man in all Florence, and the punishment will take him among the only people in Italy who have known how to manage their own affairs.' <= o:p>
'Yes, if Soderini stays long enoug=
h at
Venice,' said Cennini, 'he may chance to learn the Venetiam fashion, and br=
ing
it home with him. The Soderini have been fast friends of the Medici, but wh=
at
has happened is likely to open Pagolantonio's eyes to the good of our old
Florentine trick of choosing a new harness when the old one galls us; if we
have not quite lost the trick in these last fifty years.'
'Not we,' said Niccolo Caparra, who
was rejoicing in the free use of his lips again. 'Eat eggs in Lent and the =
snow
will melt. That's what I say to our people when they get noisy over their c=
ups
at San Gallo, and talk of raising a romor (insurrection): I say, never do y=
ou
plan a romor; you may as well try to fill Arno with buckets. When there's w=
ater
enough Arno will be full, and that will not be till the torrent is ready.' =
'Caparra, that oracular speech of =
yours
is due to my excellent shaving,' said Nello. 'You could never have made it =
with
that dark rust on your chin. Ecco, Messer Domenico, I am ready for you now.=
By
the way, my bel erudito,' continued Nello, as he saw Tito moving towards the
door, 'here has been old Maso seeking for you, but your nest was empty. He =
will
come again presently. The old man looked mournful, and seemed in haste. I h=
ope
there is nothing wrong in the Via de' Bardi.'
'Doubtless Messer Tito knows that
Bardo's son is dead,' said Cronaca, who had just come up.
Tito's heart gave a leap - had the
death happened before Romola saw him?
'No, I had not heard it,' he said,
with no more discomposure than the occasion seemed to warrant, turning and
leaning against the doorpost, as if he had given up his intention of going
away. 'I knew that his sister had gone to see him. Did he die before she
arrived?'
'No,' said Cronaca; 'I was in San
Marco at the time, and saw her come out from the chapter-house with Fra
Girolamo, who told us that the dying man's breath had been preserved as by a
miracle, that he might make a disclosure to his sister.'
Tito felt that his fate was decide=
d.
Again his mind rushed over all the circumstances of his departure from
Florence, and he conceived a plan of getting back his money from Cennini be=
fore
the disclosure had become public. If he once had his money he need not stay
long in endurance of scorching looks and biting words. He would wait now, a=
nd
go away with Cennini and get the money from him at once. With that project =
in
his mind he stood motionless - his hands in his belt, his eyes fixed absent=
ly
on the ground. Nello, glancing at him, felt sure that he was absorbed in
anxiety about Romola, and thought him such a pretty image of self-forgetful
sadness, that he just perceptibly pointed his razor at him, and gave a
challenging look at Piero di Cosimo, whom he had never forgiven for his ref=
usal
to see any prognostics of character in his favourite's handsome face. Piero,
who was leaning against the other doorpost, close to Tito, shrugged his
shoulders: the frequent recurrence of such challenges from Nello had changed
the painter's first declaration of neutrality into a positive inclination to
believe ill of the much-praised Greek.
'So you have got your Fra Girolamo
back again, Cronaca? I suppose we shall have him preaching again this next
Advent,' said Nello.
'And not before there is need,' sa=
id
Cronaca, gravely. 'We have had the best testimony to his words since the la=
st
Quaresima; for even to the wicked wickedness has become a plague; and the
ripeness of vice is turning to rottenness in the nostrils even of the vicio=
us.
There has not been a change since the Quaresima, either in Rome or at Flore=
nce,
but has put a new seal on the Frate's words - that the harvest of sin is ri=
pe,
and that God will reap it with a sword.'
'I hope he has had a new vision,
however,' said Francesco Cei, sneeringly. 'The old ones are somewhat stale.
Can't your Frate get a poet to help out his imagination for him?'
'He has no lack of poets about him=
,'
said Cronaca, with quiet contempt, 'but they are great poets and not little
ones; so they are contented to be taught by him, and no more think the truth
stale which God has given him to utter, than they think the light of the mo=
on
is stale. But perhaps certain high prelates and princes who dislike the Fra=
te's
denunciations might be pleased to hear that, though Giovanni Pico, and
Poliziano, and Marsilio Ficino, and most other men of mark in Florence,
reverence Fra Girolamo, Messer Francesco Cei despises him.'
'Poliziano?' said Cei, with a scor=
nful
laugh. 'Yes, doubtless he believes in your new Jonah; witness the fine orat=
ions
he wrote for the envoys of Sienna, to tell Alexander the Sixth that the wor=
ld
and the Church were never so well off as since he became Pope.'
'Nay, Francesco,' said Macchiavell=
i,
smiling, 'a various scholar must have various opinions. And as for the Frat=
e,
whatever we may think of his saintliness, you judge his preaching too narro=
wly.
The secret of oratory lies, not in saying new things, but in saying things =
with
a certain power that moves the hearers - without which, as old Filelfo has
said, your speaker deserves to be called, ‘non oratorem, sed aratorem=
.’
And, according to that test, Fra Girolamo is a great orator.'
'That is true, Niccolo,' said Cenn=
ini,
speaking from the shaving-chair, 'but part of the secret lies in the prophe=
tic
visions. Our people - no offence to you, Cronaca - will run after anything =
in
the shape of a prophet, especially if he prophesies terrors and tribulation=
s.'
'Rather say, Cennini,' answered
Cronaca, 'that the chief secret lies in the Frate's pure life and strong fa=
ith,
which stamp him as a messenger of God.'
'I admit it - I admit it,' said
Cennini, opening his palms, as he rose from the chair. 'His life is spotles=
s:
no man has impeached it.'
'He is satisfied with the pleasant
lust of arrogance,' Cei burst out, bitterly. 'I can see it in that proud lip
and satisfied eye of his. He hears the air filled with his own name - Fra
Girolamo Savonarola, of Ferrara; the prophet, the saint, the mighty preache=
r,
who frightens the very babies of Florence into laying down their wicked
baubles.'
'Come, come, Francesco, you are ou=
t of
humour with waiting,' said the conciliatory Nello. 'Let me stop your mouth =
with
a little lather. I must not have my friend Cronaca made angry: I have a reg=
ard
for his chin; and his chin is in no respect altered since he became a Piagn=
one.
And for my own part, I confess, when the Frate was preaching in the Duomo l=
ast
Advent, I got into such a trick of slipping in to listen to him that I might
have turned Piagnone too, if I had not been hindered by the liberal nature =
of
my art; and also by the length of the sermons, which are sometimes a good w=
hile
before they get to the moving point. But, as Messer Niccolo here says, the
Frate lays hold of the people by some power over and above his prophetic
visions. Monks and nuns who prophesy are not of that rareness. For what says
Luigi Pulci? ‘Dombruno's sharp-cutting scimitar had the fame of being
enchanted; but,’ says Luigi, ‘I am rather of opinion that it cut
sharp because it was of strongly-tempered steel.’ Yes, yes; Paternost=
ers
may shave clean, but they must be said over a good razor.'
'See, Nello!' said Macchiavelli, '=
what
doctor is this advancing on his Bucephalus? I thought your piazza was free =
from
those furred and scarlet-robed lackeys of death. This man looks as if he had
had some such night adventure as Boccaccio's Maestro Simone and had his bon=
net
and mantle pickled a little in the gutter; though he himself is as sleek as=
a
miller's rat.'
'A-ah!' said Nello, with a low
long-drawn intonation, as he looked up towards the advancing figure - a
round-headed, round-bodied personage, seated on a raw young horse, which he=
ld
its nose out with an air of threatening obstinacy, and by a constant effort=
to
back and go off in an oblique line showed free views about authority very m=
uch
in advance of the age.
'And I have a few more adventures =
in
pickle for him,' continued Nello, in an undertone, 'which I hope will drive=
his
inquiring nostrils to another quarter of the city. He's a doctor from Padua;
they say he has been at Prato for three months, and now he's come to Floren=
ce
to see what he can net. But his great trick is making rounds among the
contadini. And do you note those great saddle-bags he carries? They are to =
hold
the fat capons and eggs and meal he levies on silly clowns with whom coin is
scarce. He vends his own secret medicines, so he keeps away from the doors =
of
the druggists; and for this last week he has taken to sitting in my piazza =
for
two or three hours every day, and making it a resort for asthmas and squall=
ing
bambini. It stirs my gall to see the toad-faced quack fingering the greasy
quattrini, or bagging a pigeon in exchange for his pills and powders. But I=
'll
put a few thorns in his saddle, else I'm no Florentine. Laudamus! he is com=
ing
to be shaved: that's what I've waited for. Messer Domenico, go not away: wa=
it;
you shall see a rare bit of fooling, which I devised two days ago. Here, Sa=
ndro!'
Nello whispered in the ear of Sand=
ro,
who rolled his solemn eyes, nodded, and, following up these signs of
understanding with a slow smile, took to his heels with surprising rapidity=
.
'How is it with you, Maestro Tacco=
?'
said Nello, as the doctor, with difficulty, brought his horse's head round
towards the barber's shop. 'That is a fine young horse of yours, but someth=
ing
raw in the mouth, eh?'
'He is an accursed beast, the
vermocane seize him!' said Maestro Tacco, with a burst of irritation, desce=
nding
from his saddle and fastening the old bridle, mended with string, to an iron
staple in the wall. 'Nevertheless,' he added, recollecting himself, 'a sound
beast and a valuable, for one who wanted to purchase, and get a profit by
training him. I had him cheap.'
'Rather too hard riding for a man =
who
carries your weight of learning: eh, Maestro?' said Nello. 'You seem hot.' =
'Truly, I am likely to be hot,' sa=
id
the doctor, taking off his bonnet, and giving to full view a bald low head =
and
flat broad face, with high ears, wide lipless mouth, round eyes, and deep
arched lines above the projecting eyebrows, which altogether made Nello's
epithet 'toad-faced' dubiously complimentary to the blameless batrachian.
'Riding from Peretola, when the sun is high, is not the same thing as kicki=
ng
your heels on a bench in the shade, like your Florence doctors. Moreover, I
have had not a little pulling to get through the carts and mules into the
Mercato, to find out the husband of a certain Monna Ghita, who had had a fa=
tal
seizure before I was called in; and if it had not been that I had to demand=
my
fees -'
'Monna Ghita!' said Nello, as the
perspiring doctor interrupted himself to rub his head and face. 'Peace be w=
ith
her angry soul! The Mercato will want a whip the more if her tongue is laid=
to
rest.'
Tito, who had roused himself from =
his
abstraction, and was listening to the dialogue, felt a new rush of the vague
half-formed ideas about Tessa, which had passed through his mind the evening
before: if Monna Ghita were really taken out of the way, it would be easier=
for
him to see Tessa again - whenever he wanted to see her.
'Gnaffe, Maestro,' Nello went on, = in a sympathising tone, 'you are the slave of rude mortals, who, but for you, wo= uld die like brutes, without help of pill or powder. It is pitiful to see your learned lymph oozing from your pores as if it were mere vulgar moisture. You think my shaving will cool and disencumber you? One moment and I have done = with Messer Francesco here. It seems to me a thousand years till I wait upon a m= an who carries all the science of Arabia in his head and saddle-bags. Ecco!' <= o:p>
Nello held up the shaving-cloth wi=
th
an air of invitation, and Maestro Tacco advanced and seated himself under a
preoccupation with his heat and his self-importance, which made him quite d=
eaf
to the irony conveyed in Nello's officiously polite speech.
'It is but fitting that a great
medicus like you,' said Nello, adjusting the cloth, 'should be shaved by the
same razor that has shaved the illustrious Antonio Benevieni, the greatest
master of the chirurgic art.'
'The chirurgic art!' interrupted t=
he
doctor, with an air of contemptuous disgust. 'Is it vour Florentine fashion=
to
put the masters of the science of medicine on a level with men who do carpe=
ntry
on broken limbs, and sew up wounds like tailors, and carve away excrescence=
s as
a butcher trims meat? Via! A manual art, such as any artificer might learn,=
and
which has been practised by simple barbers like yourself - on a level with =
the
noble science of Hippocrates, Galen, and Avicenna, which penetrates into the
occult influences of the stars and plants and gems! - a science locked up f=
rom
the vulgar!'
'No, in truth, Maestro,' said Nell=
o,
using his lather very deliberately, as if he wanted to prolong the operatio=
n to
the utmost, 'I never thought of placing them on a level: I know your science
comes next to the miracles of Holy Church for mystery. But there, you see, =
is
the pity of it' - here Nello fell into a tone of regretful sympathy - 'your
high science is sealed from the profane and the vulgar, and so you become an
object of envy and slander. I grieve to say it, but there are low fellows in
this city - mere sgherri, who go about in nightcaps and long beards, and ma=
ke
it their business to sprinkle gall in every man's broth who is prospering. =
Let
me tell you - for you are a stranger - this is a city where every man had n=
eed
carry a large nail ready to fasten on the wheel of Fortune when his side
happens to be uppermost. Already there are stories - mere fables doubtless -
beginning to be buzzed about concerning you, that make me wish I could hear=
of
your being well on your way to Arezzo. I would not have a man of your metal
stoned, for though San Stefano was stoned, he was not great in medicine like
San Cosmo and San Damiano ...'
'What stories? what fables?' stamm=
ered
Maestro Tacco. 'What do you mean?'
'Lasso! I fear me you are come into
the trap for your cheese, Maestro. The fact is, there is a company of evil
youths who go prowling about the houses of our citizens carrying sharp tool=
s in
their pockcts; - no sort of door, or window, or shutter, but they will pier=
ce
it. They are possessed with a diabolical patience to watch the doings of pe=
ople
who fancy themselves private. It must be they who have done it - it must be
they who have spread the stories about you and your medicines. Have you by
chance detected any small aperture in your door, or window-shutter? No? Wel=
l, I
advise you to look; for it is now commonly talked of that you have been see=
n in
your dwelling at the Canto di Paglia, making your secret specifics by night:
pounding dried toads in a mortar, compounding a salve out of mashed worms, =
and
making your pills from the dried livers of rats which you mix with saliva
emitted during the utterance of a blasphemous incantation - which indeed th=
ese
witnesses profess to repeat.'
'It is a pack of lies!' exclaimed =
the
doctor, struggling to get utterance, and then desisting in alarm at the
approaching razor.
'It is not to me, or any of this
respectable company, that you need to say that, doctor. We are not the head=
s to
plant such carrots as those in. But what of that? What are a handful of
reasonable men against a crowd with stones in their hands? There are those
among us who think Cecco d'Ascoli was an innocent sage - and we all know ho=
w he
was burnt alive for being wiser than his fellows. Ah, doctor, it is not by
living at Padua that you can learn to know Florentines. My belief is, they
would stone the Holy Father himself, if they could find a good excuse for i=
t;
and they are persuaded that you are a necromancer, who is trying to raise t=
he
pestilence by selling secret medicines - and I am told your specifics have =
in
truth an evil smell.'
'It is false!' burst out the docto=
r,
as Nello moved away his razor; 'it is false! I will show the pills and the
powders to these honourable signori - and the salve - it has an excellent o=
dour
- an odour of - of salve.' He started up with the lather on his chin, and t=
he
cloth round his neck, to search in his saddle-bag for the belied medicines,=
and
Nello in an instant adroitly shifted the shaving-chair till it was in the c=
lose
vicinity of the horse's head, while Sandro, who had now returned, at a sign
from his master placed himself near the bridle.
'Behold, Messeri!' said the doctor,
bringing a small box of medicines and opening it before them. 'Let any sign=
or
apply this box to his nostrils and he will find an honest odour of medicame=
nts
- not indeed of pounded gems, or rare vegetables from the East, or stones f=
ound
in the bodies of birds; for I practise on the diseases of the vulgar, for w=
hom
heaven has provided cheaper and less powerful remedies according to their
degree: and there are even remedies known to our science which are entirely
free of cost - as the new tussis may be counteracted in the poor, who can p=
ay
for no specifics, by a resolute holding of the breath. And here is a paste
which is even of savoury odour, and is infallible against melancholia, being
concocted under the conjunction of Jupiter and Venus; and I have seen it al=
lay
spasms.'
'Stay, Maestro,' said Nello, while=
the
doctor had his lathered face turned towards the group near the door, eagerly
holding out his box, and lifting out one specific after another; 'here come=
s a
crying contadina with her baby. Doubtless she is in search of you; it is
perhaps an opportunity for you to show this honourable company a proof of y=
our
skill. Here, buona donna! here is the famous doctor. Why, what is the matter
with the sweet bimbo?'
This question was addressed to a
sturdy-looking, broad-shouldered contadina, with her head-drapery folded ab=
out
her face so that little was to be seen but a bronzed nose and a pair of dark
eyes and eyebrows. She carried her child packed up in a stiff mummy-shaped =
case
in which Italian babies have been from time immemorial introduced into soci=
ety,
turning its face a little towards her bosom, and making those sorrowful
grimaces which women are in the habit of using as a sort of pulleys to draw
down reluctant tears.
'Oh, for the love of the Holy Mado=
nna!'
said the woman, in a wailing voice; 'will you look at my poor bimbo? I know=
I
can't pay you for it, but I took it into the Nunziata last night, and it's
turned a worse colour than before; it's the convulsions. But when I was hol=
ding
it before the Santissima Nunziata, I remembered they said there was a new
doctor come who cured everything; and so I thought it might be the will of =
the
Holy Madonna that I should bring it to you.'
'Sit down, Maestro, sit down,' said
Nello. 'Here is an opportunity for you; here are honourable witnesses who w=
ill
declare before the Magnificent Eight that they have seen you practising
honestly and relieving a poor woman's child. And then if your life is in
danger, the Magnificent Eight will put you in prison a little while just to
insure your safety, and after that, their sbirri will conduct you out of
Florence by night, as they did the zealous Frate Minore who preached against
the Jews. What! our people are given to stone-throwing; but we have
magistrates.'
The doctor, unable to refuse, seat=
ed
himself in the shaving-chair, trembling, half with fear and half with rage,=
and
by this time quite unconscious of the lather which Nello had laid on with s=
uch
profuseness. He deposited his medicine-case on his knees, took out his prec=
ious
spectacles (wondrous Florentine device!) from his wallet, lodged them caref=
ully
above his flat nose and high ears, and lifting up his brows, turned towards=
the
applicant.
'O Santiddio! look at him,' said t=
he
woman, with a more piteous wail than ever, as she held out the small mummy,
which had its head completely concealed by dingy drapery wound round the he=
ad
of the portable cradle, but seemed to be struggling and crying in a demonia=
cal
fashion under this imprisonment. 'The fit is on him! Ohime! I know what col=
our
he is; it's the evil eye - oh!'
The doctor, anxiously holding his
knees together to support his box, bent his spectacles towards the baby, and
said cautiously, 'It may be a new disease; unwind these rags, Monna! '
The contadina, with sudden energy,
snatched off the encircling linen, when out struggled - scratching, grinnin=
g,
and screaming - what the doctor in his fright fully believed to be a demon,=
but
what Tito recognised as Vaiano's monkey, made more formidable by an artific=
ial
blackness, such as might have come from a hasty rubbing up the chimney.
Up started the unfortunate doctor,
letting his medicine-box fall, and away jumped the no less terrified and
indignant monkey, finding the first resting-place for his claws on the hors=
e's
mane, which he used as a sort of rope-ladder till he had fairly found his
equilibrium, when he continued to clutch it as a bridle. The horse wanted no
spur under such a rider, and, the already loosened bridle offering no
resistance, darted off across the piazza, with the monkey, clutching, grinn=
ing,
and blinking, on his neck.
'Il cavallo! Il Diavolo!' was now
shouted on all sides by the idle rascals who gathered from all quarters of =
the
piazza, and was echoed in tones of alarm by the stall-keepers, whose vested=
interests
seemed in some danger; while the doctor, out of his wits with confused terr=
or
at the Devil, the possible stoning, and the escape of his horse, took to his
heels with spectacles on nose, lathered face, and the shaving-cloth about h=
is
neck, crying - 'Stop him! stop him! for a powder - a florin - stop him for a
florin!' while the lads, outstripping him, clapped their hands and shouted
encouragement to the runaway.
The cerretano, who had not bargain=
ed
for the flight of his monkey along with the horse, had caught up his pettic=
oats
with much celerity, and showed a pair of parti-coloured hose above his
contadina's shoes, far in advance of the doctor. And away went the grotesque
race up the Corso degli Adimari - the horse with the singular jockey, the c=
ontadina
with the remarkable hose, and the doctor in lather and spectacles, with fur=
red
mantle outflying.
It was a scene such as Florentines
loved, from the potent and reverend signor going to council in his lucco, d=
own
to the grinning youngster, who felt himself master of all situations when h=
is
bag was filled with smooth stones from the convenient dry bed of the torren=
t.
The grey-headed Domenico Cennini laughed no less heartily than the younger =
men,
and Nello was triumphantly secure of the general admiration.
'Aha!' he exclaimed, snapping his
fingers when the first burst of laughter was subsiding. 'I have cleared my
piazza of that unsavoury fly-trap, mi pare. Maestro Tacco will no more come
here again to sit for patients than he will take to licking marble for his
dinner.'
'You are going towards the Piazza
della Signoria, Messer Domenico,' said Macchiavelli. 'I will go with you, a=
nd
we shall perhaps see who has deserved the palio among these racers. Come,
Melema, will you go too?'
It had been precisely Tito's inten=
tion
to accompany Cennini, but before he had gone many steps, he was called back=
by
Nello, who saw Maso approaching.
Maso's message was from Romola. She
wished Tito to go to the Via de' Bardi as soon as possible. She would see h=
im
under the loggia, at the top of the house, as she wished to speak to him al=
one.
The loggia at the top of Bardo's h=
ouse
rose above the buildings on each side of it, and formed a gallery round
quadrangular walls. On the side towards the street the roof was supported by
columns; but on the remaining sides, by a wall pierced with arched openings=
, so
that at the back, looking over a crowd of irregular, poorly-built dwellings
towards the hill of Bogoli, Romola could at all times have a walk sheltered
from observation. Near one of those arched openings, close to the door by w=
hich
he had entered the loggia, Tito awaited her, with a sickening sense of the
sunlight that slanted before him and mingled itself with the ruin of his ho=
pes.
He had never for a moment relied on Romola's passion for him as likely to be
too strong for the repulsion created by the discovery of his secret; he had=
not
the presumptuous vanity which might have hindered him from feeling that her
love had the same root with her belief in him. But as he imagined her coming
towards him in her radiant beauty, made so loveably mortal by her soft hazel
eyes, he fell into wishing that she had been something lower, if it were on=
ly
that she might let him clasp her and kiss her before they parted. He had ha=
d no
real caress from her - nothing but now and then a long glance, a kiss, a
pressure of the hand; and he had so often longed that they should be alone
together. They were going to be alone now; but he saw her standing inexorab=
ly
aloof from him. His heart gave a great throb as he saw the door move: Romola
was there. It was all like a flash of lightning: he felt, rather than saw, =
the
glory about her head, the tearful appealing eyes; he felt, rather than hear=
d,
the cry of love with which she said, 'Tito!'
And in the same moment she was in =
his
arms, and sobbing with her face against his.
How poor Romola had yearned through
the watches of the night to see that bright face! The new image of death; t=
he
strange bewildering doubt infused into her by the story of a life removed f=
rom
her understanding and sympathy; the haunting vision, which she seemed not o=
nly
to hear uttered by the low gasping voice, but to live through, as if it had
been her own dream, had made her more conscious than ever that it was Tito =
who
had first brought the warm stream of hope and gladness into her life, and w=
ho
had first turned away the keen edge of pain in the remembrance of her broth=
er.
She would tell Tito everything; there was no one else to whom she could tell
it. She had been restraining herself in the presence of her father all the
morning; but now, that long-pent-up sob might come forth. Proud and
self-controlled to all the world beside, Romola was as simple and unreserve=
d as
a child in her love for Tito. She had been quite contented with the days wh=
en
they had only looked at each other; but now, when she felt the need of clin=
ging
to him, there was no thought that hindered her.
'My Romola! my goddess!' Tito murm=
ured
with passionate fondness, as he clasped her gently, and kissed the thick go=
lden
ripples on her neck. He was in paradise: disgrace, shame, parting - there w=
as
no fear of them any longer. This happiness was too strong to be marred by t=
he
sense that Romola was deceived in him; nay, he could only rejoice in her de=
lusion;
for, after all, concealment had been wisdom. The only thing he could regret=
was
his needless dread; if, indeed, the dread had not been worth suffering for =
the
sake of this sudden rapture.
The sob had satisfied itself, and
Romola raised her head. Neither of them spoke; they stood looking at each
other's faces with that sweet wonder which belongs to young love - she with=
her
long white hands on the dark-brown curls, and he with his dark fingers bath=
ed
in the streaming gold. Each was so beautiful to the other; each was
experiencing that undisturbed mutual consciousness for the first time. The =
cold
pressure of a new sadness on Romola's heart made her linger the more in that
silent soothing sense of nearness and love; and Tito could not even seek to=
press
his lips to hers, because that would be change.
'Tito,' she said at last, 'it has =
been
altogether painful, but I must tell you everything. Your strength will help=
me
to resist the impressions that will not be shaken off by reason.'
'I know, Romola - I know he is dea=
d,'
said Tito; and the long lustrous eyes told nothing of the many wishes that
would have brought about that death long ago if there had been such potency=
in
mere wishes. Romola only read her own pure thoughts in their dark depths, a=
s we
read letters in happy dreams.
'So changed, Tito! It pierced me to
think that it was Dino. And so strangely hard: not a word to my father; not=
hing
but a vision that he wanted to tell me. And yet it was so piteous - the
struggling breath, and the eyes that seemed to look towards the crucifix, a=
nd
yet not to see it. I shall never forget it- it seems as if it would come
between me and everything I shall look at.'
Romola's heart swelled again, so t=
hat
she was forced to break off. But the need she felt to disburden her mind to
Tito urged her to repress the rising anguish. When she began to speak again=
her
thoughts had travelled a little.
'It was strange, Tito. The vision =
was
about our marriage, and yet he knew nothing of you.'
'What was it, my Romola? Sit down =
and tell
me,' said Tito, leading her to the bench that stood near. A fear had come
across him lest the vision should somehow or other relate to Baldassarre; a=
nd
this sudden change of feeling prompted him to seek a change of position.
Romola told him all that had passe=
d,
from her entrance into San Marco, hardly leaving out one of her brother's w=
ords
which had burned themselves into her memory as they were spoken. But when s=
he
was at the end of the vision, she paused; the rest came too vividly before =
her
to be uttered, and she sat looking at the distance, almost unconscious for =
the
moment that Tito was near her. His mind was at ease now; that vague vision =
had
passed over him like white mist, and left no mark. But he was silent, expec=
ting
her to speak again.
'I took it,' she went on, as if Ti=
to
had been reading her thoughts; 'I took the crucifix; it is down below in my
bedroom.'
'And now, my Romola,' said Tito,
entreatingly, 'you will banish these ghastly thoughts. The vision was an
ordinary monkish vision, bred of fasting and fanatical ideas. It surely has=
no
weight with you.'
'No, Tito; no. But poor Dino, he
believed it was a divine message. It is strange,' she went on meditatively,
'this life of men possessed with fervid beliefs that seem like madness to t=
keir
fellow-beings. Dino was not a vulgar fanatic; and that Fra Girolamo - his v=
ery
voice seems to have penetrated me with a sense that there is some truth in =
what
moves them: some truth of which I know nothing.'
'It was only because your feelings
were highly wrought, my Romola. Your brother's state of mind was no more th=
an a
form of that theosophy which has been the common disease of excitable dreamy
minds in all ages; the same ideas that your father's old antagonist, Marsil=
io
Ficino, pores over in the New Platonists; only your brother's passionate na=
ture
drove him to act out what other men write and talk about. And for Fra Girol=
amo,
he is simply a narrow-minded monk, with a gift of preaching and infusing te=
rror
into the multitude. Any words or any voice would have shaken you at that
moment. When your mind has had a little repose, you will judge of such thin=
gs
as you have always done before.'
'Not about poor Dino,' said Romola=
. 'I
was angry with him; my heart seemed to close against him while he was speak=
ing;
but since then I have thought less of what was in my own mind and more of w=
hat
was in his. Oh, Tito! it was very piteous to see his young life coming to an
end in that way. That yearning look at the crucifix when he was gasping for
breath - I can never forget it. Last night I looked at the crucifix a long
while, and tried to see that it would help him, until at last it seemed to =
me
by the lamplight as if the suffering face shed pity.'
'My Romola, promise me to resist s=
uch
thoughts; they are fit for sickly nuns, not for my golden-tressed Aurora, w=
ho
looks made to scatter all such twilight fantasies. Try not to think of them
now; we shall not long be alone together.'
The last words were uttered in a t=
one
of tender beseeching, and he turned her face towards him with a gentle touc=
h of
his right hand.
Romola had had her eyes fixed abse=
ntly
on the arched opening, but she had not seen the distant hill; she had all t=
he
while been in the chapter-house, looking at the pale images of sorrow and
death.
Tito's touch and beseeching voice
recalled her; and now in the warm sunlight she saw that rich dark beauty wh=
ich
seemed to gather round it all images of joy - purple vines festooned between
the elms, the strong corn perfecting itself under the vibrating heat, brigh=
t winged
creatures hurrying and resting among the flowers, round limbs beating the e=
arth
in gladness with cymbals held aloft, light melodies chanted to the thrilling
rhythm of strings - all objects and all sounds that tell of Nature revellin=
g in
her force. Strange, bewildering transition from those pale images of sorrow=
and
death to this bright youthfulness, as of a sun-god who knew nothing of nigh=
t!
What thought could reconcile that worn anguish in her brother's face - that
straining after something invisible - with this satisfied strength and beau=
ty,
and make it intelligible that they belonged to the same world? Or was there
never any reconciling of them, but only a blind worship of clashing deities,
first in mad joy and then in wailing? Romola for the first time felt this
questioning need like a sudden uneasy dizziness and want of something to gr=
asp;
it was an experience hardly longer than a sigh, for the eager theorising of
ages is compressed, as in a seed, in the momentary want of a single mind. B=
ut
there was no answer to meet the need, and it vanished before the returning =
rush
of young sympathy with the glad loving beauty that beamed upon her in new
radiance, like the dawn after we have looked away from it to the grey west.=
'Your mind lingers apart from our =
love,
my Romola,' Tito said, with a soft reproachful murmur. 'It seems a forgotten
thing to you.'
She looked at the beseeching eyes =
in
silence, till the sadness all melted out of her own.
'My joy!' she said, in her full cl=
ear
voice.
'Do you really care for me enough,
then, to banish those chill fancies, or shall you always be suspecting me as
the Great Tempter?' said Tito, with his bright smile.
'How should I not care for you more
than for everything else? Everything I had felt before in all my life - abo=
ut
my father, and about my loneliness - was a preparation to love you. You wou=
ld
laugh at me, Tito, if you knew what sort of man I used to think I should ma=
rry
- some scholar with deep lines in his face, like Alamanno Rinuccini, and wi=
th
rather grey hair, who would agree with my father in taking the side of the
Aristotelians, and be willing to live with him. I used to think about the l=
ove
I read of in the poets, but I never dreamed that anything like that could
happen to me here in Florence in our old library. And then you came, Tito, =
and
were so much to my father, and I began to believe that life could be happy =
for
me too.'
'My goddess! is there any woman li=
ke
you?' said Tito, with a mixture of fondness and wondering admiration at the
blended majesty and simplicity in her.
'But, dearest,' he went on, rather
timidly, 'if you minded more about our marriage, you would persuade your fa=
ther
and Messer Bernardo not to think of any more delays. But you seem not to mi=
nd
about it.'
'Yes, Tito, I will, I do mind. But=
I
am sure my godfather will urge more delay now, because of Dino's death. He =
has
never agreed with my father about disowning Dino, and you know he has always
said that we ought to wait until you have been at least a year in Florence.=
Do
not think hardly of my godfather. I know he is prejudiced and narrow, but y=
et
he is very noble. He has often said that it is folly in my father to want to
keep his library apart, that it may bear his name; yet he would try to get =
my
father's wish carried out. That seems to me very great and noble - that pow=
er
of respecting a feeling which he does not share or understand.'
'I have no rancour against Messer
Bernardo for thinking you too precious for me, my Romola,' said Tito: and t=
hat
was true. 'But your father, then, knows of his son's death?'
'Yes, I told him - I could not help
it. I told him where I had been, and that I had seen Dino die; but nothing
else; and he has commanded me not to speak of it again. But he has been very
silent this morning, and has had those restless movements which always go t=
o my
heart; they look as if he were trying to get outside the prison of his
blindness. Let us go to him now. I had persuaded him to try to sleep, becau=
se
he slept little in the night. Your voice will soothe him, Tito: it always
does.'
'And not one kiss? I have not had
one,' said Tito, in his gentle reproachful tone, which gave him an air of
dependence very charming in a creature with those rare gifts that seem to
excuse presumption.
The sweet pink blush spread itself
with the quickness of light over Romola's face and neck as she bent towards
him. It seemed impossible that their kisses could ever become common things=
.
'Let us walk once round the loggia=
,'
said Romola, 'before we go down.'
'There is something grim and grave=
to
me always about Florence,' said Tito, as they paused in the front of the ho=
use,
where they could see over the opposite roofs to the other side of the river,
'and even in its merriment there is something shrill and hard - biting rath=
er
than gay. I wish we lived in Southern Italy, where thought is broken, not by
weariness, but by delicious languors such as never seem to come over the =
8216;ingenia
acerrima Florentina.’ I should like to see you under that southern su=
n,
lying among the flowers, subdued into mere enjoyment, while I bent over you=
and
touched the lute and sang to you some little unconscious strain that seemed=
all
one with the light and the warmth. You have never known that happiness of t=
he
nymphs, my Romola.'
'No; but I have dreamed of it often
since you came. I am very thirsty for a deep draught of joy - for a life all
bright like you. But we will not think of it now, Tito; it seems to me as if
there would always be pale sad faces among the flowers, and eyes that look =
in
vain. Let us go.'
When Tito left the Via de' Bardi t=
hat
day in exultant satisfaction at finding himself thoroughly free from the
threatened peril, his thoughts, no longer claimed by the immediate presence=
of
Romola and her father, recurred to those futile hours of dread in which he =
was
conscious of having not only felt but acted as he would not have done if he=
had
had a truer foresight. He would not have parted with his ring; for Romola, =
and
others to whom it was a familiar object, would be a little struck with the
apparent sordidness of parting with a gem he had professedly cherished, unl=
ess
he feigned as a reason the desire to make some special gift with the
purchase-money; and Tito had at that moment a nauseating weariness of
simulation. He was well out of the possible consequences that might have fa=
llen
on him from that initial deception, and it was no longer a load on his mind;
kind fortune had brought him immunity, and he thought it was only fair that=
she
should. Who was hurt by it? The results to Baldassarre were too problematic=
al
to be taken into account. But he wanted now to be free from any hidden shac=
kles
that would gall him, though ever so little, under his ties to Romola. He was
not aware that that very delight in immunity which prompted resolutions not=
to
entangle himself again, was deadening the sensibilities which alone could s=
ave
him from entanglement.
But, after all, the sale of the ri=
ng
was a slight matter. Was it also a slight matter that little Tessa was unde=
r a
delusion which would doubtless fill her small head with expectations doomed=
to
disappointment? Should he try to see the little thing alone again and undec=
eive
her at once, or should he leave the disclosure to time and chance? Happy dr=
eams
are pleasant, and they easily come to an end with daylight and the stir of
life. The sweet, pouting, innocent, round thing! It was impossible not to t=
hink
of her. Tito thought he should like some time to take her a present that wo=
uld
please her, and just learn if her step-father treated her more cruelly now =
her
mother was dead. Or, should he at once undeceive Tessa, and then tell Romola
about her, so that they might find some happier lot for the poor thing? No:
that unfortunate little incident of the cerretano and the marriage, and his
allowing Tessa to part from him in delusion, must never be known to Romola,=
and
since no enlightenment could expel it from Tessa's mind, there would always=
be
a risk of betrayal; besides even little Tessa might have some gall in her w=
hen
she found herself disappointed in her love - yes, she must be a little in l=
ove
with him, and that might make it well that he should not see her again. Yet=
it
was a trifling adventure such as a country girl would perhaps ponder on till
some ruddy contadino made acceptable love to her, when she would break her
resolution of secrecy and get at the truth that she was free. Dunque -
good-bye, Tessa! kindest wishes! Tito had made up his mind that the silly
little affair of the cerretano should have no further consequences for hims=
elf;
and people are apt to think that resolutions taken on their own behalf will=
be
firm. As for the fifty-five florins, the purchase-money of the ring, Tito h=
ad
made up his mind what to do with some of them; he would carry out a pretty
ingenious thought which would set him more at ease in accounting for the
absence of his ring to Romola, and would also serve him as a means of guard=
ing
her mind from the recurrence of those monkish fancies which were especially
repugnant to him; and with this thought in his mind, he went to the Via
Gualfonda to find Piero di Cosimo, the artist who at that time was preemine=
nt
in the fantastic mythological design which Tito's purpose required.
Entering the court on which Piero's
dwelling opened, Tito found the heavy iron knocker on the door thickly bound
round with wool and ingeniously fastened with cords. Remembering the painte=
r's
practice of stuffing his ears against obtrusive noises, Tito was not much
surprised at this mode of defence against visitors' thunder, and betook him=
self
first to tapping modestly with his knuckles, and then to a more importunate
attempt to shake the door. In vain! Tito was moving away, blaming himself f=
or
wasting his time on this visit, instead of waiting till he saw the painter
again at Nello's, when a little girl entered the court with a basket of egg=
s on
her arm, went up to the door, and standing on tiptoe, pushed up a small iron
plate that ran in grooves, and putting her mouth to the aperture thus
disclosed, called out in a piping voice, 'Messer Piero!'
In a few moments Tito heard the so=
und
of bolts, the door opened, and Piero presented himself in a red right-cap a=
nd a
loose brown serge tunic, with sleeves rolled up to the shoulder. He darted a
look of surprise at Tito, but without further notice of him stretched out h=
is
hand to take the basket from the child, re-entered the house, and presently
returning with the empty basket, said, 'How much to pay?'
'Two grossoni, Messer Piero; they =
are
all ready boiled, my mother says.'
Piero took the coin out of the lea=
thern
scarsella at his belt, and the little maiden trotted away, not without a few
upward glances of awed admiration at the surprising young signor.
Piero's glance was much less
complimentary as he said -
'What do you want at my door, Mess=
er
Greco? I saw you this morning at Nello's; if you had asked me then, I could
have told you that I see no man in this house without knowing his business =
and
agreeing with him beforehand.'
'Pardon, Messer Piero,' said Tito,
with his imperturbable good-humour; 'I acted without sufficient reflection.=
I
remembered nothing but your admirable skill in inventing pretty caprices, w=
hen
a sudden desire for something of that sort prompted me to come to you.'
The painter's manners were too
notoriously odd to all the world for this reception to be held a special
affront; but even if Tito had suspected any offensive intention, the impuls=
e to
resentment would have been less strong in him than the desire to conquer
goodwill.
Piero made a grimace which was
habitual with him when he was spoken to with flattering suavity. He grinned,
stretched out the corners of his mouth, and pressed down his brows, so as to
defy any divination of his feelings under that kind of stroking.
'And what may that need be?' he sa=
id,
after a moment's pause. In his heart he was tempted by the hinted opportuni=
ty
of applying his invention.
'I want a very delicate miniature
device taken from certain fables of the poets, which you will know how to
combine for me. It must be painted on a wooden case - I will show you the s=
ize
- in the form of a triptych. The inside may be simple gilding: it is on the
outside I want the device. lt is a favourite subject with you Florentines -=
the
triumph of Bacchus and Ariadne; but I want it treated in a new way. A story=
in
Ovid will give you the necessary hints. The young Bacchus must be seated in=
a
ship, his head bound with dusters of grapes, and a spear entwined with
vine-leaves in his hand: dark-berried ivy must wind about the masts and sai=
ls,
the oars must be thyrsi, and flowers must wreathe themselves about the poop;
leopards and tigers must be crouching before him, and dolphins must be spor=
ting
round. But I want to have the fair-haired Ariadne with him, made immortal w=
ith
her golden crown - that is not in Ovid's story, but no matter, you will
conceive it all - and above there must be young Loves, such as you know how=
to
paint, shooting with roses at the points of their arrows -'
'Say no more!' said Piero. 'I have
Ovid in the vulgar tongue. Find me the passage. I love not to be choked with
other men's thoughts. You may come in.'
Piero led the way through the first
room, where a basket of eggs was deposited on the open hearth, near a heap =
of
broken egg-shells and a bank of ashes. In strange keeping with that sordid
litter, there was a low bedstead of carved ebony, covered carelessly with a
piece of rich oriental carpet, that looked as if it had served to cover the
steps to a Madonna's throne; and a carved cassone, or large chest, with pai=
nted
devices on its sides and lid. There was hardly any other furniture in the l=
arge
room, except casts, wooden steps, easels and rough boxes, all festooned with
cobwebs.
The next room was still larger, bu=
t it
was also much more crowded. Apparently Piero was keeping the Festa, for the
double door underneath the window which admitted the painter's light from
above, was thrown open, and showed a garden, or rather thicket, in which
fig-trees and vines grew in tangled trailing wildness among nettles and
hemlocks, and a tall cypress lifted its dark head from a stifling mass of
yellowish mulberry-leaves. It seemed as if that dank luxuriance had begun to
penetrate even within the walls of the wide and lofty room; for in one corn=
er,
amidst a confused heap of carved marble fragments and rusty armour, tufts o=
f long
grass and dark feathery fennel had made their way, and a large stone vase,
tilted on one side, seemed to be pouring out the ivy that streamed around. =
All
about the walls hung pen and oil sketches of fantastic sea-monsters; dances=
of
satyrs and maenads; Saint Margaret's resurrection out of the devouring drag=
ons;
Madonnas with the supernal light upon them; studies of plants and grotesque
heads; and on irregular rough shelves a few books were scattered among great
drooping bunches of corn, bullocks' horns, pieces of dried honeycomb, stones
with patches of rare-coloured lichen skulls and bones, peacocks' feathers, =
and
large birds' wings. Rising from amongst the dirty litter of the floor were =
lay
figures: one in the frock of a Vallombrosan monk, strangely surmounted by a
helmet with barred visor, another smothered with brocade and skins hastily
tossed over it. Amongst this heterogeneous still life, several speckled and
white pigeons were perched or strutting, too tame to fly at the entrance of
men; three corpulent toads were crawling in an intimate friendly way near t=
he
door-stone- and a white rabbit, apparently the model for that which was
frightening Cupid in the picture of Mars and Venus placed on the central ea=
sel,
was twitching its nose with much content on a box full of bran.
'And now, Messer Greco,' said Pier=
o,
making a sign to Tito that he might sit down on a low stool near the door, =
and
then standing over him with folded arms, 'don't be trying to see everything=
at
once, like Messer Domeneddio, but let me know how large you would have this
same triptych.'
Tito indicated the required
dimensions, and Piero marked them on a piece of paper.
'And now for the book,' said Piero,
reaching down a manuscript volume.
'There's nothing about the Ariadne
there,' said Tito, giving him the passage; 'but you will remember I want the
crowned Ariadne by the side of the young Bacchus: she must have golden hair=
.'
'Ha!' said Piero, abruptly, pursin=
g up
his lips again. 'And you want them to be likenesses, eh?' he added, looking
down into Tito's face.
Tito laughed and blushed. 'I know =
you
are great at portraits, Messer Piero; but I could not ask Ariadne to sit for
you, because the painting is a secret.'
'There it is! I want her to sit to=
me.
Giovanni Vespucci wants me to paint him a picture of Oedipus and Antigone at
Colonos, as he has expounded it to me: I have a fancy for the subject, and I
want Bardo and his daughter to sit for it. Now, you ask them; and then I'll=
put
the likeness into Ariadne.'
'Agreed, if I can prevail with the=
m.
And your price for the Bacchus and Ariadne?'
'Baie! If you get them to let me p=
aint
them, that will pay me. I'd rather not have your money: you may pay for the
case.'
'And when shall I sit for you?' sa=
id
Tito; 'for if we have one likeness, we must have two.'
'I don't want your likeness; I've =
got
it already,' said Piero, 'only I've made you look frightened. I must take t=
he
fright out of it for Bacchus.'
As he was speaking, Piero laid down
the book and went to look among some paintings, propped with their faces
against the wall. He returned with an oil-sketch in his hand.
'I call this as good a bit of port=
rait
as I ever did,' he said, looking at it as he advanced. 'Yours is a face that
expresses fear well, because it's naturally a bright one. I noticed it the
first time I saw you. The rest of the picture is hardly sketched; but I've
painted you in thoroughly.'
Piero turned the sketch, and held =
it
towards Tito's eyes. He saw himself with his right hand uplifted, holding a
wine-cup, in the attitude of triumphant joy, but with his face turned away =
from
the cup with an expression of such intense fear in the dilated eyes and pal=
lid
lips, that he felt a cold stream through his veins, as if he were being thr=
own
into sympathy with his imaged self.
'You are beginning to look like it
already,' said Piero, with a short laugh, moving the picture away again. 'H=
e's
seeing a ghost - that fine young man. I shall finish it some day, when I ha=
ve
settled what sort of ghost is the most terrible - whether it should look so=
lid,
like a dead man come to life, or half transparent, like a mist.'
Tito, rather ashamed of himself fo=
r a
sudden sensitiveness strangely opposed to his usual easy self-command, said
carelessly -
'That is a subject after your own
heart, Messer Piero - a revel interrupted by a ghost. You seem to love the
blending of the terrible with the gay. I suppose that is the reason your
shelves are so well furnished with death's-heads, while you are painting th=
ose
roguish Loves who are running away with the armour of Mars. I begin to think
you are a Cynic philosopher in the pleasant disguise of a cunning painter.'=
'Not I, Messer Greco; a philosophe=
r is
the last sort of animal I should choose to resemble. I find it enough to li=
ve,
without spinning lies to account for life. Fowls cackle, asses bray, women
chatter, and philosophers spin false reasons - that's the effect the sight =
of
the world brings out of them. Well, I am an animal that paints instead of
cackling, or braying, or spinning lies. And now, I think, our business is d=
one;
you'll keep to your side of the bargain about the Oedipus and Antigone?'
'I will do my best,' said Tito - on
this strong hint, immediately moving towards the door.
'And you'll let me know at Nello's=
. No
need to come here again.'
'I understand,' said Tito, laughin=
gly,
lifting his hand in sign of friendly parting.
Messer Bernardo del Nero was as
inexorable as Romola had expected in his advice that the marriage should be
deferred till Easter, and in this matter Bardo was entirely under the
ascendancy of his sagacious and practical friend. Nevertheless, Bernardo
himself, though he was as far as ever from any susceptibility to the person=
al
fascination in Tito which was felt by others, could not altogether resist t=
hat
argument of success which is always powerful with men of the world. Tito was
making his way rapidly in high quarters. He was especially growing in favour
with the young Cardinal Giovanni de' Medici, who had even spoken of Tito's
forming part of his learned retinue on an approaching journey to Rome; and =
the
bright young Greek who had a tongue that was always ready without ever being
quarrelsome, was more and more wished for at gay suppers in the Via Larga, =
and
at Florentine games in which he had no pretension to excel, and could admire
the incomparable skill of Piero de' Medici in the most graceful manner in t=
he
world. By an unfailing sequence, Tito's reputation as an agreeable companio=
n in
'magnificent' society made his learning and talent appear more lustrous: an=
d he
was really accomplished enough to prevent an exaggerated estimate from being
hazardous to him. Messer Bernardo had old prejudices and attachments which =
now
began to argue down the newer and feebler prejudice against the young Greek
stranger who was rather too supple. To the old Florentine it was impossible=
to
despise the recommendation of standing well with the best Florentine famili=
es,
and since Tito began to be thoroughly received into that circle whose views
were the unquestioned standard of social value, it seemed irrational not to
admit that there was no longer any check to satisfaction in the prospect of
such a son-in-law for Bardo, and such a husband for Romola. It was undeniab=
le
that Tito's coming had been the dawn of a new life for both father and
daughter, and the first promise had even been surpassed. The blind old scho=
lar
- whose proud truthfulness would never enter into that commerce of feigned =
and
preposterous admiration which, varied by a corresponding measurelessness in
vituperation, made the woof of all learned intercourse - had fallen into
neglect even among his fellow-citizens, and when he was alluded to at all, =
it
had long been usual to say that, though his blindness and the loss of his s=
on
were pitiable misfortunes, he was tiresome in contending for the value of h=
is
own labours; and that his discontent was a little inconsistent in a man who=
had
been openly regardless of religious rites, and who in days past had refused
offers made to him from various quarters, on the slight condition that he w=
ould
take orders, without which it was not easy for patrons to provide for every
scholar. But since Tito's coming, there was no longer the same monotony in =
the
thought that Bardo's name suggested; the old man, it was understood, had le=
ft
off his plaints, and the fair daughter was no longer to be shut up in dower=
less
pride, waiting for a parentado. The winning manners and growing favour of t=
he
handsome Greek who was expected to enter into the double relation of son and
husband helped to make the new interest a thoroughly friendly one, and it w=
as
no longer a rare occurrence when a visitor enlivened the quiet library. Eld=
erly
men came from that indefinite prompting to renew former intercourse which
arises when an old acquaintance begins to be newly talked about; and young =
men
whom Tito had asked leave to bring once, found it easy to go again when they
overtook him on his way to the Via de' Bardi, and resting their hands on his
shoulder, fell into easy chat with him. For it was pleasant to look at Romo=
la's
beauty- to see her, like old Firenzuola's type of womanly majesty, sitting =
with
a certain grandeur, speaking with gravity, smiling with modesty, and casting
around, as it were, an odour of queenliness;' and she seemed to unfold like=
a
strong white lily under this genial breath of admiration and homage; it was=
all
one to her with her new bright life in Tito's love.
Tito had even been the means of
strengthening the hope in Bardo's mind that he might before his death recei=
ve
the longed-for security concerning his library: that it should not be merge=
d in
another collection; that it should not be transferred to a body of monks, a=
nd
be called by the name of a monastery; but that it should remain for ever the
Bardi Library, for the use of Florentines. For the old habit of trusting in=
the
Medici could not die out while their influence was still the strongest leve=
r in
the State; and Tito, once possessing the ear of the Cardinal Giovanni de'
Medici, might do more even than Messer Bernardo towards winning the desired
interest, for he could demonstrate to a learned audience the peculiar value=
of
Bardi's collection. Tito himself talked sanguinely of such a result, willin=
g to
cheer the old man, and conscious that Romola repaid those gentle words to h=
er
father with a sort of adoration that no direct tribute to herself could have
won from her.
This question of the library was t=
he
subject of more than one discussion with Bernardo del Nero when Christmas w=
as
turned and the prospect of the marriage was becoming near - but always out =
of
Bardo's hearing. For Bardo nursed a vague belief, which they dared not dist=
urb,
that his property, apart from the library, was adequate to meet all demands=
. He
would not even, except under a momentary pressure of angry despondency, adm=
it
to himself that the will by which he had disinherited Dino would leave Romo=
la
the heir of nothing but debts; or that he needed anything from patronage be=
yond
the security that a separate locality should be assigned to his library, in
return for a deed of gift by which he made it over to the Florentine Republ=
ic.
'My opinion is,' said Bernardo to
Romola, in a consultation they had under the loggia, 'that since you are to=
be
married, and Messer Tito will have a competent income, we should begin to w=
ind
up the affairs, and ascertain exactly the sum that would be necessary to sa=
ve
the library from being touched, instead of letting the debts accumulate any
longer. Your father needs nothing but his shred of mutton and his macaroni
every day, and I think Messer Tito may engage to supply that for the years =
that
remain; he can let it be in place of the morgen-cap.'
'Tito has always known that my lif=
e is
bound up with my father's,' said Romola; 'and he is better to my father tha=
n I
am: he delights in making him happy.'
'Ah, he's not made of the same cla=
y as
other men, is he?' said Bernardo, smiling.'Thy father has thought of shutti=
ng
woman's folly out of thee by cramming thee with Greek and Latin; but thou h=
ast
been as ready to believe in the first pair of bright eyes and the first soft
words that have come within reach of thee, as if thou couldst say nothing by
heart but Paternosters, like other Christian men's daughters.'
'Now, godfather,' said Romola, sha=
king
her head playfully, 'as if it were only bright eyes and soft words that mad=
e me
love Tito! You know better. You know I love my father and you because you a=
re
both good, and I love Tito too because he is so good. I see it, I feel it, =
in
everything he says and does. And if he is handsome, too, why should I not l=
ove
him the better for that? It seems to me beauty is part of the finished lang=
uage
by which goodness speaks. You know you must have been a very handsome youth,
godfather' - she looked up with one of her happy, loving smiles at the stat=
ely
old man - 'you were about as tall as Tito, and you had very fine eyes; only=
you
looked a little sterner and prouder, and -'
'And Romola likes to have all the
pride to herself?' said Bernardo, not inaccessible to this pretty coaxing.
'However, it is well that in one way Tito's demands are more modest than th=
ose
of any Florentine husband of fitting rank that we should have been likely to
find for you; he wants no dowry.'
So it was settled in that way betw=
een
Messer Bernardo del Nero, Romola, and Tito. Bardo assented with a wave of t=
he
hand when Bernardo told him that he thought it would be well not to begin to
sell property and clear off debts; being accustomed to think of debts and
property as a sort of thick wood that his imagination never even penetrated=
, still
less got beyond. And Tito set about winning Messer Bernardo's respect by
inquiring, with his ready faculty, into Florentine money-matters, the secre=
ts
of the Monti or public funds, the values of real property, and the profits =
of
banking.
'You will soon forget that Tito is=
not
a Florentine, godfather,' said Romola. 'See how he is learning everything a=
bout
Florence.'
'It seems to me he is one of the
demoni, who are of no particular country, child,' said Bernardo, smiling. '=
His
mind is a little too nimble to be weighted with all the stuff we men carry
about in our hearts.'
Romola smiled too, in happy
confidence.
It was the last week of the Carniv=
al,
and the streets of Florence were at their fullest and noisiest: there were =
the
masqued processions, chanting songs, indispensable now they had once been
introduced by Lorenzo the Magnificent; there was the favourite rigoletto, or
round dance, footed 'in piazza' under the blue frosty sky; there were pract=
ical
jokes of all sorts, from throwing comfits to throwing stones - especially
stones. For the boys and striplings, always a strong element in Florentine
crowds, became at the height of Carnival-time as loud and unmanageable as
tree-crickets, and it was their immemorial privilege to bar the way with po=
les
to all passengers, until a tribute had been paid towards furnishing those
lavers of strong sensations with suppers and bonfires: to conclude with the
standing entertainment of stone-throwing, which was not entirely monotonous,
since the consequent maiming was various, and it was not always a single pe=
rson
who was killed. So that the pleasures of the Carnival were of a checkered k=
ind,
and if a painter were called upon to represent them truly, he would have to
make a picture in which there would be so much grossness and barbarity that=
it
must be turned with its face to the wall, except when it was taken down for=
the
grave historical purpose of justifying a reforming zeal which, in ignorance=
of
the facts, might be unfairly condemned for its narrowness. Still there was =
much
of that more innocent picturesque merriment which is never wanting among a
people with quick animal spirits and sensitive organs: there was not the he=
avy
sottishness which belongs to the thicker northern blood, nor the stealthy
fierceness which in the more southern regions of the peninsula makes the br=
awl
lead to the dagger-thrust.
It was the high morning, but the m=
erry
spirits of the Carnival were still inclined to lounge and recapitulate the =
last
night's jests, when Tito Melema was walking at a brisk pace on the way to t=
he
Via de' Bardi. Young Bernardo Dovizi, who now looks at us out of Raphael's
portrait as the keen-eyed Cardinal da Bibbiena, was with him; and as they w=
ent,
they held animated talk about some subject that had evidently no relation to
the sights and sounds through which they were pushing their way along the P=
or'
Santa Maria. Nevertheless, as they discussed, smiled, and gesticulated, they
both, from time to time, cast quick glances around them, and at the turning
towards the Lung' Arno, leading to the Ponte Rubaconte, Tito had become awa=
re,
in one of these rapid surveys, that there was some one not far off him by w=
hom
he very much desired not to be recognised at that moment. His time and thou=
ghts
were thoroughly preoccupied, for he was looking forward to a unique occasio=
n in
his life: he was preparing for his betrothal, which was to take place on the
evening of this very day. The ceremony had been resolved upon rather sudden=
ly;
for although preparations towards the marriage had been going forward for s=
ome
time - chiefly in the application of Tito's florins to the fitting up of ro=
oms
in Bardo's dwelling, which, the library excepted, had always been scantily
furnished - it had been intended to defer both the betrothal and the marria=
ge
until after Easter, when Tito's year of probation, insisted on by Bernardo =
del
Nero, would have been complete. But when an express proposition had come, t=
hat
Tito should follow the Cardinal Giovanni to Rome to help Bernardo Dovizi wi=
th
his superior knowledge of Greek in arranging a library, and there was no
possibility of declining what lay so plainly on the road to advancement, he=
had
become urgent in his entreaties that the betrothal might take place before =
his
departure: there would be the less delay before the marriage on his return,=
and
it would be less painful to part if he and Romola were outwardly as well as
inwardly pledged to each other - if he had a claim which defied Messer Bern=
ardo
or any one else to nullify it. For the betrothal, at which rings were excha=
nged
and mutual contracts were signed, made more than half the legality of marri=
age,
to be completed on a separate occasion by the nuptial benediction. Romola's
feeling had met Tito's in this wish, and the consent of the elders had been
won.
And now Tito was hastening, amidst
arrangements for his departure the next day, to snatch a morning visit to
Romola, to say and hear any last words that were needful to be said before
their meeting for the betrothal in the evening. It was not a time when any
recognition could be pleasant that was at all likely to detain him; still l=
ess
a recognition by Tessa. And it was unmistakably Tessa whom he had caught si=
ght
of moving along, with a timid and forlorn look, towards that very turn of t=
he
Lung' Arno which he was just rounding. As he continued his talk with the yo=
ung
Dovizi, he had an uncomfortable undercurrent of consciousness which told him
that Tessa had seen him and would certainly follow him: there was no escapi=
ng her
along this direct road by the Arno, and over the Ponte Rubaconte. But she w=
ould
not dare to speak to him or approach him while he was not alone, and he wou=
ld
continue to keep Dovizi with him till they reached Bardo's door. He quicken=
ed
his pace, and took up new threads of talk; but all the while the sense that
Tessa was behind him, though he had no physical evidence of the fact, grew
stronger and stronger; it was very irritating - perhaps all the more so bec=
ause
a certain tenderness and pity for the poor little thing made the determinat=
ion
to escape without any visible notice of her, a not altogether agreeable
resource. Yet Tito persevered and carried his companion to the door, clever=
ly
managing his 'addio' without turning his face in a direction where it was
possible for him to see an importunate pair of blue eyes; and as he went up=
the
stone steps, he tried to get rid of unpleasant thoughts by saying to himself
that after all Tessa might not have seen him, or, if she had, might not have
followed him.
But - perhaps because that possibi=
lity
could not be relied on strongly - when the visit was over, he came out of t=
he
doorway with a quick step and an air of unconsciousness as to anything that
might be on his right hand or his left. Our eyes are so constructed, howeve=
r,
that they take in a wide angle without asking any leave of our will; and Ti=
to
knew that there was a little figure in a white hood standing near the doorw=
ay -
knew it quite well, before he felt a hand laid on his arm. It was a real gr=
asp,
and not a light, timid touch; for poor Tessa, seeing his rapid step, had
started forward with a desperate effort. But when he stopped and turned tow=
ards
her, her face wore a frightened look, as if she dreaded the effect of her
boldness.
'Tessa!' said Tito, with more
sharpness in his voice than she had ever heard in it before. 'Why are you h=
ere?
You must not follow me - you must not stand about door-places waiting for m=
e.'
Her blue eyes widened with tears, =
and
she said nothing. Tito was afraid of something worse than ridicule, if he w=
ere
seen in the Via de' Bardi with a girlish contadina looking pathetically at =
him.
It was a street of high silent-looking dwellings, not of traffic; but Berna=
rdo
del Nero, or some one almost as dangerous, might come up at any moment. Eve=
n if
it had not been the day of his betrothal, the incident would have been awkw=
ard
and annoying. Yet it would be brutal - it was impossible - to drive Tessa a=
way
with harsh words. That accursed folly of his with the cerretano - that it
should have lain buried in a quiet way for months, and now start up before =
him
as this unseasonable crop of vexation! He could not speak harshly, but he s=
poke
hurriedly.
'Tessa, I cannot - must not talk to
you here. I will go to the bridge and wait for you there. Follow me slowly.=
'
He turned and walked fast to the P=
onte
Rubaconte, and there leaned against the wall of one of the quaint little ho=
uses
that rise at even distances on the bridge, looking towards the way by which
Tessa would come. It would have softened a much harder heart than Tito's to=
see
the little thing advancing with her round face much paled and saddened sinc=
e he
had parted from it at the door of the 'Nunziata.' Happily it was the least
frequented of the bridges, and there were scarcely any passengers on it at =
this
moment. He lost no time in speaking as soon as she came near him.
'Now, Tessa, I have very little ti=
me.
You must not cry. Why did you follow me this morning? You must not do so
again.' 'I thought,' said Tessa, speaking in a whisper, and struggling agai=
nst
a sob that would rise immediately at this new voice of Tito's - 'I thought =
you
wouldn't be so long before you came to take care of me again. And the patri=
gno
beats me, and I can't bear it any longer. And always when I come for a holi=
day
I walk about to find you, and I can't. Oh, please don't send me away from y=
ou
again! It has been so long, and I cry so now, because you never come to me.=
I
can't help it, for the days are so long, and I don't mind about the goats a=
nd
kids, or anything - and I can't -'
The sobs came fast now, and the gr=
eat
tears. Tito felt that he could not do otherwise than comfort her. Send her =
away
- yes; that he must do, at once. But it was all the more impossible to tell=
her
anything that would leave her in a state of hopeless grief. He saw new trou=
ble
in the background, but the difficulty of the moment was too pressing for hi=
m to
weigh distant consequences.
'Tessa, my little one,' he said, in
his old caressing tones, 'you must not cry. Bear with the cross patrigno a
little longer. I will come back to you. But I'm going now to Rome - a long,
long way off. I shall come back in a few weeks, and then I promise you to c=
ome
and see you. Promise me to be good and wait for me.'
It was the well-remembered voice
again, and the mere sound was half enough to soothe Tessa. She looked up at=
him
with trusting eyes, that still glittered with tears, sobbing all the while,=
in
spite of her utmost efforts to obey him. Again he said, in a gentle voice -=
'Promise me, my Tessa.'
'Yes,' she whispered. 'But you won=
't
be long?'
'No, not long. But I must go now. =
And
remember what I told you, Tessa. Nobody must know that you ever see me, else
you will lose me for ever. And now, when I have left you, go straight home,=
and
never follow me again. Wait till I come to you. Good-bye, my little Tessa: I
will come.'
There was no help for it; he must =
turn
and leave her without looking behind him to see how she bore it, for he had=
no
time to spare. When he did look round he was in the Via de' Benci, where th=
ere
was no seeing what was happening on the bridge; but Tessa was too trusting =
and
obedient not to do just what he had told her.
Yes, the difficulty was at an end =
for
that day; yet this return of Tessa to him, at a moment when it was impossib=
le
for him to put an end to all difficulty with her by undeceiving her, was an
unpleasant incident to carry in his memory. But Tito's mind was just now
thoroughly penetrated with a hopeful first love, associated with all happy
prospects flattering to his ambition; and that future necessity of grieving
Tessa could be scarcely more to him than the far-off cry of some little
suffering animal buried in the thicket, to a merry cavalcade in the sunny
plain. When, for the second time that day, Tito was hastening across the Po=
nte
Rubaconte, the thought of Tessa caused no perceptible diminution of his
happiness. He was well muffled in his mantle, less, perhaps, to protect him
from the cold than from the additional notice that would have been drawn up=
on
him by his dainty apparel. He leaped up the stone steps by two at a time, a=
nd
said hurriedly to Maso, who met him -
'Where is the damigella?'
'In the library; she is quite read=
y,
and Monna Brigida and Messer Bernardo are already there with Ser Braccio, b=
ut
none of the rest of the company.'
'Ask her to give me a few minutes
alone; I will await her in the salotto.'
Tito entered a room which had been
fitted up in the utmost contrast with the half-pallid, half-sombre tints of=
the
library. The walls were brightly frescoed with 'caprices' of nymphs and lov=
es
sporting under the blue among flowers and birds. The only furniture besides=
the
red leather seats and the central table were two tall white vases, and a yo=
ung
faun playing the flute, modelled by a promising youth named Michelangelo Bu=
onarotti.
It was a room that gave a sense of being in the sunny open air.
Tito kept his mantle round him, and
looked towards the door. It was not long before Romola entered, all white a=
nd
gold, more than ever like a tall lily. Her white silk garment was bound by a
golden girdle, which fell with large tassels; and above that was the rippli=
ng
gold of her hair, surmounted by the white mist of her long veil, which was
fastened on her brow by a band of pearls, the gift of Bernardo del Nero, and
was now parted off her face so that it all floated backward.
'Regina mia!' said Tito, as he took her hand and kissed it, still keeping his mantle round him. He could not he= lp going backward to look at her again, while she stood in calm delight, with = that exquisite self-consciousness which rises under the gaze of admiring love. <= o:p>
'Romola, will you show me the next
room now?' said Tito checking himself with the remembrance that the time mi=
ght
be short. 'You said I should see it when you had arranged everything.'
Without speaking, she led the way =
into
a long narrow room, painted brightly like the other, but only with birds and
flowers. The furniture in it was all old; there were old faded objects for
feminine use or ornament, arranged in an open cabinet between the two narrow
windows; above the cabinet was the portrait of Romola's mother; and below t=
his,
on the top of the cabinet, stood the crucifix which Romola had brought from=
San
Marco.
'I have brought something under my
mantle,' said Tito, smiling; and throwing off the large loose garment, he
showed the little tabernacle which had been painted by Piero di Cosimo. The
painter had carried out Tito's intention charmingly, and so far had atoned =
for
his long delay. 'Do you know what this is for, my Romola?' added Tito, taki=
ng her
by the hand, and leading her towards the cabinet. 'It is a little shrine, w=
hich
is to hide away from you for ever that remembrancer of sadness. You have do=
ne
with sadness now; and we will bury all images of it - bury them in a tomb of
joy. See!'
A slight quiver passed across Romo=
la's
face as Tito took hold of the crucifix. But she had no wish to prevent his
purpose; on the contrary, she herself wished to subdue certain importunate
memories and questionings which still flitted like unexplained shadows acro=
ss
her happier thought.
He opened the triptych and placed =
the
crucifix within the central space; then closing it again, taking out the ke=
y,
and setting the little tabernacle in the spot where the crucifix had stood,
said -
'Now, Romola, look and see if you =
are
satisfied with the portraits old Piero has made of us. Is it not a dainty
device? and the credit of choosing it is mine.'
'Ah! it is you - it is perfect!' s=
aid
Romola, looking with moist joyful eyes at the miniature Bacchus, with his
purple dusters. 'And I am Ariadne, and you are crowning me! Yes, it is true,
Tito; you have crowned my poor life.'
They held each other's hands while=
she
spoke, and both looked at their imaged selves. But the reality was far more
beautiful; she all lily-white and golden, and he with his dark glowing beau=
ty
above the purple red-bordered tunic.
'And it was our good strange Piero=
who
painted it?' said Romola. 'Did you put it into his head to paint me as
Antigone, that he might have my likeness for this?'
'No, it was he who made my getting
leave for him to paint you and your father, a condition of his doing this f=
or
me.'
'Ah! I see now what it was you gav=
e up
your precious ring for. I perceived you had some cunning plan to give me
pleasure.'
Tito did not blench. Romola's litt=
le
illusions about himself had long ceased to cause him anything but satisfact=
ion.
He only smiled and said -
'I might have spared my ring; Piero
will accept no money from me; he thinks himself paid by painting you. And n=
ow,
while I am away, you will look every day at those pretty symbols of our life
together - the ship on the calm sea, and the ivy that never withers, and th=
ose
Loves that have left off wounding us and shower soft petals that are like o=
ur
kisses; and the leopards and tigers, they are the troubles of your life that
are all quelled now; and the strange sea-monsters, with their merry eyes - =
let
us see - they are the dull passages in the heavy books, which have begun to=
be
amusing since we have sat by each other.'
'Tito mio!' said Romola, in a
half-laughing voice of love; 'but you will give me the key?' she added, hol=
ding
out her hand for it.
'Not at all!' said Tito, with play=
ful
decision, opening his scarsella and dropping in the little key. 'I shall dr=
own
it in the Arno.'
'But if I ever wanted to look at t=
he
crucifix again?'
'Ah! for that very reason it is hi=
dden
- hidden by these images of youth and joy.'
He pressed a light kiss on her bro=
w,
and she said no more, ready to submit, like all strong souls, when she felt=
no
valid reason for resistance.
And then they joined the waiting
company, which made a dignified little procession as it passed along the Po=
nte
Rubaconte towards Santa Croce. Slowly it passed, for Bardo, unaccustomed for
years to leave his own house, walked with a more timid step than usual; and
that slow pace suited well with the gouty dignity of Messer Bartolommeo Sca=
la,
who graced the occasion by his presence, along with his daughter Alessandra=
. It
was customary to have very long troops of kindred and friends at the sposal=
izio,
or betrothal and it had even been found necessary in time past to limit the
number by law to no more than four hundred - two hundred on each side; for
since the guests were all feasted after this initial ceremony, as well as a=
fter
the nozze, or marriage, the very first stage of matrimony had become a ruin=
ous
expense, as that scholarly Benedict, Leonardo Bruno, complained in his own
case. But Bardo, who in his poverty had kept himself proudly free from any
appearance of claiming the advantages attached to a powerful family name, w=
ould
have no invitations given on the strength of mere friendship; and the modest
procession of twenty that followed the sposi were, with three or four
exceptions, friends of Bardo's and Tito's selected on personal grounds.
Bernardo del Nero walked as a vang=
uard
before Bardo who was led on the right by Tito, while Romola held her father=
's
other hand. Bardo had himself been married at Santa Croce, and had insisted=
on
Romola's being betrothed and married there, rather than in the little churc=
h of
Santa Lucia close by their house, because he had a complete mental vision of
the grand church where he hoped that a burial might be granted him among the
Florentines who had deserved well. Happily the way was short and direct, an=
d lay
aloof from the loudest riot of the Carnival, if only they could return befo=
re
any dances or shows began in the great piazza of Santa Croce. The west was =
red
as they passed the bridge, and shed a mellow light on the pretty procession,
which had a touch of solemnity in the presence of the blind father. But when
the ceremony was over, and Tito and Romola came out on to the broad steps of
the church, with the golden links of destiny on their fingers, the evening =
had
deepened into struggling starlight, and the servants had their torches lit.=
While they came out, a strange dre=
ary
chant, as of a Miserere, met their ears, and they saw that at the extreme e=
nd
of the piazza there seemed to be a stream of people impelled by something
approaching from the Borgo de' Greci.
'It is one of their masqued
processions, I suppose,' said Tito, who was now alone with Romola, while
Bernardo took charge of Bardo.
And as he spoke there came slowly =
into
view, at a height far above the heads of the on-lookers, a huge and ghastly=
image
of Winged Time with his scythe and hour-glass, surrounded by his winged
children, the Hours. He was mounted on a high car completely covered with
black, and the bullocks that drew the car were also covered with black, the=
ir
horns alone standing out white above the gloom; so that in the sombre shado=
w of
the houses it seemed to those at a distance as if Time and his children were
apparitions floating through the air. And behind them came what looked like=
a
troop of the sheeted dead gliding above blackness. And as they glided slowl=
y,
they chanted in a wailing strain.'
A cold horror seized on Romola, fo=
r at
the first moment it seemed as if her brother's vision, which could never be
effaced from her mind, was being half fulfilled. She clung to Tito, who, di=
vining
what was in her thoughts, said -
'What dismal fooling sometimes ple=
ases
your Florentines! Doubtless this is an invention of Piero di Cosimo, who lo=
ves
such grim merriment.'
'Tito, I wish it had not happened.=
It
will deepen the images of that vision which I would fain be rid of.'
'Nay, Romola, you will look only at
the images of our happiness now. I have locked all sadness away from you.' =
'But it is still there - it is only
hidden,' said Romola, in a low tone, hardly conscious that she spoke.
'See, they are all gone now!' said
Tito. 'You will forget this ghastly mummery when we are in the light, and c=
an
see each other's eyes. My Ariadne must never look backward now - only forwa=
rd
to Easter, when she will triumph with her Care-dispeller.'
It was the 17th of November 1494: =
more
than eighteen months since Tito and Romola had been finally united in the
joyous Easter time, and had had a rainbow-tinted shower of comfits thrown o=
ver
them, after the ancient Greek fashion, in token that the heavens would show=
er
sweets on them through all their double life.
Since that Easter a great change h=
ad
come over the prospects of Florence; and as in the tree that bears a myriad=
of
blossoms, each single bud with its fruit is dependent on the primary
circulation of the sap, so the fortunes of Tito and Romola were dependent on
certain grand political and social conditions which made an epoch in the
history of Italy.
In this very November, little more
than a week ago, the spirit of old centuries seemed to have re-entered the
breasts of Florentines. The great bell in the palace tower had rung out the
hammer-sound of alarm, and the people had mustered with their rusty arms, t=
heir
tools and impromptu cudgels, to drive out the Medici. The gate of San Gallo=
had
been fairly shut on the arrogant, exasperating Piero, galloping away towards
Bologna with his hired horsemen frightened behind him, and shut on his keen=
er
young brother, the cardinal, escaping in the disguise of a Franciscan monk:=
a
price had been set on both their heads. After that, there had been some sac=
king
of houses, according to old precedent; the ignominious images, painted on t=
he
public buildings, of the men who had conspired against the Medici in days g=
one
by, were effaced; the exiled enemies of the Medici were invited home. The
half-fledged tyrants were fairly out of their splendid nest in the Via Larg=
a,
and the Republic had recovered the use of its will again.
But now, a week later, the great
palace in the Via Larga had been prepared for the reception of another tena=
nt;
and if drapery roofing the streets with unwonted colour, if banners and
hangings pouring out of the windows, if carpets and tapestry stretched over=
all
steps and pavement on which exceptional feet might tread, were an
unquestionable proof of joy, Florence was very joyful in the expectation of=
its
new guest. The stream of colour flowed from the palace in the Via Larga rou=
nd
by the Cathedral, then by the great Piazza della Signoria, and across the P=
onte
Vecchio to the Porta San Frediano - the gate that looks towards Pisa. There,
near the gate, a platform and canopy had been erected for the Signoria; and
Messer Luca Corsini, doctor of law, felt his heart palpitating a little with
the sense that he had a Latin oration to read; and every chief elder in
Florence had to make himself ready, with smooth chin and well-lined silk lu=
cco,
to walk in procession; and the well-born youths were looking at their rich =
new
tunics after the French mode which was to impress the stranger as having a
peculiar grace when worn by Florentines; and a large body of the clergy, fr=
om
the archbishop in his effulgence to the train of monks, black, white, and g=
rey,
were consulting betimes in the morning how they should marshal themselves, =
with
their burden of relics and sacred banners and consecrated jewels, that their
movements might be adjusted to the expected arrival of the illustrious visi=
tor,
at three o'clock in the afternoon.
An unexampled visitor! For he had =
come
through the passes of the Alps with such an army as Italy had not seen befo=
re:
with thousands of terrible Swiss, well used to fight for love and hatred as
well as for hire; with a host of gallant cavaliers proud of a name; with an
unprecedented infantry, in which every man in a hundred carried an arquebus;
nay, with a cannon of bronze, shooting not stones but iron balls, drawn not=
by
bullocks but by horses, and capable of firing a second time before a city c=
ould
mend the breach made by the first ball. Some compared the new-comer to
Charlemagne, reputed rebuilder of Florence, welcome conqueror of degenerate
kings, regulator and benefactor of the Church; some preferred the compariso=
n to
Cyrus, liberator of the chosen people, restorer of the Temple. For he had c=
ome
across the Alps with the most glorious projects: he was to march through It=
aly
amidst the jubilees of a grateful and admiring people; he was to satisfy all
conflicting complaints at Rome; he was to take possession, by virtue of
hereditary right and a little fighting, of the kingdom of Naples; and from =
that
convenient starting-point he was set out on the conquest of the Turks, who =
were
partly to be cut to pieces and partly converted to the faith of Christ. It =
was
a scheme that seemed to befit the Most Christian King, head of a nation whi=
ch,
thanks to the devices of a subtle Louis the Eleventh who had died in much
fright as to his personal prospects ten years before, had become the strong=
est
of Christian monarchies; and this antitype of Cyrus and Charlemagne was no
other than the son of that subtle Louis - the young Charles the Eighth of
France.
Surely, on a general statement, ha=
rdly
anything could seem more grandiose, or fitter to revive in the breasts of m=
en
the memory of great dispensations by which new strata had been laid in the
history of mankind. And there was a very widely spread conviction that the
advent of the French king and his army into Italy was one of those events at
which marble statues might well be believed to perspire, phantasmal fiery
warriors to fight in the air, and quadrupeds to bring forth monstrous birth=
s -
that it did not belong to the usual order of Providence, but was in a pecul=
iar
sense the work of God. It was a conviction that rested less on the necessar=
ily
momentous character of a powerful foreign invasion than on certain moral
emotions to which the aspect of the times gave the form of presentiments:
emotions which had found a very remarkable utterance in the voice of a sing=
le
man.
That man was Fra Girolamo Savonaro=
la,
Prior of the Dominican convent of San Marco in Florence. On a September mom=
ing,
when men's ears were ringing with the news that the French army had entered
Italy, he had preached in the Cathedral of Florence from the text, 'Behold =
I,
even I, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth.' He believed it was by
supreme guidance that he had reached just so far in his exposition of Genes=
is
the previous Lent - and he believed the 'flood of water' - emblem at once of
avenging wrath and purifying mercy - to be the divinely-indicated symbol of=
the
French army. His audience, some of whom were held to be among the choicest
spirits of the age - the most cultivated men in the most cultivated of Ital=
ian
cities - believed it too, and listened with shuddering awe. For this man ha=
d a
power rarely paralleled, of impressing his beliefs on others, and of swaying
very various minds. And as long as four years ago he had proclaimed from the
chief pulpit of Florence that a scourge was about to descend on Italy, and =
that
by this scourge the Church was to be purified. Savonarola appeared to belie=
ve,
and his hearers more or less waveringly believed, that he had a mission like
that of the Hebrew prophets, and that the Florentines amongst whom his mess=
age
was delivered were in some sense a second chosen people. The idea of prophe=
tic
gifts was not a remote one in that age: seers of visions, circumstantial
heralds of things to be, were far from uncommon either outside or inside the
cloister; but this very fact made Savonarola stand out the more conspicuous=
ly
as a grand exception. While in others the gift of prophecy was very much li=
ke a
farthing candle illuminating small comers of human destiny with prophetic
gossip, in Savonarola it was like a mighty beacon shining far out for the
warning and guidance of men. And to some of the soberest minds the supernat=
ural
character of his insight into the future gathered a strong attestation from=
the
peculiar conditions of the age.
At the close of 1492, the year in
which Lorenzo de' Medici died and Tito Melema came as a wanderer to Florenc=
e,
Italy was enjoying a peace and prosperity unthreatened by any near and defi=
nite
danger. There was no fear of famine, for the seasons had been plenteous in
corn, and wine, and oil; new palaces had been rising in all fair cities, new
villas on pleasant slopes and summits; and the men who had more than their
share of these good things were in no fear of the larger number who had les=
s.
For the citizens' armour was getting rusty, and populations seemed to have
become tame, licking the hands of masters who paid for a ready-made army wh=
en
they wanted it, as they paid for goods of Smyrna. Even the fear of the Turk=
had
ceased to be active, and the Pope found it more immediately profitable to
accept bribes from him for a little prospective poisoning than to form plans
either for conquering or for converting him.
Altogether this world, with its
partitioned empire and its roomy universal Church, seemed to be a handsome
establishment for the few who were lucky or wise enough to reap the advanta=
ges
of human folly: a world in which lust and obscenity, lying and treachery,
oppression and murder, were pleasant, useful, and when properly managed, not
dangerous. And as a sort of fringe or adornment to the substantial delights=
of
tyranny, avarice, and lasciviousness, there was the patronage of polite
learning and the fine arts, so that flattery could always be had in the
choicest Latin to be commanded at that time, and sublime artists were at ha=
nd
to paint the holy and the unclean with impartial skill. The Church, it was =
said,
had never been so disgraced in its head, had never shown so few signs of
renovating, vital belief in its lower members; nevertheless it was much more
prosperous than in some past days. The heavens were fair and smiling above;=
and
below there were no signs of earthquake.
Yet at that time, as we have seen,
there was a man in Florence who for two years and more had been preaching t=
hat
a scourge was at hand; that the world was certainly not framed for the last=
ing
convenience of hypocrites, libertines, and oppressors. From the midst of th=
ose
smiling heavens he had seen a sword hanging- the sword of God's justice - w=
hich
was speedily to descend with purifying punishment on the Church and the wor=
ld.
In brilliant Ferrara, seventeen years before, the contradiction between men=
's
lives and their professed beliefs had pressed upon him with a force that had
been enough to destroy his appetite for the world, and at the age of
twenty-three had driven him into the cloister. He believed that God had
committed to the Church the sacred lamp of truth for the guidance and salva=
tion
of men, and he saw that the Church, in its corruption, had become a sepulch=
re
to hide the lamp. As the years went on scandals increased and multiplied, a=
nd
hypocrisy seemed to have given place to impudence. Had the world, then, cea=
sed
to have a righteous Ruler? Was the Church finally forsaken? No, assuredly: =
in
the Sacred Book there was a record of the past in which might be seen as in=
a
glass what would be in the days to come, and the book showed that when the
wickedness of the chosen people, type of the Christian Church, had become
crying, the judgments of God had descended on them. Nay, reason itself decl=
ared
that vengeance was imminent, for what else would suffice to turn men from t=
heir
obstinacy in evil? And unless the Church were reclaimed, how could the prom=
ises
be fulfilled, that the heathens should be converted and the whole world bec=
ome
subject to the one true law? He had seen his belief reflected in visions - a
mode of seeing which had been frequent with him from his youth up.
But the real force of demonstration
for Girolamo Savonarola lay in his own burning indignation at the sight of
wrong - in his fervent belief in an Unseen Justice that would put an end to=
the
wrong, and in an Unseen Purity to which lying and uncleanness were an
abomunation. To his ardent, power-loving soul, believing in great ends, and
longing to achieve those ends by the exertion of its own strong will, the f=
aith
in a supreme and righteous Ruler became one with the faith in a speedy divi=
ne
interposition that would punish and reclaim.
Meanwhile, under that splendid
masquerade of dignities sacred and secular which seemed to make the life of
lucky Churchmen and princely families so luxurious and amusing, there were
certain conditions at work which slowly tended to disturb the general
festivity. Ludovico Sforza - copious in gallantry, splendid patron of an
incomparable Leonardo da Vinci - holding the ducal crown of Milan in his gr=
asp,
and wanting to put it on his own head rather than let it rest on that of a
feeble nephew who would take very little to poison him, was much afraid of =
the
Spanish-born old King Ferdinand and the Crown Prince Alfonso of Naples, who,
not liking cruelty and treachery which were useless to themselves, objected=
to
the poisoning of a near relative for the advantage of a Lombard usurper; the
royalties of Naples again were afraid of their suzerain, Pope Alexander Bor=
gia;
all three were anxiously watching Florence, lest with its midway territory =
it
should determine the game by underhand backing; and all four, with every sm=
all
state in Italy, were afraid of Venice - Venice the cautious, the stable, and
the strong, that wanted to stretch its arms not only along both sides of the
Adriatic but across to the ports of the western coast.
Lorenzo de' Medici, it was thought,
did much to prevent the fatal outbreak of such jealousies, keeping up the o=
ld
Florentine alliance with Naples and the Pope, and yet persuading Milan that=
the
alliance was for the general advantage. But young Piero de' Medici's rash
vanity had quickly nullified the effect of his father's wary policy, and
Ludovico Sforza, roused to suspicion of a league against him, thought of a =
move
which would checkmate his adversaries: he determined to invite the French k=
ing
to march into Italy and, as heir of the house of Anjou, take possession of
Naples. Ambassadors - 'orators,' as they were called in those haranguing ti=
mes
- went and came; a recusant cardinal, determined not to acknowledge a Pope
elected by bribery (and his own particular enemy), went and came also, and
seconded the invitation with hot rhetoric; and the young king seemed to len=
d a
willing ear. So that in 1493 the rumour spread and became louder and louder
that Charles the Eighth of France was about to cross the Alps with a mighty
army; and the Italian populations, accustomed, since Italy had ceased to be=
the
heart of the Roman empire, to look for an arbitrator from afar, began vague=
ly
to regard his coming as a means of avenging their wrongs and redressing the=
ir
grievances.
And in that rumour Savonarola had
heard the assurance that his prophecy was being verified. What was it that
filled the ears of the prophets of old but the distant tread of foreign arm=
ies,
coming to do the work of justice? He no longer looked vaguely to the horizon
for the coming storm: he pointed to the rising cloud. The French army was t=
hat
new deluge which was to purify the earth from iniquity; the French king,
Charles VIII., was the instrument elected by God, as Cyrus had been of old,=
and
all men who desired good rather than evil were to rejoice in his coming. For
the scourge would fall destructively on the impenitent alone. Let any city =
of
Italy, let Florence above all - Florence beloved of God, since to its ear t=
he
warning voice had been specially sent - repent and turn from its ways, like
Nineveh of old, and the storm-cloud would roll over it and leave only
refreshing rain-drops.
Fra Girolamo's word was powerful; =
yet
now that the new Cyrus had already been three months in Italy, and was not =
far
from the gates of Florence, his presence was expected there with mixed
feelings, in which fear and distrust certainly predominated. At present it =
was
not understood that he had redressed any grievances; and the Florentines cl=
early
had nothing to thank him for. He held their strong frontier fortresses, whi=
ch
Piero de' Medici had given up to him without securing any honourable terms =
in
return; he had done nothing to quell the alarming revolt of Pisa, which had
been encouraged by his presence to throw off the Florentine yoke; and
'orators,' even with a prophet at their head, could win no assurance from h=
im,
except that he would settle everything when he was once within the walls of
Florence. Still, there was the satisfaction of knowing that the exasperating
Piero de' Medici had been fairly pelted out for the ignominious surrender of
the fortresses, and in that act of energy the spirit of the Republic had
recovered some of its old fire.
The preparations for the equivocal
guest were not entirely those of a city resigned to submission. Behind the
bright drapery and banners symbolical of joy, there were preparations of
another sort made with common accord by government and people. Well hidden
within walls there were hired soldiers of the Republic, hastily called in f=
rom
the surrounding districts; there were old arms duly furbished, and sharp to=
ols
and heavy cudgels laid carefully at hand, to be snatched up on short notice;
there were excellent boards and stakes to form barricades upon occasions, a=
nd a
good supply of stones to make a surprising hail from the upper windows. Abo=
ve
all, there were people very strongly in the humour for fighting any persona=
ge
who might be supposed to have designs of hectoring over them, they having
lately tasted that new pleasure with much relish. This humour was not
diminished by the sight of occasional parties of Frenchmen, coming beforeha=
nd
to choose their quarters, with a hawk, perhaps on their left wrist, and,
metaphorically speaking, a piece of chalk in their right hand to mark Itali=
an
doors withal; especially as creditable historians imply that many sons of
France were at that time characterised by something approaching to a swagge=
r,
which must have whetted the Florentine appetite for a little stone-throwing=
.
And this was the temper of Florenc=
e on
the morning of the 17th of November 1494.
The sky was grey, but that made li=
ttle
difference in the Piazza del Duomo, which was covered with its holiday sky =
of
blue drapery, and its constellations of yellow lilies and coats of arms. The
sheaves of banners were unfurled at the angles of the Baptistery, but there=
was
no carpet yet on the steps of the Duomo, for the marble was being trodden by
numerous feet that were not at all exceptional. It was the hour of the Adve=
nt
sermons, and the very same reasons which had flushed the streets with holid=
ay
colour were reasons why the preaching in the Duomo could least of all be
dispensed with.
But not all the feet in the Piazza
were hastening towards the steps. People of high and low degree were moving=
to
and fro with the brisk pace of men who had errands before them; groups of
talkers were thickly scattered, some willing to be late for the sermon, and
others content not to hear it at all.
The expression on the faces of the=
se
apparent loungers was not that of men who are enjoying the pleasant lazines=
s of
an opening holiday. Some were in close and eager discussion; others were
listening with keen interest to a single spokesman, and yet from time to ti=
me
turned round with a scanning glance at any new passer-by. At the corner,
looking towards the Via de' Cerretani - just where the artificial rainbow l=
ight
of the Piazza ceased, and the grey morning fell on the sombre stone houses -
there was a remarkable cluster of the working people, most of them bearing =
on
their dress or persons the signs of their daily labour, and almost all of t=
hem
carrying some weapon, or some tool which might serve as a weapon upon occas=
ion.
Standing in the grey light of the street, with bare brawny arms and soiled
garments, they made all the more striking the transition from the brightnes=
s of
the Piazza. They were listening to the thin notary, Ser Cioni, who had just
paused on his way to the Duomo. His biting words could get only a contemptu=
ous
reception two years and a half before in the Mercato, but now he spoke with=
the
more complacent humour of a man whose party is uppermost, and who is consci=
ous
of some influence with the people.
'Never talk to me,' he was saying,=
in
his incisive voice, 'never talk to me of bloodthirsty Swiss or fierce French
infantry: they might as well be in the narrow passes of the mountains as in=
our
streets; and peasants have destroyed the finest armies of our condottieri in
time past, when they had once got them between steep precipices. I tell you,
Florentines need be afraid of no army in their own streets.'
'That's true, Ser Cioni,' said a m=
an
whose arms and hands were discoloured by crimson dye, which looked like
bloodstains, and who had a small hatchet stuck in his belt; 'and those Fren=
ch
cavaliers, who came in squaring themselves in their smart doublets the other
day, saw a sample of the dinner we could serve up for them. I was carrying =
my
cloth in Ognissanti, when I saw my fine Messeri going by, looking round as =
if
they thought the houses of the Vespucci and the Agli a poor pick of lodgings
for them, and eyeing us Florentines, like top-knotted cocks as they are, as=
if
they pitied us because we didn't know how to strut. ‘Yes, my fine Gal=
li,’
says I, ‘stick out your stomachs; I've got a meat-axe in my belt that
will go inside you all the easier;’ when presently the old cow lowed,=
and
I knew something had happened - no matter what. So I threw my cloth in at t=
he
first doorway, and took hold of my meat-axe and ran after my fine cavaliers
towards the Vigna Nuova. And, ‘What is it, Guccio?’ said I, whe=
n he
came up with me. ‘I think it's the Medici coming back,’ said
Guccio. Bembe!' I expected so! And up we reared a barricade, and the French=
men
looked behind and saw themselves in a trap; and up comes a good swarm of our
Ciompi, and one of them with a big scythe he had in his hand mowed off one =
of
the fine cavalier's feathers: - it's true! And the lasses peppered a few st=
ones
down to frighten them. However, Piero de' Medici wasn't come after all; and=
it
was a pity; for we'd have left him neither legs nor wings to go away with
again.'
'Well spoken, Oddo,' said a young
butcher, with his knife at his belt; 'and it's my belief Piero will be a go=
od
while before he wants to come back, for he looked as frightened as a hunted
chicken, when we hustled and pelted him in the piazza. He's a coward, else =
he
might have made a better stand when he'd got his horsemen. But we'll swallo=
w no
Medici any more, whatever else the Frtench king wants to make us swallow.' =
'But I like not those French cannon
they talk of,' said Goro, none the less fat for two years' additional
grievances. 'San Giovanni defend us! If Messer Domeneddio means so well by =
us
as your Frate says he does, Ser Cioni, why shouldn't he have sent the French
another way to Naples?'
'Ay, Goro,' said the dyer; 'that's=
a
question worth putting. Thou art not such a pumpkin-head as I took thee for.
Why, they might have gone to Naples by Bologna, eh, Ser Cioni? or if they'd
gone to Arezzo - we wouldn't have minded their going to Arezzo.'
'Fools! It will be for the good and
glory of Florence,' Ser Cioni began. But he was interrupted by the exclamat=
ion,
'Look there!' which burst from several voices at once, while the faces were=
all
turned to a party who were advancing along the Via de' Cerretani.
'It's Lorenzo Tornabuoni, and one =
of
the French noblemen who are in his house,' said Ser Cioni, in some contempt=
at
this interruption. 'He pretends to look well satisfied - that deep Tornabuo=
ni -
but he's a Medicean in his heart: mind that.'
The advancing party was rather a
brilliant one, for there was not only the distinguished presence of Lorenzo
Tornabuoni, and the splendid costume of the Frenchman with his elaborately
displayed white linen and gorgeous embroidery; there were two other Florent=
ines
of high birth in handsome dresses donned for the coming procession, and on =
the
left hand of the Frenchman was a figure that was not to be eclipsed by any
amount of intention or brocade - a figure we have often seen before. He wore
nothing but black, for he was in mourning; but the black was presently to be
covered by a red mantle, for he too was to walk in procession as Latin
Secretary to the Ten. Tito Melema had become conspicuously serviceable in t=
he
intercourse with the French guests, from his familiarity with Southern Ital=
y,
and his readiness in the French tongue, which he had spoken in his early yo=
uth;
and he had paid more than one visit to the French camp at Signa. The lustre=
of
good fortune was upon him; he was smiling, listening, and explaining, with =
his
usual graceful unpretentious ease, and only a very keen eye bent on studying
him could have marked a certain amount of change in him which was not to be
accounted for by the lapse of eighteen months. It was that change which com=
es
from the final departure of moral youthfulness - from the distinct
self-conscious adoption of a part in life. The lines of the face were as so=
ft
as ever, the eyes as pellucid; but something was gone - something as
indefinable as the changes in the morning twilight.
The Frenchman was gathering
instructions concerning ceremonial before riding back to Signa, and now he =
was
going to have a final survey of the Piazza del Duomo, where the royal
procession was to pause for religious purposes. The distinguished party
attracted the notice of all eyes as it entered the piazza, but the gaze was=
not
entirely cordial and admiring; there were remarks not altogether allusive a=
nd
mysterious to the Frenchman's hoof-shaped shoes - delicate flattery of royal
superfluity in toes; and there was no care that certain snarlings at
'Mediceans' should be strictly inaudible. But Lorenzo Tornabuoni possessed =
that
power of dissembling annoyance which is demanded in a man who courts popula=
rity,
and Tito, besides his natural disposition to overcome ill-will by good-humo=
ur,
had the unimpassioned feeling of the alien towards names and details that m=
ove
the deepest passions of the native.
Arrived where they could get a good
oblique view of the Duomo, the party paused. The festoons and devices placed
over the central doorway excited some demur, and Tornabuoni beckoned to Pie=
ro
di Cosimo, who, as was usual with him at this hour, was lounging in front of
Nello's shop. There was soon an animated discussion, and it became highly
amusing from the Frenchman's astonishment at Piero's odd pungency of statem=
ent,
which Tito translated literally. Even snarling onlookers became curious, and
their faces began to wear the half-smiling, half-humiliated expression of p=
eople
who are not within hearing of the joke which is producing infectious laught=
er.
It was a delightful moment for Tito, for he was the only one of the party w=
ho
could have made so amusing an interpreter, and without any disposition to
triumphant self-gratulation he revelled in the sense that he was an object =
of
liking - he basked in approving glances. The rainbow light fell about the
laughing group, and the grave church-goers had all disappeared within the
walls. It semed as if the piazza had been decorated for a real Florentine
holiday.
Meanwhile in the grey light of the
unadorned streets there were on-comers who made no show of linen and brocad=
e,
and whose humour was far from merry. Here, too, the French dress and hoofed
shoes were conspicuous, but they were being pressed upon by a larger and la=
rger
number of non-admiring Florentines. In the van of the crowd were three men =
in
scanty clothing; each had his hands bound together by a cord, and a rope was
fastened round his neck and body, in such a way that he who held the extrem=
ity
of the rope might easily check any rebellious movement by the threat of
throttling. The men who held the ropes were French soldiers, and by broken
Italian phrases and strokes from the knotted end of the rope, they from tim=
e to
time stimulated their prisoners to beg. Two of them were obedient, and to e=
very
Florentine they had encountered had held out their bound hands and said in
piteous tones -
'For the love of God and the Holy
Madonna, give us something towards our ransom! We are Tuscans: we were made
prisoners in Lunigiana.'
But the third man remained obstina=
tely
silent under all the strokes from the knotted cord. He was very different in
aspect from his two fellow-prisoners. They were young and hardy, and, in the
scant clothing which the avarice of their captors had left them, looked like
vulgar, sturdy mendicants. But he had passed the boundary of old age, and c=
ould
hardly be less than four or five and sixty. His beard, which had grown long=
in
neglect, and the hair which fell thick and straight round his baldness, were
nearly white. His thickset figure was still firm and upright, though emacia=
ted,
and seemed to express energy in spite of age - an expression that was partly
carried out in the dark eyes and strong dark eyebrows, which had a strangely
isolated intensity of colour in the midst of his yellow, bloodless,
deep-wrinkled face with its lank grey hairs. And yet there was something fi=
tful
in the eyes which contradicted the occasional flash of energy: after looking
round with quick fierceness at windows and faces, they fell again with a lo=
st
and wandering look. But his lips were motionless, and he held his hands
resolutely down. He would not beg.
This sight had been witnessed by t=
he
Florentines with growing exasperation. Many standing at their doors or pass=
ing
quietly along had at once given money - some in half-automatic response to =
an
appeal in the name of God, others in that unquestioning awe of the French
soldiery which had been created by the reports of their cruel warfare, and =
on
which the French themselves counted as a guarantee of immunity in their act=
s of
insolence. But as the group had proceeded farther into the heart of the cit=
y,
that compliance had gradually disappeared, and the soldiers found themselves
escorted by a gathering troop of men and boys, who kept up a chorus of
exclamations sufficiently intelligible to foreign ears without any interpre=
ter.
The soldiers themselves began to dislike their position, for, with a strong
inclination to use their weapons, they were checked by the necessity for
keeping a secure hold on their prisoners, and they were now hurrying along =
in
the hope of finding shelter in a hostelry.
'French dogs!' 'Bullock-feet!' 'Sn=
atch
their pikes from them!' 'Cut the cords and make them run for their prisoner=
s.
They'll run as fast as geese - don't you see they're web-footed?' These were
the cries which the soldiers vaguely understood to be jeers, and probably
threats. But every one seemed disposed to give invitations of this spirited
kind rather than to act upon them.
'Santiddio! here's a sight!' said =
the
dyer, as soon as he had divined the meaning of the advancing tumult, 'and t=
he
fools do nothing but hoot. Come along!' he added, snatching his axe from his
belt, and running to join the crowd, followed by the butcher and all the re=
st
of his companions, except Goro, who hastily retreated up a narrow passage. =
The sight of the dyer, running for=
ward
with blood-red arms and axe uplifted, and with his cluster of rough compani=
ons
behind him, had a stimulating effect on the crowd. Not that he did anything
else than pass beyond the soldiers and thrust himself well among his
fellow-citizens, flourishing his axe; but he served as a stirring symbol of
street-fighting, like the waving of a well-known gonfalon. And the first si=
gn
that fire was ready to burst out was something as rapid as a little leaping
tongue of flame: it was an act of the conjuror's impish lad Lollo, who was
dancing and jeering in front of the ingenuous boys that made the majority of
the crowd. Lollo had no great compassion for the prisoners, but being consc=
ious
of an excellent knife which was his unfailing companion, it had seemed to h=
im
from the first that to jump forward, cut a rope, and leap back again before=
the
soldier who held it could use his weapon, would be an amusing and dexterous
piece of mischief. And now, when the people began to hoot and jostle more
vigorously, Lollo felt that his moment was come - he was close to the eldest
prisoner: in an instant he had cut the cord.
'Run, old one!' he piped in the
prisoner's ear, as soon as the cord was in two; and himself set the example=
of
running as if he were helped along with wings, like a scared fowl.
The prisoner's sensations were not=
too
slow for him to seize the opportunity: the idea of escape had been continua=
lly
present with him, and he had gathered fresh hope from the temper of the cro=
wd.
He ran at once; but his speed would hardly have sufficed for him if the
Florentines had not instantaneously rushed between him and his captor. He r=
an
on into the piazza, but he quickly heard the tramp of feet behind him, for =
the
other two prisoners had been released, and the soldiers were struggling and
fighting their way after them, in such tardigrade fashion as their hoof-sha=
ped
shoes would allow - impeded, but not very resolutely attacked, by the peopl=
e.
One of the two younger prisoners turned up the Borgo di San Lorenzo, and th=
us
made a partial diversion of the hubbub; but the main struggle was still tow=
ards
the piazza, where all eyes were turned on it with alarmed curiosity. The ca=
use
could not be precisely guessed, for the French dress was screened by the
impeding crowd.
'An escape of prisoners,' said Lor=
enzo
Tornabuoni, as he and his party turned round just against the steps of the
Duomo, and saw a prisoner rushing by them. 'The people are not content with
having emptied the Bargello the other day. If there is no other authority in
sight they must fall on the sbirri and secure freedom to thieves. Ah! there=
is
a French soldier: that is more serious.'
The soldier he saw was struggling
along on the north side of the piazza, but the object of his pursuit had ta=
ken
the other direction. That object was the eldest prisoner, who had wheeled r=
ound
the Baptistery and was running towards the Duomo, determined to take refuge=
in
that sanctuary rather than trust to his speed. But in mounting the steps, h=
is
foot received a shock; he was precipitated towards the group of signori, wh=
ose
backs were turned to him, and was only able to recover his balance as he cl=
utched
one of them by the arm.
It was Tito Melema who felt that
clutch. He turned his head, and saw the face of his adoptive father,
Baldassarre Calvo, close to his own.
The two men looked at each other,
silent as death: Baldassarre, with dark fierceness and a tightening grip of=
the
soiled worn hands on the velvet-clad arm; Tito, with cheeks and lips all
bloodless, fascinated by terror. It seemed a long while to them - it was bu=
t a
moment.
The first sound Tito heard was the
short laugh of Piero di Cosimo, who stood close by him and was the only per=
son
that could see his face.
'Ha, ha! I know what a ghost shoul=
d be
now.'
'This is another escaped prisoner,'
said Lorenzo Tornabuoni. 'Who is he, I wonder?'
'Some madman, surely,' said Tito. =
He hardly knew how the words had c=
ome
to his lips: there are moments when our passions speak and decide for us, a=
nd
we seem to stand by and wonder. They carry in them an inspiration of crime,
that in one instant does the work of long premeditation.
The two men had not taken their ey=
es
off each other, and it seemed to Tito, when he had spoken, that some magical
poison had darted from Baldassarre's eyes, and that he felt it rushing thro=
ugh
his veins. But the next instant the grasp on his arm had relaxed, and
Baldassarre had disappeared within the church.
'You are easily frightened, though=
,'
said Piero, with another scornful laugh. 'My portrait is not as good as the
original. But the old fellow had a tiger look: I must go into the Duomo and=
see
him again.'
'It is not pleasant to be laid hol=
d of
by a madman, if madman he be,' said Lorenzo Tornabuoni, in polite excuse of
Tito, 'but perhaps he is only a ruffian. We shall hear. I think we must see=
if
we have authority enough to stop this disturbance between our people and yo=
ur
countrymen,' he added, addressing the Frenchman.
They advanced toward the crowd with
their swords drawn, all the quiet spectators making an escort for them. Tito
went too: it was necessary that he should know what others knew about
Baldassarre, and the first palsy of terror was being succeeded by the rapid
devices to which mortal danger will stimulate the timid.
The rabble of men and boys, more
inclined to hoot at the soldier and torment him than to receive or inflict =
any
serious wounds, gave way at the approach of signori with drawn swords, and =
the
French soldier was interrogated. He and his companions had simply brought t=
heir
prisoners into the city that they might beg money for their ransom: two of =
the
prisoners were Tuscan soldiers taken in Lunigiana; the other, an elderly ma=
n,
was with a party of Genoese, with whom the French foragers had come to blows
near Fivizzano. He might be mad, but he was harmless. The soldier knew no m=
ore,
being unable to understand a word the old man said. Tito heard so far, but =
he
was deaf to everything else till he was specially addressed. It was Tornabu=
oni
who spoke.
'Will you go back with us, Melema?=
Or,
since Messere is going off to Signa now, will you wisely follow the fashion=
of
the times and go to hear the Frate, who will be like the torrent at its hei=
ght
this morning? It's what we must all do, you know, if we are to save our
Medicean skins. I should go if I had the leisure.'
Tito's face had recovered its colo=
ur
now, and he could make an effort to speak with gaiety.
'Of course I am among the admirers=
of
the inspired orator,' he said, smilingly; 'but, unfortunately, I shall be
occupied with the Segretario till the time of the procession.'
'I am going into the Duomo to look=
at
that savage old man again,' said Piero.
'Then have the charity to show him=
to
one of the hospitals for travellers, Piero mio,' said Tornabuoni. 'The monks
may find out whether he wants putting into a cage.'
The party separated, and Tito took=
his
way to the Palazzo Vecchio, where he was to find Bartolommeo Scala. It was =
not
a long walk, but, for Tito, it was stretched out like the minutes of our
morning dreams: the short spaces of street and piazza held memories, and
previsions, and torturing fears, that might have made the history of months=
. He
felt as if a serpent had begun to coil round his limbs. Baldassarre living,=
and
in Florence, was a living revenge, which would no more rest than a winding
serpent would rest until it had crushed its prey. It was not in the nature =
of
that man to let an injury pass unavenged: his love and his hatred were of t=
hat
passionate fervour which subjugates all the rest of the being, and makes a =
man
sacrifice himself to his passion as if it were a deity to be worshipped with
self-destruction. Baldassarre had relaxed his hold, and had disappeared. Ti=
to
knew well how to interpret that: it meant that the vengeance was to be stud=
ied
that it might be sure. If he had not uttered those decisive words - 'He is a
madman' - if he could have summoned up the state of mind, the courage,
necessary for avowing his recognition of Baldassarre, would not the risk ha=
ve
been less? He might have declared himself to have had what he believed to be
positive evidence of Baldasarre's death; and the only persons who could ever
have had positive knowledge to contradict him, were Fra Luca, who was dead,=
and
the crew of the companion galley, who had brought him the news of the encou=
nter
with the pirates. The chances were infinite against Baldassarre's having met
again with any one of that crew, and Tito thought with bitterness that a
timely, well-devised falsehood might have saved him from any fatal
consequences. But to have told that falsehood would have required perfect
self-command in the moment of a convulsive shock: he seemed to have spoken
without any preconception: the words had leaped forth like a sudden birth t=
hat
had been begotten and nourished in the darkness.
Tito was experiencing that inexora=
ble
law of human souls, that we prepare ourselves for sudden deeds by the
reiterated choice of good or evil which gradually determines character.
There was but one chance for him n=
ow;
the chance of Baldassarre's failure in finding his revenge. And - Tito gras=
ped
at a thought more actively cruel than any he had ever encouraged before: mi=
ght
not his own unpremeditated words have some truth in them? Enough truth, at
least, to bear him out in his denial of any declaration Baldassarre might m=
ake
about him? The old man looked strange and wild; with his eager heart and br=
ain,
suffering was likely enough to have produced madness. If it were so, the
vengeance that strove to inflict disgrace might be baffled.
But there was another form of
vengeance not to be baffled by ingenious lying. Baldassarre belonged to a r=
ace
to whom the thrust of the dagger seems almost as natural an impulse as the
outleap of the tiger's talons. Tito shrank with shuddering dread from disgr=
ace;
but he had also that physical dread which is inseparable from a soft
pleasure-loving nature, and which prevents a man from meeting wounds and de=
ath
as a welcome relief from disgrace. His thoughts flew at once to some hidden
defensive armour that might save him from a vengeance which no subtlety cou=
ld
parry.
He wondered at the power of the
passionate fear that possessed him. It was as if he had been smitten with a
blighting disease that had suddenly turned the joyous sense of young life i=
nto
pain.
There was still one resource open =
to
Tito. He might have turned back, sought Baldassarre again, confessed everyt=
hing
to him - to Romola - to all the world. But he never thought of that. The
repentance which cuts off all moorings to evil, demands something more than
selfish fear. He had no sense that there was strength and safety in truth; =
the
only strength he trusted to lay in his ingenuity and his dissimulation. Now
that the first shock, which had called up the traitorous signs of fear, was
well past, he hoped to be prepared for all emergencies by cool deceit - and
defensive armour.
It was a characteristic fact in Ti=
to's
experience at this crisis, that no direct measures for ridding himself of
Baldassarre ever occurred to him. All other possibilities passed through his
mind, even to his own flight from Florence; but he never thought of any sch=
eme
for removing his enemy. His dread generated no active malignity, and he wou=
ld
still have been glad not to give pain to any mortal. He had simply chosen to
make life easy to himself - to carry his human lot if possible, in such a w=
ay
that it should pinch him nowhere, and the choice had, at various times, lan=
ded
him in unexpected positions. The question now was, not whether he should di=
vide
the common pressure of destiny with his suffering fellow-men; it was whether
all the resources of lying would save him from being crushed by the consequ=
ences
of that habitual choice.
When Baldassarre, with his hands b=
ound
together, and the rope round his neck and body, pushed his way behind the
curtain, and saw the interior of the Duomo before him, he gave a start of a=
stonishment,
and stood still against the doorway. He had expected to see a vast nave emp=
ty
of everything but lifeless emblems - side altars with candles unlit, dim
pictures, pale and rigid statues - with perhaps a few worshippers in the
distant choir following a monotonous chant. That was the ordinary aspect of
churches to a man who never went into them with any religious purpose.
And he saw, instead, a vast multit=
ude
of warm, living faces, upturned in breathless silence towards the pulpit, at
the angle between the nave and the choir. The multitude was of all ranks, f=
rom
magistrates and dames of gentle nurture to coarsely-clad artisans and count=
ry
people. In the pulpit was a Dominican friar, with strong features and dark
hair, preaching with the crucifix in his hand.
For the first few minutes Baldassa=
rre
noted nothing of his preaching. Silent as his entrance had been, some eyes =
near
the doorway had been turned on him with surprise and suspicion. The rope
indicated plainly enough that he was an escaped prisoner, but in that case =
the
church was a sanctuary which he had a right to claim; his advanced years and
look of wild misery were fitted to excite pity rather than alarm; and as he
stood motionless, with eyes that soon wandered absently from the wide scene=
before
him to the pavement at his feet, those who had observed his entrance presen=
tly
ceased to regard him, and became absorbed again in the stronger interest of
listening to the sermon.
Among the eyes that had been turned
towards him were Romola's: she had entered late through one of the side doo=
rs
and was so placed that she had a full view of the main entrance. She had lo=
oked
long and attentively at Baldassarre, for grey hairs made a peculiar appeal =
to
her, and the stamp of some unwonted suffering in the face, confirmed by the
cord around his neck, stirred in her those sensibilities towards the sorrow=
s of
age, which her whole life had tended to develop. She fancied that his eyes =
had
met hers in their first wandering gaze; but Baldassarre had not, in reality=
, noted
her; he had only had a startled consciousness of the general scene, and the
consciousness was a mere flash that made no perceptible break in the fierce
tumult of emotion which the encounter with Tito had created. Images from the
past kept urging themselves upon him like delirious visions strangely blend=
ed
with thirst and anguish. No distinct thought for the future could shape its=
elf
in the midst of that fiery passion: the nearest approach to such thought was
the bitter sense of enfeebled powers, and a vague determination to universal
distrust and suspicion. Suddenly he felt himself vibrating to loud tones, w=
hich
seemed like the thundering echo of his own passion. A voice that penetrated=
his
very marrow with its accent of triumphant certitude was saying - 'The day of
vengeance is at hand!'
Baldassarre quivered and looked up=
. He
was too distant to see more than the general aspect of the preacher standin=
g,
with his right arm outstretched, lifting up the crucifix; but he panted for=
the
threatening voice again as if it had been a promise of bliss. There was a p=
ause
before the preacher spoke again. He gradually lowered his arm. He deposited=
the
crucifix on the edge of the pulpit, and crossed his arms over his breast,
looking round at the multitude as if he would meet the glance of every
individual face.
'All ye in Florence are my witness=
es,
for I spoke not in a corner. Ye are my witnesses, that four years ago, when
there were yet no signs of war and tribulation, I preached the coming of the
scourge. I lifted up my voice as a trumpet to the prelates and princes and
people of Italy and said, The cup of your iniquity is full. Behold, the thu=
nder
of the Lord is gathering, and it shall fall and break the cup, and your
iniquity, which seems to you as pleasant wine, shall be poured out upon you,
and shall be as molten lead. And you, O priests, who say, Ha, ha! there is =
no
Presence in the sanctuary - the Shechinah is nought - the Mercy-seat is bar=
e:
we may sin behind the veil, and who shall punish us? To you, I said, the
presence of God shall be revealed in his temple as a consuming fire, and yo=
ur
sacred garments shall become a winding-sheet of flame, and for sweet music
there shall be shrieks and hissing, and for soft couches there shall be tho=
rns,
and for the breath of wantons shall come the pestilence. Trust not in your =
gold
and silver, trust not in your high fortresses; for, though the walls were of
iron, and the fortresses of adamant, the Most High shall put terror into yo=
ur
hearts and weakness into your councils, so that you shall be confounded and
flee like women. He shall break in pieces mighty men without number, and put
others in their stead. For God will no longer endure the pollution of his
sanctuary; he will thoroughly purge his Church.
'And forasmuch as it is written th=
at
God will do nothing but he revealeth it to his servants the prophets, he has
chosen me, his unworthy servant, and made his purpose present to my soul in=
the
living word of the Scriptures, and in the deeds of his providence; and by t=
he
ministry of angels he has revealed it to me in visions. And his word posses=
ses
me so that I am but as the branch of the forest when the wind of heaven
penetrates it, and it is not in me to keep silence, even though I may be a
derision to the scorner. And for four years I have preached in obedience to=
the
Divine will: in the face of scoffing I have preached three things, which the
Lord has delivered to me: that in these times God will regenerate his Churc=
h,
and that before the regeneration must come the scourge over all Italy, and =
that
these things will come quickly.
'But hypocrites who cloak their ha=
tred
of the truth with a show of love have said to me, ‘Come now, Frate, l=
eave
your prophesyings: it is enough to teach virtue.’ To these I answer: =
‘Yes,
you say in your hearts, God lives afar off, and his word is as a parchment
written by dead men, and he deals not as in the days of old, rebuking the
nations, and punishing the oppressors, and smiting the unholy priests as he
smote the sons of Eli. But I cry again in your ears: God is near and not af=
ar
off; his judgments change not. He is the God of armies; the strong men who =
go
up to battle are his ministers, even as the storm, and fire, and pestilence=
. He
drives them by the breath of his angels, and they come upon the chosen land
which has forsaken the covenant. And thou, O Italy, art the chosen land; has
not God placed his sanctuary within thee, and thou hast polluted it? Behold,
the ministers of his wrath are upon thee - they are at thy very doors! R=
16;
'
Savonarola's voice had been rising=
in
impassioned force up to this point, when he became suddenly silent, let his
hands fall and clasped them quietly before him. His silence, instead of bei=
ng
the signal for small movements amongst his audience, seemed to be as strong=
a
spell to them as his voice. Through the vast area of the cathedral men and
women sat with faces upturned, like breathing statues, till the voice was h=
eard
again in clear low tones.
'Yet there is a pause- even as in =
the
days when Jerusalem was destroyed there was a pause^S that the children of =
God
might flee from it. There is a stillness before the storm: lo, there is
blackness above, but not a leaf quakes: the winds are stayed, that the voic=
e of
God's warning may be heard. Hear it now, O Florence, chosen city in the cho=
sen
land! Repent and forsake evil: do justice: love mercy: put away all unclean=
ness
from among you, that the spirit of truth and holiness may fill your souls a=
nd
breathe through all your streets and habitations, and then the pestilence s=
hall
not enter, and the sword shall pass over you and leave you unhurt.
'For the sword is hanging from the
sky; it is quivering; it is about to fall! The sword of God upon the earth,
swift and sudden! Did I not tell you, years ago, that I had beheld the visi=
on
and heard the voice? And behold, it is fulfilled! Is there not a king with =
his
army at your gates? Does not the earth shake with the tread of horses and t=
he
wheels of swift cannon? Is there not a fierce multitude that can lay bare t=
he
land as with a sharp razor? I tell you the French king with his army is the
minister of God: God shall guide him as the hand guides a sharp sickle, and=
the
joints of the wicked shall melt before him, and they shall be mowed down as
stubble: he that fleeth of them shall not flee away, and he that escapeth of
them shall not be delivered. And the tyrants who have made to themselves a
throne out of the vices of the multitude, and the unbelieving priests who
traffic in the souls of men and fill the very sanctuary with fornication, s=
hall
be hurled from their soft couches into burning hell; and the pagans and they
who sinned under the old covenant shall stand aloof and say: ‘Lo, the=
se
men have brought the stench of a new wickedness into the everlasting fire.&=
#8217;
'But thou, O Florence, take the
offered mercy. See! the Cross is held out to you: come and be healed. Which
among the nations of Italy has had a token like unto yours? The tyrant is
driven out from among you: the men who held a bribe in their left hand and a
rod in the right are gone forth, and no blood has been spilled. And now put
away every other abomination from among you, and you shall be strong enough=
in
the strength of the living God. Wash yourselves from the black pitch of your
vices, which have made you even as the heathens: put away the envy and hatr=
ed
that have made your city as a nest of wolves. And there shall no harm happe=
n to
you: and the passage of armies shall be to you as a flight of birds, and
rebellious Pisa shall be given to you again, and famine and pestilence shal=
l be
far from your gates, and you shall be as a beacon among the nations. But, m=
ark!
while you suffer the accursed thing to lie in the camp you shall be afflict=
ed
and tormented, even though a remnant among you may be saved.'
These admonitions and promises had
been spoken in an incisive tone of authority; but in the next sentence the
preacher's voice melted into a strain of entreaty.
'Listen, O people, over whom my he=
art
yearns, as the heart of a mother over the children she has travailed for! G=
od
is my witness that but for your sakes I would willingly live as a turtle in=
the
depths of the forest, singing low to my Beloved, who is mine and I am his. =
For
you I toil, for you I languish, for you my nights are spent in watching, an=
d my
soul melteth away for very heaviness. O Lord, thou knowest I am willing - I=
am
ready. Take me, stretch me on thy cross: let the wicked who delight in bloo=
d,
and rob the poor, and defile the temple of their bodies, and harden themsel=
ves
against thy mercy - let them wag their heads and shoot out the lip at me: l=
et
the thorns press upon my brow, and let my sweat be anguish - I desire to be
made like thee in thy great love. But let me see the fruit of my travail - =
let
this people be saved! Let me see them clothed in purity: let me hear their
voices rise in concord as the voices of the angels: let them see no wisdom =
but
in thy eternal law, no beauty but in holiness. Then they shall lead the way
before the nations, and the people from the four winds shall follow them, a=
nd
be gathered into the fold of the blessed. For it is thy will, O God, that t=
he
earth shall be converted unto thy law: it is thy will that wickedness shall
cease and love shall reign. Come, O blessed promise; and behold, I am willi=
ng -
lay me on the altar: let my blood flow and the fire consume me; but let my
witness be remembered among men, that iniquity shall not prosper for ever.'=
During the last appeal, Savonarola=
had
stretched out his arms and lifted up his eyes to heaven; his strong voice h=
ad
alternately trembled with emotion and risen again in renewed energy; but the
passion with which he offered himself as a victim became at last too strong=
to
allow of further speech, and he ended in a sob. Every changing tone, vibrat=
ing
through the audience, shook them into answering emotion. There were plenty
among them who had very moderate faith in the Frate's prophetic mission, and
who in their cooler moments loved him little; nevertheless, they too were
carried along by the great wave of feeling which gathered its force from
sympathies that lay deeper than all theory. A loud responding sob rose at o=
nce
from the wide multitude, while Savonarola had fallen on his knees and buried
his face in his mantle. He felt in that moment the rapture and glory of
martyrdom without its agony.
In that great sob of the multitude
Baldassarre's had mingled. Among all the human beings present, there was
perhaps not one whose frame vibrated more strongly than his to the tones and
words of the preacher; but it had vibrated like a harp of which all the str=
ings
had been wrenched away except one. That threat of a fiery inexorable vengea=
nce
- of a future into which the hated sinner might be pursued and held by the
avenger in an eternal grapple, had come to him like the promise of an
unquenchable fountain to unquenchable thirst. The doctrines of the sages, t=
he
old contempt for priestly superstitions, had fallen away from his soul like=
a
forgotten language: if he could have remembered them, what answer could they
have given to his great need like the answer given by this voice of energet=
ic
conviction? The thunder of denunciation fell on his passion-wrought nerves =
with
all the force of self-evidence: his thought never went beyond it into quest=
ions
- he was possessed by it as the war-horse is possessed by the clash of soun=
ds.
No word that was not a threat touched his consciousness- he had no fibre to=
be
thrilled by it. But the fierce exultant delight to which he was moved by the
idea of perpetual vengeance found at once a climax and a relieving outburst=
in
the preacher's words of self-sacrifice. To Baldassarre those words only bro=
ught
the vague triumphant sense that he too was devoting himself - signing with =
his
own blood the deed by which he gave himself over to an unending fire, that
would seem but coolness to his burning hatred.
'I rescued him - I cherished him -=
if
I might clutch his heart-strings for ever! Come, O blessed promise! Let my
blood flow; let the fire consume me!'
The one cord vibrated to its utmos=
t.
Baldassarre clutched his own palms, driving his long nails into them, and b=
urst
into a sob with the rest.
While Baldassarre was possessed by=
the
voice of Savonarola, he had not noticed that another man had entered through
the doorway behind him, and stood not far off observing him. It was Piero di
Cosimo, who took no heed of the preaching, having come solely to look at the
escaped prisoner. During the pause, in which the preacher and his audience =
had
given themselves up to inarticulate emotion, the new-comer advanced and tou=
ched
Baldassarre on the arm. He looked round with the tears still slowly rolling
down his face, but with a vigorous sigh, as if he had done with that outbur=
st.
The painter spoke to him in a low tone -
'Shall I cut your cords for you? I
have heard how you were made prisoner.'
Baldassarre did not reply immediat=
ely;
he glanced suspiciously at the officious stranger. At last he said, 'If you
will.'
'Better come outside,' said Piero.=
Baldassarre again looked at him
suspiciously; and Piero, partly guessing his thought, smiled, took out a kn=
ife,
and cut the cords. He began to think that the idea of the prisoner's madness
was not improbable, there was something so peculiar in the expression of his
face. 'Well,' he thought, 'if he does any mischief, he'll soon get tied up
again. The poor devil shall have a chance, at least.'
'You are afraid of me,' he said ag=
ain,
in an undertone; 'you don't want to tell me anything about yourself.'
Baldassarre was folding his arms in
enjoyment of the long-absent muscular sensation. He answered Piero with a l=
ess
suspicious look and a tone which had some quiet decision in it.
'No, I have nothing to tell.'
'As you please,' said Piero, 'but
perhaps you want shelter, and may not know how hospitable we Florentines ar=
e to
visitors with torn doublets and empty stomachs. There's an hospital for poor
travellers outside all our gates, and, if you liked, I could put you in the=
way
to one. There's no danger from your French soldier. He has been sent off.' =
Baldassarre nodded, and turned in
silent acceptance of the offer, and he and Piero left the church together. =
'You wouldn't like to sit to me for
your portrait, should you?' said Piero, as they went along the Via dell'
Oriuolo, on the way to the gate of Santa Croce. 'I am a painter: I would gi=
ve
you money to get your portrait.'
The suspicion returned into
Baldassarre's glance, as he looked at Piero, and said decidedly, 'No.'
'Ah!' said the painter, curtly. 'W=
ell,
go straight on, and you'll find the Porta Santa Croce, and outside it there=
's
an hospital for travellers. So you'll not accept any service from me?'
'I give you thanks for what you ha=
ve
done already. I need no more.'
'It is well,' said Piero, with a
shrug, and they turned away from each other.
'A mysterious old tiger' thought t=
he
artist, 'well worth painting. Ugly - with deep lines - looking as if the pl=
ough
and the harrow had gone over his heart. A fine contrast to my bland and smi=
ling
Messer Greco - my Bacco trionfante,' who has married the fair Antigone in
contradiction to all history and fitness. Aha! his scholar's blood curdled
uncomfortably at the old fellow's clutch! '
When Piero re-entered the Piazza d=
el
Duomo the multitude who had been listening to Fra Girolamo were pouring out
from all the doors, and the haste they made to go on their several ways was=
a
proof how important they held the preaching which had detained them from the
other occupations of the day. The artist leaned against an angle of the
Baptistery and watched the departing crowd, delighting in the variety of the
garb and of the keen characteristic faces - faces such as Masaccio had pain=
ted
more than fifty years before: such as Domenico Ghirlandajo had not yet quite
left off painting.
This morning was a peculiar occasi=
on,
and the Frate's audience, always multifarious, had represented even more
completely than usual the various classes and political parties of Florence.
There were men of high birth, accustomed to public charges at home and abro=
ad,
who had become newly conspicuous not only as enemies of the Medici and frie=
nds
of popular government, but as thorough Piagnoni, espousing to the utmost the
doctrines and practical teaching of the Frate, and frequenting San Marco as=
the
seat of another Samuel: some of them men of authoritati6e and handsome pres=
ence,
like Francesco Valori, and perhaps also of a hot and arrogant temper, very =
much
gratified by an immediate divine authority for bringing about freedom in th=
eir
own way; others, like Soderini, with less of the ardent Piagnone, and more =
of
the wise politician. There were men, also of family, like Piero Capponi, si=
mply
brave undoctrinal lovers of a sober republican liberty, who preferred fight=
ing
to arguing, and had no particular reasons for thinking any ideas false that
kept out the Medici and made room for public spirit. At their elbows were
doctors of law whose studies of Accursius and his brethren had not so entir=
ely
consumed their ardour as to prevent them from becoming enthusiastic Piagnon=
i:
Messer Luca Corsini himself, for example, who on a memorable occasion yet to
come was to raise his learned arms in street stone-throwing for the cause of
religion, freedom, and the Frate. And among the dignities who carried their
black lucco or furred mantle with an air of habitual authority, there was an
abundant sprinkling of men with more contemplative and sensitive faces:
scholars inheriting such high names as Strozzi and Acciajoli, who were alre=
ady
minded to take the cowl and join the community of San Marco; artists, wroug=
ht
to a new and higher ambition by the teaching of Savonarola, like that young
painter who had lately surpassed himself in his fresco of the divine child =
on
the wall of the Frate's bare cell - unconscious yet that he would one day
himself wear the tonsure and the cowl, and be called Fra Bartolommeo. There=
was
the mystic poet Girolamo Benevieni hastening, perhaps, to carry tidings of =
the
beloved Frate's speedy coming to his friend Pico della Mirandola, who was n=
ever
to see the light of another morning. There were well-born women attired wit=
h such
scrupulous plainness that their more refined grace was the chief distinction
between them and their less aristocratic sisters. There was a predominant
proportion of the genuine popolani or middle class, belonging both to the M=
ajor
and Minor Arts, conscious of purses threatened by war-taxes. And more strik=
ing
and various, perhaps, than all the other classes of the Frate's disciples,
there was the long stream of poorer tradesmen and artisans, whose faith and
hope in his Divine message varied from the rude and undiscriminating trust =
in
him as the friend of the poor and the enemy of the luxurious oppressive ric=
h,
to that eager tasting of all the subtleties of biblical interpretation which
takes a peculiarly strong hold on the sedentary artisan, illuminating the l=
ong
dim spaces beyond the board where he stitches, with a pale flame that seems=
to
him the light of Divine science.
But among these various disciples =
of
the Frate were scattered many who were not in the least his disciples. Some
were Mediceans who had already, from motives of fear and policy, begun to s=
how
the presiding spirit of the popular party a feigned deference. Others were
sincere advocates of a free government, but regarded Savonarola simply as an
ambitious monk - half sagacious, half fanatical - who had made himself a
powerful instrument with the people, and must be accepted as an important
social fact. There were even some of his bitter enemies: members of the old
aristocratic anti-Medicean party - determined to try and get the reins once=
more
tight in the hands of certain chief families; or else licentious young men,=
who
detested him as the killjoy of Florence. For the sermons in the Duomo had
already become political incidents, attracting the ears of curiosity and
malice, as well as of faith. The men of ideas, like young Niccolo Macchiave=
lli,
went to observe and write reports to friends away in country villas; the me=
n of
appetites, like Dolfo Spini, bent on hunting down the Frate, as a public
nuisance who made game scarce, went to feed their hatred and lie in wait for
grounds of accusation.
Perhaps, while no preacher ever ha=
d a
more massive influence than Savonarola, no preacher ever had more heterogen=
eous
materials to work upon. And one secret of the massive influence lay in the
highly mixed character of his preaching. Baldassarre, wrought into an ecsta=
sy
of self-martyring revenge, was only an extreme case among the partial and
narrow sympathies of that audience. In Savonarola's preaching there were
strains that appealed to the very finest susceptibilities of men's natures,=
and
there were elements that gratified low egoism, tickled gossiping curiosity,=
and
fascinated timorous superstition. His need of personal predominance, his
labyrinthine allegorical interpretations of the Scriptures, his enigmatic
visions, and his false certitude about the Divine intentions, never ceased,=
in
his own large soul, to be ennobled by that fervid piety, that passionate se=
nse
of the infinite, that active sympathy, that clear-sighted demand for the
subjection of selfish interests to the general good, which he had in common
with the greatest of mankind. But for the mass of his audience all the
pregnancy of his preaching lay in his strong assertion of supernatural clai=
ms,
in his denunciatory visions, in the false certitude which gave his sermons =
the
interest of a political bulletin; and having once held that audience in his
mastery, it was necessary to his nature - it was necessary for their welfar=
e -
that he should keep the mastery. The effect was inevitable. No man ever
struggled to retain power over a mixed multitude without suffering vitiatio=
n;
his standard must be their lower needs and not his own best insight.
The mysteries of human character h=
ave
seldom been presented in a way more fitted to check the judgments of facile
knowingness than in Girolamo Savonarola; but we can give him a reverence th=
at
needs no shutting of the eyes to fact, if we regard his life as a drama in
which there were great inward modifications accompanying the outward change=
s.
And up to this period, when his more direct action on political affairs had
only just begun, it is probable that his imperious need of ascendancy had
burned undiscernibly in the strong flame of his zeal for God and man.
It was the fashion of old, when an=
ox
was led out for sacrifice to Jupiter, to chalk the dark spots, and give the
offering a false show of unblemished whiteness. Let us fling away the chalk,
and boldly say, - the victim is spotted, but it is not therefore in vain th=
at
his mighty heart is laid on the altar of men's highest hopes.
At six o'clock that evening most
people in Florence were glad the entrance of the new Charlemagne was fairly
over. Doubtless when the roll of drums, the blast of trumpets, and the tram=
p of
horses along the Pisan road began to mingle with the pealing of the excited
bells, it was a grand moment for those who were stationed on turreted roofs,
and could see the long-winding terrible pomp on the background of the green
hills and valley. There was no sunshine to light up the splendour of banner=
s,
and spears, and plumes, and silken surcoats, but there was no thick cloud of
dust to hide it, and as the picked troops advanced into close view, they co=
uld
be seen all the more distinctly for the absence of dancing glitter. Tall and
tough Scotch archers, Swiss halberdiers fierce and ponderous, nimble Gascons
ready to wheel and climb, cavalry in which each man looked like a knight-er=
rant
with his indomitable spear and charger - it was satisfactory to be assured =
that
they would injure nobody but the enemies of God! With that confidence at he=
art
it was a less dubious pleasure to look at the array of strength and splendo=
ur
in nobles and knights, and youthful pages of choice lineage - at the bossed=
and
jewelled sword-hilts, at the satin scarfs embroidered with strange symbolic=
al
devices of pious or gallant meaning, at the gold chains and jewelled aigret=
tes,
at the gorgeous horse-trappings and brocaded mantles and at the transcendent
canopy carried by select youths above the head of the Most Christian King. =
To
sum up with an old diarist, whose spelling and diction halted a little behi=
nd
the wonders of this royal visit, - 'fu gran magnificenza.'
But for the Signoria, who had been
waiting on their platform against the gates, and had to march out at the ri=
ght
moment, with their orator in front of them, to meet the mighty guest, the
grandeur of the scene had been somewhat screened by unpleasant sensations. =
If
Messer Luca Corsini could have had a brief Latin welcome depending from his
mouth in legible characters, it would have been less confusing when the rain
came on, and created an impatience in men and horses that broke off the
delivery of his well-studied periods, and reduced the representatives of the
scholarly city to offer a makeshift welcome in impromptu French. But that
sudden confusion had created a great opportunity for Tito. As one of the
secretaries he was among the officials who were stationed behind the Signor=
ia,
and with whom these highest dignities were promiscuously thrown when pressed
upon by the horses.
'Somebody step forward and say a f=
ew
words in French,' said Soderini. But no one of high importance chose to ris=
k a
second failure. 'You, Francesco Gaddi - you can speak.' But Gaddi, distrust=
ing
his own promptness, hung back, and pushing Tito, said, 'You, Melema.'
Tito stepped forward in an instant,
and, with the air of profound deference that came as naturally to him as
walking, said the few needful words in the name of the Signoria; then gave =
way
gracefully, and let the king pass on. His presence of mind, which had failed
him in the terrible crisis of the morning, had been a ready instrument this
time. It was an excellent livery servant that never forsook him when danger=
was
not visible. But when he was complimented on his opportune service, he laug=
hed
it off as a thing of no moment, and to those who had not witnessed it, let
Gaddi have the credit of the improvised welcome. No wonder Tito was popular:
the touchstone by which men try us is most often their own vanity.
Other things besides the oratorical
welcome had turned out rather worse than had been expected. If everything h=
ad
happened according to ingenious preconceptions, the Florentine procession of
clergy and laity would not have found their way choked up and been obliged =
to
take a make-shift course through the back streets, so as to meet the king at
the Cathedral only. Also, if the young monarch under the canopy, seated on =
his
charger with his lance upon his thigh, had looked more like a Charlemagne a=
nd less
like a hastily modelled grotesque, the imagination of his admirers would ha=
ve
been much assisted. It might have been wished that the scourge of Italian
wickedness and 'Champion of the honour of women' had had a less miserable l=
eg,
and only the normal sum of toes; that his mouth had been of a less reptilian
width of slit, his nose and head of a less exorbitant outline. But the thin=
leg
rested on cloth of gold and pearls, and the face was only an interruption o=
f a
few square inches in the midst of black velvet and gold, and the blaze of
rubies, and the brilliant tints of the embroidered and bepearled canopy, - =
'fu
gran magnificenza.'
And the people had cried Francia,
Francia! with an enthusiasm proportioned to the splendour of the canopy whi=
ch
they had torn to pieces as their spoil, according to immemorial custom; roy=
al
lips had duly kissed the altar; and after all mischances the royal person a=
nd
retinue were lodged in the Palace of the Via Larga, the rest of the nobles =
and
gentry were dispersed among the great houses of Florence, and the terrible
soldiery were encamped in the Prato and other open quarters. The business of
the day was ended.
But the streets still presented a
surprising aspect, such as Florentines had not seen before under the Novemb=
er
stars. Instead of a gloom unbroken except by a lamp burning feebly here and
there before a saintly image at the street corners, or by a stream of redder
light from an open doorway, there were lamps suspended at the windows of all
houses, so that men could walk along no less securely and commodiously than=
by
day, - 'fu gran magnificenza.'
Along those illuminated streets Ti=
to
Melema was walking at about eight o'clock in the evening, on his way homewa=
rd.
He had been exerting himself throughout the day under the pressure of hidden
anxieties, and had at last made his escape unnoticed from the midst of
after-supper gaiety. Once at leisure thoroughly to face and consider his
circumstances, he hoped that he could so adjust himself to them and to all
probabilities as to get rid of his childish fear. If he had only not been
wanting in the presence of mind necessary to recognise Baldassarre under th=
at
surprise! - it would have been happier for him on all accounts; for he still
winced under the sense that he was deliberately inflicting suffering on his
father: he would very much have preferred that Baldassarre should be prospe=
rous
and happy. But he had left himself no second path now: there could be no
conflict any longer: the only thing he had to do was to take care of himsel=
f.
While these thoughts were in his m=
ind
he was advancing from the Piazza di Santa Croce along the Via dei Benci, an=
d as
he neared the angle turning into the Borgo Santa Croce his ear was struck b=
y a
music which was not that of evening revelry, but of vigorous labour - the m=
usic
of the anvil. Tito gave a slight start and quickened his pace, for the soun=
ds
had suggested a welcome thought. He knew that they came from the workshop of
Niccolo Caparra, famous resort of all Florentines who cared for curious and
beautiful iron-work.
'What makes the giant at work so
late?' thought Tito. 'But so much the better for me. I can do that little b=
it
of business to-night instead of to-morrow morning.'
Preoccupied as he was, he could not
help pausing a moment in admiration as he came in front of the workshop. The
wide doorway, standing at the truncated angle of a great block or 'isle' of
houses, was surmounted by a loggia roofed with fluted tiles, and supported =
by
stone columns with roughly carved capitals. Against the red light framed in=
by
the outline of the fluted tiles and columns stood in black relief the grand
figure of Niccolo, with his huge arms in rhythmic rise and fall, first hidi=
ng
and then disclosing the profile of his firm mouth and powerful brow. Two sl=
ighter
ebony figures, one at the anvil, the other at the bellows, served to set off
his superior massiveness.
Tito darkened the doorway with a v=
ery
different outline standing in silence, since it was useless to speak until
Niccolo should deign to pause and notice him. That was not until the smith =
had
beaten the head of an axe to the due sharpness of edge and dismissed it from
his anvil. But in the meantime Tito had satisfied himself by a glance round=
the
shop that the object of which he was in search had not disappeared.
Niccolo gave an unceremonious but
good-humoured nod as he turned from the anvil and rested his hammer on his =
hip.
'What is it, Messer Tito? Business=
?'
'Assuredly, Niccolo; else I should=
not
have ventured to interrupt you when you are working out of hours, since I t=
ake
that as a sign that your work is pressing.'
'I've been at the same work all da=
y -
making axes and spear-heads. And every fool that has passed my shop has put=
his
pumpkin-head in to say, ‘Niccolo, wilt thou not come and see the King=
of
France and his soldiers?’ and I've answered, ‘No: I don't want =
to
see their faces - I want to see their backs.’ '
'Are you making arms for the citiz=
ens,
then, Niccolo, that they may have something better than rusty scythes and s=
pits
in case of an uproar?'
'We shall see. Arms are good, and
Florence is likely to want them. The Frate tells us we shall get Pisa again,
and I hold with the Frate; but I should be glad to know how the promise is =
to
be fulfilled, if we don't get plenty of good weapons forged? The Frate sees=
a
long way before him; that I believe. But he doesn't see birds caught with
winking at them, as some of our people try to make out. He sees sense, and =
not
nonsense. But you're a bit of a Medicean, Messer Tito Melema. Ebbene! so I'=
ve
been myself in my time, before the cask began to run sour. What's your
business?'
'Simply to know the price of that = fine coat of mail I saw hanging up here the other day. I want to buy it for a certain personage who needs a protection of that sort under his doublet.' <= o:p>
'Let him come and buy it himself,
then,' said Niccolo, bluntly. 'I'm rather nice about what I sell, and whom I
sell to. I like to know who's my customer.'
'I know your scruples, Niccolo. But
that is only defensive armour: it can hurt nobody.'
'True: but it may make the man who wears it feel himself all the safer if he should want to hurt somebody. No,= no; it's not my own work; but it's fine work of Maso of Brescia; I should be lo= th for it to cover the heart of a scoundrel. I must know who is to wear it.' <= o:p>
'Well, then, to be plain with you,
Niccolo mio, I want it myself,' said Tito, knowing it was useless to try
persuasion. 'The fact is, I am likely to have a journey to take - and you k=
now
what journeying is in these times. You don't suspect me of treason against =
the
Republic?'
'No, I know no harm of you,' said
Niccolo, in his blunt way again. 'But have you the money to pay for the coa=
t?
For you've passed my shop often enough to know my sign: you've seen the bur=
ning
account-books. I trust nobody. The price is twenty florins, and that's beca=
use
it's second-hand. You're not likely to have so much money with you. Let it =
be
till to-morrow.'
'I happen to have the money,' said
Tito, who had been winning at play the day before, and had not emptied his =
purse.
'I'll carry the armour home with me.'
Niccolo reached down the finely
wrought coat, which fell together into little more than two handfuls.
'There, then,' he said, when the
florins had been told down on his palm. 'Take the coat. It's made to cheat =
sword,
or poniard, or arrow. But, for my part, I would never put such a thing on. =
It's
like carrying fear about with one.'
Niccolo's words had an unpleasant
intensity of meaning for Tito. But he smiled and said -
'Ah, Niccolo, we scholars are all
cowards. Handling the pen doesn't thicken the arm as your hammer-wielding d=
oes.
Addio!'
He folded the armour under his man=
tle,
and hastened across the Ponte Rubaconte.
While Tito was hastening across the
bridge with the new-bought armour under his mantle, Romola was pacing up and
down the old library, thinking of him and longing for his return.
It was but a few fair faces that h=
ad
not looked forth from windows that day to see the entrance of the French ki=
ng
and his nobles. One of the few was Romola's. She had been present at no
festivities since her father had died - died quite suddenly in his chair, t=
hree
months before.
'Is not Tito coming to write?' he =
had
said, when the bell had long ago sounded the usual hour in the evening. He =
had
not asked before, from dread of a negative; but Romola had seen by his
listening face and restless movements that nothing else was in his mind.
'No, father, he had to go to a sup=
per
at the cardinal's: you know he is wanted so much by every one,' she answere=
d,
in a tone of gentle excuse.
'Ah I then perhaps he will bring s=
ome
positive word about the library; the cardinal promised last week,' said Bar=
do,
apparently pacified by this hope.
He was silent a little while; then,
suddenly flushing, he said -
'I must go on without him, Romola.=
Get
the pen. He has brought me no new text to comment on; but I must say what I
want to say about the New Platonists. I shall die and nothing will have been
done. Make haste, my Romola.'
'I am ready, father,' she said, the
next minute, holding the pen in her hand.
But there was silence. Romola took=
no
note of this for a little while, accustomed to pauses in dictation; and whe=
n at
last she looked round inquiringly, there was no change of attitude.
'I am quite ready, father!'
Still Bardo was silent, and his
silence was never again broken.
Romola looked back on that hour wi=
th
some indignation against herself, because even with the first outburst of h=
er
sorrow there had mingled the irrepressible thought, 'Perhaps my life with T=
ito
will be more perfect now.'
For the dream of a triple life wit=
h an
undivided sum of happiness had not been quite fulfilled. The rainbow-tinted
shower of sweets, to have been perfectly typical, should have had some
invisible seeds of bitterness mingled with them; the crowned Ariadne, under=
the
snowing roses, had felt more and more the presence of unexpected thorns. It=
was
not Tito's fault, Romola had continually assured herself. He was still all
gentleness to her, and to her father also. But it was in the nature of thin=
gs -
she saw it clearly now - it was in the nature of things that no one but her=
self
could go on month after month, and year after year, fulfilling patiently all
her father's monotonous exacting demands. Even she, whose sympathy with her
father had made all the passion and religion of her young years, had not al=
ways
been patient, had been inwardly very rebellious. It was true that before th=
eir
marriage, and even for some time after, Tito had seemed more unwearying than
herself; but then, of course, the effort had the ease of novelty. We assume=
a
load with confident readiness, and up to a cettain point the growing
irksomeness of pressure is tolerable: but at last the desire for relief can=
no
longer be resisted. Romola said to herself that she had been very foolish a=
nd
ignorant in her girlish time: she was wiser now, and would make no unfair
demands on the man to whom she had given her best woman's love and worship.=
The
breath of sadness that still cleaved to her lot while she saw her father mo=
nth
after month sink from elation into new disappointment as Tito gave him less=
and
less of his time, and made bland excuses for not continuing his own share of
the joint work - that sadness was no fault of Tito's, she said, but rather =
of
their inevitable destiny. If he stayed less and less with her, why, that was
because they could hardly ever be alone. His caresses were no less tender: =
if
she pleaded timidly on any one evening that he should stay with her father
instead of going to another engagement which was not peremptory, he excused
himself with such charming gaiety, he seemed to linger about her with such =
fond
playfulness before he could quit her, that she could only feel a little
heartache in the midst of her love, and then go to her father and try to so=
ften
his vexation and disappointment. But all the while inwardly her imagination=
was
busy trying to see how Tito could be as good as she had thought he was, and=
yet
find it impossible to sacrifice those pleasures of society which were
necessarily more vivid to a bright creature like him than to the common run=
of
men. She herself would have liked more gaiety, more admiration: it was true,
she gave it up willingly for her father's sake - she would have given up mu=
ch
more than that for the sake even of a slight wish on Tito's part. It was cl=
ear
that their natures differed widely; but perhaps it was no more than the
inherent difference between man and woman, that made her affections more
absorbing. If there were any other difference she tried to persuade herself
that the inferiority was on her side. Tito was really kinder than she was,
better tempered, less proud and resentful; he had no angry retorts, he met =
all
complaints with perfect sweetness; he only escaped as quietly as he could f=
rom
things that were unpleasant.
It belongs to every large nature, =
when
it is not under the immediate power of some strong unquestioning emotion, to
suspect itself, and doubt the truth of its own impressions, conscious of
possibilities beyond its own horizon. And Romola was urged to doubt herself=
the
more by the necessity of interpreting her disappointment in her life with T=
ito
so as to satisfy at once her love and her pride. Disappointment? Yes, there=
was
no other milder word that would tell the truth. Perhaps all women had to su=
ffer
the disappointment of ignorant hopes, if she only knew their experience. St=
ill,
there had been something peculiar in her lot: her relation to her father had
claimed unusual sacrifices from her husband. Tito had once thought that his
love would make those sacrifices easy; his love had not been great enough f=
or
that. She was not justified in resenting a self-delusion. No! resentment mu=
st
not rise: all endurance seemed easy to Romola rather than a state of mind in
which she would admit to herself that Tito acted unworthily. If she had fel=
t a
new heartache in the solitary hours with her father through the last months=
of
his life, it had been by no inexcusable fault of her husband's; and now - it
was a hope that would make its presence felt even in the first moments when=
her
father's place was empty - there was no longer any importunate claim to div=
ide
her from Tito; their young lives would flow in one current, and their true
marriage would begin.
But the sense of something like gu=
ilt
towards her father in a hope that grew out of his death, gave all the more
force to the anxiety with which she dwelt on the means of fulfilling his
supreme wish. That piety towards his memory was all the atonement she could
make now for a thought that seemed akin to joy at his loss. The laborious
simple life, pure from vulgar corrupting ambitions, embittered by the
frusuation of the dearest hopes, imprisoned at last in total darkness - a l=
ong
seed time without a harvest - was at an end now, and all that remained of i=
t besides
the tablet in Santa Croce and the unfinished commentary on Tito's text, was=
the
collection of manuscripts and antiquities, the fruit of half a century's to=
il
and frugality. The fulfilment of her father's lifelong ambition about this
library was a sacramental obligation for Romola.
The precious relic was safe from
creditors, for when the deficit towards their payment had been ascertained,
Bernardo del Nero, though he was far from being among the wealthiest
Florentines, had advanced the necessary sum of about a thousand florins - a
large sum in those days - ac- cepting a lien on the collection as a securit=
y.
'The State will repay me,' he had =
said
to Romola, making light of the service, which had really cost him some
inconvenience. 'If the cardinal finds a building, as he seems to say he wil=
l,
our Signoria may consent to do the rest. I have no children, I can afford t=
he
risk.'
But within the last ten days all h=
opes
in the Medici had come to an end: and the famous Medicean collections in the
Via Larga were themselves in danger of dispersion. French agents had already
begun to see that such very fine antique gems as Lorenzo had collected belo=
nged
by right to the first nation in Europe; and the Florentine State, which had=
got
possession of the Medicean library, was likely to be glad of a customer for=
it.
With a war to recover Pisa hanging over it, and with the certainty of havin=
g to
pay large subsidies to the French king, the State was likely to prefer mone=
y to
manuscripts.
To Romola these grave political ch=
anges
had gathered their chief interest from their bearing on the fulfilment of h=
er
father's wish. She had been brought up in learned seclusion from the intere=
sts
of actual life, and had been accustomed to think of heroic deeds and great
principles as something antithetic to the vulgar present, of the Pnyx and t=
he
Forum as something more worthy of attention than the councils of living
Florentine men. And now the expulsion of the Medici meant little more for h=
er
than the extinction of her best hope about her father's library. The times,=
she
knew, were unpleasant for friends of the Medici, like her godfather and Tit=
o:
superstitious shopkeepers and the stupid rabble were full of suspicions; but
her new keen interest in public events, in the outbreak of war, in the issu=
e of
the French king's visit, in the changes that were likely to happen in the
State, was kindled solely by the sense of love and duty to her father's mem=
ory,
All Romola's ardour had been concentrated in her affections. Her share in h=
er
father's learned pursuits had been for her little more than a toil which was
borne for his sake; and Tito's airy brilliant faculty had no attraction for=
her
that was not merged in the deeper sympathies that belong to young love and
trust. Romola had had contact with no mind that could stir the larger
possibilities of her nature; they lay folded and crushed like embryonic win=
gs,
making no element in her consciousness beyond an occasional vague uneasines=
s.
But this new personal interest of =
hers
in public affairs had made her care at last to understand precisely what
influence Fra Girolamo's preaching was likely to have on the turn of events.
Changes in the form of the State were talked of, and all she could learn fr=
om
Tito, whose secretaryship and serviceable talents carried him into the hear=
t of
public business, made her only the more eager to fill out her lonely day by
going to hear for herself what it was that was just now leading all Florenc=
e by
the ears. This morning, for the first time, she had been to hear one of the
Advent sermons in the Duomo. When Tito had left her, she had formed a sudden
resolution, and after visiting the spot where her father was buried in Santa
Croce, had walked on to the Duomo. The memory of that last scene with Dino =
was
still vivid within her whenever she recalled it, but it had receded behind =
the
experience and anxieties of her married life. The new sensibilities and
questions which it had half awakened in her were quieted again by that
subjection to her husband's mind which is felt by every wife who loves her
husband with passionate devotedness and full reliance. She remembered the
effect of Fra Girolamo's voice and presence on her as a ground for expecting
that his sermon might move her in spite of his being a narrow-minded monk. =
But
the sermon did no more than slightly deepen her previous impression, that t=
his
fanatical preacher of tribulations was after all a man towards whom it migh=
t be
possible for her to feel personal regard and reverence. The denunciations a=
nd
exhortations simply arrested her attention. She felt no terror, no pangs of
conscience: it was the roll of distant thunder, that seemed grand, but could
not shake her. But when she heard Savonarola invoke martyrdom, she sobbed w=
ith
the rest: she felt herself penetrated with a new sensation - a strange symp=
athy
with something apart from all the definable interests of her life. It was n=
ot
altogether unlike the thrill which had accompanied certain rare heroic touc=
hes
in history and poetry; but the resemblance was as that between the memory of
music, and the sense of being possessed by actual vibrating harmonies.
But that transient emotion, strong=
as
it was, seemed to lie quite outside the inner chamber and sanctuary of her
life. She was not thinking of Fra Girolamo now; she was listening anxiously=
for
the step of her husband. During these three months of their double solitude=
she
had thought of each day as an epoch in which their union might begin to be =
more
perfect. She was conscious of being sometimes a little too sad or too urgen=
t about
what concerned her father's memory - a little too critical or coldly silent
when Tito narrated the things that were said and done in the world he
frequented - a little too hasty in suggesting that by living quite simply as
her father had done, they might become rich enough to pay Bernardo del Nero,
and reduce the difficulties about the library. It was not possible that Tito
could feel so strongly on this last point as she did, and it was asking a g=
reat
deal from him to give up luxuries for which he really laboured. The next ti=
me
Tito came home she would be careful to suppress all those promptings that
seemed to isolate her from him. Romola was labouring, as a loving woman mus=
t,
to subdue her nature to her husband's. The great need of her heart compelled
her to strangle, with desperate resolution, every rising impulse of suspici=
on,
pride, and resentment; she felt equal to any self-infliction that would save
her from ceasing to love. That would have been like the hideous nightmare in
which the world had seemed to break away all round her, and leave her feet
overhanging the darkness. Romola had never distinctly imagined such a future
for herself; she was only beginning to feel the presence of effort in that
clinging trust which had once been mere repose.
She waited and listened long, for =
Tito
had not come straight home after leaving Niccolo Caparra, and it was more t=
han
two hours after the time when he was crossing the Ponte Rubaconte that Romo=
la
heard the great door of the court turning on its hinges, and hastened to the
head of the stone steps. There was a lamp hanging over the stairs, and they
could see each other distinctly as he ascended. The eighteen months had
produced a more definable change in Romola's face than in Tito's; the
expression was more subdued, less cold, and more beseeching, and, as the pi=
nk
flush overspread her face now, in her joy that the long waiting was at an e=
nd,
she was much lovelier than on the day when Tito had first seen her. On that
day, any on-looker would have said that Romola's nature was made to command,
and Tito's to bend; yet now Romola's mouth was quivering a little, and there
was some timidity in her glance.
He made an effort to smile, as she
said -
'My Tito, you are tired; it has be=
en a
fatiguing day: is it not true?'
Maso was there, and no more was sa=
id
until they had crossed the ante-chamber and closed the door of the library
behind them. The wood was burning brightly on the great dogs; that was one
welcome for Tito, late as he was, and Romola's gentle voice was another.
He just turned and kissed her when=
she
took off his mantle; then he went towards a high-backed chair placed for him
near the fire, threw himself into it, and flung away his cap, saying, not
peevishly, but in a fatigued tone of remonstrance, as he gave a slight shud=
der
-
'Romola, I wish you would give up
sitting in this library. Surely our own rooms are pleasanter in this chill
weather.'
Romola felt hurt. She had never se=
en
Tito so indifferent in his manner; he was usually full of lively solicitous=
attention.
And she had thought so much of his return to her after the long day's absen=
ce!
He must be very weary.
'I wonder you have forgotten, Tito=
,'
she answered, looking at him anxiously, as if she wanted to read an excuse =
for
him in the signs of bodily fatigue. 'You know I am making the catalogue on =
the
new plan that my father wished for; you have not time to help me, so I must
work at it closely.'
Tito, instead of meeting Romola's
glance, closed his eyes and rubbed his hands over his face and hair. He fel=
t he
was behaving unlike himself, but he would make amends tomorrow. The terrible
resurrection of secret fears, which, if Romola had known them, would have
alienated her from him for ever, caused him to feel an alienation already b=
egun
between them - caused him to feel a certain repulsion towards a woman from
whose mind he was in danger. The feeling had taken hold of him unawares, an=
d he
was vexed with himself for behaving in this new cold way to her. He could n=
ot
suddenly command any affectionate looks or words; he could only exert himse=
lf
to say what might serve as an excuse.
'I am not well, Romola; you must n=
ot
be surprised if I am peevish.'
'Ah, you have had so much to tire =
you
to-day,' said Romola, kneeling down close to him, and laying her arm on his
chest while she put his hair back caressingly.
Suddenly she drew her arm away wit=
h a
start, and a gaze of alarmed inquiry.
'What have you got under your tuni=
c,
Tito? Something as hard as iron.'
'It is iron - it is chain-armour,'=
he
said at once. He was prepared for the surprise and the question, and he spo=
ke
quietly, as of something that he was not hurried to explain.
'There was some unexpected danger
to-day, then?' said Romola, in a tone of conjecture. 'You had it lent to you
for the procession?'
'No; it is my own. I shall be obli=
ged
to wear it constantly, for some time.'
'What is it that threatens you, my
Tito?' said Romola, looking terrified, and clinging to him again.
'Every one is threatened in these
times, who is not a rabid enemy of the Medici. Don't look distressed, my Ro=
mola
- this armour will make me safe against covert attacks.'
Tito put his hand on her neck and
smiled. This little dialogue about the armour had broken through the new cr=
ust,
and made a channel for the sweet habit of kindness.
'But my godfather, then,' said Rom=
ola;
'is not he, too, in danger? And he takes no precautions - ought he not? sin=
ce
he must surely be in more danger than you, who have so little influence
compared with him.'
'It is just because I am less impo=
rtant
that I am in more danger,' said Tito, readily. 'I am suspected constantly of
being an envoy. And men like Messer Bernardo are protected by their position
and their extensive family connections, which spread among all parties, whi=
le I
am a Greek that nobody would avenge.'
'But, Tito, is it a fear of some
particular person, or only a vague sense of danger, that has made you think=
of
wearing this?' Romola was unable to repel the idea of a degrading fear in T=
ito,
which mingled itself with her anxiety.
'I have had special threats,' said
Tito, 'but I must beg you to be silent on the subject, my Romola. I shall
consider that you have broken my confidence, if you mention it to your
godfather.'
'Assuredly I will not mention it,'
said Romola, blushing, 'if you wish it to be a secret. But, dearest Tito,' =
she
added, after a moment's pause, in a tone of loving anxiety, 'it will make y=
ou
very wretched.'
'What will make me wretched?' he s=
aid,
with a scarcely perceptible movement across his face, as from some darting =
sensation.
'This fear - this heavy armour. I
can't help shuddering as I feel it under my arm. I could fancy it a story of
enchantment - that some malignant fiend had changed your sensitive human sk=
in
into a hard shell. It seems so unlike my bright, light-hearted Tito!'
'Then you would rather have your
husband exposed to danger, when he leaves you?' said Tito, smiling. 'If you
don't mind my being poniarded or shot, why need I mind? I will give up the
armour - shall I?'
'No, Tito, no. I am fanciful. Do n=
ot heed
what I have said. But such crimes are surely not common in Florence? I have
always heard my father and godfather say so. Have they become frequent late=
ly?'
'It is not unlikely they will beco=
me
frequent, with the bitter hatreds that are being bred continually.'
Romola was silent a few moments. S=
he
shrank from insisting further on the subject of the armour. She tried to sh=
ake
it off.
'Tell me what has happened to-day,'
she said, in a cheerful tone. 'Has all gone off well?'
'Excellently well. First of all, t=
he
rain came and put an end to Luca Corsini's oration, which nobody wanted to
hear, and a ready-tongued personage - some say it was Gaddi, some say it was
Melema, but really it was done so quickly no one knows who it was - had the
honour of giving the Cristianissimo the briefest possible welcome in bad
French.'
'Tito, it was you, I know,' said
Romola, smiling brightly, and kissing him. 'How is it you never care about
claiming anything? And after that?'
'Oh! after that, there was a show =
of
armour and jewels, and trappings, such as you saw at the last Florentine
giostra, only a great deal more of them. There was strutting, and prancing,=
and
confusion, and scrambling, and the people shouted, and the Cristianissimo
smiled from ear to ear. And after that there was a great deal of flattery, =
and
eating, and play. I was at Tornabuoni's. I will tell you about it tomorrow.=
'
'Yes, dearest, never mind now. But=
is
there any more hope that things will end peaceably for Florence, that the
Republic will not get into fresh troubles?'
Tito gave a shrug. 'Florence will =
have
no peace but what it pays well for; that is clear.'
Romola's face saddened, but she
checked herself, and said, cheerfully, 'You would not guess where I went
to-day, Tito. I went to the Duomo, to hear Fra Girolamo.'
Tito looked startled; he had
immediately thought of Baldassarre's entrance into the Duomo; but Romola ga=
ve
his look another meaning.
'You are surprised, are you not? It
was a sudden thought. I want to know all about the public affairs now, and I
determined to hear for myself what the Frate promised the people about this
French invasion.'
'Well, and what did you think of t=
he
prophet?'
'He certainly has a very mysterious
power, that man. A great deal of his sermon was what I expected; but once I=
was
strangely moved - I sobbed with the rest.'
'Take care, Romola,' said Tito,
playfully, feeling relieved that she had said nothing about Baldassarre; 'y=
ou
have a touch of fanaticism in you. I shall have you seeing visions, like yo=
ur
brother.'
'No; it was the same with every one
else. He carried them all with him; unless it were that gross Dolfo Spini, =
whom
I saw there making grimaces. There was even a wretched-looking man, with a =
rope
round his neck - an escaped prisoner, I should think, who had run in for
shelter - a very wild-eyed old man: I saw him with great tears rolling down=
his
cheeks, as he looked and listened quite eagerly.'
There was a slight pause before Ti=
to
spoke.
'I saw the man,' he said, - 'the
prisoner. I was outside the Duomo with Lorenzo Tornabuoni when he ran in. He
had escaped from a French soldier. Did you see him when you came out?'
'No, he went out with our good old
Piero di Cosimo. I saw Piero come in and cut off his rope, and take him out=
of
the church. But you want rest, Tito? You feel ill?'
'Yes,' said Tito, rising. The horr=
ible
sense that he must live in continual dread of what Baldassarre had said or =
done
pressed upon him like a cold weight.
Four days later, Romola was on her=
way
to the house of Piero di Cosimo, in the Via Gualfonda. Some of the streets
through which she had to pass were lined with Frenchmen who were gazing at
Florence, and with Florentines who were gazing at the French, and the gaze =
was
not on either side entirely friendly and admiring. The first nation in Euro=
pe,
of necessity finding itself, when out of its own country, in the presence of
general inferiority, naturally assumed an air of conscious pre-eminence; and
the Florentines, who had taken such pains to play the host amiably, were
getting into the worst humour with their too superior guests.
For after the first smiling
compliments and festivities were over - after wondrous Mysteries with
unrivalled machinery of floating clouds and angels had been presented in
churches - after the royal guest had honoured Florentine dames with much of=
his
Most Christian ogling at balls and suppers, and business had begun to be ta=
lked
of - it appeared that the new Charlemagne regarded Florence as a conquered
city, inasmuch as he had entered it with his lance in rest, talked of leavi=
ng
his viceroy behind him, and had thoughts of bringing back the Medici. Singu=
lar
logic this appeared to be on the part of an elect instrument of God! since =
the
policy of Piero de' Medici, disowned by the people, had been the only offen=
ce
of Florence against the majesty of France. And Florence was determined not =
to
submit. The determination was being expressed very strongly in consultation=
s of
citizens inside the Old Palace, and it was beginning to show itself on the
broad flags of the streets and piazza wherever there was an opportunity of
flouting an insolent Frenchman. Under these circumstances the streets were =
not
altogether a pleasant promenade for well-born women; but Romola, shrouded in
her black veil and mantle, and with old Maso by her side, felt secure enough
from impertinent observation.
And she was impatient to visit Pie=
ro
di Cosimo. A copy of her father's portrait as Oedipus, which he had long ago
undertaken to make for her, was not yet finished; and Piero was so uncertai=
n in
his work - sometimes, when the demand was not peremptory, laying aside a
picture for months; sometimes thrusting it into a corner or coffer, where it
was likely to be utterly forgotten - that she felt it necessary to watch ov=
er
his progress. She was a favourite with the painter, and he was inclined to
fulfil any wish of hers, but no general inclination could be trusted as a
safeguard against his sudden whims. He had told her the week before that the
picture would perhaps be finished by this time; and Romola was nervously
anxious to have in her possession a copy of the only portrait existing of h=
er
father in the days of his blindness, lest his image shouId grow dim in her
mind. The sense of defect in her devotedness to him made her cling with all=
the
force of compunction as well as affection to the duties of memory. Love does
not aim simply at the conscious good of the beloved object: it is not satis=
fied
without perfect loyalty of heart; it aims at its own completeness.
Romola, by special favour, was all=
owed
to intrude upon the painter without previous notice. She lifted the iron sl=
ide
and called Piero in a flute-like tone, as the little maiden with the eggs h=
ad
done in Tito's presence. Piero was quick in answering, but when he opened t=
he
door he accounted for his quickness in a manner that was not complimentary.=
'Ah, Madonna Romola, is it you? I
thought my eggs were come; I wanted them.'
'I have brought you something bett=
er
than hard eggs, Piero. Maso has got a little basket full of cakes and confe=
tti
for you,' said Romola, smiling, as she put back her veil. She took the bask=
et
from Maso, and stepping into the house, said, -
'I know you like these things when=
you
can have them without trouble. Confess you do.'
'Yes, when they come to me as easi=
ly
as the light does,' said Piero, folding his arms and looking down at the
sweetmeats as Romola uncovered them and glanced at him archly. 'And they are
come along with the light now,' he added, lifting his eyes to her face and =
hair
with a painter's admiration, as her hood, dragged by the weight of her veil,
fell backward.
'But I know what the sweetmeats are
for,' he went on; 'they are to stop my mouth while you scold me. Well, go on
into the next room, and you will see I've done something to the picture sin=
ce
you saw it, though it's not finished yet. But I didn't promise, you know: I
take care not to promise:
‘Chi promette e non mantiene=
L'anima sua non va mai bene.’
The door opening on the wild garden
was closed now, and the painter was at work. Not at Romola's picture, howev=
er
That was standing on the floor, propped against the wall and Piero stooped =
to
lift it, that he might carry it into the proper light. But in lifting away =
this
picture, he had disclosed another - the oil-sketch of Tito, to which he had
made an important addition within the last few days. It was so much smaller
than the other picture, that it stood far within it, and Piero, apt to forg=
et
where he had placed anything, was not aware of what he had revealed as, pee=
ring
at some detail in the painting which he held in his hands, he went to place=
it
on an easel. But Romola exclaimed, fiushing with astonishment -
'That is Tito!'
Piero looked round, and gave a sil=
ent
shrug. He was vexed at his own forgetfulness.
She was still looking at the sketc=
h in
astonishment; but presently she turned towards the painter, and said with
puzzled alarm -
'What a strange picture! When did =
you
paint it? What does it mean?'
'A mere fancy of mine,' said Piero,
lifting off his skull-cap, scratching his head, and making the usual grimac=
e by
which he avoided the betrayal of any feeling. 'I wanted a handsome young fa=
ce
for it, and your husband's was just the thing.'
He went forward, stooped down to t=
he
picture, and lifting it away with its back to Romola, pretended to be givin=
g it
a passing examination, before putting it aside as a thing not good enough to
show.
But Romola, who had the fact of the armour in her mind, and was penetrated by this strange coincidence of things which associated Tito with the idea of fear, went to his elbow and said - <= o:p>
'Don't put it away; let me look ag=
ain.
That man with the rope round his neck - I saw him - I saw you come to him in
the Duomo. What was it that made you put him into a picture with Tito?'
Piero saw no better resource than =
to
tell part of the truth.
'It was a mere accident. The man w=
as
running away - running up the steps, and caught hold of your husband: I sup=
pose
he had stumbled. I happened to be there, and saw it, and I thought the
savage-looking old fellow was a good subject. But it's worth nothing - it's
only a freakish daub of mine.' Piero ended contemptuously, moving the sketch
away with an air of decision, and putting it on a high shelf. 'Come and loo=
k at
the Oedipus.'
He had shown a little too much anx=
iety
in putting the sketch out of her sight, and had produced the very impressio=
n he
had sought to prevent - that there was really something unpleasant, somethi=
ng
disadvantageous to Tito, in the circumstances out of which the picture aros=
e. But
this impression silenced her: her pride and delicacy shrank from questioning
further, where questions might seem to imply that she could entertain even a
slight suspicion against her husband. She merely said, in as quiet a tone as
she could -
'He was a strange piteous-looking =
man,
that prisoner. Do you know anything more of him?'
'No more: I showed him the way to =
the
hospital, that's all. See, now, the face of Oedipus is pretty nearly finish=
ed;
tell me what you think of it.'
Romola now gave her whole attentio=
n to
her father's portrait, standing in long silence before it.
'Ah,' she said at last, 'you have =
done
what I wanted. You have given it more of the listening look. My good Piero'=
-
she turned towards him with bright moist eyes - 'I am very grateful to you.=
'
'Now that's what I can't bear in y=
ou
women,' said Piero, turning impatiently, and kicking aside the objects that
littered the floor - 'you are always pouring out feelings where there's no =
call
for them. Why should you be grateful to me for a picture you pay me for,
especially when I make you wait for it? And if I paint a picture, I suppose
it's for my own pleasure and credit to paint it well, eh? Are you to thank a
man for not being a rogue or a noodle? It's enough if he himself thanks Mes=
ser Domeneddio,
who has made him neither the one nor the other. But women think walls are h=
eld
together with honey.'
'You crusty Piero! I forgot how
snappish you are. Here, put this nice sweetmeat in your mouth,' said Romola,
smiling through her tears, and taking something very crisp and sweet from t=
he
little basket.
Piero accepted it very much as that
proverbial bear that dreams of pears might accept an exceedingly mellow
'swan-egg' - really liking the gift, but accustomed to have his pleasures a=
nd
pains concealed under a shaggy coat.
'It's good, Madonna Antigone,' said
Piero, putting his fingers in the basket for another. He had eaten nothing =
but
hard eggs for a fortnight. Romola stood opposite him, feeling her new anxie=
ty
suspended for a little while by the sight of this naive enjoyment.
'Good-bye, Piero,' she said,
presently, setting down the basket. 'I promise not to thank you if you fini=
sh
the portrait soon and well. I will tell you, you were bound to do it for yo=
ur
own credit.'
'Good,' said Piero, curtly, helping
her with much deftness to fold her mantle and veil round her.
'I'm glad she asked no more questi=
ons
about that sketch,' he thought, when he had closed the door behind her. 'I
should be sorry for her to guess that I thought her fine husband a good mod=
el
for a coward. But I made light of it; she'll not think of it again.'
Piero was too sanguine, as
open-hearted men are apt to be when they attempt a little clever simulation.
The thought of the picture pressed more and more on Romola as she walked ho=
meward.
She could not help putting together the two facts of the chain-armour and t=
he
encounter mentioned by Piero between her husband and the prisoner, which had
happened on the morning of the day when the armour was adopted. That look of
terror which the painter had given Tito, had he seen it? What could it all
mean?
'It means nothing,' she tried to
assure herself. 'It was a mere coincidence. Shall I ask Tito about it?' Her
mind said at last, 'No: I will not question him about anything he did not t=
ell me
spontaneously. It is an offence against the trust I owe him.' Her heart sai=
d,
'I dare not ask him.'
There was a terrible flaw in the
trust: she was afraid of any hasty movement, as men are who hold something
precious and want to believe that it is not broken.
'The old fellow has vanished; went=
on
towards Arezzo the next morning; not liking the smell of the French, I supp=
ose,
after being their prisoner. I went to the hospital to inquire after him; I
wanted to know if those broth-making monks had found out whether he was in =
his
right mind or not. However, they said he showed no signs of madness - only =
took
no notice of questions, and seemed to be planting a vine twenty miles off. =
He
was a mysterious old tiger. I should have liked to know something more about
him.'
It was in Nello's shop that Piero =
di
Cosimo was speaking on the twenty-fourth of November, just a week after the
entrance of the French. There was a party of six or seven assembled at the
rather unusual hour of three in the afternoon; for it was a day on which all
Florence was excited by the prospect of some decisive political event. Every
lounging-place was full, and every shopkeeper who had no wife or deputy to
leave in charge, stood at his door with his thumbs in his belt; while the
streets were constantly sprinkled with artisans pausing or passing lazily l=
ike
floating splinters, ready to rush forward impetuously if any object attract=
ed
them.
Nello had been thrumming the lute =
as
he half sat on the board against the shop-window, and kept an outlook towar=
ds
the piazza.
'Ah,' he said, laying down the lut=
e,
with emphasis, 'I would not for a gold florin have missed that sight of the
French soldiers waddling in their broad shoes after their runaway prisoners!
That comes of leaving my shop to shave magnificent chins. It is always so: =
if
ever I quit this navel of the earth something takes the opportunity of
happening in my piazza.'
'Yes, you ought to have been there=
,'
said Piero, in his biting way, 'just to see your favourite Greek look as
frightened as if Satanasso had laid hold of him. I like to see your
ready-smiling Messeri caught in a sudden wind and obliged to show their lin=
ing
in spite of themselves. What colour do you think a man's liver is, who looks
like a bleached deer as soon as a chance stranger lays hold-of him suddenly=
?'
'Piero, keep that vinegar of thine=
as
sauce to thine own eggs! What is it against my bel erudito that he looked
startled when he felt a pair of claws upon him and saw an unchained madman =
at
his elbow? Your scholar is not like those beastly Swiss and Germans, whose
heads are only fit for battering-rams, and who have such large appetites th=
at
they think nothing of taking a cannon-ball before breakfast. We Florentines
count some other qualities in a man besides that vulgar stuff called braver=
y,
which is to be got by hiring dunderheads at so much per dozen. I tell you, =
as
soon as men found out that they had more brains than oxen, they set the oxe=
n to
draw for them; and when we Florentines found out that we had more brains th=
an
other men we set them to fight for us.'
'Treason, Nello!' a voice called o=
ut
from the inner sanctum; 'that is not the doctrine of the State. Florence is
grinding its weapons; and the last well-authenticated vision announced by t=
he
Frate was Mars standing on the Palazzo Vecchio with his arm on the shoulder=
of
San Giovanni Battista, who was offering him a piece of honeycomb.'
'It is well, Francesco,' said Nell=
o.
'Florence has a few thicker skulls that may do to bombard Pisa with; there =
will
still be the finer spirits left at home to do the thinking and the shaving.=
And
as for our Piero here, if he makes such a point of valour, let him carry his
biggest brush for a weapon and his palette for a shield, and challenge the =
widest-mouthed
Swiss he can see in the Prato to a single combat.'
'Va, Nello,' growled Piero, 'thy
tongue runs on as usual, like a mill when the Arno's full - whether there's
grist or not.'
'Excellent grist, I tell thee. For= it would be as reasonable to expect a grizzled painter like thee to be fond of getting a javelin inside thee as to expect a man whose wits have been sharp= ened on the classics to like having his handsome face clawed by a wild beast.' <= o:p>
'There you go, supposing you'll get
people to put their legs into a sack because you call it a pair of hosen,' =
said
Piero. 'Who said anything about a wild beast, or about an unarmed man rushi=
ng
on battle? Fighting is a trade, and it's not my trade. I should be a fool to
run after danger, but I could face it if it came to me.'
'How is it you're so afraid of the
thunder, then, my Piero?' said Nello, determined to chase down the accuser.
'You ought to be able to understand why one man is shaken by a thing that s=
eems
a trifle to others - you who hide yourself with the rats as soon as a storm
comes on.'
'That is because I have a particul=
ar
sensibility to loud sounds; it has nothing to do with my courage or my
conscience.'
'Well, and Tito Melema may have a
peculiar sensibility to being laid hold of unexpectedly by prisoners who ha=
ve
run away from French soldiers. Men are born with antipathies; I myself can't
abide the smell of mint. Tito was born with an antipathy to old prisoners w=
ho
stumble and clutch. Ecco! '
There was a general laugh at Nello=
's
defence, and it was clear that Piero's disinclination towards Tito was not
shared by the company. The painter, with his undecipherable grimace, took t=
he
tow from his scarsella and stuffed his ears in indignant contempt, while Ne=
llo
went on triumphantly -
'No, my Piero, I can't afford to h=
ave
my bel erudito decried; and Florence can't afford it either, with her schol=
ars
moulting off her at the early age of forty. Our Pheenix Pico just gone stra=
ight
to Paradise, as the Frate has informed us; and the incomparable Poliziano, =
not
two months since, gone to - well, well, let us hope he is not gone to the
eminent scholars in the Malebolge.'
'By the way,' said Francesco Cei,
'have you heard that Camilla Rucellai has outdone the Frate in her propheci=
es?
She prophesied two years ago that Pico would die in the time of lilies. He =
has
died in November. ‘Not at all the time of lilies,’ said the
scorners. ‘Go to!’ says Camilla; ‘it is the lilies of Fra=
nce
I meant, and it seems to me they are close enough under your nostrils.̵=
7; I
say, ‘Euge, Camilla!’ If the Frate can prove that any one of his
visions has been as well fulfilled, I'll declare myself a Piagnone to-morro=
w.'
'You are something too flippant ab=
out
the Frate, Francesco,' said Pietro Cennini, the scholarly. 'We are all inde=
bted
to him in these weeks for preaching peace and quietness, and the laying asi=
de
of party quarrels. They are men of small discernment who would be glad to s=
ee
the people slipping the Frate's leash just now. And if the Most Christian K=
ing
is obstinate about the treaty to-day, and will not sign what is fair and
honourable to Florence, Fra Girolamo is the man we must trust in to bring h=
im
to reason.'
'You speak truth, Messer Pietro,' =
said
Nello; 'the Frate is one of the firmest nails Florence has to hang on - at =
least,
that is the opinion of the most respectable chins I have the honour of shav=
ing.
But young Messer Niccolo was saying here the other morning - and doubtless
Francesco means the same thing - there is as wonderful a power of stretchin=
g in
the meaning of visions as in Dido's bull's hide. It seems to me a dream may
mean whatever comes after it. As our Franco Sacchetti says, a woman dreams
over-night of a serpent biting her, breaks a drinking-cup the next day, and
cries out, ‘Look you, I thought something would happen - it's plain n=
ow
what the serpent meant.’ '
'But the Frate's visions are not of
that sort,' said Cronaca. 'He not only says what will happen - that the Chu=
rch
will be scourged and renovated, and the heathens converted - he says it sha=
ll
happen quickly. He is no slippery pretender who provides loopholes for hims=
elf,
he is -'
'What is this? what is this?'
exclaimed Nello, jumping off the board, and putting his head out at the doo=
r.
'Here are people streaming into the piazza, and shouting. Something must ha=
ve
happened in the Via Larga. Aha!' he burst forth with delighted astonishment,
stepping out laughing and waving his cap.
All the rest of the company hasten=
ed
to the door. News from the Via Larga was just what they had been waiting fo=
r.
But if the news had come into the piazza, they were not a little surprised =
at
the form of its advent. Carried above the shoulders of the people, on a ben=
ch
apparently snatched up in the street, sat Tito Melema, in smiling amusement=
at
the compulsion he was under. His cap had slipped off his head, and hung by =
the
becchetto which was wound loosely round his neck; and as he saw the group at
Nello's door he lifted up his fingers in beckoning recognition. The next mi=
nute
he had leaped from the bench on to a cart filled with bales, that stood in =
the
broad space between the Baptistery and the steps of the Duomo, while the pe=
ople
swarmed round him with the noisy eagerness of poultry expecting to be fed. =
But
there was silence when he began to speak in his clear mellow voice -
'Citizens of Florence! I have no
warrant to tell the news except your will. But the news is good, and will h=
arm
no man in the telling. The Most Christian King is signing a treaty that is
honourable to Florence. But you owe it to one of your citizens, who spoke a
word worthy of the ancient Romans - you owe it to Piero Capponi!'
Immediately there was a roar of
voices.
'Capponi! Capponi! What said our
Piero?' 'Ah! he wouldn't stand being sent from Herod to Pilate!' 'We knew
Piero!' 'Orsu! Tell us, what did he say?'
When the roar of insistance had
subsided a little, Tito began again -
'The Most Christian King demanded a
little too much - was obstinate - said at last, ‘I shall order my
trumpets to sound.’ Then, Florentine citizens! your Piero Capponi, sp=
eaking
with the voice of a free city, said, ‘If you sound your trumpets, we =
will
ring our bells!’ He snatched the copy of the dishonouring conditions =
from
the hands of the secretary, tore it in pieces, and turned to leave the royal
presence.'
Again there were loud shouts - and
again impatient demands for more.
'Then, Florentines, the high majes=
ty
of France felt, perhaps for the first time, all the majesty of a free city.=
And
the Most Christian King himself hastened from his place to call Piero Cappo=
ni
back. The great spirit of your Florentine city did its work by a great word,
without need of the great actions that lay ready behind it. And the King has
consented to sign the treaty, which preserves the honour, as well as the
safety, of Florence. The banner of France will float over every Florentine
galley in sign of amity and common privilege, but above that banner will be
written the word ‘Liberty!’
'That is all the news I have to te=
ll;
is it not enough? - since it is for the glory of every one of you, citizens=
of
Florence, that you have a fellow-citizen who knows how to speak your will.'=
As the shouts rose again, Tito loo=
ked
round with inward amusement at the various crowd, each of whom was elated w=
ith
the notion that Piero Capponi had somehow represented him - that he was the
mind of which Capponi was the mouthpiece. He enjoyed the humour of the
incident, which had suddenly transformed him, an alien, and a friend of the
Medici, into an orator who tickled the ears of the people blatant for some
unknown good which they called liberty. He felt quite glad that he had been
laid hold of and hurried along by the crowd as he was coming out of the pal=
ace
in the Via Larga with a commission to the Signoria. It was very easy, very
pleasant, this exercise of speaking to the general satisfaction: a man who =
knew
how to persuade need never be in danger from any party; he could convince e=
ach
that he was feigning with all the others. The gestures and faces of weavers=
and
dyers were certainly amusing when looked at from above in this way.
Tito was beginning to get easier in
his armour, and at this moment was quite unconscious of it. He stood with o=
ne
hand holding his recovered cap, and with the other at his belt, the light o=
f a
complacent smile in his long lustrous eyes, as he made a parting reverence =
to
his audience, before springing down from the bales - when suddenly his glan=
ce
met that of a man who had not at all the amusing aspect of the exulting
weavers, dyers, and wool-carders. The face of this man was clean-shaven, hi=
s hair
close-clipped, and he wore a decent felt hat. A single glance would hardly =
have
sufficed to assure any one but Tito that this was the face of the escaped
prisoner who had laid hold of him on the steps. But to Tito it came not sim=
ply
as the face of the escaped prisoner, but as a face with which he had been
familiar long years before.
It seemed all compressed into a se=
cond
- the sight of Baldassarre looking at him, the sensation shooting through h=
im
like a fiery arrow, and the act of leaping from the cart. He would have lea=
ped
down in the same instant, whether he had seen Baldassarre or not, for he wa=
s in
a hurry to be gone to the Palazzo Vecchio: this time he had not betrayed
himself by look or movement, and he said inwardly that he should not be tak=
en by
surprise again; he should be prepared to see this face rise up continually =
like
the intermittent blotch that comes in diseased vision. But this reappearanc=
e of
Baldassarre so much more in his own likeness tightened the pressure of drea=
d:
the idea of his madness lost its likelihood now he was shaven and clad like=
a
decent though poor citizen. Certainly, there was a great change in his face;
but how could it be otherwise? And yet, if he were perfectly sane - in
possession of all his powers and all his learning, why was he lingering in =
this
way before making known his identity? It must be for the sake of making his
scheme of vengeance more complete. But he did linger: that at least gave an
opportunity for flight. And Tito began to think that flight was his only
resource.
But while he, with his back turned=
on
the Piazza del Duomo, had lost the recollection of the new part he had been
playing, and was no longer thinking of the many things which a ready brain =
and
tongue made easy, but of a few things which destiny had somehow made very
difficult, the enthusiasm which he had fed contemptuously was creating a sc=
ene
in that piazza in grand contrast with the inward drama of self-centred fear
which he had carried away from it.
The crowd, on Tito's disappearance,
had begun to turn their faces towards the outlets of the piazza in the
direction of the Via Larga, when the sight of mazzieri, or mace-bearers,
entering from the Via de' Martelli, announced the approach of dignitaries. =
They
must be the syndics, or commissioners charged with the effecting of the tre=
aty
- the treaty must be already signed, and they had come away from the royal
presence. Piero Capponi was coming - the brave heart that had known how to
speak for Florence. The effect on the crowd was remarkable; they parted with
softening, dropping voices, subsiding into silence, - and the silence becam=
e so
perfect that the tread of the syndics on the broad pavement, and the rustle=
of
their black silk garments, could be heard, like rain in the night. There we=
re
four of them; but it was not the two learned doctors of law, Messer Guidant=
onio
Vespucci and Messer Domenico Bonsi, that the crowd waited for; it was not
Francesco Valori, popular as he had become in these late days. The moment
belonged to another man, of firm presence, as little inclined to humour the
people as to humour any other unreasonable claimants - loving order, like o=
ne
who by force of fortune had been made a merchant, and by force of nature had
become a soldier. It was not till he was seen at the entrance of the piazza
that the silence was broken, and then one loud shout of 'Capponi, Capponi! =
Well
done, Capponi!' rang through the piazza.
The simple, resolute man looked ro=
und
him with grave joy. His fellow-citizens gave him a great funeral two years =
later,
when he had died in fight; there were torches carried by all the magistracy,
and torches again, and trains of banners. But it is not known that he felt =
any
joy in the oration that was delivered in his praise, as the banners waved o=
ver
his bier. Let us be glad that he got some thanks and praise while he lived.=
It was the first time that Baldass=
arre
had been in the Piazza del Duomo since his escape. He had a strong desire to
hear the remarkable monk preach again, but he had shrunk from reappearing in
the same spot where he had been seen half naked, with neglected hair, with a
rope round his neck - in the same spot where he had been called a madman. T=
he
feeling, in its freshness, was too strong to be overcome by any trust he ha=
d in
the change he had made in his appearance; for when the words 'some madman,
surely,' had fallen from Tito's lips, it was not their baseness and cruelty
only that had made their viper sting - it was Baldassarre's instantaneous
bitter consciousness that he might be unable to prove the words false. Along
with the passionate desire for vengeance which possessed him had arisen the
keen sense that his power of achieving the vengeance was doubtful. It was a=
s if
Tito had been helped by some diabolical prompter, who had whispered
Baldassarre's saddest secret in the traitor's ear. He was not mad; for he
carried within him that piteous stamp of sanity, the clear consciousness of
shattered faculties; he measured his own feebleness. With the first movemen=
t of
vindictive rage awoke a vague caution, like that of a wild beast that is fi=
erce
but feeble - or like that of an insect whose little fragment of earth has g=
iven
way, and made it pause in a palsy of distrust. It was this distrust, this
determination to take no step which might betray anything concerning himsel=
f,
that had made Baldassarre reject Piero di Cosimo's friendly advances.
He had been equally cautious at the
hospital, only telling, in answer to the questions of the brethren there, t=
hat
he had been made a prisoner by the French on his way from Genoa. But his ag=
e,
and the indications in his speech and manner that he was of a different cla=
ss
from the ordinary mendicants and poor travellers who were entertained in the
hospital, had induced the monks to offer him extra charity: a coarse woollen
tunic to protect him from the cold, a pair of peasant's shoes, and a few
danari, smallest of Florentine coins, to help him on his way. He had gone on
the road to Arezzo early in the morning; but he had paused at the first lit=
tle
town, and had used a couple of his danari to get himself shaved, and to have
his circle of hair clipped short, in his former fashion. The barber there h=
ad a
little hand-mirror of bright steel: it was a long while, it was years, since
Baldassarre had looked at himself, and now, as his eyes fell on that
hand-mirror, a new thought shot through his mind. 'Was he so changed that T=
ito
really did not know him?' The thought was such a sudden arrest of impetuous
currents, that it was a painful shock to him; his hand shook like a leaf, a=
s he
put away the barber's arm and asked for the mirror. He wished to see himself
before he was shaved. The barber, noticing his tremulousness, held the mirr=
or
for him.
No, he was not so changed as that.=
He
himself had known the wrinkles as they had been three years ago; they were =
only
deeper now: there was the same rough, clumsy skin, making little superficial
bosses on the brow, like so many cipher-marks; the skin was only yellower, =
only
looked more like a lifeless rind. That shaggy white beard - it was no disgu=
ise
to eyes that had looked closely at him for sixteen years - to eyes that oug=
ht
to have searched for him with the expectation of finding him changed, as men
search for the beloved among the bodies cast up by the waters. There was
something different in his glance, but it was a difference that should only
have made the recognition of him the more startling; for is not a known voi=
ce
all the more thrilling when it is heard as a cry? But the doubt was folly: =
he
had felt that Tito knew him. He put out his hand and pushed the mirror away.
The strong currents were rushing on again, and the energies of hatred and
vengeance were active once more.
He went back on the way towards
Florence again, but he did not wish to enter the city till dusk; so he turn=
ed
aside from the highroad, and sat down by a little pool shadowed on one side=
by
alder-bushes still sprinkled with yellow leaves. It was a calm November day,
and he no sooner saw the pool than he thought its still surface might be a
mirror for him. He wanted to contemplate himself slowly, as he had not dare=
d to
do in the presence of the barber. He sat down on the edge of the pool, and =
bent
forward to look earnestly at the image of himself.
Was there something wandering and =
imbecile
in his face - something like what he felt in his mind?
Not now; not when he was examining
himself with a look of eager inquiry: on the contrary, there was an intense
purpose in his eyes. But at other times? Yes, it must be so: in the long ho=
urs
when he had the vague aching of an unremembered past within him - when he
seemed to sit in dark loneliness, visited by whispers which died out mockin=
gly
as he strained his ear after them, and by forms that seemed to approach him=
and
float away as he thrust out his hand to grasp them - in those hours, doubtl=
ess,
there must be continual frustration and amazement in his glance. And more
horrible still, when the thick cloud parted for a moment, and, as he sprang
forward with hope, rolled together again, and left him helpless as before;
doubtless, there was then a blank confusion in his face, as of a man sudden=
ly
smitten with blindness.
Could he prove anything? Could he =
even
begin to allege anything, with the confidence that the links of thought wou=
ld
not break away? Would any believe that he had ever had a mind filled with r=
are
knowledge, busy with close thoughts, ready with various speech? It had all
slipped away from him - that laboriously-gathered store. Was it utterly and=
for
ever gone from him, like the waters from an urn lost in the wide ocean? Or,=
was
it still within him, imprisoned by some obstruction that might one day break
asunder?
It might be so; he tried to keep h=
is
grasp on that hope. For, since the day when he had first walked feebly from=
his
couch of straw, and had felt a new darkness within him under the sunlight, =
his
mind had undergone changes, partly gradual and persistent, partly sudden and
fleeting. As he had recovered his strength of body, he had recovered his
self-command and the energy of his will; he had recovered the memory of all
that part of his life which was closely enwrought with his emotions; and he=
had
felt more and more constantly and painfully the uneasy sense of lost knowle=
dge.
But more than that - once or twice, when he had been strongly excited, he h=
ad
seemed momentarily to be in entire possession of his past self, as old men =
doze
for an instant and get back the consciousness of their youth: he seemed aga=
in
to see Greek pages and understand them, again to feel his mind moving unben=
umbed
among familiar ideas. It had been but a flash, and the darkness closing in
again seemed the more horrible; but might not the same thing happen again f=
or
longer periods? If it would only come and stay long enough for him to achie=
ve a
revenge - devise an exquisite suffering, such as a mere right arm could nev=
er
inflict!
He raised himself from his stooping
attitude, and, folding his arms, attempted to concentrate all his mental fo=
rce
on the plan he must immediately pursue. He had to wait for knowledge and
opportunity, and while he waited he must have the means of living without
beggary. What he dreaded of all things now was, that any one should think h=
im a
foolish, helpless old man. No one must know that half his memory was gone: =
the
lost strength might come again; and if it were only for a little while, that
might be enough.
He knew how to begin to get the
information he wanted about Tito. He had repeated the words 'Bratti
Ferravecchi' so constantly after they had been uttered to him, that they ne=
ver slipped
from him for long together. A man at Genoa, on whose finger he had seen Tit=
o's
ring, had told him that he bought that ring at Florence, of a young Greek, =
well
dressed, and with a handsome dark face, in the shop of a rigattiere called
Bratti Ferravecchi, in the street also called Ferravecchi. This discovery h=
ad
caused a violent agitation in Baldassarre. Until then he had clung with all=
the
tenacity of his fervent nature to his faith in Tito, and had not for a mome=
nt
believed himself to be wilfully forsaken. At first he had said, 'My bit of
parchment has never reached him; that is why I am still toiling at Antioch.=
But
he is searching; he knows where I was lost: he will trace me out, and find =
me
at last.' Then, when he was taken to Corinth, he induced his owners, by the
assurance that he should be sought out and ransomed, to provide securely
against the failure of any inquiries that might be made about him at Antioc=
h;
and at Corinth he thought joyfully, 'Here, at last, he must find me. Here h=
e is
sure to touch, whichever way he goes.' But before another year had passed, =
the
illness had come from which he had risen with body and mind so shattered th=
at
he was worse than worthless to his owners, except for the sake of the ransom
that did not come. Then, as he sat helpless in the morning sunlight, he beg=
an
to think, 'Tito has been drowned, or they have made him a prisoner too. I s=
hall
see him no more. He set out after me, but misfortune overtook him. I shall =
see
his face no more.' Sitting in his new feebleness and despair, supporting his
head between his hands, with blank eyes and lips that moved uncertainly, he
looked so much like a hopelessly imbecile old man, that his owners were
contented to be rid of him, and allowed a Genoese merchant, who had compass=
ion
on him as an Italian, to take him on board his galley. In a voyage of many
months in the Archipelago and along the seaboard of Asia Minor, Baldassarre=
had
recovered his bodily strength, but on landing at Genoa, he had so weary a s=
ense
of his desolateness that he almost wished he had died of that illness at
Corinth. There was just one possibility that hindered the wish from being
decided: it was that Tito might not be dead, but living in a state of
imprisonment or destitution; and if he lived, there was still a hope for
Baldassarre - faint, perhaps, and likely to be long deferred, but still a h=
ope,
that he might find his child, his cherished son again; might yet again clasp
hands and meet face to face with the one being who remembered him as he had
been before his mind was broken.
In this state of feeling he had
chanced to meet the stranger who wore Tito's onyx ring, and though Baldassa=
rre
would have been unable to describe the ring beforehand, the sight of it sti=
rred
the dormant fibres, and he recognised it. That Tito nearly a year after his
father had been parted from him should have been living in apparent prosper=
ity
at Florence, selling the gem which he ought not to have sold till the last
extremity, was a fact that Baldassarre shrank from trying to account for: he
was glad to be stunned and bewildered by it, rather than to have any distin=
ct
thought; he tried to feel nothing but joy that he should behold Tito again.
Perhaps Tito had thought that his father was dead; somehow the mystery woul=
d be
explained. 'But at least I shall meet eyes that will remember me. I am not
alone in the world.'
And now again Baldassarre said, 'I=
am
not alone in the world; I shall never be alone, for my revenge is with me.'=
It was as the instrument of that
revenge, as something merely external and subservient to his true life, tha=
t he
bent down again to examine himself with hard curiosity - not, he thought,
because he had any care for a withered, forsaken old man, whom nobody loved,
whose soul was like a deserted home, where the ashes were cold upon the hea=
rth,
and the walls were bare of all but the marks of what had been. It is in the
nature of all human passion, the lowest as well as the highest, that there =
is a
point where it ceases to be properly egoistic, and is like a fire kindled
within our being to which everything else in us is mere fuel.
He looked at the pale black-browed
image in the water till he identified it with that self from which his reve=
nge
seemed to be a thing apart; and he felt as if the image too heard the silent
language of his thought.
'I was a loving fool - I worshippe=
d a
woman once, and believed she could care for me; and then I took a helpless
child and fostered him; and I watched him as he grew, to see if he would ca=
re
for me only a little - care for me over and above the good he got from me. I
would have torn open my breast to warm him with my life-blood if I could on=
ly
have seen him care a little for the pain of my wound. I have laboured, I ha=
ve
suained to crush out of this hard life one drop of unselfish love. Fool! men
love their own delights; there is no delight to be had in me. And yet I wat=
ched
till I believed I saw what I watched for. When he was a child he lifted soft
eyes towards me, and held my hand willingly: I thought, this boy will surel=
y love
me a little: because I give my life to him and strive that he shall know no
sorrow, he will care a little when I am thirsty - the drop he lays on my
parched lips will be a joy to him . . . Curses on him! I wish I may see him=
lie
with those red lips white and dry as ashes, and when he looks for pity I wi=
sh
he may see my face rejoicing in his pain. It is all a lie - this world is a=
lie
- there is no goodness but in hate. Fool! not one drop of love came with all
your striving: life has not given you one drop. But there are deep draughts=
in
this world for hatred and revenge. I have memory left for that, and there is
strength in my arm - there is strength in my will - and if I can do nothing=
but
kill him -'
But Baldassarre's mind rejected the
thought of that brief punishment. His whole soul had been thrilled into
immediate unreasoning belief in that eternity of vengeance where he, an und=
ying
hate, might clutch for ever an undying traitor, and hear that fair smiling
hardness cry and moan with anguish. But the primary need and hope was to se=
e a
slow revenge under the same sky and on the same earth where he himself had =
been
forsaken and had fainted with despair. And as soon as he tried to concentra=
te
his mind on the means of attaining his end, the sense of his weakness press=
ed
upon him like a frosty ache. This despised body, which was to be the instru=
ment
of a sublime vengeance. must be nourished and decently clad. If he had to w=
ait
he must labour, and his labour must be of a humble sort, for he had no skil=
l.
He wondered whether the sight of written characters would so stimulate his
faculties that he might venture to try and find work as a copyist: that mig=
ht
win him some credence for his past scholarship. But no! he dared trust neit=
her
hand nor brain. He must be content to do the work that was most like that o=
f a
beast of burden: in this mercantile city many porters must be wanted, and he
could at least carry weights. Thanks to the justice that suuggled in this
confused world in behalf of vengeance, his limbs had got back some of their=
old
sturdiness. He was stripped of all else that men would give coin for.
But the new urgency of this habitu=
al
thought brought a new suggestion. There was something hanging by a cord rou=
nd
his bare neck; something apparently so paltry that the piety of Turks and
Frenchmen had spared it - a tiny parchment bag blackened with age. It had h=
ung
round his neck as a precious charm when he was a boy, and he had kept it
carefully on his breast, not believing that it contained anything but a tiny
scroll of parchment rolled up hard. He might long ago have thrown it away a=
s a
relic of his dead mother's superstition; but he had thought of it as a reli=
c of
her love, and had kept it. It was part of the piety associated with such br=
evi,
that they should never be opened, and at any previous moment in his life
Baldassarre would have said that no sort of thirst would prevail upon him to
open this little bag for the chance of finding that it contained, not
parchment, but an engraved amulet which would be worth money. But now a thi=
rst
had come like that which makes men open their own veins to satisfy it, and =
the
thought of the possible amulet no sooner crossed Baldassarre's mind than wi=
th
nervous fingers he snatched the breve from his neck. It all rushed through =
his
mind - the long years he had worn it, the far-off sunny balcony at Naples
looking towards the blue waters, where he had leaned against his mother's k=
nee;
but it made no moment of hesitation: all piety now was transmuted into a ju=
st
revenge. He bit and tore till the doubles of parchment were laid open, and =
then
- it was a sight that made him pant - there was an amulet. It was very smal=
l,
but it was as blue as those far-off waters; it was an engraved sapphire, wh=
ich
must be worth some gold ducats. Baldassarre no sooner saw those possible du=
cats
than he saw some of them exchanged for a poniard. He did not want to use the
poniard yet, but he longed to possess it. If he could grasp its handle and =
try
its edge, that blank in his mind - that past which fell away continually -
would not make him feel so cruelly helpless: the sharp steel that despised
talents and eluded strength would be at his side, as the unfailing friend of
feeble justice. There was a sparkling triumph under Baldassarre's black
eyebrows as he replaced the little sapphire inside the bits of parchment and
wound the string tightly round them.
It was nearly dusk now, and he ros=
e to
walk back towards Florence. With his danari to buy him some bread, he felt
rich: he could lie out in the open air, as he found plenty more doing in all
corners of Florence. And in the next few days he had sold his sapphire, had
added to his clothing, had bought a bright dagger, and had still a pair of =
gold
florins left. But he meant to hoard that treasure carefully: his lodging wa=
s an
outhouse with a heap of straw in it, in a thinly inhabited part of Oltrarno,
and he thought of looking about for work as a porter.
He had bought his dagger at Bratti=
's.
Paying his meditated visit there one evening at dusk, he had found that
singular rag-merchant just returned from one of his rounds, emptying out his
basketful of broken glass and old iron amongst his handsome show of
miscellaneous second-hand goods. As Baldassarre entered the shop, he looked
towards the smart pieces of apparel, the musical instruments, and weapons,
which were displayed in the broadest light of the window, his eye at once
singled out a dagger hanging up high against a red scarf. By buying the dag=
ger
he could not only satisfy a strong desire, he could open his original erran=
d in
a more indirect manner than by speaking of the onyx ring. In the course of
bargaining for the weapon, he let drop, with cautious carelessness, that he
came from Genoa, and had been directed to Bratti's shop by an acquaintance =
in
that city who had bought a very valuable ring here. Had the respectable tra=
der
any more such rings?
Whereupon Bratti had much to say a=
s to
the unlikelihood of such rings being within reach of many people, with much
vaunting of his own rare connections, due to his known wisdom and honesty. =
It
might be true that he was a pedlar - he chose to be a pedlar; though he was
rich enough to kick his heels in his shop all day. But those who thought th=
ey
had said all there was to be said about Bratti when they had called him a
pedlar, were a good deal further off the truth than the other side of Pisa.=
How
was it that he could put that ring in a stranger's way? It was, because he =
had
a very particular knowledge of a handsome young signor, who did not look qu=
ite
so fine a feathered bird when Bratti first set eyes on him as he did at the
present time. And by a question or two Baldassarre extracted, without any
trouble, such a rough and rambling account of Tito's life as the pedlar cou=
ld
give, since the time when he had found him sleeping under the Loggia de'Cer=
chi.
It never occurred to Bratti that the decent man (who was rather deaf,
apparently, asking him to say many things twice over) had any curiosity abo=
ut
Tito; the curiosity was doubtless about himself, as a truly remarkable pedl=
ar.
And Baldassarre left Bratti's shop,
not only with the dagger at his side, but also with a general knowledge of
Tito's conduct and position - of his early sale of the jewels, his immediate
quiet settlement of himself at Florence, his marriage, and his great
prosperity.
'What story had he told about his
previous life - about his father?'
It would be difficult for Baldassa=
rre
to discover the answer to that question. Meanwhile, he wanted to learn all =
he
could about Florence. But he found, to his acute distress, that of the new
details he learned he could only retain a few, and those only by continual
repetition; and he began to be afraid of listening to any new discourse, le=
st
it should obliterate what he was already striving to remember.
The day he was discerned by Tito in
the Piazza del Duomo, he had the fresh anguish of this consciousness in his
mind, and Tito's ready speech fell upon him like the mockery of a glib, def=
ying
demon.
As he went home to his heap of str=
aw,
and passed by the booksellers' shops in the Via del Garbo, he paused to loo=
k at
the volumes spread open. Could he by long gazing at one of those books lay =
hold
of the slippery threads of memory? Could he, by striving, get a firm grasp
somewhere, and lift himself above these waters that flowed over him?
He was tempted, and bought the
cheapest Greek book he could see. He carried it home and sat on his heap of
straw, looking at the characters by the light of the small window; but no
inward light arose on them. Soon the evening darkness came; but it made lit=
tle
difference to Baldassarre. His strained eyes seemed still to see the white
pages with the unintelligible black marks upon them.
'My Romola,' said Tito, the second
morning after he had made his speech in the Piazza del Duomo, 'I am to rece=
ive
grand visitors to-day; the Milanese Count is coming again, and the Senescha=
l de
Beaucaire, the great favourite of the Cristianissimo. I know you don't care=
to
go through smiling ceremonies with these rustling magnates, whom we are not
likely to see again; and as they will want to look at the antiquities and t=
he
library, perhaps you had better give up your work to-day, and go to see your
cousin Brigida.'
Romola discerned a wish in this
intimation, and immediately assented. But presently, coming back in her hood
and mantle, she said, 'Oh, what a long breath Florence will take when the g=
ates
are flung open, and the last Frenchman is walking out of them! Even you are
getting tired, with all your patience, my Tito; confess it. Ah, your head is
hot.'
He was leaning over his desk, writ=
ing,
and she had laid her hand on his head, meaning to give a parting caress. The
attitude had been a frequent one, and Tito was accustomed, when he felt her
hand there, to raise his head, throw himself a little backward, and look up=
at
her. But he felt now as unable to raise his head as if her hand had been a
leaden cowl. He spoke instead, in a light tone, as his pen still ran along.=
'The French are as ready to go from
Florence as the wasps to leave a ripe pear when they have just fastened on =
it.'
Romola, keenly sensitive to the
absence of the usual response, took away her hand and said, 'I am going, Ti=
to.'
'Farewell, my sweet one. I must wa=
it
at home. Take Maso with you.'
Still Tito did not look up, and Ro=
mola
went out without saying any more. Very slight things make epochs in married
life, and this morning for the first time she admitted to herself not only =
that
Tito had changed, but that he had changed towards her. Did the reason lie i=
n herself
? She might perhaps have thought so, if there had not been the facts of the
armour and the picture to suggest some external event which was an entire
mystery to her.
But Tito no sooner believed that
Romola was out of the house than he laid down his pen and looked up, in
delightful security from seeing anything else than parchment and broken mar=
ble.
He was rather disgusted with himself that he had not been able to look up at
Romola and behave to her just as usual. He would have chosen, if he could, =
to
be even more than usually kind; but he could not, on a sudden, master an
involuntary shrinking from her, which, by a subtle relation, depended on th=
ose
very characteristics in him that made him desire not to fail in his marks of
affection. He was about to take a step which he knew would arouse her deep
indignation; he would have to encounter much that was unpleasant before he
could win her forgiveness. And Tito could never find it easy to face
displeasure and anger; his nature was one of those most remote from defianc=
e or
impudence, and all his inclinations leaned towards preserving Romola's
tenderness. He was not tormented by sentimental scruples which, as he had
demonstrated to himself by a very rapid course of argument, had no relation=
to
solid utility; but his freedom from scruples did not release him from the d=
read
of what was disagreeable. Unscrupulousness gets rid of much, but not of
toothache, or wounded vanity, or the sense of loneliness, against which, as=
the
world at present stands, there is no security but a thoroughly healthy jaw,=
and
a just, loving soul. And Tito was feeling intensely at this moment that no
devices could save him from pain in the impending collision with Romola; no
persuasive blandness could cushion him against the shock towards which he w=
as
being driven like a timid animal urged to a desperate leap by the terror of=
the
tooth and the claw that are close behind it.
The secret feeling he had previous=
ly
had that the tenacious adherence to Bardo's wishes about the library had be=
come
under existing difficulties a piece of sentimental folly, which deprived
himself and Romola of substantial advantages, might perhaps never have wrou=
ght
itself into action but for the events of the past week, which had brought at
once the pressure of a new motive and the outlet of a rare opportunity. Nay=
, it
was not till his dread had been aggravated by the sight of Baldassarre look=
ing
more like his sane self, not until he had begun to feel that he might be
compelled to flee from Florence, that he had brought himself to resolve on
using his legal right to sell the library before the great opportunity offe=
red
by French and Milanese bidders slipped through his fingers. For if he had to
leave Florence he did not want to leave it as a destitute wanderer. He had =
been
used to an agreeable existence, and he wished to carry with him all the mea=
ns
at hand for retaining the same agreeable conditions. He wished among other
things to carry Romola with him, and not, if possible, to carry any infamy.
Success had given him a growing appetite for all the pleasures that depend =
on
an advantageous social position, and at no moment could it look like a
temptation to him, but only like a hideous alternative, to decamp under
dishonour, even with a bag of diamonds, and incur the life of an adventurer=
. It
was not possible for him to make himself independent even of those Florenti=
nes
who only greeted him with regard; still less was it possible for him to make
himself independent of Romola. She was the wife of his first love - he loved
her still; she belonged to that furniture of life which he shrank from part=
ing
with. He winced under her judgment, he felt uncertain how far the revulsion=
of
her feeling towards him might go; and all that sense of power over a wife w=
hich
makes a husband risk betrayals that a lover never ventures on, would not
suffice to counteract Tito's uneasiness. This was the leaden weight which h=
ad
been too strong for his will, and kept him from raising his head to meet her
eyes. Their pure light brought too near him the prospect of a coming strugg=
le.
But it was not to be helped; if they had to leave Florence, they must have
money; indeed, Tito could not arrange life at all to his mind without a
considerable sum of money. And that problem of arranging life to his mind h=
ad
been the source of all his misdoing. He would have been equal to any sacrif=
ice
that was not unpleasant.
The rustling magnates came and wen=
t,
the bargains had been concluded, and Romola returned home; but nothing grave
was said that night. Tito was only gay and chatty, pouring forth to her, as=
he
had not done before, stories and descriptions of what he had witnessed duri=
ng
the French visit. Romola thought she discerned an effort in his liveliness,=
and
attributing it to the consciousness in him that she had been wounded in the
morning, accepted the effort as an act of penitence, inwardly aching a litt=
le
at that sign of growing distance between them - that there was an offence a=
bout
which neither of them dared to speak.
The next day Tito remained away fr=
om
home until late at night. It was a marked day to Romola, for Piero di Cosim=
o,
stimulated to greater industry on her behalf by the fear that he might have
been the cause of pain to her in the past week, had sent home her father's
portrait. She had propped it against the back of his old chair, and had been
looking at it for some time, when the door opened behind her, and Bernardo =
del
Nero came in.
'It is you, godfather! How I wish =
you
had come sooner! it is getting a little dusk,' said Romola, going towards h=
im.
'I have just looked in to tell you=
the
good news, for I know Tito has not come yet,' said Bernardo. 'The French ki=
ng
moves off to-morrow: not before it is high time. There has been another tus=
sle
between our people and his soldiers this, morning. But there's a chance now=
of
the city getting into order once more and trade going on.'
'That is joyful,' said Romola. 'Bu=
t it
is sudden, is it not? Tito seemed to think yesterday that there was little
prospect of the king's going soon.'
'He has been well barked at, that's
the reason,' said Bernardo, smiling. 'His own generals opened their throats
pretty well, and at last our Signoria sent the mastiff of the city, Fra
Girolamo. The Cristianissimo was frightened at that thunder, and has given =
the
order to move. I'm afraid there'll be small agreement among us when he's go=
ne,
but, at any rate, all parties are agreed in being glad not to have Florence
stifled with soldiery any longer, and the Frate has barked this time to some
purpose. Ah, what is this?' he added, as Romola, clasping him by the arm, l=
ed
him in front of the picture. 'Let us see.'
He began to unwind his long scarf
while she placed a seat for him.
'Don't you want your spectacles, godfather?' said Romola, in anxiety that he should see just what she saw. <= o:p>
'No, child, no,' said Bernardo,
uncovering his grey head, as he seated himself with firm erectness. 'For se=
eing
at this distance, my old eyes are perhaps better than your young ones. Old
men's eyes are like old men's memories; they are strongest for things a long
way off.'
'It is better than having no
portrait,' said Romola, apologetically, after Bernardo had been silent a li=
ttle
while. 'It is less like him now than the image I have in my mind, but then =
that
might fade with the years.' She rested her arm on the old man's shoulder as=
she
spoke, drawn towards him strongly by their common interest in the dead.
'I don't know,' said Bernardo. 'I
almost think I see Bardo as he was when he was young, better than that pict=
ure
shows him to me as he was when he was old. Your father had a great deal of =
fire
in his eyes when he was young. It was what I could never understand, that h=
e,
with his fiery spirit, which seemed much more impatient than mine, could ha=
ng
over the books and live with shadows all his life. However, he had put his
heart into that.'
Bernardo gave a slight shrug as he
spoke the last words, but Romola discerned in his voice a feeling that acco=
rded
with her own.
'And he was disappointed to the la=
st,'
she said, involuntarily. But immediately fearing lest her words should be t=
aken
to imply an accusation against Tito, she went on almost hurriedly, 'If we c=
ould
only see his longest, dearest wish fulfilled just to his mind!'
'Well, so we may,' said Bernardo,
kindly, rising and putting on his cap. 'The times are cloudy now, but fish =
are
caught by waiting. Who knows? When the wheel has turned often enough, I may=
be
Gonfaloniere yet before I die; and no creditor can touch these things.' He
looked round as he spoke. Then, turning to her, and patting her cheek, said,
'And you need not be afraid of my dying; my ghost will claim nothing. I've
taken care of that in my will.'
Romola seized the hand that was
against her cheek, and put it to her lips in silence.
'Haven't you been scolding your
husband for keeping away from home so much lately? I see him everywhere but
here,' said Bernardo, willing to change the subject.
She felt the flush spread over her
neck and face as she said, 'He has been very much wanted; you know he speak=
s so
well. I am glad to know that his value is understood.'
'You are contented then, Madonna
Orgogliosa?’ said Bernardo, smiling, as he moved to the door.
'Assuredly.'
Poor Romola! There was one thing t=
hat
would have made the pang of disappointment in her husband harder to bear; i=
t was,
that any one should know he gave her cause for disappointment. This might b=
e a
woman's weakness, but it is closely allied to a woman's nobleness. She who
willingly lifts up the veil of her married life has profaned it from a
sanctuary into a vulgar place.
The next day Romola, like every ot=
her
Florentine, was excited about the departure of the French. Besides her other
reasons for gladness, she had a dim hope, which she was conscious was half
superstitious, that those new anxieties about Tito, having come with the
burdensome guests, might perhaps vanish with them. The French had been in
Florence hardly eleven days, but in that space she had felt more acute
unhappiness than she had known in her life before. Tito had adopted the hat=
eful
armour on the day of their arrival, and though she could frame no distinct
notion why their departure should remove the cause of his fear - though, wh=
en
she thought of that cause, the image of the prisoner grasping him, as she h=
ad
seen it in Piero's sketch, urged itself before her and excluded every other=
-
still, when the French were gone, she would be rid of something that was
strongly associated with her pain.
Wrapped in her mantle she waited u=
nder
the loggia at the top of the house, and watched for the glimpses of the tro=
ops
and the royal retinue passing the bridges on their way to the Porta San Pie=
ro,
that looks towards Siena and Rome. She even returned to her station when the
gates had been closed, that she might feel herself vibrating with the great
peal of the bells. It was dusk then, and when at last she descended into the
library, she lit her lamp with the resolution that she would overcome the
agitation which had made her idle all day, and sit down to work at her copy=
ing
of the catalogue. Tito had left home early in the morning, and she did not
expect him yet. Before he came she intended to leave the library, and sit in
the pretty saloon, with the dancing nymphs and the birds. She had done so e=
very
evening since he had objected to the library as chill and gloomy.
To her great surprise, she had not
been at work long before Tito entered. Her first thought was, how cheerless=
he
would feel in the wide darkness of this great room, with one little oil-lamp
burning at the further end, and the fire nearly out. She almost ran towards
him.
'Tito, dearest, I did not know you
would come so soon,' she said, nervously, putting up her white arms to unwi=
nd
his becchetto.
'I am not welcome then?' he said, =
with
one of his brightest smiles, clasping her, but playfully holding his head b=
ack
from her.
'Tito!' She uttered the word in a =
tone
of pretty, loving reproach, and then he kissed her fondly, stroked her hair=
, as
his manner was, and seemed not to mind about taking off his mantle yet. Rom=
ola
quivered with delight. All the emotions of the day had been preparing in he=
r a
keener sensitiveness to the return of this habitual manner. 'It will come
back,' she was saying to herself, 'the old happiness will perhaps come back=
. He
is like himself again.'
Tito was taking great pains to be =
like
himself; his heart was palpitating with anxiety.
'If I had expected you so soon,' s=
aid
Romola, as she at ]ast helped him to take off his wrappings, 'I would have =
had
a little festival prepared to this joyful ringing of the bells. I did not m=
ean
to be here in the library when you came home.'
'Never mind, sweet,' he said,
carelessly. 'Do not think about the fire. Come - come and sit down.'
There was a low stool against Tito=
's
chair, and that was Romola's habitual seat when they were talking together.=
She
rested her arm on his knee, as she used to do on her father's, and looked u=
p at
him while he spoke. He had never yet noticed the presence of the portrait, =
and
she had not mentioned it - thinking of it all the more.
'I have been enjoying the clang of=
the
bells for the first time, Tito,' she began. 'I liked being shaken and deafe=
ned
by them: I fancied I was something like a Bacchante possessed by a divine r=
age.
Are not the people looking very joyful to-night?'
'Joyful after a sour and pious
fashion,' said Tito, with a shrug. 'But, in truth, those who are left behin=
d in
Florence have little cause to be joyful: it seems to me, the most reasonable
ground of gladness would be to have got out of Florence.'
Tito had sounded the desired key-n=
ote
without any trouble, or appearance of premeditation. He spoke with no empha=
sis,
but he looked grave enough to make Romola ask rather anxiously -
'Why, Tito? Are there fresh troubl=
es?'
'No need of fresh ones, my Romola.
There are three strong parties in the city, all ready to fly at each other's
throats. And if the Frate's party is strong enough to frighten the other two
into silence, as seems most likely, life will be as pleasant and amusing as=
a
funeral. They have the plan of a Great Council simmering already; and if th=
ey
get it, the man who sings sacred Lauds the loudest will be the most eligible
for office. And besides that, the city will be so drained by the payment of
this great subsidy to the French king, and by the war to get back Pisa, that
the prospect would be dismal enough without the rule of fanatics. On the wh=
ole,
Florence will be a delightful place for those worthies who entertain themse=
lves
in the evening by going into crypts and lashing themselves; but for everyth=
ing
else, the exiles have the best of it. For my own part, I have been thinking
seriously that we should be wise to quit Florence, my Romola.'
She started. 'Tito, how could we l=
eave
Florence? Surely you do not think I could leave it - at least, not yet - not
for a long while.' She had turned cold and trembling, and did not find it q=
uite
easy to speak. Tito must know the reasons she had in her mind.
'That is all a fabric of your own
imagination, my sweet one. Your secluded life has made you lay such false
stress on a few things. You know I used to tell you, before we were married,
that I wished we were somewhere else than in Florence. If you had seen more
places and more people, you would know what I mean when I say that there is
something in the Florentines that reminds me of their cutting spring winds.=
I
like people who take life less eagerly; and it would be good for my Romola,
too, to see a new life. I should like to dip her a little in the soft water=
s of
forgetfulness.'
He leaned forward and kissed her b=
row,
and laid his hand on her fair hair again; but she felt his caress no more t=
han
if he had kissed a mask. She was too much agitated by the sense of the dist=
ance
between their minds to be conscious that his lips touched her.
'Tito, it is not because I suppose
Florence is the pleasantest place in the world that I desire not to quit it=
. It
is because I - because we have to see my father's wish fulfilled. My godfat=
her
is old; he is seventy-one; we could not leave it to him.'
'It is precisely those superstitio=
ns
which hang about your mind like bedimming clouds, my Romola, that make one
great reason why I could wish we were two hundred leagues from Florence. I =
am
obliged to take care of you in opposition to your own will: if those dear e=
yes,
that look so tender, see falsely, I must see for them, and save my wife from
wasting her life in disappointing herself by impracticable dreams.'
Romola sat silent and motionless: =
she
could not blind herself to the direction in which Tito's words pointed: he
wanted to persuade her that they might get the library deposited in some
monastery, or take some other ready means to rid themselves of a task, and =
of a
tie to Florence; and she was determined never to submit her mind to his
judgment on this question of duty to her father; she was inwardly prepared =
to
encounter any sort of pain in resistance. But the determination was kept la=
tent
in these first moments by the heart-crushing sense that now at last she and
Tito must be confessedly divided in their wishes. He was glad of her silenc=
e;
for, much as he had feared the strength of her feeling, it was impossible f=
or
him, shut up in the narrowness that hedges in all merely clever, unimpassio=
ned
men, not to overestimate the persuasiveness of his own arguments. His condu=
ct
did not look ugly to himself, and his imagination did not suffice to show h=
im
exactly how it would look to Romola. He went on in the same gentle,
remonstrating tone.
'You know, dearest - your own clear
judgment always showed you - that the notion of isolating a collection of b=
ooks
and antiquities, and attaching a single name to them for ever, was one that=
had
no valid, substantial good for its object: and yet more, one that was liabl=
e to
be defeated in a thousand ways. See what has become of the Medici collectio=
ns!
And, for my part, I consider it even blameworthy to entertain those petty v=
iews
of appropriation: why should any one be reasonably glad that Florence should
possess the benefits of learned research and taste more than any other city=
? I
understand your feeling about the wishes of the dead; but wisdom puts a lim=
it
to these sentiments, else lives might be continually wasted in that sort of
futile devotion - like praising deaf gods for ever. You gave your life to y=
our
father while he lived; why should you demand more of yourself?'
'Because it was a trust,' said Rom=
ola,
in a low but distinct voice. 'He trusted me, he trusted you, Tito. I did not
expect you to feel anything else about it - to feel as I do - but I did exp=
ect
you to feel that.'
'Yes, dearest, of course I should =
feel
it on a point where your father's real welfare or happiness was concerned; =
but
there is no question of that now. If we believed in purgatory, I should be =
as
anxious as you to have masses said; and if I believed it could now pain your
father to see his library preserved and used in a rather different way from
what he had set his mind on, I should share the strictness of your views. B=
ut a
little philosophy should teach us to rid ourselves of those air-woven fette=
rs
that mortals hang round themselves, spending their lives in misery under the
mere imagination of weight. Your mind, which seizes ideas so readily, my
Romola, is able to discriminate between substantial good and these
brain-wrought fantasies. Ask yourself, dearest, what possible good can thes=
e books
and antiquities do, stowed together under your father's name in Florence, m=
ore
than they would do if they were divided or carried elsewhere? Nay, is not t=
he
very dispersion of such things in hands that know how to value them, one me=
ans
of extending their usefulness? This rivalry of Italian cities is very petty=
and
illiberal. The loss of Constantinople was the gain of the whole civilised
world.'
Romola was still too thoroughly un=
der
the painful pressure of the new revelation Tito was making of himself, for =
her
resistance to find any strong vent. As that fluent talk fell on her ears th=
ere
was a rising contempt within her, which only made her more conscious of her
bruised, despairing love, her love for the Tito she had married and believed
in. Her nature, possessed with the energies of strong emotion, recoiled from
this hopelessly shallow readiness which professed to appropriate the widest
sympathies and had no pulse for the nearest. She still spoke like one who w=
as
restrained from showing all she felt. She had only drawn away her arm from =
his
knee, and sat with her hands clasped before her, cold and motionless as loc=
ked
waters.
'You talk of substantial good, Tit=
o!
Are faithfulness, and love, and sweet grateful memories, no good? Is it no =
good
that we should keep our silent promises on which others build because they
believe in our love and truth? Is it no good that a just life should be jus=
tly
honoured? Or, is it good that we should harden our hearts against all the w=
ants
and hopes of those who have depended on us? What good can belong to men who
have such souls? To talk cleverly, perhaps, and find soft couches for
themselves, and live and die with their base selves as their best companion=
s.'
Her voice had gradually risen till
there was a ring of scorn in the last words; she made a slight pause, but he
saw there were other words quivering on her lips, and he chose to let them
come.
'I know of no good for cities or t=
he
world if they are to be made up of such beings. But I am not thinking of ot=
her
Italian cities and the whole civilised world - I am thinking of my father, =
and
of my love and sorrow for him, and of his just claims on us. I would give up
anything else, Tito, - I would leave Florence, - what else did I live for b=
ut
for him and you? But I will not give up that duty. What have I to do with y=
our
arguments? It was a yearning of his heart, and therefore it is a yearning of
mine.'
Her voice, from having been tremul=
ous,
had become full and firm. She felt that she had been urged on to say all th=
at
it was needful for her to say. She thought, poor thing, there was nothing
harder to come than this struggle against Tito's suggestions as against the
meaner part of herself.
He had begun to see clearly that he
could not persuade her into assent: he must take another course, and show h=
er
that the time for resistance was past. That, at least, would put an end to
further struggle; and if the disclosure were not made by himself to-night,
to-morrow it must be made in another way. This necessity nerved his courage;
and his experience of her affectionateness and unexpected submissiveness, e=
ver
since their marriage until now, encouraged him to hope that, at last, she w=
ould
accommodate herself to what had been his will.
'I am sorry to hear you speak in t=
hat
spirit of blind persistence, my Romola,' he said, quietly, 'because it obli=
ges
me to give you pain. But I partly foresaw your opposition, and as a prompt
decision was necessary, I avoided that obstacle, and decided without consul=
ting
you. The very care of a husband for his wife's interest compels him to that
separate action sometimes - even when he has such a wife as you, my Romola.=
'
She turned her eyes on him in
breathless inquiry.
'I mean,' he said, answering her l=
ook,
'that I have arranged for the transfer, both of the books and of the
antiquities, where they will find the highest use and value. The books have
been bought for the Duke of Milan, the marbles and bronzes and the rest are
going to France: and both will be protected by the stability of a great Pow=
er,
instead of remaining in a city which is exposed to ruin.'
Before he had finished speaking,
Romola had started from her seat, and stood up looking down at him, with
tightened hands falling before her, and, for the first time in her life, wi=
th a
flash of fierceness in her scorn and anger.
'You have sold them?' she asked, a=
s if
she distrusted her ears.
'I have,' said Tito, quailing a
little. The scene was unpleasant - the descending scorn already scorched hi=
m.
'You are a treacherous man!' she s=
aid,
with something grating in her voice, as she looked down at him.
She was silent for a minute, and he
sat still, feeling that ingenuity was powerless just now. Suddenly she turn=
ed
away, and said in an agitated tone, 'It may be hindered - I am going to my
godfather.'
In an instant Tito started up, wen=
t to
the door, locked it, and took out the key. It was time for all the masculine
predominance that was latent in him to show itself. But he was not angry; he
only felt that the moment was eminently unpleasant, and that when this scene
was at an end he should be glad to keep away from Romola for a little while.
But it was absolutely necessary first that she should be reduced to
passiveness.
'Try to calm yourself a little,
Romola,' he said, leaning in the easiest attitude possible against a pedest=
al
under the bust of a grim old Roman. Not that he was inwardly easy: his heart
palpitated with a moral dread, against which no chain-armour could be found=
. He
had locked-in his wife's anger and scorn, but he had been obliged to lock h=
imself
in with it; and his blood did not rise with contest - his olive cheek was
perceptibly paled.
Romola had paused and turned her e=
yes
on him as she saw him take his stand and lodge the key in his scarsella. Her
eyes were flashing, and her whole frame seemed to be possessed by impetuous
force that wanted to leap out in some deed. All the crushing pain of
disappointment in her husband, which had made the strongest part of her
consciousness a few minutes before, was annihilated by the vehemence of her=
indignation.
She could not care in this moment that the man she was despising as he lean=
ed
there in his loathsome beauty - she could not care that he was her husband;=
she
could only feel that she despised him. The pride and fierceness of the old
Bardi blood had been thoroughly awaked in her for the first time.
'Try at least to understand the fa=
ct,'
said Tito, 'and do not seek to take futile steps which may be fatal. It is =
of
no use for you to go to your godfather. Messer Bernardo cannot reverse what=
I
have done. Only sit down. You would hardly wish, if you were quite yourself=
, to
make known to any third person what passes between us in private.'
Tito knew that he had touched the
right fibre there. But she did not sit down; she was too unconscious of her
body voluntarily to change her attitude.
'Why can it not be reversed?' she
said, after a pause. 'Nothing is moved yet.'
'Simply because the sale has been
concluded by written agreement; the purchasers have left Florence, and I ho=
ld
the bonds for the purchase-money.'
'If my father had suspected you of
being a faithless man,' said Romola, in a tone of bitter scorn, which insis=
ted
on darting out before she could say anything else, 'he would have placed the
library safely out of your power. But death overtook him too soon, and when=
you
were sure his ear was deaf, and his hand stiff, you robbed him.' She paused=
an
instant, and then said, with gathered passion, 'Have you robbed somebody el=
se,
who is not dead? Is that the reason you wear armour?'
Romola had been driven to utter the
words as men are driven to use the lash of the horsewhip. At first, Tito fe=
lt
horribly cowed; it seemed to him that the disgrace he had been dreading wou=
ld
be worse than he had imagined it. But soon there was a reaction: such power=
of
dislike and resistance as there was within him was beginning to rise agains=
t a
wife whose voice seemed like the herald of a retributive fate. Her, at leas=
t,
his quick mind told him that he might master.
'It is useless,' he said, coolly, =
'to
answer the words of madness, Romola. Your peculiar feeling about your father
has made you mad at this moment. Any rational person looking at the case fr=
om a
due distance will see that I have taken the wisest course. Apart from the
influence of your exaggerated feelings on him, I am convinced that Messer
Bernardo would be of that opinion.'
'He would not!' said Romola. 'He l=
ives
in the hope of seeing my father's wish exactly fulfilled. We spoke of it
together only yesterday. He will help me yet. Who are these men to whom you
have sold my father's property?'
'There is no reason why you should=
not
be told, except that it signifies little. The Count di San Severino and the
Seneschal de Beaucaire are now on their way with the king to Siena.'
'They may be overtaken and persuad=
ed
to give up their purchase,' said Romola, eagerly, her anger beginning to be
surmounted by anxious thought.
'No, they may not,' said Tito, with
cool decision.
'Why?'
'Because I do not choose that they
should.'
'But if you were paid the money? -=
we
will pay you the money,' said Romola.
No words could have disclosed more
fully her sense of alienation from Tito; but they were spoken with less of
bitterness than of anxious pleading. And he felt stronger, for he saw that =
the
first impulse of fury was past.
'No, my Romola. Understand that su=
ch
thoughts as these are impracticable. You would not, in a reasonable moment,=
ask
your godfather to bury three thousand florins in addition to what he has
already paid on the library. I think your pride and delicacy would shrink f=
rom
that.'
She began to tremble and turn cold
again with discouragement, and sank down on the carved chest near which she=
was
standing. He went on in a clear voice, under which she shuddered, as if it =
had
been a narrow cold stream coursing over a hot cheek.
'Moreover, it is not my will that
Messer Bernardo should advance the money, even if the project were not an
utterly wild one. And I beg you to consider, before you take any step or ut=
ter
any word on the subject, what will be the consequences of your placing your=
self
in opposition to me, and trying to exhibit your husband in the odious light
which your own distempered feelings cast over him. What object will you ser=
ve
by injuring me with Messer Bernardo? The event is irrevocable, the library =
is
sold, and you are my wife.'
Every word was spoken for the sake=
of
a calculated effect, for his intellect was urged into the utmost activity by
the danger of the crisis. He knew that Romola's mind would take in rapidly
enough all the wide meaning of his speech. He waited and watched her in
silence.
She had turned her eyes from him, =
and
was looking on the ground, and in that way she sat for several minutes. When
she spoke, her voice was quite altered, - it was quiet and cold.
'I have one thing to ask.'
'Ask anything that I can do without
injuring us both, Romola.'
'That you will give me that portio=
n of
the money which belongs to my godfather, and let me pay him.'
'I must have some assurance from y=
ou,
first, of the attitude you intend to take towards me.'
'Do you believe in assurances, Tit=
o?'
she said, with a tinge of returning bitterness.
'From you, I do.'
'I will do you no harm. I shall
disclose nothing. I will say nothing to pain him or you. You say truly, the
event is irrevocable.'
'Then I will do what you desire
to-morrow morning.'
'To-night, if possible,' said Romo=
la,
'that we may not speak of it again.'
'It is possible,' he said, moving
towards the lamp, while she sat still, looking away from him with absent ey=
es.
Presently he came and bent down ov=
er
her, to put a piece of paper into her hand. 'You will receive something in
return, you are aware, my Romola?' he said, gently, not minding so much what
had passed, now he was secure; and feeling able to try and propitiate her. =
'Yes,' she said, taking the paper,
without looking at him, 'I understand.'
'And you will forgive me, my Romol=
a,
when you have had time to reflect.' He just touched her brow with his lips,=
but
she took no notice, and seemed really unconscious of the act.
She was aware that he unlocked the
door and went out. She moved her head and listened. The great door of the c=
ourt
opened and shut again. She started up as if some sudden freedom had come, a=
nd
going to her father's chair where his picture was propped, fell on her knees
before it, and burst into sobs.
When Baldassarre was wandering abo=
ut
Florence in search of a spare outhouse where he might have the cheapest of
sheltered beds, his steps had been attracted towards that sole portion of
ground within the walls of the city which is not perfectly level, and where=
the
spectator, lifted above the roofs of the houses, can see beyond the city to=
the
protecting hills and far-stretching valley, otherwise shut out from his view
except along the welcome opening made by the course of the Arno. Part of th=
at
ground has been already seen by us as the hill of Bogoli, at that time a gr=
eat
stone-quarry, but the side towards which Baldassarre directed his steps was=
the
one that sloped down behind the Via de' Bardi, and was most commonly called=
the
hill of San Giorgio. Bratti had told him that Tito's dwelling was in the Via
de' Bardi; and, after surveying that street, he turned up the slope of the =
hill
which he had observed as he was crossing the bridge. If he could find a
sheltering outhouse on that hill, he would be glad: he had now for some yea=
rs
been accustomed to live with a broad sky about him; and, moreover, the narr=
ow
passes of the streets, with their strip of sky above, and the unknown labyr=
inth
around them, seemed to intensify his sense of loneliness and feeble memory.=
The hill was sparsely inhabited, a=
nd
covered chiefly by gardens; but in one spot was a piece of rough ground jag=
ged
with great stones, which had never been cultivated since a landslip had rui=
ned
some houses there towards the end of the thirteenth century. Just above the
edge of this broken ground stood a queer little square building, looking li=
ke a
truncated tower roofed in with fluted tiles, and close by was a small outho=
use,
apparently built up against a piece of ruined stone wall. Under a large
half-dead mulberry-tree that was now sending its last fluttering leaves in =
at
the open doorways, a shrivelled, hardy old woman was untying a goat with two
kids, and Baldassarre could see that part of the outbuilding was occupied by
live stock; but the door of the other part was open, and it was empty of
everything but some tools and straw. It was just the sort of place he wante=
d.
He spoke to the old woman; but it was not till he got close to her and shou=
ted
in her ear, that he succeeded in making her understand his want of a lodgin=
g,
and his readiness to pay for it. At first he could get no answer beyond sha=
kes
of the head and the words, 'No - no lodging,' uttered in the muffled tone o=
f the
deaf. But, by dint of persistence, he made clear to her that he was a poor
stranger from a long way over seas, and could not afford to go to hostelrie=
s;
that he only wanted to lie on the straw in the outhouse, and would pay her a
quattrino or two a-week for that shelter. She still looked at him dubiously,
shaking her head and talking low to herself; but presently, as if a new tho=
ught
occurred to her, she fetched a hatchet from the house, and, showing him a c=
hump
that lay half covered with litter in a corner, asked him if he would chop t=
hat
up for her: if he would, he might lie in the outhouse for one night. He agr=
eed,
and Monna Lisa stood with her arms akimbo to watch him, with a smile of
gratified cunning, saying low to herself -
'It's lain there ever since my old=
man
died. What then? I might as well have put a stone on the fire. He chops very
well, though he does speak with a foreign tongue, and looks odd. I couldn't
have got it done cheaper. And if he only wants a bit of straw to lie on, I
might make him do an errand or two up and down the hill. Who need know? And=
sin
that's hidden's half forgiven. He's a stranger: he'll take no notice of her.
And I'll tell her to keep her tongue still.'
The antecedent to these feminine
pronouns had a pair of blue eyes, which at that moment were applied to a la=
rge
round hole in the shutter of the upper window. The shutter was closed, not =
for
any penal reasons, but because only the opposite window had the luxury of g=
lass
in it: the weather was not warm, and a round hole four inches in diameter
served all the purposes of observation. The hole was, unfortunately, a litt=
le
too high, and obliged the small observer to stand on a low stool of a ricke=
ty
character; but Tessa would have stood a long while in a much more inconveni=
ent
position for the sake of seeing a little variety in her life. She had been
drawn to the opening at the first loud tones of the strange voice speaking =
to
Monna Lisa; and darting gently across her room every now and then to peep at
something, she continued to stand there until the wood had been chopped, and
she saw Baldassarre enter the outhouse, as the dusk was gathering, and seat
himself on the straw.
A great temptation had laid hold of
Tessa's mind; she would go and take that old man part of her supper, and ta=
lk
to him a little. He was not deaf like Monna Lisa, and besides she could say=
a
great many things to him that it was no use to shout at Monna Lisa, who knew
them already. And he was a stranger - strangers came from a long way off and
went away again, and lived nowhere in particular. It was naughty, she knew,=
for
obedience made the largest part in Tessa's idea of duty; but it would be
something to confess to the Padre next Pasqua, and there was nothing else to
confess except going to sleep sometimes over her beads, and being a little
cross with Monna Lisa because she was so deaf; for she had as much idleness=
as
she liked now, and was never frightened into telling white lies. She turned
away from her shutter with rather an excited expression in her childish fac=
e,
which was as pretty and pouting as ever. Her garb was still that of a simple
contadina, but of a contadina prepared for a festa: her gown of dark-green
serge, with its red girdle, was very clean and neat; she had the string of =
red
glass beads round her neck; and her brown hair, rough from curliness, was d=
uly
knotted up, and fastened with the silver pin. She had but one new ornament,=
and
she was very proud of it, for it was a fine gold ring.
Tessa sat on the low stool, nursing
her knees, for a minute or two, with her little soul poised in fluttering
excitement on the edge of this pleasant transgression. It was quite
irresistible. She had been commanded to make no acquaintances, and warned t=
hat
if she did, all her new happy lot would vanish away, and be like a hidden
treasure that turned to lead as soon as it was brought to the daylight; and=
she
had been so obedient that when she had to go to church she had kept her face
shaded by her hood and had pursed up her lips quite tightly. It was true he=
r obedience
had been a little helped by her own dread lest the alarming stepfather Nofri
should turn up even in this quarter, so far from the Por' del Prato, and be=
at
her at least, if he did not drag her back to work for him. But this old man=
was
not an acquaintance; he was a poor stranger going to sleep in the outhouse,=
and
he probably knew nothing of stepfather Nofri; and, besides, if she took him
some supper, he would like her, and not want to tell anything about her. Mo=
nna
Lisa would say she must not go and talk to him, therefore Monna Lisa must n=
ot
be consulted. It did not signify what she found out after it had been done.=
Supper was being prepared, she kne=
w -
a mountain of macaroni flavoured with cheese, fragrant enough to tame any
stranger. So she tripped down-stairs with a mind full of deep designs, and
first asking with an innocent look what that noise of talking had been, wit=
hout
waiting for an answer, knit her brow with a peremptory air, something like a
kitten trying to be formidable, and sent the old woman upstairs; saying, she
chose to eat her supper down below. In three minutes Tessa with her lantern=
in
one hand and a wooden bowl of macaroni in the other, was kicking gently at =
the
door of the outhouse; and Baldassarre, roused from sad reverie, doubted in =
the
first moment whether he were awake as he opened the door and saw this
surprising little handmaid, with delight in her wide eyes, breaking in on h=
is
dismal loneliness.
'I've brought you some supper,' she
said, lifting her mouth towards his ear and shouting, as if he had been deaf
like Monna Lisa. 'Sit down and eat it, while I stay with you.'
Surprise and distrust surmounted e=
very
other feeling in Baldassarre, but though he had no smile or word of gratitu=
de
ready, there could not be any impulse to push away this visitant, and he sa=
nk
down passively on his straw again, while Tessa placed herself close to him,=
put
the wooden bowl on his lap, and set down the lantern in front of them, cros=
sing
her hands before her, and nodding at the bowl with a significant smile, as =
much
as to say. 'Yes, you may really eat it.' For, in the excitement of carrying=
out
her deed, she had forgotten her previous thought that the stranger would no=
t be
deaf, and had fallen into her habitual alternative of dumb show and shoutin=
g.
The invitation was not a disagreea=
ble
one, for he had been gnawing a remnant of dry bread, which had left plenty =
of
appetite for anything warm and relishing. Tessa watched the disappearance of
two or three mouthfuls without speaking, for she had thought his eyes rather
fierce at first; but now she ventured to put her mouth to his ear again and=
cry
-
'I like my supper, don't you?'
It was not a smile, but rather the
milder look of a dog touched by kindness, but unable to smile, that Baldass=
arre
turned on this round blue-eyed thing that was caring about him.
'Yes,' he said; 'but I can hear we=
ll -
I'm not deaf.'
'It is true; I forgot,' said Tessa,
lifting her hands and clasping them. 'But Monna Lisa is deaf, and I live wi=
th
her. She's a kind old woman, and I'm not frightened at her. And we live very
well: we have plenty of nice things. I can have nuts if I like. And I'm not
obliged to work now. I used to have to work, and I didn't like it; but I li=
ked
feeding the mules, and I should like to see poor Giannetta, the little mule,
again. We've only got a goat and two kids, and I used to talk to the goat a
good deal, because there was nobody else but Monna Lisa. But now I've got
something else - can you guess what it is?'
She drew her head back, and looked
with a challenging smile at Baldassarre, as if she had proposed a difficult
riddle to him.
'No,' said he, putting aside his b=
owl,
and looking at her dreamily. It seemed as if this young prattling thing were
some memory come back out of his own youth.
'You like me to talk to you, don't
you?' said Tessa, 'but you must not tell anybody. Shall I fetch you a bit of
cold sausage ?'
He shook his head, but he looked so
mild now that Tessa felt quite at her ease.
'Well, then, I've got a little bab=
y.
Such a pretty bambinetto, with little fingers and nails! Not old yet; it was
born at the Nativita, Monna Lisa says. I was married one Nativita, a long, =
long
while ago, and nobody knew. O Santa Madonna! I didn't mean to tell you that=
!'
Tessa set up her shoulders and bit=
her
lip, looking at Baldassarre as if this betrayal of secrets must have an
exciting effect on him too. But he seemed not to care much; and perhaps that
was in the nature of strangers.
'Yes,' she said, carrying on her
thought aloud, 'you are a stranger; you don't live anywhere or know anybody=
, do
you?'
'No,' said Baldassarre, also think=
ing
aloud, rather than consciously answering, 'I only know one man.'
'His name is not Nofri, is it?' sa=
id
Tessa, anxiously.
'No,' said Baldassarre, noticing h=
er
look of fear. 'Is that your husband's name?'
That mistaken supposition was very
amusing to Tessa. She laughed and clapped her hands as she said -
'No, indeed! But I must not tell y=
ou
anything about my husband. You would never think what he is - not at all li=
ke
Nofri!'
She laughed again at the delightful
incongruity between the name of Nofri - which was not separable from the id=
ea
of the cross-grained stepfather - and the idea of her husband.
'But I don't see him very often,' =
she
went on, more gravely. 'And sometimes I pray to the Holy Madonna to send him
oftener, and once she did. But I must go back to my bimbo now. I'll bring i=
t to
show you to-morrow. You would like to see it. Sometimes it cries and makes a
face, but only when it's hungry, Monna Lisa says. You wouldn't think it, but
Monna Lisa had babies once, and they are all dead old men. My husband says =
she
will never die now, because she's so well dried. I'm glad of that, for I'm =
fond
of her. You would like to stay here to-morrow, shouldn't you?'
'I should like to have this place =
to
come and rest in, that's all,' said Baldassarre. 'I would pay for it, and h=
arm
nobody.'
'No, indeed; I think you are not a=
bad
old man. But you look sorry about something. Tell me, is there anything you
shall cry about when I leave you by yourself? I used to cry once.
'No, child; I think I shall cry no
more.'
'That's right; and I'll bring you =
some
breakfast, and show you the bimbo. Good-night.'
Tessa took up her bowl and lantern,
and closed the door behind her. The pretty loving apparition had been no mo=
re
to Baldassarre than a faint rainbow on the blackness to the man who is
wrestling in deep waters. He hardly thought of her again till his dreamy wa=
king
passed into the more vivid images of disturbed sleep.
But Tessa thought much of him. She=
had
no sooner entered the house than she told Monna Lisa what she had done, and
insisted that the stranger should be allowed to come and rest in the outhou=
se
when he liked. The old woman, who had had her notions of making him a usefu=
l tenant,
made a great show of reluctance, shook her head, and urged that Messer Naldo
would be angry if she let any one come about the house. Tessa did not belie=
ve
that. Naldo had said nothing against strangers who lived nowhere; and this =
old
man knew nobody except one person, who was not Nofri.
'Well,' conceded Monna Lisa, at la=
st,
'if I let him stay for a while and carry things up the hill for me, thou mu=
st
keep thy counsel and tell nobody.'
'No,' said Tessa, 'I'll only tell =
the
bimbo.'
'And then,' Monna Lisa went on, in=
her
thick undertone, 'God may love us well enough not to let Messer Naldo find =
out
anything about it. For he never comes here but at dark; and as he was here =
two
days ago, it's likely he'll never come at all till the old man's gone away =
again.'
'Oh me! Monna,' said Tessa, claspi=
ng
her hands, 'I wish Naldo had not to go such a long, long way sometimes befo=
re
he comes back again.'
'Ah, child! the world's big, they =
say.
There are places behind the mountains, and if people go night and day, night
and day, they get to Rome, and see the Holy Father.'
Tessa looked submissive in the
presence of this mystery, and began to rock her baby, and sing syllables of
vague loving meaning, in tones that imitated a triple chime.
The next morning she was unusually
industrious in the prospect of more dialogue, and of the pleasure she should
give the poor old stranger by showing him her baby. But before she could get
ready to take Baldassarre his breakfast, she found that Monna Lisa had been
employing him as a drawer of water. She deferred her paternosters, and hurr=
ied
down to insist that Baldassarre should sit on his straw, so that she might =
come
and sit by him again while he ate his breakfast. That attitude made the new
companionship all the more delightful to Tessa, for she had been used to
sitting on straw in old days along with her goats and mules.
'I will not let Monna Lisa give you
too much work to do,' she said, bringing him some steaming broth and soft
bread. 'I don't like much work, and I daresay you don't. I like sitting in =
the
sunshine and feeding things. Monna Lisa says. work is good, but she does it=
all
herself, so I don't mind. She's not a cross old woman; you needn't be afrai=
d of
her being cross. And now, you eat that, and I'll go and fetch my baby and s=
how
it you.'
Presently she came back with the s=
mall
mummy-case in her arms. The mummy looked very lively, having unusually large
dark eyes though no more than the usual indication of a future nose.
'This is my baby,' said Tessa, sea=
ting
herself close to Baldassarre. 'You didn't think it was so pretty, did you? =
It
is like the little Gesu, and I should think the Santa Madonna would be kind=
er
to me now, is it not true? But I have not much to ask for, because I have
everything now - only that I should see my husband oftener. You may hold the
bambino a little if you like, but I think you must not kiss him, because you
might hurt him.'
She spoke this prohibition in a to=
ne
of soothing excuse, and Baldassarre could not refuse to hold the small pack=
age.
'Poor thing! poor thing!' he said, in a deep voice which had something
strangely threatening in its apparent pity. It did not seem to him as if th=
is
guileless loving little woman could reconcile him to the world at all, but
rather that she was with him against the world, that she was a creature who
would need to be avenged.
'Oh, don't you be sorry for me,' s=
he
said; 'for though I don't see him often, he is more beautiful and good than
anybody else in the world. I say prayers to him when he's away. You couldn't
think what he is!'
She looked at Baldassarre with a w=
ide
glance of mysterious meaning, taking the baby from him again, and almost
wishing he would question her as if he wanted very much to know more.
'Yes, I could,' said Baldassarre,
rather bitterly.
'No, I'm sure you never could,' sa=
id
Tessa, earnestly. 'You thought he might be Nofri,' she added, with a triump=
hant
air of conclusiveness. 'But never mind; you couldn't know. What is your nam=
e?'
He rubbed his hand over his knitted
brow, then looked at her blankly and said, 'Ah, child, what is it?'
It was not that he did not often
remember his name well enough; and if he had had presence of mind now to
remember it, he would have chosen not to tell it. But a sudden question
appealing to his memory, had a paralysing effect, and in that moment he was
conscious of nothing but helplessness.
Ignorant as Tessa was, the pity
stirred in her by his blank look taught her to say -
'Never mind: you are a stranger, i=
t is
no matter about your having a name. Good-bye now, because I want my breakfa=
st.
You will come here and rest when you like; Monna Lisa says you may. And don=
't
you be unhappy, for we'll be good to you.'
'Poor thing!' said Baldassarre aga=
in.
Messer Naldo came again sooner than
was expected: he came on the evening of the twenty-eighth of November, only
eleven days after his previous visit, proving that he had not gone far beyo=
nd
the mountains; and a scene which we have witnessed as it took place that
evening in the Via de' Bardi may help to explain the impulse which turned h=
is
steps towards the hill of San Giorgio.
When Tito had first found this home
for Tessa, on his return from Rome, more than a year and a half ago, he had
acted, he persuaded himself, simply under the constraint imposed on him by =
his
own kindliness after the unlucky incident which had made foolish little Tes=
sa
imagine him to be her husband. It was true that the kindness was manifested
towards a pretty trusting thing whom it was impossible to be near without
feeling inclined to caress and pet her; but it was not less true that Tito =
had
movements of kindness towards her apart from any contemplated gain to himse=
lf.
Otherwise, charming as her prettiness and prattle were in a lazy moment, he
might have preferred to be free from her; for he was not in love with Tessa=
-
he was in love for the first time in his life with an entirely different wo=
man,
whom he was not simply inclined to shower caresses on, but whose presence
possessed him so that the simple sweep of her long tresses across his cheek
seemed to vibrate through the hours. All the young ideal passion he had in =
him
had been stirred by Romola, and his fibre was too fine, his intellect too
bright, for him to be tempted into the habits of a gross pleasure-seeker. B=
ut
he had spun a web about himself and Tessa, which he felt incapable of break=
ing:
in the first moments after the mimic marriage he had been prompted to leave=
her
under an illusion by a distinct calculation of his own possible need, but s=
ince
that critical moment it seemed to him that the web had gone on spinning its=
elf
in spite of him, like a growth over which he had no power. The elements of
kindness and self-indulgence are hard to distinguish in a soft nature like
Tito's; and the annoyance he had felt under Tessa's pursuit of him on the d=
ay
of his betrothal, the thorough intention of revealing the truth to her with
which he set out to fulfil his promise of seeing her again, were a sufficie=
ntly
strong argument to him that in ultimately leaving Tessa under her illusion =
and
providing a home for her, he had been overcome by his own kindness. And in
these days of his first devotion to Romola he needed a self-justifying
argument. He had learned to be glad that she was deceived about some things.
But every strong feeling makes to itself a conscience of its own - has its =
own
piety; just as much as the feeling of the son towards the mother, which will
sometimes survive amid the worst fumes of depravation; and Tito could not y=
et
be easy in committing a secret offence against his wedded love.
But he was all the more careful in
taking precautions to preserve the secrecy of the offence. Monna Lisa, who,
like many of her class, never left her habitation except to go to one or two
particular shops, and to confession once a-year, knew nothing of his real n=
ame
and whereabout: she only knew that he paid her so as to make her very
comfortable, and minded little about the rest, save that she got fond of Te=
ssa,
and found pleasure in the cares for which she was paid. There was some myst=
ery
behind, clearly, since Tessa was a contadina, and Messer Naldo was a signor;
but, for aught Monna Lisa knew, he might be a real husband. For Tito had
thoroughly frightened Tessa into silence about the circumstances of their
marriage, by telling her that if she broke that silence she would never see=
him
again; and Monna Lisa's deafness, which made it impossible to say anything =
to
her without some premeditation, had saved Tessa from any incautious revelat=
ion
to her, such as had run off her tongue in talking with Baldassarre. For a l=
ong
while Tito's visits were so rare, that it seemed likely enough he took jour=
neys
between them. They were prompted chiefly by the desire to see that all thin=
gs
were going on well with Tessa; and though he always found his visit pleasan=
ter
than the prospect of it - always felt anew the charm of that pretty ignorant
lovingness and trust - he had not yet any real need of it. But he was
determined, if possible, to preserve the simplicity on which the charm depe=
nded;
to keep Tessa a genuine contadina, and not place the small field-flower amo=
ng
conditions that would rob it of its grace. He would have been shocked to see
her in the dress of any other rank than her own; the piquancy of her talk w=
ould
be all gone, if things began to have new relations for her, if her world be=
came
wider, her pleasures less childish; and the squirrel-like enjoyment of nuts=
at
discretion marked the standard of the luxuries he had provided for her. By =
this
means, Tito saved Tessa's charm from being sullied; and he also, by a
convenient coincidence, saved himself from aggravating expenses that were
already rather importunate to a man whose money was all required for his av=
owed
habits of life.
This, in brief, had been the histo=
ry
of Tito's relation to Tessa up to a very recent date. It is true that once =
or
twice before Bardo's death, the sense that there was Tessa up the hill, with
whom it was possible to pass an hour agreeably, had been an inducement to h=
im
to escape from a little weariness of the old man, when, for lack of any
positive engagement, he might otherwise have borne the weariness patiently =
and
shared Romola's burden. But the moment when he had first felt a real hunger=
for
Tessa's ignorant lovingness and belief in him had not come till quite latel=
y,
and it was distinctly marked out by circumstances as little to be forgotten=
as
the oncoming of a malady that has permanently vitiated the sight and hearin=
g.
It was the day when he had first seen Baldassarre, and had bought the armou=
r.
Returning across the bridge that night, with the coat of mail in his hands,=
he
had felt an unconquerable shrinking from an immediate encounter with Romola.
She, too, knew little of the actual world; she, too, trusted him; but he ha=
d an
uneasy consciousness that behind her frank eyes there was a nature that cou=
ld
judge him, and that any ill-founded trust of hers sprang not from pretty
brute-like incapacity, but from a nobleness which might prove an alarming
touchstone. He wanted a little ease, a little repose from self-control, aft=
er
the agitation and exertions of the day; he wanted to be where he could adju=
st
his mind to the morrow, without caring how he behaved at the present moment.
And there was a sweet adoring creature within reach whose presence was as s=
afe
and unconstraining as that of her own kids, - who would believe any fable, =
and
remain quite unimpressed by public opinion. And so on that evening, when Ro=
mola
was waiting and listening for him, he turned his steps up the hill.
No wonder, then, that the steps to=
ok
the same course on this evening, eleven days later, when he had had to reco=
il
under Romola's first outburst of scorn. He could not wish Tessa in his wife=
's
place, or refrain from wishing that his wife should be thoroughly reconcile=
d to
him; for it was Romola, and not Tessa, that belonged to the world where all=
the
larger desires of a man who had ambition and effective faculties must
necessarily lie. But he wanted a refuge from a standard disagreeably rigoro=
us,
of which he could not make himself independent simply by thinking it folly;=
and
Tessa's little soul was that inviting refuge.
It was not much more than eight
o'clock when he went up the stone steps to the door of Tessa's room. Usually
she heard his entrance into the house, and ran to meet him, but not to-nigh=
t;
and when he opened the door he saw the reason. A single dim light was burni=
ng
above the dying fire, and showed Tessa in a kneeling attitude by the head of
the bed where the baby lay. Her head had fallen aside on the pillow, and he=
r brown
rosary, which usually hung above the pillow over the picture of the Madonna=
and
the golden palm-branches, lay in the loose grasp of her right hand. She had
gone fast asleep over her beads. Tito stepped lightly across the little roo=
m,
and sat down close to her. She had probably heard the opening of the door as
part of her dream, for he had not been looking at her two moments before she
opened her eyes. She opened them without any start, and remained quite
motionless looking at him, as if the sense that he was there smiling at her
shut out any impulse which could disturb that happy passiveness. But when he
put his hand under her chin, and stooped to kiss her, she said -
'I dreamed it, and then I said it =
was
dreaming - and then I awoke, and it was true.'
'Little sinner!' said Tito, pinchi=
ng
her chin, 'you have not said half your prayers. I will punish you by not
looking at your baby; it is ugly.'
Tessa did not like those words, ev=
en
though Tito was smiling. She had some pouting distress in her face, as she
said, bending anxiously over the baby -
'Ah, it is not true! He is prettier
than anything. You do not think he is ugly. You will look at him. He is even
prettier than when you saw him before - only he's asleep, and you can't see=
his
eyes or his tongue, and I can't show you his hair - and it grows - isn't th=
at
wonderful? Look at him! It's true his face is very much all alike when he's
asleep, there is not so much to see as when he's awake. If you kiss him very
gently, he won't wake: you want to kiss him, is it not true?'
He satisfied her by giving the sma=
ll
mummy a butterfly kiss, and then putting his hand on her shoulder and turni=
ng
her face towards him, said, 'You like looking at the baby better than looki=
ng
at your husband, you false one!'
She was still kneeling, and now re=
sted
her hands on his knee, looking up at him like one of Fra Lippo Lippi's
round-cheeked adoring angels.
'No,' she said, shaking her head; =
'I
love you always best, only I want you to look at the bambino and love him; I
used only to want you to love me.'
'And did you expect me to come aga=
in
so soon?' said Tito, inclined to make her prattle. He still felt the effect=
s of
the agitation he had undergone - still felt like a man who has been violent=
ly
jarred; and this was the easiest relief from silence and solitude.
'Ah, no,' said Tessa, 'I have coun=
ted
the days - to-day I began at my right thumb again - since you put on the
beautiful chain-coat, that Messer San Michele gave you to take care of you =
on
your journey. And you have got it on now,' she said, peeping through the
opening in the breast of his tunic. 'Perhaps it made you come back sooner.'=
'Perhaps it did, Tessa,' he said. =
'But
don't mind the coat now. Tell me what has happened since I was here. Did you
see the tents in the Prato, and the soldiers and horsemen when they passed =
the
bridges - did you hear the drums and trumpets?'
'Yes, and I was rather frightened,
because I thought the soldiers might come up here. And Monna Lisa was a lit=
tle
afraid too, for she said they might carry our kids off; she said it was the=
ir
business to do mischief. But the Holy Madonna took care of us, for we never=
saw
one of them up here. But something has happened, only I hardly dare tell yo=
u,
and that is what I was saying more Aves for.'
'What do you mean, Tessa?' said Ti=
to,
rather anxiously. 'Make haste and tell me.'
'Yes; but will you let me sit on y=
our
knee? because then I think I shall not be so frightened.'
He took her on his knee, and put h=
is
arm round her, but looked grave: it seemed that something unpleasant must
pursue him even here.
'At first I didn't mean to tell yo=
u,'
said Tessa, speaking almost in a whisper, as if that would mitigate the
offence; 'because we thought the old man would be gone away before you came
again, and it would be as if it had not been. But now he is there, and you =
are
come, and I never did anything you told me not to do before. And I want to =
tell
you, and then you will perhaps forgive me, for it is a long while before I =
go
to confession.'
'Yes, tell me everything, my Tessa=
.'
He began to hope it was after all a trivial matter.
'Oh, you will be sorry for him: I'm
afraid he cries about something when I don't see him. But that was not the
reason I went to him first; it was because I wanted to talk to him and show=
him
my baby, and he was a stranger that lived nowhere, and I thought you wouldn=
't
care so much about my talking to him. And I think he is not a bad old man, =
and
he wanted to come and sleep on the straw next to the goats, and I made Monna
Lisa say, ‘Yes, he might,’ and he's away all the day almost, but
when he comes back I talk to him, and take him something to eat.'
'Some beggar, I suppose. It was
naughty of you, Tessa, and I am angry with Monna Lisa. I must have him sent
away.
'No, I think he is not a beggar, f=
or
he wanted to pay Monna Lisa, only she asked him to do work for her instead.=
And
he gets himself shaved, and his clothes are tidy: Monna Lisa says he is a
decent man. But sometimes I think he is not in his right mind: Lupo, at
Peretola, was not in his right mind, and he looks a little like Lupo someti=
mes,
as if he didn't know where he was.'
'What sort of face has he?' said T=
ito,
his heart beginning to beat strangely. He was so haunted by the thought of
Baldassarre, that it was already he whom he saw in imagination sitting on t=
he
straw not many yards from him. 'Fetch your stool, my Tessa, and sit on it.'=
'Shall you not forgive me?' she sa=
id,
timidly, moving from his knee.
'Yes, I will not be angry - only s=
it
down, and tell me what sort of old man this is.'
'I can't think how to tell you: he=
is
not like my stepfather Nofri, or anybody. His face is yellow, and he has de=
ep
marks in it; and his hair is white, but there is none on the top of his hea=
d:
and his eyebrows are black, and he looks from under them at me, and says, &=
#8216;Poor
thing!’ to me, as if he thought I was beaten as I used to be; and that
seems as if he couldn't be in his right mind, doesn't it? And I asked him h=
is
name once, but he couldn't tell it me: yet everybody has a name - is it not
true? And he has a book now, and keeps looking at it ever so long, as if he
were a Padre. But I think he is not saying prayers, for his lips never move=
; -
ah, you are angry with me, or is it because you are sorry for the old man?'=
Tito's eyes were still fixed on Te=
ssa;
but he had ceased to see her, and was only seeing the objects her words
suggested. It was this absent glance which frightened her, and she could not
help going to kneel at his side again. But he did not heed her, and she dar=
ed
not touch him, or speak to him: she knelt, trembling and wondering; and this
state of mind suggesting her beads to her, she took them from the floor and
began to tell them again, her pretty lips moving silently and her blue eyes
wide with anxiety and struggling tears.
Tito was quite unconscious of her
movements - unconscious of his own attitude: he was in that wrapt state in
which a man will grasp painful roughness, and press and press it closer, and
never feel it. A new possibility had risen before him, which might dissolve=
at once
the wretched conditions of fear and suppression that were marring his life.
Destiny had brought within his reach an opportunity of retrieving that mome=
nt
on the steps of the Duomo, when the Past had grasped him with living quiver=
ing
hands, and he had disowned it. A few steps, and he might be face to face wi=
th
his father, with no witness by; he might seek forgiveness and reconciliatio=
n;
and there was money now, from the sale of the library, to enable them to le=
ave
Florence without disclosure, and go into Southern Italy, where under the
probable French rule, he had already laid a foundation for patronage. Romola
need never know the whole truth, for she could have no certain means of
identifying that prisoner in the Duomo with Baldassarre, or of learning what
had taken place on the steps, except from Baldassarre himself; and if his
father forgave, he would also consent to bury, that offence.
But with this possibility of relie=
f,
by an easy spring, from present evil, there rose the other possibility, tha=
t the
fierce-hearted man might refuse to be propitiated. Well - and if he did, th=
ings
would only be as they had been before; for there would be no witness by. It=
was
not repentance with a white sheet round it and taper in hand, confessing its
hated sin in the eyes of men, that Tito was preparing for: it was a repenta=
nce
that would make all things pleasant again, and keep all past unpleasant thi=
ngs
secret. And Tito's soft-heartedness, his indisposition to feel himself in h=
arsh
relations with any creature, was in strong activity towards his father, now=
his
father was brought near to him. It would be a state of ease that his nature
could not but desire, if the poisonous hatred in Baldassarre's glance could=
be
replaced by something of the old affection and complacency.
Tito longed to have his world once
again completely cushioned with goodwill, and longed for it the more eagerly
because of what he had just suffered from the collision with Romola. It was=
not
difficult to him to smile pleadingly on those whom he had injured, and offe=
r to
do them much kindness: and no quickness of intellect could tell him exactly=
the
taste of that honey on the lips of the injured. The opportunity was there, =
and
it raised an inclination which hemmed in the calculating activity of his th=
ought.
He started up, and stepped towards the door; but Tessa's cry, as she dropped
her beads, roused him from his absorption. He turned and said -
'My Tessa, get me a lantern; and d=
on't
cry, little pigeon, I am not angry.'
They went down the stairs, and Tes=
sa
was going to shout the need of the lantern in Monna Lisa's ear, when Tito, =
who
had opened the door, said, 'Stay, Tessa - no, I want no lantern: go up-stai=
rs
again, and keep quiet, and say nothing to Monna Lisa.'
In half a minute he stood before t=
he closed
door of the outhouse, where the moon was shining white on the old paintless
wood.
In this last decisive moment, Tito
felt a tremor upon him - a sudden instinctive shrinking from a possible
tiger-glance, a possible tiger-leap. Yet why should he, a young man, be afr=
aid
of an old one? a young man with armour on, of an old man without a weapon? =
It
was but a moment's hesitation, and Tito laid his hand on the door. Was his
father asleep? Was there nothing else but the door that screened him from t=
he
voice and the glance which no magic could turn into ease?
Baldassarre was not asleep. There =
was
a square opening high in the wall of the hovel, through which the moonbeams
sent in a stream of pale light; and if Tito could have looked through the
opening, he would have seen his father seated on the straw, with something =
that
shone like a white star in his hand. Baldassarre was feeling the edge of his
poniard, taking refuge in that sensation from a hopeless blank of thought t=
hat
seemed to lie like a great gulf between his passion and its aim.
He was in one of his most wretched
moments of conscious helplessness: he had been poring, while it was light, =
over
the book that lay open beside him; then he had been trying to recall the na=
mes
of his jewels, and the symbols engraved on them, and though at certain other
times he had recovered some of those names and symbols, to-night they were =
all
gone into darkness. And this effort at inward seeing had seemed to end in u=
tter
paralysis of memory. He was reduced to a sort of mad consciousness that he =
was
a solitary pulse of just rage in a world filled with defiant baseness. He h=
ad
clutched and unsheathed his dagger, and for a long while had been feeling i=
ts
edge, his mind narrowed to one image, and the dream of one-sensation - the
sensation of plunging that dagger into a base heart, which he was unable to
pierce in any other way.
Tito had his hand on the door and =
was
pulling it: it dragged against the ground as such old doors often do, and
Baldassarre, startled out of his dreamlike state, rose from his sitting pos=
ture
in vague amazement, not knowing where he was. He had not yet risen to his f=
eet,
and was still kneeling on one knee, when the door came wide open and he saw,
dark against the moonlight, with the rays falling on one bright mass of cur=
ls
and one rounded olive cheek, the image of his reverie - not shadowy - close=
and
real like water at the lips after the thirsty dream of it. No thought could
come athwart that eager thirst. In one moment, before Tito could start back=
, the
old man, with the preternatural force of rage in his limbs, had sprung forw=
ard,
and the dagger had flashed out. In the next moment the dagger had snapped in
two, and Baldassarre, under the parrying force of Tito's arm, had fallen ba=
ck
on the straw, clutching the hilt with its bit of broken blade. The pointed =
end
lay shining against Tito's feet.
Tito had felt one great heart-leap=
of
terror as he had staggered under the weight of the thrust: he felt now the
triumph of deliverance and safety. His armour had been proved, and vengeance
lay helpless before him. But the triumph raised no devilish impulse; on the
contrary, the sight of his father close to him and unable to injure him, ma=
de
the effort at reconciliation easier. He was free from fear, but he had only=
the
more unmixed and direct want to be free from the sense that he was hated. A=
fter
they had looked at each other a little while, Baldassarre lying motionless =
in
despairing rage, Tito said in his soft tones, just as they had sounded befo=
re
the last parting on the shores of Greece -
'Padre mio!' There was a pause aft=
er
those words, but no movement or sound till he said -
'I came to ask your forgiveness!' =
Again he paused, that the healing =
balm
of those words might have time to work. But there was no sign of change in
Baldassarre: he lay as he had fallen, leaning on one arm: he was trembling,=
but
it was from the shock that had thrown him down.
'I was taken by surprise that morn=
ing.
I wish now to be a son to you again. I wish to make the rest of your life h=
appy,
that you may forget what you have suffered.'
He paused again. He had used the
clearest and strongest words he could think of. It was useless to say more,
until he had some sign that Baldassarre understood him. Perhaps his mind was
too distempered or too imbecile even for that: perhaps the shock of his fall
and his disappointed rage might have quite suspended the use of his faculti=
es.
Presently Baldassarre began to mov=
e.
He threw away the broken dagger, and slowly and gradually, still trembling,=
began
to raise himself from the ground. Tito put out his hand to help him, and so
strangely quick are men's souls that in this moment, when he began to feel =
his
atonement was accepted, he had a darting thought of the irksome efforts it
entailed. Baldassarre clutched the hand that was held out, raised himself a=
nd
clutched it still, going close up to Tito till their faces were not a foot =
off
each other. Then he began to speak, in a deep trembling voice -
'I saved you - I nurtured you - I
loved you. You forsook me - you robbed me - you denied me. What can you give
me? You have made the world bitterness to me; but there is on draught of
sweetness left - that you shall know agony.'
He let fall Tito's hand, and going
backwards a little, first rested his arm on a projecting stone in the wall,=
and
then sank again in a sitting posture on the straw. The outleap of fury in t=
he
dagger-thrust had evidently exhausted him.
Tito stood silent. If it had been a
deep yearning emotion which had brought him to ask his father's forgiveness,
the denial of it might have caused him a pang which would have excluded the
rushing train of thought that followed those decisive words. As it was, tho=
ugh
the sentence of unchangeable hatred grated on him and jarred him terribly, =
his
mind glanced round with a self-preserving instinct to see how far those wor=
ds
could have the force of a substantial threat. When he had come down to spea=
k to
Baldassarre, he had said to himself that if his effort at reconciliation
failed, things would only be as they had been before. The first glance of h=
is
mind was backward to that thought again, but the future possibilities of da=
nger
that were conjured up along with it brought the perception that things were=
not
as they had been before, and the perception came as a triumphant relief. Th=
ere
was not only the broken dagger, there was the certainty, from what Tessa had
told him, that Baldassarre's mind was broken too, and had no edge that could
reach him. Tito felt he had no choice now: he must defy Baldassarre as a ma=
d,
imbecile old man; and the chances were so strongly on his side that there w=
as
hardly room for fear. No; except the fear of having to do many unpleasant
things in order to save himself from what was yet more unpleasant. And one =
of
those unpleasant things must be done immediately: it was very difficult.
'Do you mean to stay here?' he sai=
d.
'No,' said Baldassarre, bitterly, =
'you
mean to turn me out.'
'Not so,' said Tito; 'I only ask.'=
'I tell you, you have turned me ou=
t.
If it is your straw, you turned me off it three years ago.'
'Then you mean to leave this place=
?'
said Tito, more anxious about this certainty than the ground of it.
'I have spoken,' said Baldassarre.=
Tito turned and re-entered the hou=
se.
Monna Lisa was nodding; he went up to Tessa. and found her crying by the si=
de
of her baby.
'Tessa,' he said, sitting down and
taking her head between his hands; 'leave off crying, little goose, and lis=
ten
to me.'
He lifted her chin upward, that she
might look at him, while he spoke very distinctly and emphatically.
'You must never speak to that old =
man
again. He is a mad old man, and he wants to kill me. Never speak to him or
listen to him again.'
Tessa's tears had ceased, and her =
lips
were pale with fright.
'Is he gone away?' she whispered. =
'He will go away. Remember what I =
have
said to you.'
'Yes; I will never speak to a stra=
nger
any more,' said Tessa, with a sense of guilt.
He told her, to comfort her, that =
he
would come again tomorrow; and then went down to Monna Lisa to rebuke her
severely for letting a dangerous man come about the house.
Tito felt that these were odious
tasks; they were very evil-tasted morsels, but they were forced upon him. He
heard Monna Lisa fasten the door behind him, and turned away, without looki=
ng
towards the open door of the hovel. He felt secure that Baldassarre would g=
o,
and he could not wait to see him go. Even his young frame and elastic spirit
were shattered by the agitations that had been crowded into this single
evening.
Baldassarre was still sitting on t=
he
straw when the shadow of Tito passed by. Before him lay the fragments of the
broken dagger; beside him lay the open book, over which he had pored in vai=
n.
They looked like mocking symbols of his utter helplessness; and his body was
still too trembling for him to rise and walk away.
But the next morning very early, w=
hen
Tessa peeped anxiously through the hole in her shutter, the door of the hov=
el
was open, and the strange old man was gone.
For several days Tito saw little of
Romola. He told her gently, the next morning, that it would be better for h=
er
to remove any small articles of her own from the library, as there would be
agents coming to pack up the antiquities. Then, leaning to kiss her on the
brow, he suggested that she should keep in her own room where the little
painted tabernacle was, and where she was then sitting, so that she might be
away from the noise of strange footsteps. Romola assented quietly, making no
sign of emotion: the night had been one long waking to her, and, in spite of
her healthy frame, sensation had become a dull continuous pain, as if she h=
ad
been stunned and bruised. Tito divined that she felt ill, but he dared say =
no
more; he only dared, perceiving that her hand and brow were stone cold, to
fetch a furred mantle and throw it lightly round her. And in every brief
interval that he returned to her, the scene was nearly the same: he tried to
propitiate her by some unobtrusive act or word of tenderness, and she seeme=
d to
have lost the power of speaking to him, or of looking at him. 'Patience!' he
said to himself. 'She will recover it, and forgive at last. The tie to me m=
ust
still remain the strongest.' When the stricken person is slow to recover and
look as if nothing had happened, the striker easily glides into the positio=
n of
the aggrieved party; he feels no bruise himself, and is strongly conscious =
of
his own amiable behaviour since he inflicted the blow. But Tito was not
naturally disposed to feel himself aggrieved; the constant bent of his mind=
was
towards propitiation, and he would have submitted to much for the sake of
feeling Romola's hand resting on his head again, as it did that morning whe=
n he
first shrank from looking at her.
But he found it the less difficult=
to
wait patiently for the return of his home happiness, because his life out of
doors was more and more interesting to him. A course of action which is in
strictness a slowly-prepared outgrowth of the entire character, is yet almo=
st
always traceable to a single impression as its point of apparent origin; and
since that moment in the Piazza del Duomo, when Tito, mounted on the bales,=
had
tasted a keen pleasure in the consciousness of his ability to tickle the ea=
rs
of men with any phrases that pleased them, his imagination had glanced
continually towards a sort of political activity which the troubled public =
life
of Florence was likely enough to find occasion for. But the fresh dread of
Baldassarre, waked in the same moment, had lain like an immovable rocky
obstruction across that path, and had urged him into the sale of the librar=
y,
as a preparation for the possible necessity of leaving Florence, at the very
time when he was beginning to feel that it had a new attraction for him. Th=
at
dread was nearly removed now: he must wear his armour still, he must prepare
himself for possible demands on his coolness and ingenuity, but he did not =
feel
obliged to take the inconvenient step of leaving Florence and seeking new
fortunes. His father had refused the offered atonement - had forced him into
defiance, and an old man in a strange place, with his memory gone, was weak
enough to be defied.
Tito's implicit desires were worki=
ng
themselves out now in very explicit thoughts. As the freshness of young pas=
sion
faded, life was taking more and more decidedly for him the aspect of a game=
in
which there was an agreeable mingling of skill and chance.
And the game that might be played =
in
Florence promised to be rapid and exciting; it was a game of revolutionary =
and
party struggle, sure to include plenty of that unavowed action in which
brilliant ingenuity, able to get rid of all inconvenient beliefs except that
'ginger is hot in the mouth,' is apt to see the path of superior wisdom.
No sooner were the French guests g=
one
than Florence was as agitated as a colony of ants when an alarming shadow h=
as
been removed, and the camp has to be repaired. 'How are we to raise the mon=
ey
for the French king? How are we to manage the war with those obstinate Pisan
rebels? Above all, how are we to mend our plan of government, so as to hit =
on
the best way of getting our magistrates chosen and our laws voted?' Till th=
ose
questions were well answered trade was in danger of standing still, and that
large body of the working men who were not counted as citizens and had not =
so
much as a vote to serve as an anodyne to their stomachs were likely to get
impatient. Something must be done.
And first the great bell was sound=
ed,
to call the citizens to a parliament in the Piazza de' Signori; and when the
crowd was wedged close, and hemmed in by armed men at all the outlets, the
Signoria (or Gonfaloniere and eight Priors for the time being) came out and
stood by the stone lion on the platform in front of the Old Palace, and
proposed that twenty chief men of the city should have dictatorial authority
given them, by force of which they should for one year choose all magistrat=
es,
and set the frame of government in order. And the people shouted their asse=
nt,
and felt themselves the electors of the Twenty. This kind of 'parliament' w=
as a
very old Florentine fashion, by which the will of the few was made to seem =
the
choice of the many.
The shouting in the Piazza was soo=
n at
an end, but not so the debating inside the palace: was Florence to have a G=
reat
Council after the Venetian mode, where all the officers of government might=
be
elected, and all laws voted by a wide number of citizens of a certain age a=
nd
of ascertained qualifications, without question of rank or party? or, was i=
t to
be governed on a narrower and less popular scheme, in which the hereditary
influence of good families would be less adulterated with the votes of
shopkeepers. Doctors of law disputed day after day, and far on into the nig=
ht.
Messer Pagolantonio Soderini alleged excellent reasons on the side of the
popular scheme; Messer Guidantonio Vespucci alleged reasons equally excelle=
nt
on the side of a more aristocratic form. It was a question of boiled or roa=
st,
which had been prejudged - by the palates of the disputants, and the excell=
ent
arguing might have been protracted a long while without any other result th=
an
that of deferring the cooking. The majority of the men inside the palace,
having power already in their hands, agreed with Vespucci, and thought chan=
ge
should be moderate; the majority outside the palace, conscious of little po=
wer
and many grievances, were less afraid of change.
And there was a force outside the
palace which was gradually tending to give the vague desires of that majori=
ty
the character of a determinate will. That force was the preaching of Savona=
rola.
Impelled partly by the spiritual necessity that was laid upon him to guide =
the
people, and partly by the prompting of public men who could get no measures
carried without his aid, he was rapidly passing in his daily sermons from t=
he
general to the special - from telling his hearers that they must postpone t=
heir
private passions and interests to the public good, to telling them precisely
what sort of government they must have in order to promote that good - from
'Choose whatever is best for all' to 'Choose the Great Council,' and 'the G=
reat
Council is the will of God.'
To Savonarola these were as good as
identical propositions. The Great Council was the only practicable plan for
giving an expression to the public will large enough to counteract the viti=
ating
influence of party interests: it was a plan that would make honest impartial
public action at least possible. And the purer the government of Florence w=
ould
become - the more secure from the designs of men who saw their own advantag=
e in
the moral debasement of their fellows - the nearer would the Florentine peo=
ple
approach the character of a pure community, worthy to lead the way in the
renovation of the Church and the world. And Fra Girolamo's mind never stopp=
ed
short of that sublimest end: the objects towards which he felt himself work=
ing
had always the same moral magnificence. He had no private malice - he sough=
t no
petty gratification. Even in the last terrible days, when ignominy, torture,
and the fear of torture, had laid bare every hidden weakness of his soul, he
could say to his importunate judges: 'Do not wonder if it seems to you that=
I
have told but few things; for my purposes were few and great.'
It was more than three weeks before
the contents of the library were all packed and carried away. And Romola,
instead of shutting her eyes and ears, had watched the process. The exhaust=
ion
consequent on violent emotion is apt to bring a dreamy disbelief in the rea=
lity
of its cause; and in the evening, when the workmen were gone, Romola took h=
er
hand-lamp and walked slowly round amongst the confusion of straw and wooden
cases, pausing at every vacant pedestal, every well-known object laid
prostrate, with a sort of bitter desire to assure herself that there was a
sufficient reason why her love was gone and the world was barren for her. A=
nd
still, as the evenings came, she went and went again; no longer to assure
herself, but because this vivifying of pain and despair about her father's
memory was the strongest life left to her affections. On the 23d of Decembe=
r,
she knew that the last packages were going. She ran to the loggia at the to=
p of
the house that she might not lose the last pang of seeing the slow wheels m=
ove
across the bridge.
It was a cloudy day, and nearing d=
usk.
Arno ran dark and shivering; the hills were mournful; and Florence with its
girdling stone towers had that silent, tomb-like look, which unbroken shadow
gives to a city seen from above. Santa Croce, where her father lay, was dark
amidst that darkness, and slowly crawling over the bridge, and slowly vanis=
hing
up the narrow street, was the white load, like a cruel, deliberate Fate
carrying away her father's lifelong hope to bury it in an unmarked grave.
Romola felt less that she was seeing this herself than that her father was
conscious of it as he lay helpless under the imprisoning stones, where her =
hand
could not reach his to tell him that he was not alone.
She stood still even after the load
had disappeared, heedless of the cold, and soothed by the gloom which seeme=
d to
cover her like a mourning garment and shut out the discord of joy. When
suddenly the great bell in the palace-tower rang out a mighty peal: not the
hammer-sound of alarm, but an agitated peal of triumph; and one after anoth=
er
every other bell in every other tower seemed to catch the vibration and join
the chorus. And, as the chorus swelled and swelled till the air seemed made=
of
sound - little flames, vibrating too, as if the sound had caught fire, burst
out between the turrets of the palace and on the girdling towers.
That sudden clang, that leaping li=
ght,
fell on Romola like sharp wounds. They were the triumph of demons at the
success of her husband's treachery, and the desolation of her life. Little =
more
than three weeks ago she had been intoxicated with the sound of those very
bells; and in the gladness of Florence, she had heard a prophecy of her own
gladness. But now the general joy seemed cruel to her: she stood aloof from
that common life - that Florence which was flinging out its loud exultation=
to
stun the ears of sorrow and loneliness. She could never join hands with
gladness again, but only with those whom it was in the hard nature of gladn=
ess
to forget. And in her bitterness she felt that all rejoicing was mockery. M=
en
shouted paeans with their souls full of heaviness, and then looked in their
neighbours' faces to see if there was really such a thing as joy. Romola had
lost her belief in the happiness she had once thirsted for: it was a hatefu=
l,
smiling, soft-handed thing, with a narrow, selfish heart.
She ran down from the loggia, with=
her
hands pressed against her ears, and was hurrying across the ante-chamber, w=
hen
she was startled by unexpectedly meeting her husband, who was coming to seek
her.
His step was elastic, and there wa=
s a
radiance of satisfaction about him not quite usual.
'What! the noise was a little too =
much
for you?' he said; for Romola, as she started at the sight of him, had pres=
sed
her hands all the closer against her ears. He took her gently by the wrist,=
and
drew her arm within his, leading her into the saloon surrounded with the
dancing nymphs and fauns and then went on speaking: 'Florence is gone quite=
mad
at getting its Great Council, which is to put an end to all the evils under=
the
sun; especially to the vice of merriment. You may well look stunned, my Rom=
ola,
and you are cold. You must not stay so late under that windy loggia without
wrappings. I was coming to tell you that I am suddenly called to Rome about
some learned business for Bernardo Rucellai. I am going away immediately, f=
or I
am to join my party at San Gaggio to-night, that we may start early in the
morning. I need give you no trouble; I have had my packages made already. It
will not be very long before I am back again.'
He knew he had nothing to expect f=
rom
her but quiet endurance of what he said and did. He could not even venture =
to
kiss her brow this evening, but just pressed her hand to his lips, and left
her. Tito felt that Romola was a more unforgiving woman than he had imagine=
d;
her love was not that sweet clinging instinct, stronger than all judgments,
which, he began to see now, made the great charm of a wife. Still, this
petrified coldness was better than a passionate, futile opposition. Her pri=
de
and capability of seeing where resistance was useless had their convenience=
.
But when the door had closed on Ti=
to,
Romola lost the look of cold immobility which came over her like an inevita=
ble
frost whenever he approached her. Inwardly she was very far from being in a
state of quiet endurance, and the days that had passed since the scene which
had divided her from Tito had been days of active planning and preparation =
for
the fulfilment of a purpose.
The first thing she did now was to
call old Maso to her.
'Maso,' she said, in a decided ton=
e,
'we take our journey to-morrow morning. We shall be able now to overtake th=
at
first convoy of cloth, while they are waiting at San Piero. See about the t=
wo
mules to-night, and be ready to set off with them at break of day, and wait=
for
me at Trespiano.'
She meant to take Maso with her as=
far
as Bologna, and then send him back with letters to her godfather and Tito,
telling them that she was gone and never meant to return. She had planned h=
er
departure so that its secrecy might be perfect, and her broken love and lif=
e be
hidden away unscanned by vulgar eyes. Bernardo del Nero had been absent at =
his
villa, willing to escape from political suspicions to his favourite occupat=
ion
of attending to his land, and she had paid him the debt without a personal
interview. He did not even know that the library was sold, and was left to
conjecture that some sudden piece of good fortune had enabled Tito to raise
this sum of money. Maso had been taken into her confidence only so far that=
he
knew her intended journey was a secret; and to do just what she told him was
the thing he cared most for in his withered wintry age.
Romola did not mean to go to bed t=
hat
night. When she had fastened the door she took her taper to the carved and
painted chest which contained her wedding-clothes. The white silk and gold =
lay
there, the long white veil and the circlet of pearls. A great sob rose as s=
he
looked at them: they seemed the shroud of her dead happiness. In a tiny gold
loop of the circlet a sugar-plum had lodged - a pink hailstone from the sho=
wer
of sweets: Tito had detected it first, and had said that it should always
remain there. At certain moments - and this was one of them - Romola was
carried, by a sudden wave of memory, back again into the time of perfect tr=
ust,
and felt again the presence of the husband whose love made the world as fre=
sh
and wonderful to her as to a little child that sits in stillness among the
sunny flowers: heard the gentle tones and saw the soft eyes without any lie=
in
them, and breathed again that large freedom of the soul which comes from the
faith that the being who is nearest to us is greater than ourselves. And in
those brief moments the tears always rose: the woman's lovingness felt
something akin to what the bereaved mother feels when the tiny fingers seem=
to
lie warm on her bosom, and yet are marble to her lips as she bends over the
silent bed.
But there was something else lying=
in
the chest besides the wedding-clothes: it was something dark and coarse, ro=
lled
up in a close bundle. She turned away her eyes from the white and gold to t=
he
dark bundle, and as her hands touched the serge, her tears began to be chec=
ked.
That coarse roughness recalled her fully to the present, from which love and
delight were gone. She unfastened the thick white cord and spread the bundle
out on the table. It was the grey serge dress of a sister belonging to the
third order of St Francis, living in the world but especially devoted to de=
eds
of piety - a personage whom the Florentines were accustomed to call a Pinzo=
chera.
Romola was going to put on this dress as a disguise, and she determined to =
put
it on at once, so that, if she needed sleep before the morning, she might w=
ake
up in perfect readiness to be gone. She put off her black garment, and as s=
he
thrust her soft white arms into the harsh sleeves of the serge mantle and f=
elt
the hard girdle of rope hurt her fingers as she tied it, she courted those =
rude
sensations: they were in keeping with her new scorn of that thing called
pleasure which made men base - that dexterous contrivance for selfish ease,
that shrinking from endurance and strain, when others were bowing beneath
burdens too heavy for them, which now made one image with her husband.
Then she gathered her long hair
together, drew it away tight from her face, bound it in a great hard knot at
the back of her head, and taking a square piece of black silk, tied it in t=
he
fashion of a kerchief close across her head and under her chin; and over th=
at
she drew the cowl. She lifted the candle to the mirror. Surely her disguise
would be complete to any one who had not lived very near to her. To herself=
she
looked strangely like her brother Dino: the full oval of the cheek had only=
to
be wasted; the eyes, already sad, had only to become a little sunken. Was s=
he getting
more like him in anything else? Only in this, that she understood now how m=
en
could be prompted to rush away for ever from earthly delights, how they cou=
ld
be prompted to dwell on images of sorrow rather than of beauty and joy.
But she did not linger at the mirr=
or:
she set about collecting and packing all the relics of her father and mother
that were too large to be carried in her small travelling-wallet. They were=
all
to be put in the chest along with her wedding-clothes, and the chest was to=
be
committed to her godfather when she was safely gone. First she laid in the
portraits; then one by one every little thing that had a sacred memory clin=
ging
to it was put into her wallet or into the chest.
She paused. There was still someth=
ing
else to be stript away from her, belonging to that past on which she was go=
ing
to turn her back for ever. She put her thumb and her forefinger to her
betrothal ring; but they rested there, without drawing it off. Romola's mind
had been rushing with an impetuous current towards this act for which she w=
as
preparing: the act of quitting a husband who had disappointed all her trust,
the act of breaking an outward tie that no longer represented the inward bo=
nd
of lore. But that force of outward symbols by which our active life is knit
together so as to make an inexorable external identity for us, not to be sh=
aken
by our wavering consciousness, gave a strange effect to this simple movement
towards taking off her ring - a movement which was but a small sequence of =
her
energetic resolution. It brought a vague but arresting sense that she was
somehow violently rending her life in two: a presentiment that the strong
impulse which had seemed to exclude doubt and make her path clear might aft=
er
all be blindness, and that there was something in human bonds which must
prevent them from being broken with the breaking of illusions.
If that beloved Tito who had placed
the betrothal ring on her finger was not in any valid sense the same Tito w=
hom
she had ceased to love, why should she return to him the sign of their unio=
n,
and not rather retain it as a memorial? And this act, which came as a palpa=
ble
demonstration of her own and his identity, had a power unexplained to herse=
lf,
of shaking Romola. It is the way with half the truth amidst which we live, =
that
it only haunts us and makes dull pulsations that are never born into sound.=
But
there was a passionate voice speaking within her that presently nullified a=
ll
such muffled murmurs.
'It cannot be! I cannot be subject=
to
him. He is false. I shrink from him. I despise him!'
She snatched the ring from her fin=
ger
and laid it on the table against the pen with which she meant to write. Aga=
in
she felt that there could be no law for her but the law of her affections. =
That
tenderness and keen fellow-feeling for the near and the loved which are the
main outgrowth of the affections, had made the religion of her life: they h=
ad
made her patient in spite of natural impetuosity; they would have sufficed =
to
make her heroic. But now all that strength was gone, or, rather, it was
converted into the strength of repulsion. She had recoiled from Tito in
proportion to the energy of that young belief and love which he had
disappointed, of that lifelong devotion to her father against which he had
committed an irredeemable offence. And it seemed as if all motive had slipp=
ed
away from her, except the indignation and scorn that made her tear herself
asunder from him.
She was not acting after any
precedent, or obeying any adopted maxims. The grand severity of the stoical
philosophy in which her father had taken care to instruct her, was familiar
enough to her ears and lips, and its lofty spirit had raised certain echoes
within her; but she had never used it, never needed it as a rule of life. S=
he
had endured and forborne because she loved: maxims which told her to feel l=
ess,
and not to cling close lest the onward course of great Nature should jar he=
r,
had been as powerless on her tenderness as they had been on her father's
yearning for just fame. She had appropriated no theories: she had simply fe=
lt
strong in the strength of affection, and life without that energy came to h=
er
as an entirely new problem.
She was going to solve the problem=
in
a way that seemed to her very simple. Her mind had never yet bowed to any
obligation apart from personal love and reverence; she had no keen sense of=
any
other human relations, and all she had to obey now was the instinct to sever
herself from the man she loved no longer.
Yet the unswerving resolution was
accompanied with continually varying phases of anguish. And now that the ac=
tive
preparation for her departure was almost finished, she lingered: she deferr=
ed
writing the irrevocable words of parting from all her little world. The
emotions of the past weeks seemed to rush in again with cruel hurry, and ta=
ke
possession even of her limbs. She was going to write, and her hand fell. Bi=
tter
tears came now at the delusion which had blighted her young years: tears ve=
ry
different from the sob of remembered happiness with which she had looked at=
the
circlet of pearls and the pink hailstone. And now she felt a tingling shame=
at
the words of ignominy she had cast at Tito - 'Have you robbed some one else=
who
is not dead?' To have had such words wrung from her - to have uttered them =
to
her husband seemed a degradation of her whole life. Hard speech between tho=
se
who have loved is hideous in the memory, like the sight of greatness and be=
auty
sunk into vice and rags.
That heart-cutting comparison of t=
he
present with the past urged itself upon Romola till it even transformed its=
elf
into wretched sensations: she seemed benumbed to everything but inward
throbbings, and began to feel the need of some hard contact. She drew her h=
ands
tight along the harsh knotted cord that hung from her waist. She started to=
her
feet and seized the rough lid of the chest: there was nothing else to go in?
No. She closed the lid, pressing her hand upon the rough carving, and locked
it.
Then she remembered that she had s=
till
to complete her equipment as a Pinzochera. The large leather purse or
scarsella, with small coin in it, had to be hung on the cord at her waist (=
her
florins and small jewels, presents from her godfather and cousin Brigida, w=
ere
safely fastened within her serge mantle) - and on the other side must hang =
the
rosary.
It did not occur to Romola, as she
hung that rosary by her side, that something else besides the mere garb wou=
ld
perhaps be necessary to enable her to pass as a Pinzochera, and that her wh=
ole
air and expression were as little as possible like those of a sister whose
eyelids were used to be bent, and whose lips were used to move in silent
iteration. Her inexperience prevented her from picturing distant details, a=
nd
it helped her proud courage in shutting out any foreboding of danger and
insult. She did not know that any Florentine woman had ever done exactly wh=
at
she was going to do: unhappy wives often took refuge with their friends, or=
in
the cloister, she knew, but both those courses were impossible to her; she =
had
invented a lot for herself - to go to the most learned woman in the world,
Cassandra Fedele, at Venice, and ask her how an instructed woman could supp=
ort
herself in a lonely life there.
She was not daunted by the practic=
al
difficulties in the way or the dark uncertainty at the end. Her life could
never be happy any more, but it must not, could not, be ignoble. And by a
pathetic mixture of childish romance with her woman's trials, the philosophy
which had nothing to do with this great decisive deed of hers had its place=
in
her imagination of the future: so far as she conceived her solitary loveless
life at all, she saw it animated by a proud stoical heroism, and by an
indistinct but strong purpose of labour, that she might be wise enough to w=
rite
something which would rescue her father's name from oblivion. After all, she
was only a young girl - this poor Romola, who had found herself at the end =
of
her joys.
There were other things yet to be
done. There was a small key in a casket on the table - but now Romola perce=
ived
that her taper was dying out, and she had forgotten to provide herself with=
any
other light. In a few moments the room was in total darkness. Feeling her w=
ay
to the nearest chair, she sat down to wait for the morning.
Her purpose in seeking the key had
called up certain memories which had come back upon her during the past week
with the new vividness that remembered words always have for us when we have
learned to give them a new meaning. Since the shock of the revelation which=
had
seemed to divide her for ever from Tito, that last interview with Dino had
never been for many hours together out of her mind. And it solicited her all
the more, because while its remembered images pressed upon her almost with =
the
imperious force of sensations, they raised struggling thoughts which resist=
ed
their influence. She could not prevent herself from hearing inwardly the dy=
ing
prophetic voice saying again and again, - 'The man whose face was a blank
loosed thy hand and departed; and as he went, I could see his face, and it =
was
the face of the great Tempter ... And thou, Romola, didst wring thy hands a=
nd
seek for water, and there was none ... and the plain was bare and stony aga=
in,
and thou wast alone in the midst of it. And then it seemed that the night f=
ell,
and I saw no more.' She could not prevent herself from dwelling with a sort=
of
agonised fascination on the wasted face; on the straining gaze at the cruci=
fix;
on the awe which had compelled her to kneel; on the last broken words and t=
hen
the unbroken silence - on all the details of the death-scene, which had see=
med
like a sudden opening into a world apart from that of her life-long knowled=
ge.
But her mind was roused to resista=
nce
of impressions that from being obvious phantoms, seemed to be getting solid=
in
the daylight. As a strong body struggles against fumes with the more violen=
ce
when they begin to be stifling, a strong soul struggles against phantasies =
with
all the more alarmed energy when they threaten to govern in the place of
thought.
What had the words of that vision =
to
do with her real sorrows? That fitting of certain words was a mere chance; =
the
rest was all vague - nay, those words themselves were vague; they were
determined by nothing but her brother's memories and beliefs. He believed t=
here
was something fatal in pagan learning; he believed that celibacy was more h=
oly
than marriage; he remembered their home, and all the objects in the library;
and of these threads the vision was woven. What reasonable warrant could she
have had for believing in such a vision and acting on it? None. True as the
voice of foreboding had proved, Romola saw with unshaken conviction that to
have renounced Tito in obedience to a warning like that, would have been
meagre-hearted folly. Her trust had been delusive, but she would have chosen
over again to have acted on it rather than be a creature led by phantoms and
disjointed whispers in a world where there was the large music of reasonable
speech, and the warm grasp of living hands.
But the persistent presence of the=
se
memories, linking themselves in her imagination with her actual lot, gave h=
er a
glimpse of understanding into the lives which had before lain utterly aloof
from her sympathy - the lives of the men and women who were led by such inw=
ard
images and voices.
'If they were only a little strong=
er in
me,' she said to herself, 'I should lose the sense of what that vision real=
ly
was, and take it for a prophetic light. I might in time get to be a seer of
visions myself, like the Suora Maddalena, and Camilla Rucellai, and the res=
t.'
Romola shuddered at the possibilit=
y.
All the instruction all the main influences of her life had gone to fortify=
her
scorn of that sickly superstition which led men and women, with eyes too we=
ak
for the daylight, to sit in dark swamps and try to read human destiny by th=
e chance
flame of wandering vapours.
And yet she was conscious of somet=
hing
deeper than that coincidence of words which made the parting contact with h=
er
dying brother live anew in her mind, and gave a new sisterhood to the wasted
face. If there were much more of such experience as his in the world, she w=
ould
like to understand it - would even like to learn the thoughts of men who sa=
nk
in ecstasy before the pictured agonies of martyrdom. There seemed to be
something more than madness in that supreme fellowship with suffering. The
springs were all dried up around her; she wondered what other waters there =
were
at which men drank and found strength in the desert. And those moments in t=
he
Duomo when she had sobbed with a mysterious mingling of rapture and pain, w=
hile
Fra Girolamo offered himself a willing sacrifice for the people, came back =
to
her as if they had been a transient taste of some such far-off fountain. But
again she shrank from impressions that were alluring her within the sphere =
of
visions and narrow fears which compelled men to outrage natural affections =
as
Dino had done.
This was the tangled web that Romo=
la
had in her mind as she sat weary in the darkness. No radiant angel came acr=
oss
the gloom with a clear message for her. In those times, as now, there were
human beings who never saw angels or heard perfectly clear messages. Such t=
ruth
as came to them was brought confusedly in the voices and deeds of men not at
all like the seraphs of unfailing wing and piercing vision - men who believ=
ed
falsities as well as truths, and did the wrong as well as the right. The
helping hands stretched out to them were the hands of men who stumbled and
often saw dimly, so that these beings unvisited by angels had no other choi=
ce
than to grasp that stumbling guidance along the path of reliance and action
which is the path of life, or else to pause in loneliness and disbelief, wh=
ich
is no path, but the arrest of inaction and death.
And so Romola, seeing no ray across
the darkness, and heavy with conflict that changed nothing, sank at last to
sleep.
Romola was waked by a tap at the d=
oor.
The cold light of early morning was in the room, and Maso was come for the
travelling wallet. The old man could not help starting when she opened the =
door,
and showed him, instead of the graceful outline he had been used to, crowned
with the brightness of her hair, the thick folds of the grey mantle and the
pale face shadowed by the dark cowl.
'It is well, Maso,' said Romola,
trying to speak in the calmest voice, and make the old man easy. 'Here is t=
he
wallet quite ready. You will go on quietly, and I shall not be far behind y=
ou.
When you get out of the gates you may go more slowly, for I shall perhaps j=
oin
you before you get to Trespiano.'
She closed the door behind him, and
then put her hand on the key which she had taken from the casket the last t=
hing
in the night. It was the original key of the little painted tabernacle: Tito
had forgotten to drown it in the Arno, and it had lodged, as such small thi=
ngs
will, in the corner of the embroidered scarsella which he wore with the pur=
ple
tunic. One day, long after their marriage, Romola had found it there, and h=
ad
put it by, without using it, but with a sense of satisfaction that the key =
was
within reach. The cabinet on which the tabernacle stood had been moved to t=
he
side of the room, close to one of the windows, where the pale morning light
fell upon it so as to make the painted forms discernible enough to Romola, =
who
knew them well, - the triumphant Bacchus, with his clusters and his vine-cl=
ad
spear, clasping the crowned Ariadne; the Loves showering roses, the wreathed
vessel, the cunning-eyed dolphins, and the rippled sea: all encircled by a
flowery border, like a bower of paradise. Romola looked at the familiar ima=
ges
with new bitterness and repulsion: they seemed a more pitiable mockery than
ever on this chill morning, when she had waked up to wander in loneliness. =
They
had been no tomb of sorrow, but a lying screen. Foolish Ariadne! with her g=
aze
of love, as if that bright face, with its hyacinthine curls like tendrils a=
mong
the vines, held the deep secret of her life!
'Ariadne is wonderfully transforme=
d,'
thought Romola. 'She would look strange among the vines and the roses now.'=
She took up the mirror, and looked=
at
herself once more. But the sight was so startling in this morning light that
she laid it down again, with a sense of shrinking almost as strong as that =
with
which she had turned from the joyous Ariadne. The recognition of her own fa=
ce,
with the cowl about it, brought back the dread lest she should be drawn at =
last
into fellowship with some wretched superstition - into the company of the
howling fanatics and weeping nuns who had been her contempt from childhood =
till
now. She thrust the key into the tabernacle hurriedly: hurriedly she opened=
it,
and took out the crucifix, without looking at it; then, with trembling fing=
ers,
she passed a cord through the little ring, hung the crucifix round her neck,
and hid it in the bosom of her mantle. 'For Dino's sake,' she said to herse=
lf.
Still there were the letters to be
written which Maso was to carry back from Bologna. They were very brief. The
first said -
'Tito, my love for you is dead; and
therefore, so far as I was yours, I too am dead. Do not try to put in force=
any
laws for the sake of fetching me back: that would bring you no happiness. T=
he
Romola you married can never return. I need explain nothing to you after the
words I uttered to you the last time we spoke long together. If you suppose=
d them
to be words of transient anger, you will know now that they were the sign o=
f an
irreversible change.
'I think you will fulfil my wish t=
hat
my bridal chest should be sent to my godfather, who gave it me. It contains=
my
wedding-clothes and the portraits and other relics of my father and mother.=
'
She folded the ring inside this
letter, and wrote Tito's name outside. The next letter was to Bernardo del
Nero: -
'Dearest Godfather, - If I could h=
ave
been any good to your life by staying I would not have gone away to a dista=
nce.
But now I am gone. Do not ask the reason; and if you love my father, try to
prevent any one from seeking me. I could not bear my life at Florence. I ca=
nnot
bear to tell any one why. Help to cover my lot in silence. I have asked tha=
t my
bridal chest should be sent to you: when you open it, you will know the rea=
son.
Please to give all the things that were my mother's to my cousin Brigida, a=
nd
ask her to forgive me for not saying any words of parting to her.
'Farewell, my second father. The b=
est
thing I have in life is still to remember your goodness and be grateful to =
you.
Romola'
Romola put the letters, along with=
the
crucifix, within the bosom of her mantle, and then felt that everything was
done. She was now ready to depart.
No one was stirring in the house, =
and
she went almost as quietly as a grey phantom down the stairs and into the
silent street. Her heart was palpitating violently, yet she enjoyed the sen=
se
of her firm tread on the broad flags - of the swift movement, which was lik=
e-a
chained-up resolution set free at last. The anxiety to carry out her act, a=
nd
the dread of any obstacle, averted sorrow; and as she reached the Ponte
Rubaconte, she felt less that Santa Croce was in her sight than that the ye=
llow
streak of morning which parted the grey was getting broader and broader, and
that, unless she hastened her steps, she should have to encounter faces.
Her simplest road was to go right =
on
to the Borgo Pinti, and then along by the walls to the Porta San Gallo, from
which she must leave the city, and this road carried her by the Piazza di S=
anta
Croce. But she walked as steadily and rapidly as ever through the piazza, n=
ot
trusting herself to look towards the church. The thought that any eyes migh=
t be
turned on her with a look of curiosity and recognition, and that indifferent
minds might be set speculating on her private sorrows, made Romola shrink
physically as from the imagination of torture. She felt degraded even by th=
at
act of her husband from which she was helplessly suffering. But there was no
sign that any eyes looked forth from windows to notice this tall grey siste=
r,
with the firm step, and proud attitude of the cowled head. Her road lay alo=
of
from the stir of early traffic, and when she reached the Porta San Gallo, i=
t was
easy to pass while a dispute was going forward about the toll for panniers =
of
eggs and market produce which were just entering.
Out! Once past the houses of the
Borgo, she would be beyond the last fringe of Florence, the sky would be br=
oad
above her, and she would have entered on her new life - a life of loneliness
and endurance, but of freedom. She had been strong enough to snap asunder t=
he
bonds she had accepted in blind faith: whatever befell her, she would no mo=
re
feel the breath of soft hated lips warm upon her cheek, no longer feel the
breath of an odious mind stifling her own. The bare wintry morning, the chi=
ll
air, were welcome in their severity: the leafless trees, the sombre hills, =
were
not haunted by the gods of beauty and joy, whose worship she had forsaken f=
or
ever.
But presently the light burst forth
with sudden strength, and shadows were thrown across the road. It seemed th=
at
the sun was going to chase away the greyness. The light is perhaps never fe=
lt
more strongly as a divine presence stirring all those inarticulate
sensibilities which are our deepest life, than in these moments when it
instantaneously awakens the shadows. A certain awe which inevitably accompa=
nied
this most momentous act of her life became a more conscious element in Romo=
la's
feeling as she found herself in the sudden presence of the impalpable golden
glory and the long shadow of herself that was not to be escaped. Hitherto s=
he
had met no one but an occasional contadino with mules, and the many turning=
s of
the road on the level prevented her from seeing that Maso was not very far
ahead of her. But when she had passed Pietra and was on rising ground, she
lifted up the hanging roof of her cowl and looked eagerly before her.
The cowl was dropped again
immediately. She had seen, not Maso, but - two monks, who were approaching
within a few yards of her. The edge of her cowl making a pent-house on her =
brow
had shut out the objects above the level of her eyes, and for the last few
moments she had been looking at nothing but the brightness on the path and =
at
her own shadow, tall and shrouded like a dread spectre.
She wished now that she had not lo=
oked
up. Her disguise made her especially dislike to encounter monks: they might
expect some pious passwords of which she knew nothing, and she walked along
with a careful appearance of unconsciousness till she had seen the skirts of
the black mantles pass by her. The encounter had made her heart beat
disagreeably, for Romola had an uneasiness in her religious disguise, a sha=
me
at this studied concealment, which was made more distinct by a special effo=
rt
to appear unconscious under actual glances.
But the black skirts would be gone=
the
faster because they were going down-hill; and seeing a great flat stone aga=
inst
a cypress that rose from a projecting green bank, she yielded to the desire
which the slight shock had given her, to sit down and rest.
She turned her back on Florence, n=
ot
meaning to look at it till the monks were quite out of sight; and raising t=
he
edge of her cowl again when she had seated herself, she discerned Maso and =
the
mules at a distance where it was not hopeless for her to overtake them, as =
the
old man would probably linger in expectation of her.
Meanwhile she might pause a little.
She was free and alone.
That journey of Tito's to Rome, wh=
ich
had removed many difficulties from Romola's departure, had been resolved on
quite suddenly, at a supper, only the evening before.
Tito had set out towards that supp=
er
with agreeable expectations. The meats were likely to be delicate, the wines
choice, the company distinguished; for the place of entertainment was the S=
elva
or Orto de' Rucellai, or, as we should say, the Rucellai Gardens; and the h=
ost,
Bernardo Rucellai, was quite a typical Florentine grandee. Even his family =
name
has a significance which is prettily symbolic: properly understood, it may
bring before us a little lichen, popularly named orcella or roccella, which
grows on the rocks of Greek isles and in the Canaries; and having drunk a g=
reat
deal of light into its little stems and button-heads, will, under certain
circumstances, give it out again as a reddish purple dye, very grateful to =
the
eyes of men. By bringing the excellent secret of this dye, called oricello,
from the Levant to Florence, a certain merchant, who lived nearly a hundred
years before our Bernardo's time, won for himself and his descendants much
wealth, and the pleasantly-suggestive surname of Oricellari, or Roccellari,
which on Tuscan tongues speedily became Rucellai.
And our Bernardo, who stands out m=
ore
prominently than the rest on this purple background, had added all sorts of
distinction to the family name: he had married the sister of Lorenzo de'
Medici, and had had the most splendid wedding in the memory of Florentine
upholstery; and for these and other virtues he had been sent on embassies to
France and Venice, and had been chosen Gonfaloniere; he had not only built
himself a fine palace, but had finished putting the black and white marble
facade to the church of Santa Maria Novella; he had planted a garden with r=
are
trees, and had made it classic ground by receiving within it the meetings of
the Platonic Academy, orphaned by the death of Lorenio; he had written an
excellent, learned book, of a new topographical sort, about ancient Rome; he
had collected antiquities; he had a pure Latinity. The simplest account of =
him,
one sees, reads like a laudatory epitaph, at the end of which the Greek and
Ausonian Muses might be confidently requested to tear their hair, and Natur=
e to
desist from any second attempt to combine so many virtues with one set of
viscera.
His invitation had been conveyed to
Tito through Lorenzo Tornabuoni, with an emphasis which would have suggested
that the object of the gathering was political, even if the public question=
s of
the time had been less absorbing. As it was, Tito felt sure that some party
purposes were to be furthered by the excellent flavours of stewed fish and =
old
Greek wine; for Bernardo Rucellai was not simply an influential personage, =
he
was one of the elect Twenty who for three weeks had held the reins of Flore=
nce.
This assurance put Tito in the best spirits as he made his way to the Via d=
ella
Scala, where the classic garden was to be found: without it, he might have =
had
some uneasy speculation as to whether the high company he would have the ho=
nour
of meeting was likely to be dull as well as distinguished; for he had had
experience of various dull suppers even in the Rucellai gardens, and especi=
ally
of the dull philosophic sort, wherein he had not only been called upon to
accept an entire scheme of the universe (which would have been easy to him)=
but
to listen to an exposition of the same, from the origin of things to their
complete ripeness in the tractate of the philosopher then speaking.
It was a dark evening, and it was =
only
when Tito crossed the occasional light of a lamp suspended before an image =
of
the Virgin, that the outline of his figure was discernible enough for
recognition. At such moments any one caring to watch his passage from one of
these lights to another might have observed that the tall and graceful
personage with the mantle folded round him was followed constantly by a very
different form, thick-set and elderly, in a serge tunic and felt hat. The c=
onjunction
might have been taken for mere chance, since there were many passengers alo=
ng
the streets at this hour. But when Tito stopped at the gate of the Rucellai
gardens, the figure behind stopped too. The sportello, or smaller door of t=
he
gate, was already being held open by the servant, who, in the distraction of
attending to some question, had not yet closed it since the last arrival, a=
nd
Tito turned in rapidly, giving his name to the servant, and passing on betw=
een
the evergreen bushes that shone like metal in the torchlight. The follower
turned in too.
'Your name?' said the servant.
'Baldassarre Calvo,' was the immed=
iate
answer.
'You are not a guest; the guests h=
ave
all passed.'
'I belong to Tito Melema, who has =
just
gone in. I am to wait in the gardens.'
The servant hesitated. 'I had orde=
rs
to admit only guests. Are you a servant of Messer Tito?'
'No, friend, I am not a servant; I=
am
a scholar.'
There are men to whom you need only
say, 'I am a buffalo,' in a certain tone of quiet confidence, and they will=
let
you pass. The porter gave way at once, Baldassarre entered, and heard the d=
oor
closed and chained behind him, as he too disappeared among the shining bush=
es.
Those ready and firm answers argue=
d a
great change in Baldassarre since the last meeting face to face with Tito, =
when
the dagger broke in two. The change had declared itself in a startling way.=
At the moment when the shadow of T=
ito
passed in front of the hovel as he departed homeward, Baldassarre was sitti=
ng
in that state of after-tremor known to every one who is liable to great
outbursts of passion: a state in which physical powerlessness is sometimes
accompanied by an exceptional lucidity of thought, as if that disengagement=
of
excited passion had carried away a fire-mist and left clearness behind it. =
He
felt unable to rise and walk away just yet; his limbs seemed benumbed; he w=
as
cold, and his hands shook. But in that bodily helplessness he sat surrounde=
d,
not by the habitual dimness and vanishing shadows, but by the clear images =
of the
past; he was living again in an unbroken course through that life which see=
med
a long preparation for the taste of bitterness.
For some minutes he was too thorou=
ghly
absorbed by the images to reflect on the fact that he saw them, and note the
fact as a change. But when that sudden dearness had travelled through the
distance, and came at last to rest on the scene just gone by, he felt fully
where he was: he remembered Monna Lisa and Tessa. Ah! he then was the
mysterious husband; he who had another wife in the Via de' Bardi. It was ti=
me
to pick up the broken dagger and go - go and leave no trace of himself; for=
to
hide his feebleness seemed the thing most like power that was left to him. =
He
leaned to take up the fragments of the dagger; then he turned towards the b=
ook
which lay open at his side. It was a fine large manuscript, an odd volume of
Pausanias. The moonlight was upon it, and he could see the large letters at=
the
head of the page:
MESSENIKA. KB'.
In old days he had known Pausanias
familiarly; yet an hour or two ago he had been looking hopelessly at that p=
age,
and it had suggested no more meaning to him than if the letters had been bl=
ack
weather-marks on a wall; but at this moment they were once more the magic s=
igns
that conjure up a world. That moonbeam falling on the letters had raised
Messenia before him, and its struggle against the Spartan oppression.
He snatched up the book, but the l=
ight
was too pale for him to read further by. No matter: he knew that chapter; he
read inwardly. He saw the stoning of the traitor Aristocrates - stoned by a
whole people, who cast him out from their borders to lie unburied, and set =
up a
pillar with verses upon it telling how Time had brought home justice to the
unjust. The words arose within him, and stirred innumerable vibrations of
memory. He forgot that he was old: he could almost have shouted. The light =
was
come again, mother of knowledge and joy! In that exultation his limbs recov=
ered
their strength: he started up with his broken dagger and book, and went out
under the broad moonlight.
It was a nipping frosty air, but Baldassarre could feel no chill - he only felt the glow of conscious power.= He walked about and paused on all the open spots of that high ground, and look= ed down on the domed and towered city, sleeping darkly under its sleeping guardians, the mountains; on the pale gleam of the river; on the valley vanishing towards the peaks of snow; and felt himself master of them all. <= o:p>
That sense of mental empire which
belongs to us all in moments of exceptional clearness was intensified for h=
im
by the long days and nights in which memory had been little more than the
consciousness of something gone. That city, which had been a weary labyrint=
h,
was material that he could subdue to his purposes now: his mind glanced thr=
ough
its affairs with flashing conjecture; he was once more a man who knew citie=
s,
whose sense of vision was instructed with large experience, and who felt the
keen delight of holding all things in the grasp of language. Names! Images!=
-
his mind rushed through its wealth without pausing, like one who enters on a
great inheritance.
But amidst all that rushing eagern=
ess
there was one End presiding in Baldassarre's consciousness, - a dark deity =
in
the inmost cell, who only seemed forgotten wbile his hecatomb was being
prepared. And when the first triumph in the certainty of recovered power had
had its way, his thoughts centred themselves on Tito. That fair slippery vi=
per
could not escape him now; thanks to struggling justice, the heart that neve=
r quivered
with tenderness for another had its sensitive selfish fibres that could be
reached by the sharp point of anguish. The soul that bowed to no right, bow=
ed
to the great lord of mortals, Pain.
He could search into every secret =
of
Tito's life now: he knew some of the secrets already, and the failure of the
broken dagger, which seemed like frustration, had been the beginning of
achievement. Doubtless that sudden rage had shaken away the obstruction whi=
ch
stifled his soul. Twice before, when his memory had partially returned, it =
had
been in consequence of sudden excitation: once when he had had to defend
himself from an enraged dog: once when he had been overtaken by the waves, =
and
had had to scramble up a rock to save himself.
Yes, but if this time, as then, the
light were to die out, and the dreary conscious blank come back again! This
time the light was stronger and steadier; but what security was there that
before the morrow the dark fog would not be round him again? Even the fear
seemed like the beginning of feebleness: he thought with alarm that he might
sink the faster for this excited vigil of his on the hill, which was expend=
ing
his force; and after seeking anxiously for a sheltered corner where he might
lie down, he nestled at last against a heap of warm garden straw, and so fe=
ll
asleep.
When he opened his eyes again it w=
as
daylight. The first moments were filled with strange bewilderment: he was a=
man
with a double identity; to which had he awaked? to the life of dim-sighted
sensibilities like the sad heirship of some fallen greatness, or to the lif=
e of
recovered power? Surely the last, for the events of the night all came back=
to
him: the recognition of the page in Pausanias, the crowding resurgence of f=
acts
and names, the sudden wide prospect which had given him such a moment as th=
at
of the Maenad in the glorious amaze of her morning waking on the mountain t=
op.
He took up the book again, he read=
, he
remembered without reading. He saw a name, and the images of deeds rose with
it: he saw the mention of a deed, and he linked it with a name. There were
stories of inexpiable crimes, but stories also of guilt that seemed success=
ful.
There were sanctuaries for swift-footed miscreants: baseness had its armour,
and the weapons of justice sometimes broke against it. What then? If basene=
ss
triumphed everywhere else, if it could heap to itself all the goods of the
world and even hold the keys of hell, it would never triumph over the hatred
which it had itself awakened. It could devise no torture that would seem
greater than the torture of submitting to its smile. Baldassarre felt the
indestructible independent force of a supreme emotion, which knows no terro=
r,
and asks for no motive, which is itself an ever-burning motive, consuming a=
ll
other desire. And now in this morning light, when the assurance came again =
that
the fine fibres of association were active still, and that his recovered se=
lf
had not departed, all his gladness was but the hope of vengeance.
From that time till the evening on
which we have seen him enter the Rucellai gardens, he had been incessantly,=
but
cautiously, inquiring into Tito's position and all his circumstances, and t=
here
was hardly a day on which he did not contrive to follow his movements. But =
he
wished not to arouse any alarm in Tito: he wished to secure a moment when t=
he
hated favourite of blind fortune was at the summit of confident ease,
surrounded by chief men on whose favour he depended. It was not any retribu=
tive
payment or recognition of himself for his own behoof, on which Baldassarre's
whole soul was bent: it was to find the sharpest edge of disgrace and shame=
by
which a selfish smiler could be pierced; it was to send through his marrow =
the
most sudden shock of dread. He was content to lie hard, and live stintedly =
- he
had spent the greater part of his remaining money in buying another poniard:
his hunger and his thirst were after nothing exquisite but an exquisite
vengeance. He had avoided addressing himself to any one whom he suspected of
intimacy with Tito, lest an alarm raised in Tito's mind should urge him eit=
her
to flight or to some other counteracting measure which hard-pressed ingenui=
ty
might devise. For this reason he had never entered Nello's shop, which he
observed that Tito frequented, and he had turned aside to avoid meeting Pie=
ro
di Cosimo.
The possibility of frustration gave
added eagerness to his desire that the great opportunity he sought should n=
ot
be deferred. The desire was eager in him on another ground; he trembled lest
his memory should go again. Whether from the agitating presence of that fea=
r,
or from some other causes, he had twice felt a sort of mental dizziness, in
which the inward sense or imagination seemed to be losing the distinct form=
s of
things. Once he had attempted to enter the Palazzo Vecchio and make his way
into a council-chamber where Tito was, and had failed. But now, on this
evening, he felt that his occasion was come.
On entering the handsome pavilion,
Tito's quick glance soon discerned in the selection of the guests the
confirmation of his conjecture that the object of the gathering was politic=
al,
though, perhaps, nothing more distinct than that strengthening of party whi=
ch
comes from good-fellowship. Good dishes and good wine were at that time
believed to heighten the consciousness of political preferences, and in the
inspired ease of after-supper talk it was supposed that people ascertained
their own opinions with a clearness quite inaccessible to uninvited stomach=
s.
The Florentines were a sober and frugal people; but wherever men have gathe=
red
wealth, Madonna della Gozzoviglia and San Buonvino have had their worshippe=
rs;
and the Rucellai were among the few Florentine families who kept a great ta=
ble
and lived splendidly. It was not probabie that on this evening there would =
be
any attempt to apply high philosophic theories; and there could be no objec=
tion
to the bust of Plato looking on, or even to the modest presence of the card=
inal
virtues in fresco on the walls.
That bust of Plato had been long u=
sed
to look down on conviviality of a more transcendental sort, for it had been
brought from Lorenzo's villa after his death, when the meetings of the Plat=
onic
Academy had been transferred to these gardens. Especially on every thirteen=
th
of November, reputed anniversary of Plato's death, it had looked down from
under laurel leaves on a picked company of scholars and philosophers, who m=
et
to eat and drink with moderation, and to discuss and admire, perhaps with l=
ess
moderation, the doctrines of the great master: - on Pico della Mirandola, o=
nce
a Quixotic young genius with long curls, astonished at his own powers and
astonishing Rome with heterodox theses; afterwards a more humble student wi=
th a
consuming passion for inward perfection, having come to find the universe m=
ore
astonishing than his own cleverness: - on innocent, laborious Marsilio Fici=
no,
picked out young to be reared as a Platonic philosopher, and fed on Platoni=
sm
in all its stages till his mind was perhaps a little pulpy from that too ex=
clusive
diet: - on Angelo Poliziano, chief literary genius of that age, a born poet,
and a scholar without dulness, whose phrases had blood in them and are alive
still: - or, further back, on Leon Battista Alberti, a reverend senior when
those three were young, and of a much grander type than they, a robust,
universal mind, at once practical and theoretic, artist, man of science,
inventor, poet: - and on many more valiant workers whose names are not
registered where every day we turn the leaf to read them, but whose labours
make a part, though an unrecognised part, of our inheritance, like the
ploughing and sowing of past generations.
Bernardo Rucellai was a man to hol=
d a
distinguished place in that Academy even before he became its host and patr=
on.
He was still in the prime of life, not more than four and forty, with a
somewhat haughty, cautiously dignified presence; conscious of an amazingly =
pure
Latinity, but, says Erasmus, not to be caught speaking Latin - no word of L=
atin
to be sheared off him by the sharpest of Teutons. He welcomed Tito with more
marked favour than usual and gave him a place between Lorenzo Tornabuoni and
Giannozzo Pucci, both of them accomplished young members of the Medicean pa=
rty.
Of course the talk was the lightes=
t in
the world while the brass bowl filled with scented water was passing round,
that the company might wash their hands, and rings flashed on white fingers
under the wax-lights, and there was the pleasant fragrance of fresh white
damask newly come from France. The tone of remark was a very common one in
those times. Some one asked what Dante's pattern old Florentine would think=
if
the life could come into him again under his leathern belt and bone clasp, =
and
he could see silver forks on the table? And it was agreed on all hands that=
the
habits of posterity would be very surprising to ancestors, if ancestors cou=
ld
only know them.
And while the silver forks were ju=
st
dallying with the appetising delicacies that introduced the more serious
business of the supper - such as morsels of liver, cooked to that exquisite
point that they would melt in the mouth - there was time to admire the desi=
gns
on the enamelled silver centres of the brass service, and to say something,=
as
usual, about the silver dish for confetti, a masterpiece of Antonio Pollaju=
olo,
whom patronising Popes had seduced from his native Florence to more gorgeous
Rome.
'Ah, I remember,' said Niccolo
Ridolfi, a middle-aged man, with that negligent ease of manner which, seemi=
ng
to claim nothing, is really based on the life-long consciousness of command=
ing
rank - 'I remember our Antonio getting bitter about his chiselling and
enamelling of these metal things, and taking in a fury to painting, because,
said he, ‘the artist who puts his work into gold and silver, puts his=
brains
into the melting-pot.’ '
'And that is not unlikely to be a =
true
foreboding of Antonio's,' said Giannozzo Pucci. 'If this pretty war with Pi=
sa
goes on, and the revolt only spreads a little to our other towns, it is not
only our silver dishes that are likely to go; I doubt whether Antonio's sil=
ver
saints round the altar of San Giovanni will not some day vanish from the ey=
es
of the faithful to be worshipped more devoutly in the form of coin.'
'The Frate is preparing us for that
already,' said Tornabuoni. 'He is telling the people that God will not have
silver crucifixes and starving stomachs; and that the church is best adorned
with the gems of holiness and the fine gold of brotherly love.'
'A very useful doctrine of
war-finance, as many a Condottiere has found,' said Bernardo Rucellai, dril=
y.
'But politics come on after the confetti, Lorenzo, when we can drink wine
enough to wash them down; they are too solid to be taken with roast and
boiled.'
'Yes, indeed,' said Niccolo Ridolf=
i.
'Our Luigi Pulci would have said this delicate boiled kid must be eaten wit=
h an
impartial mind. I remember one day at Careggi, when Luigi was in his rattli=
ng
vein, he was maintaining that nothing perverted the palate like opinion. =
8216;Opinion,’
said he, ‘corrupts the saliva - that's why men took to pepper. Scepti=
cism
is the only philosophy that doesn't bring a taste in the mouth.’ R=
16;Nay,’
says poor Lorenzo de' Medici, ‘you must be out there, Luigi. Here is =
this
untainted sceptic, Matteo Franco,' who wants hotter sauce than any of us.=
8217;
‘Because he has a strong opinion of himself,’ flashes out Luigi=
, ‘which
is the original egg of all other opinion. He is sceptic? He believes in the
immortality of his own verses. He is such a logician as that preaching friar
who described the pavement of the bottomless pit.’ Poor Luigi! his mi=
nd
was like sharpest steel that can touch nothing without cutting.'
'And yet a very gentle-hearted
creature,' said Giannozzo Pucci. 'It seemed to me his talk was a mere blowi=
ng
of soap-bubbles. What dithyrambss he went into about eating and drinking! a=
nd
yet he was as temperate as a butterfly.'
The light talk and the solid eatab=
les
were not soon at an end, for after the roast and boiled meats came the
indispensable capon and game, and, crowning glory of a well-spread table, a
peacock cooked according to the receipt of Apicius for cooking partridges,
namely, with the feathers on, but not plucked afterwards, as that great
authority ordered concerning his partridges; on the contrary, so disposed on
the dish that it might look as much as possible like a live peacock taking =
its
unboiled repose. Great was the skill required in that confidential servant =
who
was the official carver, respectfully to turn the classical though insipid =
bird
on its back, and expose the plucked breast from which he was to dispense a
delicate slice to each of the honourable company, unless any one should be =
of
so independent a mind as to decline that expensive toughness and prefer the
vulgar digestibility of capon.
Hardly any one was so bold. Tito q=
uoted
Horace and dispersed his slice in small particles over his plate; Bernardo
Rucellai made a learned observation about the ancient price of peacocks' eg=
gs,
but did not pretend to eat his slice; and Niccolo Ridolfi held a mouthful on
his fork while he told a favourite story of Luigi Pulci's, about a man of
Siena, who, wanting to give a splendid entertainment at moderate expense,
bought a wild goose, cut off its beak and webbed feet, and boiled it in its
feathers, to pass for a pea-hen.
In fact, very little peacock was
eaten; but there was the satisfaction of sitting at a table where peacock w=
as
served up in a remarkable manner, and of knowing that such caprices were not
within reach of any but those who supped with the very wealthiest men. And =
it
would have been rashness to speak slightingly of peacock's flesh, or any ot=
her
venerable institution, at a time when Fra Girolamo was teaching the disturb=
ing
doctrine that it was not the duty of the rich to be luxurious for the sake =
of
the poor.
Meanwhile, in the chill obscurity =
that
surrounded this centre of warmth, and light, and savoury odours, the lonely
disowned man was walking in gradually narrowing circuits. He paused among t=
he
trees, and looked in at the windows, which made brilliant pictures against =
the
gloom. He could hear the laughter; he could see Tito gesticulating with
careless grace, and hear his voice, now alone, now mingling in the merry
confusion of interlacing speeches. Baldassarre's mind was highly strung. He=
was
preparing himself for the moment when he could win his entrance into this
brilliant company; and he had a savage satisfaction in the sight of Tito's =
easy
gaiety, which seemed to be preparing the unconscious victim for more effect=
ive
torture.
But the men seated among the branc=
hing
tapers and the flashing cups could know nothing of the pale fierce face that
watched them from without. The light can be a curtain as well as the darkne=
ss.
And the talk went on with more
eagerness as it became less disconnected and trivial. The sense of citizens=
hip
was just then strongly forced even on the most indifferent minds. What the
overmastering Fra Girolamo was saying and prompting was really uppermost in=
the
thoughts of every one at table; and before the stewed fish was removed, and
while the favourite sweets were yet to come, his name rose to the surface of
the conversation, and, in spite of Rucellai's previous prohibition, the talk
again became political. At first, while the servants remained present, it w=
as
mere gossip: what had been done in the Palazzo on the first day's voting for
the Great Council; how hot-tempered and domineering Francesco Valori was, a=
s if
he were to have everything his own way by right of his austere virtue; and =
how
it was clear to everybody who heard Soderini's speeches in favour of the Gr=
eat
Council and also heard the Frate's sermons, that they were both kneaded in =
the
same trough.
'My opinion is,' said Niccolo Rido=
lfi,
'that the Frate has a longer head for public matters than Soderini or any
Piagnone among them: you may depend on it that Soderini is his mouthpiece m=
ore
than he is Soderini's.'
'No, Niccolo; there I differ from
you,' said Bernardo Rucellai: 'the Frate has an acute mind, and readily sees
what will serve his own ends; but it is not likely that Pagolantonio Soderi=
ni,
who has had long experience of affairs, and has specially studied the Venet=
ian
Council, should be much indebted to a monk for ideas on that subject. No, n=
o;
Soderini loads the cannon; though, I grant you, Fra Girolamo brings the pow=
der
and lights the match. He is master of the people, and the people are getting
master of us. Ecco!'
'Well,' said Lorenzo Tornabuoni,
presently, when the room was clear of servants, and nothing but wine was
passing round, 'whether Soderini is indebted or not, we are indebted to the
Frate for the general amnesty which has gone along with the scheme of the
Council. We might have done without the fear of God and the reform of morals
being passed by a majority of black beans; but that excellent proposition, =
that
our Medicean heads should be allowed to remain comfortably on our shoulders,
and that we should not be obliged to hand over our property in fines, has my
warm approval, and it is my belief that nothing but the Frate's predominance
could have procured that for us. And you may rely on it that Fra Girolamo i=
s as
firm as a rock on that point of promoting peace. I have had an interview wi=
th
him.'
There was a murmur of surprise and
curiosity at the farther end of the table; but Bernardo Rucellai simply nod=
ded,
as if he knew what Tornabuoni had to say, and wished him to go on.
'Yes,' proceeded Tornabuoni, 'I ha=
ve
been favoured with an interview in the Frate's own cell, which, let me tell
you, is not a common favour; for I have reason to believe that even Frances=
co
Valori very seldom sees him in private. However, I think he saw me the more
willingly because I was not a ready-made follower, but had to be converted.
And, for my part, I see clearly enough that the only safe and wise policy f=
or
us Mediceans to pursue is to throw our strength into the scale of the Frate=
's
party. We are not strong enough to make head on our own behalf; and if the
Frate and the popular party were upset, every one who hears me knows perfec=
tly
well what other party would be uppermost just now: Nerli, Alberti, Pazzi, a=
nd
the rest - Arrabbiati, as somebody christened them the other day - who, ins=
tead
of giving us an amnesty, would be inclined to fly at our throats like mad d=
ogs,
and not be satisfied till they had banished half of us.'
There were strong interjections of
assent to this last sentence of Tornabuoni's, as he paused and looked round=
a
moment.
'A wise dissimulation,' he went on,
'is the only course for moderate rational men in times of violent party
feeling. I need hardly tell this company what are my real political
attachments: I am not the only man here who has strong personal ties to the
banished family; but, apart from any such ties, I agree with my more
experienced friends, who are allowing me to speak for them in their presenc=
e,
that the only lasting and peaceful state of things for Florence is the
predominance of some single family interest. This theory of the Frate's, th=
at
we are to have a popular government, in which every man is to strive only f=
or
the general good, and know no party names, is a theory that may do for some
isle of Cristoforo Colombo's finding, but will never do for our fine old
quarrelsome Florence. A change must come before long, and with patience and
caution we have every chance of determining the change in our favour. Meanw=
hile,
the best thing we can do will be to keep the Frate's flag flying, for if any
other were to be hoisted just now it would be a black flag for us.'
'It's true,' said Niccolo Ridolfi,=
in
a curt decisive way. 'What you say is true, Lorenzo. For my own part, I am =
too
old for anybody to believe that I've changed my feathers. And there are cer=
tain
of us - our old Bernardo del Nero for one - whom you would never persuade to
borrow another man's shield. But we can lie still, like sleepy old dogs; and
it's clear enough that barking would be of no use just now. As for this
psalm-singing party, who vote for nothing but the glory of God, and want to
make believe we can all love each other, and talk as if vice could be swept=
out
with a besom by the Magnificent Eight, their day will not be a long one. Af=
ter
all the talk of scholars, there are but two sorts of government: one where =
men
show their teeth at each other, and one where men show their tongues and li=
ck
the feet of the strongest. They'll get their Great Council finally voted
to-morrow - that's certain enough - and they'll think they've found out a n=
ew
plan of government; but as sure as there's a human skin under every lucco in
the Council, their new plan will end like every other, in snarling or in
licking. That's my view of things as a plain man. Not that I consider it
becoming in men of family and following, who have got others depending on t=
heir
constancy and on their sticking to their colours, to go a-hunting with a fi=
ne
net to catch reasons in the air, like doctors of law. I say frankly that, as
the head of my family, I shall be true to my old alliances; and I have never
yet seen any chalk-mark on political reasons to tell me which is true and w=
hich
is false. My friend Bernardo Rucellai here is a man of reasons, I know, and=
I
have no objection to anybody's finding fine-spun reasons for me, so that th=
ey
don't interfere with my actions as a man of family who has faith to keep wi=
th
his connections.'
'If that is an appeal to me, Nicco=
lo,'
said Bernardo Rucellai, with a formal dignity, in amusing contrast with
Ridolfi's curt and pithy ease, 'I may take this opportunity of saying, that
while my wishes are partly determined by long-standing personal relations, I
cannot enter into any positive schemes with persons over whose actions I ha=
ve
no control. I myself might be content with a restoration of the old order of
things; but with modifications - with important modifications. And the one
point on which I wish to declare my concurrence with Lorenzo Tornabuoni is,=
that
the best policy to be pursued by our friends is, to throw the weight of the=
ir
interest into the scale of the popular party. For myself, I condescend to no
dissimulation; nor do I at present see the party or the scheme that command=
s my
full assent. In all alike there is crudity and confusion of ideas, and of a=
ll
the twenty men who are my colleagues in the present crisis, there is not one
with whom I do not find myself in wide disagreement.'
Niccolo Ridolfi shrugged his
shoulders, and left it to some one else to take up the ball. As the wine we=
nt
round the talk became more and more frank and lively, and the desire of sev=
eral
at once to be the chief speaker, as usual caused the company to break up in=
to
small knots of two and three.
It was a result which had been
foreseen by Lorenzo Tornabuoni and Giannozzo Pucci, and they were among the
first to turn aside from the highroad of general talk and enter into a spec=
ial
conversation with Tito, who sat between them; gradually pushing away their
seats, and turning their backs on the table and wine.
'In truth, Melema,' Tornabuoni was
saying at this stage, laying one hose-clad leg across the knee of the other,
and caressing his ankle, 'I know of no man in Florence who can serve our pa=
rty
better than you. You see what most of our friends are: men who can no more =
hide
their prejudices than a dog can hide the natural tone of his bark, or else =
men
whose political ties are so notorious, that they must always be objects of
suspicion. Giannozzo here, and I, I flatter myself, are able to overcome th=
at
suspicion; we have that power of concealment and finesse, without which a
rational cultivated man, instead of having any prerogative, is really at a
disadvantage compared with a wild bull or a savage. But, except yourself, I=
know
of no one else on whom we could rely for the necessary discretion.'
'Yes,' said Giannozzo Pucci, laying
his hand on Tito's shoulder, 'the fact is, Tito mio, you can help us better
than if you were Ulysses himself, for I am convinced that Ulysses often made
himself disagreeable. To manage men one ought to have a sharp mind in a vel=
vet
sheath. And there is not a soul in Florence who could undertake a business =
like
this journey to Rome, for example, with the same safety that you can. There=
is
your scholarship, which may always be a pretext for such journeys; and what=
is
better, there is your talent, which it would be harder to match than your
scholarship. Niccolo Macchiavelli might have done for us if he had been on =
our
side, but hardly so well. He is too much bitten with notions, and has not y=
our
power of fascination. All the worse for him. He has lost a great chance in
life, and you have got it.'
'Yes,' said Tornabuoni, lowering h=
is
voice in a significant manner, 'you have only to play your game well, Melem=
a,
and the future belongs to you. For the Medici, you may rely upon it, will k=
eep
a foot in Rome as well as in Florence, and the time may not be far off when
they will be able to make a finer career for their adherents even than they=
did
in old days. Why shouldn't you take orders some day? There's a cardinal's h=
at
at the end of that road, and you would not be the first Greek who has worn =
that
ornament.'
Tito laughed gaily. He was too acu=
te
not to measure Tornabuoni's exaggerated flattery, but still the flattery ha=
d a
pleasant flavour.
'My joints are not so stiff yet,' =
he
said, 'that I can't be induced to run without such a high prize as that. I
think the income of an abbey or two held ‘in commendam,’ without
the trouble of getting my head shaved, would satisfy me at present.'
'I was not joking,' said Tornabuon=
i,
with grave suavity; 'I think a scholar would always be the better off for
taking orders. But we'll talk of that another tirne. One of the objects to =
be
first borne in mind, is that you should win the confidence of the men who h=
ang
about San Marco; that is what Giannozzo and I shall do, but you may carry it
farther than we can, because you are less observed. In that way you can get=
a
thorough knowledge of their doings, and you will make a broader screen for =
your
agency on our side. Nothing of course can be done before you start for Rome,
because this bit of business between Piero de' Medici and the French nobles
must be effected at once. I mean when you come back, of course; I need say =
no
more. I believe you could make yourself the pet votary of San Marco, if you
liked; but you are wise enough to know that effective dissimulation is never
immoderate.'
'If it were not that an adhesion to
the popular side is necessary to your safety as an agent of our party, Tito
mio,' said Giannozzo Pucci, who was more fraternal and less patronising in =
his
manner than Tornabuoni, 'I could have wished your skill to have been employ=
ed
in another way, for which it is still better fitted. But now we must look o=
ut
for some other man among us who will manage to get into the confidence of o=
ur
sworn enemies, the Arrabbiati; we need to know their movements more than th=
ose
of the Frate's party, who are strong enough to play above-board. Still, it
would have been a difficult thing for you, from your known relations with t=
he
Medici a little while back, and that sort of kinship your wife has with
Bernardo del Nero. We must find a man who has no distinguished connections,=
and
who has not yet taken any side.'
Tito was pushing his hair backward
automatically, as his manner was, and looking straight at Pucci with a scar=
cely
perceptible smile on his lip.
'No need to look out for any one
else,' he said, promptly. 'I can manage the whole business with perfect eas=
e. I
will engage to make myself the special confidant of that thick-headed Dolfo
Spini, and know his projects before he knows them himself.'
Tito seldom spoke so confidently of
his own powers, but he was in a state of exaltation at the sudden opening o=
f a
new path before him, where fortune seemed to have hung higher prizes than a=
ny
he had thought of hitherto. Hitherto he had seen success only in the form of
favour; it now flashed on him in the shape of power - of such power as is
possible to talent without traditional ties, and without beliefs. Each party
that thought of him as a tool might become dependent on him. His position a=
s an
alien, his indifference to the ideas or prejudices of the men amongst whom =
he
moved, were suddenly transformed into advantages; he-became newly conscious=
of
his own adroitness in the presence of a game that he was called on to play.=
And
all the motives which might have made Tito shrink from the triple deceit th=
at
came before him as a tempting game, had been slowly strangled in him by the
successive falsities of his life.
Our lives make a moral tradition f=
or
our individual selves, as the life of mankind at large makes a moral tradit=
ion
for the race; and to have once acted nobly seems a reason why we should alw=
ays
be noble. But Tito was feeling the effect of an opposite tradition: he had =
won
no memories of self-conquest and perfect faithfulness from which he could h=
ave
a sense of falling.
The triple colloquy went on with
growing spirit till it was interrupted by a call from the table. Probably t=
he
movement came from the listeners in the party, who were afraid lest the tal=
kers
should tire themselves. At all events it was agreed that there had been eno=
ugh
of gravity, and Rucellai had just ordered new flasks of Montepulciano.
'How many minstrels are there amon=
g us?'
he said, when there had been a general rallying round the table. 'Melema, I
think you are the chief: Matteo will give you the lute.'
'Ah, yes!' said Giannozzo Pucci, '=
lead
the last chorus from Poliziano's ‘Orfeo,’ that you have found s=
uch
an excellent measure for, and we will all fall in: -
‘Cia=
scun
segua, o Bacco, te:
Bacco, Bacco, evoe, evoe!’
The servant put the lute into Tito=
's
hands, and then said something in an undertone to his master. A little subd=
ued
questioning and answering went on between them, while Tito touched the lute=
in
a preluding way to the strain of the chorus, and there was a confusion of
speech and musical humming all round the table. Bernardo Rucellai had said,
'Wait a moment, Melema;' but the words had been unheard by Tito, who was
leaning towards Pucci, and singing low to him the phrases of the Maenad-cho=
rus.
He noticed nothing until the buzz round the table suddenly ceased, and the
notes of his own voice, with its soft low-toned triumph, 'Evoe, evoe!' fell=
in
startling isolation.
It was a strange moment. Baldassar=
re
had moved round the table till he was opposite Tito, and as the hum ceased
there might be seen for an instant Baldassarre's fierce dark eyes bent on
Tito's bright smiling unconsciousness, while the low notes of triumph dropp=
ed
from his lips into the silence.
Tito looked up with a slight start,
and his lips turned pale, but he seemed hardly more moved than Giannozzo Pu=
cci,
who had looked up at the same moment - or even than several others round the
table, for that sallow deep-lined face with the hatred in its eyes seemed a
terrible apparition across the wax-lit ease and gaiety. And Tito quickly
recovered some self-command. 'A mad old man - he looks like it - he is mad!'
was the instantaneous thought that brought some courage with it; for he cou=
ld
conjecture no inward change in Baldassarre since they had met before. He ju=
st
let his eyes fall and laid the lute on the table with apparent ease; but his
fingers pinched the neck of the lute hard while he governed his head and his
glance sufficiently to look with an air of quiet appeal towards Bernardo
Rucellai, who said at once -
'Good man, what is your business? =
What
is the important declaration that you have to make?'
'Messer Bernardo Rucellai, I wish =
you
and your honourable friends to know in what sort of company you are sitting.
There is a traitor among you.'
There was a general movement of al=
arm.
Every one present, except Tito, thought of political danger and not of priv=
ate
injury.
Baldassarre began to speak as if he
were thoroughly assured of what he had to say; but, in spite of his long
preparation for this moment, there was the tremor of overmastering exciteme=
nt
in his voice. His passion shook him. He went on, but he did not say what he=
had
meant to say. As he fixed his eyes on Tito again the passionate words were =
like
blows - they defied premeditation.
'There is a man among you who is a
scoundrel, a liar, a robber. I was a father to him. I took him from beggary
when he was a child. I reared him, I cherished him, I taught him, I made hi=
m a
scholar. My head has lain hard that his might have a pillow. And he left me=
in
slavery; he sold the gems that were mine, and when I came again, he denied =
me.'
The last words had been uttered wi=
th
almost convulsed agitation, and Baldassarre paused, trembling. All glances =
were
turned on Tito, who was now looking straight at Baldassarre. It was a momen=
t of
desperation that annihilated all feeling in him, except the determination to
risk anything for the chance of escape. And he gathered confidence from the
agitation by which Baldassarre was evidently shaken. He had ceased to pinch=
the
neck of the lute, and had thrust his thumbs into his belt, while his lips h=
ad
begun to assume a slight curl. He had never yet done an act of murderous
cruelty even to the smallest animal that could utter a cry, but at that mom=
ent
he would have been capable of treading the breath from a smiling child for =
the
sake of his own safety.
'What does this mean, Melema?' said
Bernardo Rucellai, in a tone of cautious surprise. He, as well as the rest =
of
the company, felt relieved that the tenor of the accusation was not politic=
al.
'Messer Bernardo,' said Tito, 'I
believe this man is mad. I did not recognise him the first time he encounte=
red
me in Florence, but I know now that he is the servant who years ago accompa=
nied
me and my adoptive father to Greece, and was dismissed on account of
misdemeanours. His name is Jacopo di Nola. Even at that time I believe his =
mind
was unhinged, for, without any reason, he had conceived a strange hatred
towards me; and now I am convinced that he is labouring under a mania which
causes him to mistake his identity. He has already attempted my life since =
he
has been in Florence; and I am in constant danger from him. But he is an ob=
ject
of pity rather than of indignation. It is too certain that my father is dea=
d.
You have only my word for it; but I must leave it to your judgment how far =
it
is probable that a man of intellect and learning would have been lurking ab=
out
in dark corners for the last month with the purpose of assassinating me; or=
how
far it is probable that, if this man were my second father, I could have any
motive for denying him. That story about my being rescued from beggary is t=
he
vision of a diseased brain. But it will be a satisfaction to me at least if=
you
will demand from him proofs of his identity, lest any malignant person shou=
ld
choose to make this mad impeachment a reproach to me.'
Tito had felt more and more confid=
ence
as he went on; the lie was not so difficult when it was once begun; and as =
the
words fell easily from his lips, they gave him a sense of power such as men
feel when they have begun a muscular feat successfully. In this way he acqu=
ired
boldness enough to end with a challenge for proofs.
Baldassarre, while he had been wal=
king
in the gardens and afterwards waiting in an outer room of the pavilion with=
the
servants, had been making anew the digest of the evidence he would bring to
prove his identity and Tito's baseness, recalling the description and histo=
ry
of his gems, and assuring himself by rapid mental glances that he could att=
est
his learning and his travels. It might be partly owing to this nervous stra=
in
that the new shock of rage he felt as Tito's lie fell on his ears brought a
strange bodily effect with it: a cold stream seemed to rush over him, and t=
he
last words of the speech seemed to be drowned by ringing chimes. Thought ga=
ve
way to a dizzy horror, as if the earth were slipping away from under him. E=
very
one in the room was looking at him as Tito ended, and saw that the eyes whi=
ch
had had such fierce intensity only a few minutes before had now a vague fea=
r in
them. He clutched the back of a seat, and was silent.
Hardly any evidence could have been
more in favour of Tito's assertion.
'Surely I have seen this man befor=
e,
somewhere,' said Tornabuoni.
'Certainly you have,' said Tito,
readily, in a low tone. 'He is the escaped prisoner who clutched me on the
steps of the Duomo. I did not recognise him then; he looks now more as he u=
sed
to do, except that he has a more unmistakable air of mad imbecility.'
'I cast no doubt on your word,
Melema,' said Bernardo Rucellai, with cautious gravity, 'but you are right =
to
desire some positive test of the fact.' Then turning to Baldassarre, he sai=
d,
'If you are the person you claim to be, you can doubtless give some descrip=
tion
of the gems which were your property. I myself was the purchaser of more th=
an
one gem from Messer Tito - the chief rings, I believe, in his collection. O=
ne
of them is a fine sard, engraved with a subject from Homer. If, as you alle=
ge,
you are a scholar, and the rightful owner of that ring, you can doubtless t=
urn
to the noted passage in Homer from which that subject is taken. Do you acce=
pt
this test, Melema? or have you anything to allege against its validity? The
Jacopo you speak of, was he a scholar?'
It was a fearful crisis for Tito. =
If
he said 'Yes,' his quick mind told him that he would shake the credibility =
of
his story: if he said 'No,' he risked everything on the uncertain extent of
Baldassarre's imbecility. But there was no noticeable pause before he said,
'No. I accept the test.'
There was a dead silence while
Rucellai moved towards the recess where the books were, and came back with =
the
fine Florentine Homer in his hand. Baldassarre, when he was addressed, had
turned his head towards the speaker, and Rucellai believed that he had
understood him. But he chose to repeat what he had said, that there might b=
e no
mistake as to the test.
'The ring I possess,' he said, 'is=
a
fine sard, engraved with a subject from Homer. There was no other at all
resembling it in Messer Tito's collection. Will you turn to the passage in
Homer from which that subject is taken? Seat yourself here,' he added, layi=
ng
the book on the table, and pointing to his own seat while he stood beside i=
t.
Baldassarre had so far recovered f=
rom
the first confused horror produced by the sensation of rushing coldness and
chiming din in the ears as to be partly aware of what was said to him: he w=
as
aware that something was being demanded from him to prove his identity, but=
he
formed no distinct idea of the details. The sight of the book recalled the
habitual longing and faint hope that he could read and understand, and he m=
oved
towards the chair immediately.
The book was open before him, and =
he
bent his head a little towards it, while everybody watched him eagerly. He
turned no leaf. His eyes wandered over the pages that lay before him, and t=
hen
fixed on them a straining gaze. This lasted for two or three minutes in dea=
d silence.
Then he lifted his hands to each side of his head, and said, in a low tone =
of
despair, 'Lost, lost! '
There was something so piteous in =
the
wandering look and the low cry, that while they confirmed the belief in his
madness they raised compassion. Nay, so distinct sometimes is the working o=
f a
double consciousness within us, that Tito himself, while he triumphed in the
apparent verification of his lie, wished that he had never made the lie
necessary to himself - wished he had recognised his father on the steps -
wished he had gone to seek him - wished everything had been different. But =
he
had borrowed from the terrible usurer Falsehood, and the loan had mounted a=
nd
mounted with the years, till he belonged to the usurer, body and soul.
The compassion excited in all the
witnesses was not without its danger to Tito; for conjecture is constantly
guided by feeling, and more than one person suddenly conceived that this man
might have been a scholar and have lost his faculties. On the other hand, t=
hey
had not present to their minds the motives which could have led Tito to the
denial of his benefactor, and having no ill-will towards him, it would have
been difficult to them to believe that he had been uttering the basest of l=
ies.
And the originally common type of Baldassarre's person, coarsened by years =
of
hardship, told as a confirmation of Tito's lie. If Baldassarre, to begin wi=
th,
could have uttered precisely the words he had premeditated, there might have
been something in the form of his accusation which would have given it the
stamp not onlv of true experience but of mental refinement. But there had b=
een
no such testimony in his impulsive agitated words: and there seemed the very
opposite testimony in the rugged face and the coarse hands that trembled be=
side
it, standing out in strong contrast in the midst of that velvet-clad,
fair-handed company.
His next movement, while he was be=
ing
watched in silence, told against him too. He took his hands from his head, =
and
felt for something under his tunic. Every one guessed what that movement me=
ant
- guessed that there was a weapon at his side. Glances were interchanged; a=
nd
Bernardo Rucellai said, in a quiet tone, touching Baldassarre's shoulder - =
'My friend, this is an important
business of yours. You shall have all justice. Follow me into a private roo=
m.'
Baldassarre was still in that
half-stunned state in which he was susceptible to any prompting, in the same
way as an insect that forms no conception of what the prompting leads to. He
rose from his seat, and followed Rucellai out of the room.
In two or three minutes Rucellai c=
ame
back again, and said -
'He is safe under lock and key. Pi=
ero
Pitti, you are one of the Magnificent Eight, what do you think of our sendi=
ng
Matteo to the palace for a couple of sbirri, who may escort him to the Stin=
che?
If there is any danger in him, as I think there is, he will be safe there; =
and
we can inquire about him to-morrow.'
Pitti assented, and the order was
given.
'He is certainly an ill-looking
fellow,' said Tornabuoni. 'And you say he has attempted your life already,
Melema?'
And the talk turned on the various
forms of madness, and the fierceness of the southern blood. If the seeds of
conjecture unfavourable to Tito had been planted in the mind of any one
present, they were hardly strong enough to grow without the aid of much
daylight and ill-will. The common-looking, wild-eyed old man, clad in serge,
might have won belief without very strong evidence, if he had accused a man=
who
was envied and disliked. As it was, the only congruous and probable view of=
the
case seemed to be the one that sent the unpleasant accuser safely out of si=
ght,
and left the pleasant serviceable Tito just where he was before.
The subject gradually floated away,
and gave place to others, till a heavy tramp, and something like the strugg=
ling
of a man who was being dragged away, were heard outside. The sounds soon di=
ed
out, and the interruption seemed to make the last hour's conviviality more
resolute and vigorous Every one was willing to forget a disagreeable incide=
nt.
Tito's heart was palpitating, and =
the
wine tasted no better to him than if it had been blood.
To-night he had paid a heavier pri=
ce
than ever to make himself safe. He did not like the price, and yet it was
inevitable that he should be glad of the purchase.
And after all he led the chorus. He
was in a state of excitement in which oppressive sensations, and the wretch=
ed
consciousness of something hateful but irrevocable, were mingled with a fee=
ling
of triumph which seemed to assert itself as the feeling that would subsist =
and
be master of the morrow.
And it was master. For on the morr=
ow,
as we saw, when he was about to start on his mission to Rome, he had the ai=
r of
a man well satisfied with the world.
When Romola sat down on the stone
under the cypress, all things conspired to give her the sense of freedom and
solitude: her escape from the accustomed walls and streets; the widening
distance from her husband, who was by this time riding towards Siena, while
every hour would take her farther on the opposite way; the morning stillnes=
s;
the great dip of ground on the roadside making a gulf between her and the
sombre calm of the mountains. For the first time in her life she felt alone=
in
the presence of the earth and sky, with no human presence interposing and
making a law for her. Suddenly a voice close to her said -
'You are Romola de' Bardi, the wif=
e of
Tito Melema.'
She knew the voice: it had vibrated
through her more than once before; and because she knew it, she did not turn
round or look up. She sat shaken by awe, and yet inwardly rebelling against=
the
awe. It was one of those black-skirted monks who was daring to speak to her,
and interfere with her privacy: that was all. And yet she was shaken, as if
that destiny which men thought of as a sceptred deity had come to her, and
grasped her with fingers of flesh.
'You are fleeing from Florence in
disguise. I have a command from God to stop you. You are not permitted to
flee.'
Romola's anger at the intrusion
mounted higher at these imperative words. She would not turn round to look =
at
the speaker, whose examining gaze she resented. Sitting quite motionless, s=
he
said -
'What right have you to speak to m=
e,
or to hinder me?'
'The right of a messenger. You have
put on a religious garb, and you have no religious purpose. You have sought=
the
garb as a disguise. But you were not suffered to pass me without being
discerned. It was declared to me who you were: it is declared to me that you
are seeking to escape from the lot God has laid upon you. You wish your true
name and your true place in life to be hidden, that you may choose for your=
self
a new name and a new place, and have no rule but your own will. And I have a
command to call you back. My daughter, you must return to your place.'
Romola's mind rose in stronger
rebellion with every sentence. She was the more determined not to show any =
sign
of submission, because the consciousness of being inwardly shaken made her
dread lest she should fall into irresolution. She spoke with more irritation
than before.
'I will not return. I acknowledge =
no
right of priests and monks to interfere with my actions. You have no power =
over
me.'
'I know - I know you have been bro=
ught
up in scorn of obedience. But it is not the poor monk who claims to interfe=
re
with you: it is the truth that commands you. And you cannot escape it. Eith=
er
you must obey it, and it will lead you; or you must disobey it, and it will
hang on you with the weight of a chain which you will drag for ever. But you
will obey it, my daughter. Your old servant will return to you with the mul=
es;
my companion is gone to fetch him; and you will go back to Florence.'
She started up with anger in her e=
yes,
and faced the speaker. It was Fra Girolamo: she knew that well enough befor=
e.
She was nearly as tall as he was, and their faces were almost on a level. S=
he
had started up with defiant words ready to burst from her lips, but they fe=
ll
back again without utterance. She had met Fra Girolamo's calm glance, and t=
he impression
from it was so new to her, that her anger sank ashamed as something irrelev=
ant.
There was nothing transcendent in
Savonarola's face. It was not beautiful. It was strong-featured, and owed a=
ll
its refinement to habits of mind and rigid discipline of the body. The sour=
ce
of the impression his glance produced on Romola was the sense it conveyed to
her of interest in her and care for her apart from any personal feeling. It=
was
the first time she had encountered a gaze in which simple human fellowship =
expressed
itself as a strongly-felt bond. Such a glance is half the vocation of the
priest or spiritual guide of men, and Romola felt it impossible again to
question his authority to speak to her. She stood silent, looking at him. A=
nd
he spoke again.
'You assert your freedom proudly, =
my
daughter. But who is so base as the debtor that thinks himself free?'
There was a sting in those words, =
and
Romola's countenance changed as if a subtle pale flash had gone over it.
'And you are flying from your debt=
s:
the debt of a Florentine woman; the debt of a wife. You are turning your ba=
ck
on the lot that has been appointed for you - you are going to choose anothe=
r.
But can man or woman choose duties? No more than they can choose their
birthplace or their father and mother. My daughter, you are fleeing from the
presence of God into the wilderness.'
As the anger melted from Romola's
mind, it had given place to a new presentiment of the strength there might =
be
in submission, if this man, at whom she was beginning to look with a vague
reverence, had some valid law to show her. But no - it was impossible; he c=
ould
not know what determined her. Yet she could not again simply refuse to be
guided; she was constrained to plead; and in her new need to be reverent wh=
ile
she resisted, the title which she had never given him before came to her li=
ps
without forethought.
'My father, you cannot know the
reasons which compel me to go. None can know them but myself. None can judge
for me. I have been driven by great sorrow. I am resolved to go.'
'I know enough, my daughter: my mi=
nd
has been so far illuminated concerning you, that I know enough. You are not
happy in your married life; but I am not a confessor, and I seek to know
nothing that should be reserved for the seal of confession. I have a divine
warrant to stop you, which does not depend on such knowledge. You were warn=
ed
by a message from heaven, delivered in my presence - you were warned before
marriage, when you might still have lawfully chosen to be free from the
marriage-bond. But you chose the bond; and in wilfully breaking it- I speak=
to
you as a pagan, if the holy mystery of matrimony is not sacred to you - you=
are
breaking a pledge. Of what wrongs will you complain, my daughter, when you
yourself are committing one of the greatest wrongs a woman and a citizen ca=
n be
guilty of - withdrawing in secrecy and disguise from a pledge which you have
given in the face of God and your fellowmen? Of what wrongs will you compla=
in,
when you yourself are breaking the simplest law that lies at the foundation=
of
the trust which binds man to man - faithfulness to the spoken word? This, t=
hen,
is the wisdom you have gained by scorning the mysteries of the Church? - no=
t to
see the bare duty of integrity, where the Church would have taught you to s=
ee,
not integrity only, but religion.'
The blood had rushed to Romola's f=
ace,
and she shrank as if she had been stricken. 'I would not have put on a
disguise,' she began; but she could not go on, - she was too much shaken by=
the
suggestion in the Frate's words of a possible affinity between her own cond=
uct
and Tito's.
'And to break that pledge you fly =
from
Florence: Florence, where there are the only men and women in the world to =
whom
you owe the debt of a fellow-citizen.'
'I should never have quitted
Florence,' said Romola, tremulously, 'as long as there was any hope of my
fulfilling a duty to my father there.'
'And do you own no tie but that of=
a
child to her father in the flesh? Your life has been spent in blindness, my
daughter. You have lived with those who sit on a hill aloof, and look down =
on
the life of their fellow-men. I know their vain discourse. It is of what has
been in the times which they fill with their own fancied wisdom, while they
scorn God's work in the present. And doubtless you were taught how there we=
re
pagan women who felt what it was to live for the Republic; yet you have nev=
er
felt that you, a Florentine woman, should live for Florence. If your own pe=
ople
are wearing a yoke, will you slip from under it, instead of struggling with
them to lighten it? There is hunger and misery in our streets, yet you say,=
‘I
care not; I have my own sorrows; I will go away, if peradventure I can ease
them.’ The servants of God are struggling after a law of justice, pea=
ce,
and charity, that the hundred thousand citizens among whom you were born ma=
y be
governed righteously; but you think no more of this than if you were a bird,
that may spread its wings and fly whither it will in search of food to its
liking. And yet you have scorned the teaching of the Church, my daughter. A=
s if
you, a wilful wanderer, following your own blind choice, were not below the
humblest Florentine woman who stretches forth her hands with her own people,
and craves a blessing for them; and feels a close sisterhood with the neigh=
bour
who kneels beside her and is not of her own blood; and thinks of the mighty
purpose that God has for Florence; and waits and endures because the promis=
ed
work is great, and she feels herself little.'
'I was not going away to ease and
self-indulgence,' said Romola, raising her head again, with a prompting to
vindicate herself. 'I was going away to hardship. I expect no joy: it is go=
ne
from my life.'
'You are seeking your own will, my
daughter. You are seeking some good other than the law you are bound to obe=
y.
But how will you find good ? It is not a thing of choice: it is a river that
flows from the foot of the Invisible Throne, and flows by the path of
obedience. I say again, man cannot choose his duties. You may choose to for=
sake
your duties, and choose not to have the sorrow they bring. But you will go
forth; and what will you find, my daughter? Sorrow without duty - bitter he=
rbs,
and no bread with them.
'But if you knew,' said Romola,
clasping her hands and pressing them tight, as she looked pleadingly at Fra
Girolamo; 'if you knew what it was to me - how impossible it seemed to me to
bear it.'
'My daughter,' he said, pointing to
the cord round Romola's neck, 'you carry something within your mantle; draw=
it
forth, and look at it.'
Romola gave a slight start, but her
impulse now was to do just what Savonarola told her. Her self-doubt was
grappled by a stronger will and a stronger conviction than her own. She drew
forth the crucifix. Still pointing towards it, he said -
'There, my daughter, is the image =
of a
Supreme Offering, made by Supreme Love, because the need of man was great.'=
He paused, and she held the crucif=
ix
trembling - trembling under a sudden impression of the wide distance between
her present and her past self. What a length of road she had travelled thro=
ugh
since she first took that crucifix from the Frate's hands! Had life as many
secrets before her still as it had for her then, in her young blindness? It=
was
a thought that helped all other subduing influences - and at the sound of F=
ra
Girolamo's voice again, Romola, with a quick involuntary movement, pressed =
the
crucifix against her mantle and looked at him with more submission than bef=
ore.
'Conform your life to that image, =
my
daughter; make your sorrow an offering: and when the fire of Divine charity
burns within you, and you behold the need of your fellow-men by the light of
that flame, you will not call your offering great. You have carried yourself
proudly, as one who held herself not of common blood or of common thoughts;=
but
you have been as one unborn to the true life of man. What! you say your love
for your father no longer tells you to stay in Florence? Then, since that t=
ie
is snapped, you are without a law, without religion: you are no better than=
a
beast of the field when she is robbed of her young. If the yearning of a
fleshly love is gone, you are without love, without obligation. See, then, =
my
daughter, how you are below the life of the believer who worships that imag=
e of
the Supreme Offering, and feels the glow of a common life with the lost
multitude for whom that offering was made, and beholds the history of the w=
orld
as the history of a great redemption in which he is himself a fellow-worker=
, in
his own place and among his own people! If you held that faith, my beloved
daughter, you would not be a wanderer flying from suffering and blindly see=
king
the good of a freedom which is lawlessness. You would feel that Florence was
the home of your soul as well as your birthplace, because you would see the
work that was given you to do there. If you forsake your place, who will fi=
ll
it? You ought to be in your place now, helping in the great work by which G=
od
will purify Florence, and raise it to be the guide of the nations. What! the
earth is full of iniquity - full of groans - the light is still struggling =
with
a mighty darkness, and you say ‘I cannot bear my bonds; I will burst =
them
asunder; I will go where no man claims me’? My daughter, every bond of
your life is a debt: the right lies in the payment of that debt; it can lie
nowhere else. In vain will you wander over the earth; you will be wandering=
for
ever away from the right.'
Romola was inwardly struggling with
strong forces: that immense personal influence of Savonarola, which came fr=
om
the energy of his emotions and beliefs; and her consciousness, surmounting =
all
prejudice, that his words implied a higher law than any she had yet obeyed.=
But
the resisting thoughts were not yet overborne.
'How, then, could Dino be right? He
broke ties. He forsook his place.'
'That was a special vocation. He w=
as
constrained to depart, else he could not have attained the higher life. It
would have been stifled within him.'
'And I too,' said Romola, raising =
her
hands to her brow, and speaking in a tone of anguish, as if she were being =
dragged
to some torture. 'Father, you may be wrong.'
'Ask your conscience, my daughter.=
You
have no vocation such as your brother had. You are a wife. You seek to break
your ties in self-will and anger, not because the higher life calls upon yo=
u to
renounce them. The higher life begins for us, my daughter, when we renounce=
our
own will to bow before a Divine law. That seems hard to you. It is the port=
al
of wisdom, and freedom, and blessedness. And the symbol of it hangs before =
you.
That wisdom is the religion of the Cross. And you stand aloof from it: you =
are
a pagan; you have been taught to say, ‘I am as the wise men who lived
before the time when the Jew of Nazareth was crucified.’ And that is =
your
wisdom! To be as the dead whose eyes are closed, and whose ear is deaf to t=
he
work of God that has been since their time. What has your dead wisdom done =
for
you, my daughter? It has left you without a heart for the neighbours among =
whom
you dwell, without care for the great work by which Florcnce is to be regen=
erated
and the world made holy; it has left you without a share in the Divine life
which quenches the sense of suffering Self in the ardours of an ever-growing
love. And now, when the sword has pierced your soul, you say, ‘I will=
go
away; I cannot bear my sorrow.’ And you think nothing of the sorrow a=
nd
the wrong that are within the walls of the city where you dwell: you would
leave your place empty, when it ought to be filled with your pity and your
labour. If there is wickedness in the streets, your steps should shine with=
the
light of purity; if there is a cry of anguish, you, my daughter, because you
know the meaning of the cry, should be there to still it. My beloved daught=
er,
sorrow has come to teach you a new worship: the sign of it hangs before you=
.'
Romola's mind was still torn by
conflict. She foresaw that she should obey Savonarola and go back: his words
had come to her as if they were an interpretation of that revulsion from
self-satisfied ease, and of that new fellowship with suffering, which had a=
lready
been awakened in her. His arresting voice had brought a new condition into =
her
life which made it seem impossible to her that she could go on her way as if
she had not heard it; yet she shrank as one who sees the path she must take,
but sees, too, that the hot lava lies there. And the instinctive shrinking =
from
a return to her husband brought doubts. She turned away her eyes from Fra
Girolamo, and stood for a minute or two with her hands hanging clasped befo=
re
her, like a statue. At last she spoke, as if the words were being wrung from
her, still looking on the ground.
'My husband . . . he is not . . . =
my
love is gone! '
'My daughter, there is the bond of=
a
higher love. Marriage is not carnal only, made for selfish delight. See what
that thought leads you to! It leads you to wander away in a false garb from=
all
the obligations of your place and name. That would not have been, if you had
learned that it is a sacramental vow, from which none but God can release y=
ou.
My daughter, your life is not as a grain of sand, to be blown by the winds;=
it
is a thing of flesh and blood, that dies if it be sundered. Your husband is=
not
a malefactor?'
Romola started. 'Heaven forbid! No=
, I
accuse him of nothing.'
'I did not suppose he was a
malefactor. I meant, that if he were a malefactor, your place would be in t=
he
prison beside him. My daughter, if the cross comes to you as a wife, you mu=
st
carry it as a wife. You may say, ‘I will forsake my husband,’ b=
ut
you cannot cease to be a wife.'
'Yet if - oh, how could I bear -'
Romola had involuntarily begun to say something which she sought to banish =
from
her mind again.
'Make your marriage-sorrows an
offering too, my daughter: an offering to the great work by which sin and
sorrow are being made to cease. The end is sure, and is already beginning. =
Here
in Florence it is beginning, and the eyes of faith behold it. And it may be=
our
blessedness to die for it: to die daily by the crucifixion of our selfish w=
ill
- to die at last by laying our bodies on the altar. My daughter, you are a
child of Florence; fulfil the duties of that great inheritance. Live for
Florence - for your own people, whom God is preparing to bless the earth. B=
ear
the anguish and the smart. The iron is sharp - I know, I know - it rends the
tender flesh. The draught is bitterness on the lips. But there is rapture in
the cup - there is the vision which makes all life below it dross for ever.
Come, my daughter, come back to your place!'
While Savonarola spoke with growing
intensity, his arms tightly folded before him still, as they had been from =
the
first, but his face alight as from an inward flame, Romola felt herself
surrounded and possessed by the glow of his passionate faith. The chill dou=
bts
all melted away; she was subdued by the sense of something unspeakably grea=
t to
which she was being called by a strong being who roused a new strength with=
in
herself. In a voice that was like a low, prayerful cry, she said -
'Father, I will be guided. Teach m=
e! I
will go back.'
Almost unconsciously she sank on h=
er knees.
Savonarola stretched out his hands over her; but feeling would no longer pa=
ss
through the channel of speech, and he was silent.
'Rise, my daughter,' said Fra Giro=
lamo
at last. 'Your servant is waiting not far off with the mules. It is time th=
at I
should go onward to Florence.'
Romola arose from her knees. That
silent attitude had been a sort of sacrament to her, confirming the state of
yearning passivity on which she had newly entered. By the one act of renoun=
cing
her resolve to quit her husband, her will seemed so utterly bruised that she
felt the need of direction even in small things. She lifted up the edge of =
her
cowl, and saw Maso and the second Dominican standing with their backs towar=
ds
her on the edge of the hill about ten yards from her; but she looked at
Savonarola again with out speaking, as if the order to Maso to turn back mu=
st
come from him and not from her.
'I will go and call them,' he said,
answering her glance of appeal; 'and I will recommend you, my daughter, to =
the
Brother who is with me. You desire to put yourself under guidance, and to l=
earn
that wisdom which has been hitherto as foolishness to you. A chief gate of =
that
wisdom is the sacrament of confession. You will need a confessor, my daught=
er,
and I desire to put you under the care of Fra Salvestro, one of the brethre=
n of
San Marco, in whom I most confide.'
'I would rather have no guidance b=
ut
yours, father,' said Romola, looking anxious.
'My daughter, I do not act as a
confessor. The vocation I have withdraws me from offices that would force me
into frequent contact with the laity, and interfere with my special duties.=
'
'Then shall I not be able to speak=
to
you in private? if I waver, if -' Romola broke off from rising agitation. S=
he
felt a sudden alarm lest her new strength in renunciation should vanish if =
the
immediate personal influence of Savonarola vanished.
'My daughter, if your soul has nee=
d of
the word in private from my lips, you will let me know it through Fra
Salvestro, and I will see you in the sacristy or in the choir of San Marco.=
And
I will not cease to watch over you. I will instruct my brother concerning y=
ou,
that he may guide you into that path of labour for the suffering and the hu=
ngry
to which you are called as a daughter of Florence in these times of hard ne=
ed.
I desire to behold you among the feebler and more ignorant sisters as the
apple-tree among the trees of the forest, so that your fairness and all nat=
ural
gifts may be but as a lamp through which the Divine light shines the more
purely. I will go now and call your servant.'
When Maso had been sent a little w=
ay
in advance, Fra Salvestro came forward, and Savonarola led Romola towards h=
im.
She had beforehand felt an inward shrinking from a new guide who was a total
stranger to her: but to have resisted Savonarola's advice would have been to
assume an attitude of independence at a moment when all her strength must be
drawn from the renunciation of independence. And the whole bent of her mind=
now
was towards doing what was painful rather than what was easy. She bowed
reverently to Fra Salvestro before looking directly at him; but when she ra=
ised
her head and saw him fully, her reluctance became a palpitating doubt. There
are men whose presence infuses trust and reverence; there are others to who=
m we
have need to carry our trust and reverence ready-made; and that difference
flashed on Romola as she ceased to have Savonarola before her, and saw in h=
is
stead Fra Salvestro Maruffi. It was not that there was anything manifestly =
repulsive
in Fra Salvestro's face and manner, any air of hypocrisy, any tinge of
coarseness; his face was handsomer than Fra Girolamo's, his person a little
taller. He was the long-accepted confessor of many among the chief personag=
es
in Florence, and had therefore had large experience as a spiritual director.
But his face had the vacillating expression of a mind unable to concentrate
itself strongly in the channel of one great emotion or belief - an expressi=
on
which is fatal to influence over an ardent nature like Romola's. Such an
expression is not the stamp of insincerity; it is the stamp simply of a sha=
llow
soul, which will often be found sincerely suiving to fill a high vocation,
sincerely composing its countenance to the utterance of sublime formulas, b=
ut finding
the muscles twitch or relax in spite of belief, as prose insists on coming
instead of poetry to the man who has not the divine frenzy. Fra Salvestro h=
ad a
peculiar liability to visions, dependent apparently on a constitution given=
to
somnambulism. Savonarola believed in the supernatural character of these
visions, while Fra Salvestro himself had originally resisted such an
interpretation of them, and had even rebuked Savonarola for his prophetic
preaching: another proof, if one were wanted, that the relative greatness of
men is not to be gauged by their tendency to disbelieve the superstitions of
their age. For of these two there can be no question which was the great man
and which the small.
The difference between them was
measured very accurately by the change in Romola's feeling as Fra Salvestro
began to address her in words of exhortation and encouragement. After her f=
irst
angry resistance of Savonarola had passed away, she had lost all remembranc=
e of
the old dread lest any influence should drag her within the circle of
fanaticism and sour monkish piety. But now again, the chill breath of that
dread stole over her. It could have no decisive effect against the impetus =
her
mind had just received; it was only like the closing of the grey clouds ove=
r the
sunrise, which made her returning path monotonous and sombre.
And perhaps of all sombre paths th=
at
on which we go back after treading it with a strong resolution is the one t=
hat
most severely tests the fervour of renunciation. As they reentered the city
gates the light snow-flakes fell about them; and as the grey sister walked
hastily homeward from the Piazza di San Marco, and trod the bridge again, a=
nd
turned in at the large door in the Via de' Bardi, her footsteps were marked
darkly on the thin carpet of snow, and her cowl fell laden and damp about h=
er
face.
She went up to her room, threw off=
her
serge, destroyed the parting letters, replaced all her precious trifles,
unbound her hair, and put on her usual black dress. Instead of taking a long
exciting journey, she was to sit down in her usual place. The snow fell aga=
inst
the windows, and she was alone.
She felt the dreariness, yet her
courage was high, like that of a seeker who has come on new signs of gold. =
She
was going to thread life by a fresh clue. She had thrown all the energy of =
her
will into renunciation. The empty tabernacle remained locked, and she placed
Dino's crucifix outside it.
Nothing broke the outward monotony=
of
her solitary home, till the night came like a white ghost at the windows. Y=
et
it was the most memorable Christmas-eve in her life to Romola, this of 1494=
.
It was the thirtieth of October 14=
96.
The sky that morning was clear enough, and there was a pleasant autumnal
breeze. But the Florentines just then thought very little about the land
breezes: they were thinking of the gales at sea, which seemed to be uniting
with all other powers to disprove the Frate's declaration that Heaven took
special care of Florence.
For those terrible gales had driven
away from the coast of Leghorn certain ships from Marseilles, freighted with
soldiery and corn: and Florence was in the direst need, first of food, and
secondly of fighting men. Pale Famine was in her streets, and her territory=
was
threatened on all its borders.
For the French king, that new
Charlemagne, who had entered Italy in anticipatory triumph, and had conquer=
ed
Naples without the least trouble, had gone away again fifteen months ago, a=
nd
was even, it was feared, in his grief for the loss of a new-born son, losing
the languid intention of coming back again to redress grievances and set the
Church in order. A league had been formed against him - a Holy League, with
Pope Borgia at its head - to 'drive out the barbarians,' who still garrison=
ed the
fortress of Naples. That had a patriotic sound; but, looked at more closely,
the Holy League seemed very much like an agreement among certain wolves to
drive away all other wolves, and then to see which among themselves could
snatch the largest share of the prey. And there was a general disposition to
regard Florence not as a fellow-wolf, but rather as a desirable carcass.
Florence, therefore, of all the chief Italian States, had alone declined to
join the League, adhering still to the French alliance.
She had declined at her peril. At =
this
moment Pisa, still fighting savagely for liberty, was being encouraged not =
only
by strong forces from Venice and Milan, but by the presence of the German
Emperor Maximilian, who had been invited by the League, and was joining the
Pisans with such troops as he had in the attempt to get possession of Legho=
rn,
while the coast was invested by Venetian and Genoese ships. And if Leghorn
should fall into the hands of the enemy, woe to Florence! For if that one
outlet towards the sea were closed, hedged in as she was on the land by the
bitter ill-will of the Pope and the jealousy of smaller States, how could
succours reach her?
The government of Florence had sho=
wn a
great heart in this urgent need, meeting losses and defeats with vigorous
effort, raising fresh money, raising fresh soldiers, but not neglecting the
good old method of Italian defence - conciliatory embassies. And while the
scarcity of food was every day becoming greater, they had resolved, in
opposition to old precedent, not to shut out the starving country people, a=
nd
the mendicants driven from the gates of other cities, who came flocking to
Florence like birds from a land of snow.
These acts of a government in which
the disciples of Savonarola made the strongest element were not allowed to =
pass
without criticism. The disaffected were plentiful, and they saw clearly that
the government took the worst course for the public welfare. Florence ought=
to
join the League and make common cause with the other great Italian States,
instead of drawing down their hostility by a futile adherence to a foreign
ally. Florence ought to take care of her own citizens, instead of opening h=
er
gates to famine and pestilence in the shape of starving contadini and alien
mendicants.
Every day the distress became shar=
per:
every day the murmurs became louder. And, to crown the difficulties of the
government, for a month and more - in obedience to a mandate from Rome - Fra
Girolamo had ceased to preach. But on the arrival of the terrible news that=
the
ships from Marseilles had been driven back, and that no corn was coming, the
need for the voice that could infuse faith and patience into the people bec=
ame
too imperative to be resisted. In defiance of the Papal mandate the Signoria
requested Savonarola to preach. And two days ago he had mounted again the
pulpit of the Duomo, and had told the people only to wait and be steadfast =
and
the divine help would certainly come.
It was a bold sermon: he consented=
to
have his frock stripped off him if, when Florence persevered in fulfilling =
the
duties of piety and citizenship, God did not come to her rescue.
Yet at present, on this morning of=
the
thirtieth, there were no signs of rescue. Perhaps if the precious Tabernacl=
e of
the Madonna dell' Impruneta were brought into Florence and carried in devout
procession to the Duomo, that Mother, rich in sorrows and therefore in merc=
y,
would plead for the suffering city? For a century and a half there were rec=
ords
how the Florentines, suffering from drought, or flood, or famine, or
pestilence, or the threat of wars, had fetched the potent image within their
walls, and had found deliverance. And grateful honour had been done to her =
and
her ancient church of L'Impruneta; the high house of Buondelmonti, patrons =
of
the church, had to guard her hidden image with bare sword; wealth had been
poured out for prayers at her shrine, for chantings, and chapels, and
everburning lights; and lands had been added, till there was much quarrelli=
ng
for the privilege of serving her. The Florentines were deeply convinced of =
her
graciousness to them, so that the sight of her tabernacle within their walls
was like the parting of the cloud, and the proverb ran, that the Florentines
had a Madonna who would do what they pleased.
When were they in more need of her
pleading pity than now? And already, the evening before, the tabernacle
containing the miraculous hidden image had been brought with high and rever=
end
escort from L'Impruneta, the privileged spot six miles beyond the gate of S=
an
Piero that looks towards Rome, and had been deposited in the church of San
Gaggio, outside the gate, whence it was to be fetched in solemn procession =
by
all the fraternities, trades and authorities of Florence.
But the Pitying Mother had not yet
entered within the walls, and the morning arose on unchanged misery and
despondency. Pestilence was hovering in the track of famine. Not only the
hospitals were full, but the courtyards of private houses had been turned i=
nto
refuges and infirmaries; and still there was unsheltered want. And early th=
is
morning, as usual, members of the various fraternities who made it part of
their duty to bury the unfriended dead, were bearing away the corpses that =
had
sunk by the wayside. As usual, sweet womanly forms, with the refined air and
carriage of the well-born, but in the plainest garb, were moving about the
streets on their daily errands of tending the sick and relieving the hungry=
.
One of these forms was easily
distinguishable as Romola de' Bardi. Clad in the simplest garment of black
serge, with a plain piece of black drapery drawn over her head, so as to hi=
de
all her hair, except the bands of gold that rippled apart on her brow, she =
was
advancing from the Ponte Vecchio towards the Por' Santa Maria - the street =
in a
direct line with the bridge - when she found her way obstructed by the paus=
ing
of a bier, which was being carried by members of the company of San Jacopo =
del
Popolo, in search for the unburied dead. The brethren at the head of the bi=
er
were stooping to examine something, while a group of idle workmen, with
features paled and sharpened by hunger, were clustering around and all talk=
ing
at once.
'He's dead, I tell you! Messer
Domeneddio has loved him well enough to take him.'
'Ah, and it would be well for us a=
ll
if we could have our legs stretched out and go with our heads two or three
bracci foremost! It's ill standing upright with hunger to prop you.'
'Well, well, he's an old fellow. D=
eath
has got a poor bargain. Life's had the best of him.'
'And no Florentine, ten to one! A
beggar turned out of Siena. San Giovanni defend us! They've no need of sold=
iers
to fight us. They send us an army of starving men.'
'No, no! This man is one of the
prisoners turned out of the Stinche. I know by the grey patch where the pri=
son
badge was.'
'Keep quiet! Lend a hand! Don't you
see the brethren are going to lift him on the bier?'
'It's likely he's alive enough if =
he
could only look it. The soul may be inside him if it had only a drop of
vernaccia to warm it.'
'In truth, I think he is not dead,'
said one of the brethren when they had lifted him on the bier. 'He has perh=
aps
only sunk down for want of food.'
'Let me try to give him some wine,'
said Romola, coming forward. She loosened the small flask which she carried=
at
her belt, and, leaning towards the prostrate body, with a deft hand she app=
lied
a small ivory implement between the teeth, and poured into the mouth a few
drops of wine. The stimulus acted: the wine was evidently swallowed. She po=
ured
more, till the head was moved a little towards her, and the eyes of the old=
man
opened full upon her with the vague look of returning consciousness.
Then for the first time a sense of
complete recognition came over Romola. Those wild dark eyes opening in the
sallow deep-lined face, with the white beard, which was now long again, were
like an unmistakable signature to a remembered hand-writing. The light of t=
wo
summers had not made that image any fainter in Romola's memory: the image of
the escaped prisoner, whom she had seen in the Duomo the day when Tito first
wore the armour - at whose grasp Tito was paled with terror in the strange
sketch she had seen in Piero's studio. A wretched tremor and palpitation se=
ized
her. Now at last, perhaps, she was going to know some secret which might be=
more
bitter than all that had gone before. She felt an impulse to dart away as f=
rom
a sight of horror; and again, a more imperious need to keep close by the si=
de
of this old man whom, the divination of keen feeling told her, her husband =
had
injured. In the very instant of this conflict she still leaned towards him =
and
kept her right hand ready to administer more wine, while her left was passed
under his neck. Her hands trembled, but their habit of soothing helpfulness
would have served to guide them without the direction of her thought.
Baldassarre was looking at her for=
the
first time. The close seclusion in which Romola's trouble had kept her in t=
he
weeks preceding her flight and his arrest, had denied him the opportunity he
had sought of seeing the Wife who lived in the Via de' Bardi: and at this
moment the descriptions he had heard of the fair golden-haired woman were a=
ll
gone, like yesterday's waves.
'Will it not be well to carry him =
to
the steps of San Stefano?' said Romola. 'We shall cease then to stop up the
street, and you can go on your way with your bier.'
They had only to move onward for a=
bout
thirty yards before reaching the steps of San Stefano, and by this time
Baldassarre was able himself to make some efforts towards getting off the b=
ier,
and propping himself on the steps against the church doorway. The charitable
brethren passed on, but the group of interested spectators, who had nothing=
to
do and much to say, had considerably increased. The feeling towards the old=
man
was not so entirely friendly now it was quite certain that he was alive, but
the respect inspired by Romola's presence caused the passing remarks to be =
made
in a rather more subdued tone than before.
'Ah, they gave him his morsel every
day in the Stinche - that's why he can't do so well without it. You and I,
Cecco, know better what it is to go to bed fasting.'
'Gnaffe! that's why the Magnificent
Eight have turned out some of the prisoners, that they may shelter honest
people instead. But if every thief is to be brought to life with good wine =
and
wheaten bread, we Ciompi had better go and fill ourselves in Arno while the
water's plenty.'
Romola had seated herself on the s=
teps
by Baldassarre, and was saying, 'Can you eat a little bread now? perhaps
by-and-by you will be able, if I leave it with you. I must go on, because I
have promised to be at the hospital. But I will come back if you will wait
here, and then I will take you to some shelter. Do you understand? Will you
wait? I will come back.'
He looked dreamily at her, and rep=
eated
her words, 'come back.' It was no wonder that his mind was enfeebled by his
bodily exhaustion, but she hoped that he apprehended her meaning. She opened
her basket, which was filled with pieces of soft bread, and put one of the
pieces into his hand.
'Do you keep your bread for those =
that
can't swallow, madonna?' said a rough-looking fellow, in a red night-cap, w=
ho
had elbowed his way into the inmost circle of spectators - a circle that was
pressing rather closely on Romola.
'If anybody isn't hungry,' said
another, 'I say, let him alone. He's better off than people who've got crav=
ing
stomachs and no breakfast.'
'Yes, indeed; if a man's a mind to
die, it's a time to encourage him, instead of making him come back to life
against his will. Dead men want no trencher.'
'Oh, you don't understand the Frat=
e's
charity,' said a young man in an excellent cloth tunic, whose face showed no
signs of want. 'The Frate has been preaching to the birds, like Saint Antho=
ny,
and he's been telling the hawks they were made to feed the sparrows, as eve=
ry
good Florentine citizen was made to feed six starving beggarmen from Arezzo=
or
Bologna. Madonna, there, is a pious Piagnone: she's not going to throw away=
her
good bread on honest citizens who've got all the Frate's prophecies to
swallow.'
'Come, madonna,' said he of the red
cap, 'the old thief doesn't eat the bread, you see: you'd better try us. We
fast so much, we're half saints already.'
The circle had narrowed till the
coarse men - most of them gaunt from privation - had left hardly any margin
round Romola. She had been taking from her basket a small horn-cup, into wh=
ich
she put the piece of bread and just moistened it with wine; and hitherto she
had not appeared to heed them. But now she rose to her feet, and looked rou=
nd
at them. Instinctively the men who were nearest to her pushed backward a
little, as if their rude nearness were the fault of those behind. Romola he=
ld
out the basket of bread to the man in the night-cap, looking at him without=
any
reproach in her glance, as she said -
'Hunger is hard to bear, I know, a=
nd
you have the power to take this bread if you will. It was saved for sick wo=
men
and children. You are strong men; but if you do not choose to suffer because
you are strong, you have the power to take everything from the weak. You can
take the bread from this basket; but I shall watch by this old man; I shall
resist your taking the bread from him.'
For a few moments there was perfect
silence, while Romola looked at the faces before her, and held out the bask=
et
of bread. Her own pale face had the slightly pinched look and the deepening=
of
the eye-socket which indicate unusual fasting in the habitually temperate, =
and
the large direct gaze of her hazel eyes was all the more impressive.
The man in the night-cap looked ra=
ther
silly, and backed, thrusting his elbow into his neighbour's ribs with an ai=
r of
moral rebuke. The backing was general, every one wishing to imply that he h=
ad
been pushed forward against his will; and the young man in the fine cloth t=
unic
had disappeared.
But at this moment the armed servi=
tors
of the Signoria, who had begun to patrol the line of streets through which =
the
procession was to pass, came up to disperse the group which was obstructing=
the
narrow street. The man addressed as Cecco retreated from a threatening mace=
up
the church steps, and said to Romola, in a respectful tone -
'Madonna, if you want to go on your
errands, I'll take care of the old man.'
Cecco was a wild-looking figure: a
very ragged tunic, made shaggy and variegated by cloth-dust and clinging
fragments of wool, gave relief to a pair of bare bony arms and a long sinewy
neck; his square jaw shaded by a bristly black beard, his bridgeless nose a=
nd
low forehead, made his face look as if it had been crushed down for purpose=
s of
packing, and a narrow piece of red rag tied over his ears seemed to assist =
in
the compression. Romola looked at him with some hesitation.
'Don't distrust me, madonna,' said
Cecco, who understood her look perfectly; 'I am not so pretty as you, but I=
've
got an old mother who eats my porridge for me. What! there's a heart inside=
me,
and I've bought a candle for the most Holy Virgin before now. Besides, see
there, the old fellow is eating his sop. He's hale enough: he'll be on his =
legs
as well as the best of us by-and-by.'
'Thank you for offering to take ca=
re
of him, friend,' said Romola, rather penitent for her doubting glance. Then
leaning to Baldassarre, she said, 'Pray wait for me till I come again.'
He assented with a slight movement=
of
the head and hand, and Romola went on her way towards the hospital of San
Matteo, in the Piazza di San Marco.
In returning from the hospital, mo=
re
than an hour later, Romola took a different road, making a wider circuit
towards the river, which she reached at some distance from the Ponte Vecchi=
o.
She turned her steps towards that bridge, intending to hasten to San Stefan=
o in
search of Baldassarre. She dreaded to know more about him, yet she felt as =
if,
in forsaking him, she would be forsaking some near claim upon her.
But when she approached the meetin=
g of
the roads where the Por' Santa Maria would be on her right hand and the Pon=
te
Vecchio on her left, she found herself involved in a crowd who suddenly fel=
l on
their knees; and she immediately knelt with them. The Cross was passing - t=
he
Great Cross of the Duomo - which headed the procession. Romola was later th=
an
she had expected to be, and now she must wait till the procession had passe=
d.
As she rose from her knees, when the Cross had disappeared, the return to a
standing posture, with nothing to do but gaze, made her more conscious of h=
er
fatigue than she had been while she had been walking and occupied. A shopke=
eper
by her side said, -
'Madonna Romola, you will be weary=
of
standing: Gian Fantoni will be glad to give you a seat in his house. Here is
his door close at hand. Let me open it for you. What! he loves God and the
Frate as we do. His house is yours.'
Romola was accustomed now to be
addressed in this fraternal way by ordinary citizens, whose faces were fami=
liar
to her from her having seen them constantly in the Duomo. The idea of home =
had
come to be identified for her less with the house in the Via de' Bardi, whe=
re
she sat in frequent loneliness, than with the towered circuit of Florence,
where there was hardly a turn of the streets at which she was not greeted w=
ith
looks of appeal or of friendliness. She was glad enough to pass through the
open door on her right hand and be led by the fraternal hose-vender to an
upstairs-window, where a stout woman with three children, all in the plain =
garb
of Piagnoni, made a place for her with much reverence above the bright hang=
ing
draperies. From this corner station she could see, not only the procession
pouring in solemn slowness between the lines of houses on the Ponte Vecchio,
but also the river and the Lung' Arno on towards the bridge of the Santa
Trinita.
In sadness and in stillness came t=
he
slow procession. Not even a wailing chant broke the silent appeal for mercy:
there was only the tramp of footsteps, and the faint sweep of woollen garme=
nts.
They were young footsteps that were passing when Romola first looked from t=
he
window - a long train of the Florentine youth, bearing high in the midst of
them the white image of the youthful Jesus, with a golden glory above his h=
ead,
standing by the tall cross where the thorns and the nails lay ready.
After that train of fresh beardless
faces came the mysterious-looking Companies of Discipline, bound by secret
rules to self-chastisement, and devout praise, and special acts of piety; a=
ll
wearing a garb which concealed the whole head and face except the eyes. Eve=
ry
one knew that these mysterious forms were Florentine citizens of various ra=
nks
who might be seen at ordinary times going about the business of the shop, t=
he
counting-house, or the State; but no member now was discernible as son,
husband, or father. They had dropped their personality, and walked as symbo=
ls
of a common vow. Each company had its colour and its badge, but the garb of=
all
was a complete shroud, and left no expression but that of fellowship.
In comparison with them, the multi=
tude
of monks seemed to be strongly distinguished individuals, in spite of the
common tonsure and the common frock. First came a white stream of reformed
Benedictines; and then a much longer stream of the Frati Minori, or
Franciscans, in that age all clad in grey, with the knotted cord round their
waists, and some of them with the zoccoli, or wooden sandals, below their b=
are
feet; - perhaps the most numerous order in Florence, owning many zealous
members who loved mankind and hated the Dominicans. And after the grey came=
the
black of the Augustinians of San Spirito, with more cultured human faces ab=
ove
it - men who had inherited the library of Boccaccio, and had made the most
learned company in Florence when learning was rarer; then the white over da=
rk
of the Carmelites; and then again the unmixed black of the Servites, that
famous Florentine order founded by seven merchants who forsook their gains =
to adore
the Divine Mother.
And now the hearts of all on-looke=
rs
began to beat a little faster, either with hatred or with love, for there w=
as a
stream of black and white coming over the bridge - of black mantles over wh=
ite
scapularies; and every one knew that the Dominicans were coming. Those of
Fiesole passed first. One black mantle parted by white after another, one
tonsured head after another, and still expectation was suspended. They were
very coarse mantles, all of them, and many were threadbare, if not ragged; =
for
the Prior of San Marco had reduced the fraternities under his rule to the
strictest poverty and discipline. But in the long line of black and white t=
here
was at last singled out a mantle only a little more worn than the rest, wit=
h a
tonsured head above it which might not have appeared supremely remarkable t=
o a
stranger who had not seen it on bronze medals, with the sword of God as its
obverse; or surrounded by an armed guard on the way to the Duomo; or
transfigured by the inward flame of the orator as it looked round on a rapt
multitude.
As the approach of Savonarola was
discerned, none dared conspicuously to break the stillness by a sound which
would rise above the solemn tramp of footsteps and the faint sweep of garme=
nts;
nevertheless his ear, as well as other ears, caught a mingled sound of slow
hissing that longed to be curses, and murmurs that longed to be blessings.
Perhaps it was the sense that the hissing predominated which made two or th=
ree
of his disciples in the foreground of the crowd, at the meeting of the road=
s,
fall on their knees as if something divine were passing. The movement of si=
lent
homage spread: it went along the sides of the streets like a subtle shock,
leaving some unmoved, while it made the most bend the knee and bow the head.
But the hatred, too, gathered a more intense expression; and as Savonarola
passed up the Por' Santa Maria, Romola could see that some one at an upper
window spat upon him.
Monks again - Frati Umiliati, or
Humbled Brethren, from Ognissanti, with a glorious tradition of being the
earliest workers in the wool-trade; and again more monks - Vallombrosan and
other varieties of Benedictines, reminding the instructed eye by niceties of
form and colour that in ages of abuse, long ago, reformers had arisen who h=
ad
marked a change of spirit by a change of garb; till at last the shaven crow=
ns
were at an end, and there came the train of untonsured secular priests.
Then followed the twenty-one
incorporated Arts of Florence in long array, with their banners floating ab=
ove
them in proud declaration that the bearers had their distinct functions, fr=
om
the bakers of bread to the judges and notaries. And then all the secondary
officers of State, beginning with the less and going on to the greater, till
the line of secularities was broken by the Canons of the Duomo, carrying a
sacred relic - the very head, enclosed in silver, of San Zenobio, immortal
bishop of Florence, whose virtues were held to have saved the city perhaps a
thousand years before.
Here was the nucleus of the
procession. Behind the relic came the archbishop in gorgeous cope, with can=
opy
held above him; and after him the mysterious hidden Image - hidden first by
rich curtains of brocade enclosing an outer painted tabernacle, but within
this, by the more ancient tabernacle which had never been opened in the mem=
ory
of living men, or the fathers of living men. In that inner shrine was the i=
mage
of the Pitying Mother, found ages ago in the soiI of L'Impruneta, uttering a
cry as the spade struck it. Hitherto the unseen Image had hardly ever been
carried to the Duomo without having rich gifts borne before it. There was no
reciting the list of precious offerings made by emulous men and communities,
especially of veils and curtains and mantles. But the richest of all these,=
it
was said, had been given by a poor abbess and her nuns, who, having no mone=
y to
buy materials, wove a mantle of gold brocade with their prayers, embroidere=
d it
and adorned it with their prayers and, finally, saw their work presented to=
the
Blessed Virgin in the great Piazza by two beautiful youths who spread out w=
hite
wings and vanished in the blue.
But to-day there nere no gifts car=
ried
before the tabernacle: no donations were to be given to-day except to the p=
oor.
That had been the advice of Fra Girolamo, whose preaching never insisted on
gifts to the invisible powers, but only on help to visible need; and altars=
had
been raised at various points in front of the churches, on which the oblati=
ons
for the poor were deposited. Not even a torch was carried. Surely the hidden
Mother cared less for torches and brocade than for the wail of the hungry
people. Florence was in extremity: she had done her utmost, and could only =
wait
for something divine that was not in her own power.
The Frate in the torn mantle had s=
aid
that help would certainly come, and many of the faint-hearted were clinging
more to their faith in the Frate's word, than to their faith in the virtues=
of
the unseen Image. But there were not a few of the fierce-hearted who thought
with secret rejoicing that the Frate's word might be proved false.
Slowly the tabernacle moved forwar=
d,
and knees were bent. There was profound stillness; for the train of priests=
and
chaplains from L'Impruneta stirred no passion in the on-lookers. The proces=
sion
was about to close with the Priors and the Gonfaloniere: the long train of
companies and symbols, which have their silent music and stir the mind as a
chorus stirs it, was passing out of sight, and now a faint yearning hope was
all that struggled with the accustomed despondency.
Romola, whose heart had been swell=
ing,
half with foreboding, half with that enthusiasm of fellowship which the lif=
e of
the last two years had made as habitual to her as the consciousness of cost=
ume
to a vain and idle woman, gave a deep sigh, as at the end of some long ment=
al
tension, and remained on her knees for very languor; when suddenly there
flashed from betveen the houses on to the distant bridge something
bright-coloured. In the instant, Romola started up and stretched out her ar=
ms,
leaning from the window, while the black drapery fell from her head, and the
golden gleam of her hair and the flush in her face seemed the effect of one
illumination. A shout arose in the same instant; the last troops of the
procession paused, and all faces were turned towards the distant bridge.
But the bridge was passed now: the
horseman was pressing at full gallop along by the Arno; the sides of his bay
horse, just streaked with foam, looked all white from swiftness; his cap was
flying loose by his red becchetto, and he waved an olive branch in his hand=
. It
was a messenger a messenger of good tidings! The blessed olive branch spoke
afar off. But the impatient people could not wait. They rushed to meet the
on-comer, and seized his horse's rein, pushing and trampling.
And now Romola could see that the
horseman was her husband, who had been sent to Pisa a few days before on a
private embassy. The recognition brought no new flash of joy into her eyes.=
She
had checked her first impulsive attitude of expectation; but her governing
anxiety was still to know what news of relief had come for Florence.
'Good news!' 'Best news!' 'News to=
be
paid with hose (novelle da calze)! ‘ were the vague answers with which
Tito met the importunities of the crowd, until he had succeeded in pushing =
on
his horse to the spot at the meeting of the ways where the Gonfaloniere and=
the
Priors were awaiting him. There he paused, and bowing low, said 'Magnificent
Signori! I have to deliver to you the joyful news that the galleys from Fra=
nce,
laden with corn and men, have arrived safely in the port of Leghorn, by fav=
our
of a strong wind, which kept the enemy's fleet at a distance.'
The words had no sooner left Tito's
lips than they seemed to vibrate up the streets. A great shout rang through=
the
air, and rushed along the river; and then another, and another; and the sho=
uts
were heard spreading along the line of the procession towards the Duomo; and
then there were fainter answering shouts, like the intermediate plash of
distant waves in a great lake whose waters obey one impulse.
For some minutes there was no atte=
mpt
to speak further: the Signoria themselves lifted up their caps, and stood
bare-headed in the presence of a rescue which had come from outside the lim=
it
of their own power - from that region of trust and resignation which has be=
en
in all ages called divine.
At last, as the signal was given to
move forward, Tito said, with a smile -
'I ought to say, that any hose to =
be
bestowed by the Magnificent Signoria in reward of these tidings are due, no=
t to
me, but to another man who had ridden hard to bring them, and would have be=
en
here in my place if his horse had not broken down just before he reached Si=
gna.
Meo di Sasso will doubtless be here in an hour or two, and may all the more
justly claim the glory of the messenger, because he has had the chief labour
and has lost the chief delight.'
It was a graceful way of putting a
necessary statement, and after a word of reply from the Proposto, or spokes=
man
of the Signoria, this dignified extremity of the procession passed on, and =
Tito
turned his horse's head to follow in its train, while the great bell of the
Palazzo Vecchio was already beginning to swing, and give a louder voice to =
the
people's joy.
In that moment, when Tito's attent=
ion
had ceased to be imperatively directed, it might have been expected that he
would look round and recognise Romola; but he was apparently engaged with h=
is
cap, which, now the eager people were leading his horse, he was able to sei=
ze
and place on his head, while his right hand was still encumbered by the oli=
ve
branch. He had a becoming air of lassitude after his exertions; and Romola,
instead of making any effort to be recognised by him, threw her black drape=
ry
over her head again, and remained perfectly quiet. Yet she felt almost sure
that Tito had seen her; he had the power of seeing everything without seemi=
ng
to see it.
The crowd had no sooner passed onw=
ard
than Romola descended to the street, and hastened to the steps of San Stefa=
no.
Cecco had been attracted with the rest towards the Piazza, and she found
Baldassarre standing alone against the church door, with the horn-cup in his
hand, waiting for her. There was a striking change in him: the blank, dreamy
glance of a half-returned consciousness had given place to a fierceness whi=
ch,
as she advanced and spoke to him, flashed upon her as if she had been its
object. It was the glance of caged fury that sees its prey passing safe bey=
ond
the bars.
Romola started as the glance was
turned on her, but her immediate thought was that he had seen Tito. And as =
she
felt the look of hatred grating on her, something like a hope arose that th=
is
man might be the criminal, and that her husband might not have been guilty
towards him. If she could learn that now, by bringing Tito face to face with
him, and have her mind set at rest!
'If you will come with me,' she sa=
id,
'I can give you shelter and food until you are quite rested and strong. Will
you come?'
'Yes,' said Baldassarre, 'I shall =
be
glad to get my strength. I want to get my strength,' he repeated, as if he =
were
muttering to himself, rather than speaking to her.
'Come!' she said, inviting him to =
walk
by her side, and taking the way by the Arno towards the Ponte Rubaconte as =
the
more private road.
'I think you are not a Florentine,'
she said, presently, as they turned on to the bridge.
He looked round at her without
speaking. His suspicious caution was more strongly upon him than usual, just
now that the fog of confusion and oblivion was made denser by bodily
feebleness. But she was looking at him too, and there was something in her
gentle eyes which at last compelled him to answer her. But he answered
cautiously -
'No, I am no Florentine; I am a lo=
nely
man.'
She observed his reluctance to spe=
ak
to her, and dared not question him further, lest he should desire to quit h=
er.
As she glanced at him from time to time, her mind was busy with thoughts wh=
ich
quenched the faint hope that there was nothing painful to be revealed about=
her
husband. If this old man had been in the wrong, where was the cause for dre=
ad
and secrecy?
They walked on in silence till they
reached the entrance into the Via de' Bardi, and Romola noticed that he tur=
ned
and looked at her with a sudden movement as if some shock had passed through
him. A few moments after, she paused at the half-open door of the court and
turned towards him.
'Ah!' he said, not waiting for her=
to
speak, 'you are his wife.'
'Whose wife?' said Romola.
It would have been impossible for
Baldassarre to recall any name at that moment. The very force with which the
image of Tito pressed upon him seemed to expel any verbal sign. He made no
answer, but looked at her with strange fixedness.
She opened the door wide and showed
the court covered with straw, on which lay four or five sick people, while =
some
little children crawled or sat on it at their ease - tiny pale creatures,
biting straws and gurgling.
'If you will come in,' said Romola,
tremulously, 'I will find you a comfortable place, and bring you some more
food.'
'No, I will not come in,' said
Baldassarre. But he stood still, arrested by the burden of impressions under
which his mind was too confused to choose a course.
'Can I do nothing for you?' said
Romola. 'Let me give you some money that you may buy food. It will be more
plentiful soon.'
She had put her hand into her
scarsella as she spoke, and held out her palm with several grossi in it. She
purposely offered him more than she would have given any other man in the s=
ame
circumstances. He looked at the coins a little while, and then said -
'Yes, I will take them.'
She poured the coins into his palm,
and he grasped them tightly.
'Tell me,' said Romola, almost
beseechingly. 'What shall you -'
But Baldassarre had turned away fr=
om
her, and was walking again towards the bridge. Passing from it, straight on=
up
the Via del Fosso, he came upon the shop of Niccolo Caparra, and turned tow=
ards
it without a pause, as if it had been the very object of his search. Niccolo
was at that moment in procession with the armourers of Florence, and there =
was
only one apprentice in the shop. But there were all sorts of weapons in
abundance hanging there, and Baldassarre's eyes discerned what he was more
hungry for than for bread. Niccolo himself would probably have refused to s=
ell
anything that might serve as a weapon to this man with signs of the prison =
on
him; but the apprentice, less observant and scrupulous, took three grossi f=
or a
sharp hunting knife without any hesitation. It was a conveniently small wea=
pon,
which Baldassarre could easily thrust within the breast of his tunic, and he
walked on, feeling stronger. That sharp edge might give deadliness to the
thrust of an aged arm: at least it was a companion, it was a power in league
with him, even if it failed. It would break against armour, but was the arm=
our
sure to be always there? In those long months while vengeance had lain in
prison, baseness had perhaps become forgetful and secure. The knife had been
bought with the traitor's own money. That was just. Before he took the mone=
y,
he had felt what he should do with it - buy a weapon. Yes, and if possible,
food too; food to nourish the arm that would grasp the weapon, food to nour=
ish
the body which was the temple of vengeance. When he had had enough bread, he
should be able to think and act - to think first how he could hide himself,
lest Tito should have him dragged away again.
With that idea of hiding in his mi=
nd,
Baldassarre turned up the narrowest streets, bought himself some meat and
bread, and sat down under the first loggia to eat. The bells that swung out
louder and louder peals of joy, laying hold of him and making him vibrate a=
long
with all the air, seemed to him simply part of that strong world which was
against him.
Romola had watched Baldassarre unt=
il
he had disappeared round the turning into the Piazza de' Mozzi, half feeling
that his departure was a relief, half reproaching herself for not seeking w=
ith
more decision to know the truth about him, for not assuring herself whether
there were any guiltless misery in his lot which she was not helpless to
relieve. Yet what could she have done if the truth had proved to be the bur=
den
of some painful secret about her husband, in addition to the anxieties that
already weighed upon her? Surely a wife was permitted to desire ignorance o=
f a
husband's wrong doing, since she alone must not protest and warn men against
him. But that thought stirred too many intricate fibres of feeling to be
pursued now in her weariness. It was a time to rejoice, since help had come=
to
Florence; and she turned into the court to tell the good news to her patien=
ts
on their straw beds.
She closed the door after her, lest
the bells should drown her voice, and then throwing the black drapery from =
her
head, that the women might see her better, she stood in the midst and told =
them
that corn was coming, and that the bells were ringing for gladness at the n=
ews.
They all sat up to listen, while the children trotted or crawled towards he=
r,
and pulled her black skirts, as if they were impatient at being all that lo=
ng
way off her face. She yielded to them, weary as she was, and sat down on the
straw, while the little pale things peeped into her basket and pulled her h=
air
down, and the feeble voices around her said, 'The Holy Virgin be praised!' =
'It
was the procession!' 'The Mother of God has had pity on us!'
At last Romola rose from the heap =
of
straw, too tired to try and smile any longer, saying as she turned up the s=
tone
steps -
'I will come by-and-by, to bring y=
ou
your dinner.'
'Bless you, madonna! bless you!' s=
aid
the faint chorus, in much the same tone as that in which they had a few min=
utes
before praised and thanked the unseen Madonna.
Romola cared a great deal for that
music. She had no innate taste for tending the sick and clothing the ragged,
like some women to whom the details of such work are welcome in themselves,
simply as an occupation. Her early training had kept her aloof from such
womanly labours; and if she had not brought to them the inspiration of her
deepest feelings, they would have been irksome to her. But they had come to=
be
the one unshaken resting-place of her mind, the one narrow pathway on which=
the
light fell clear. If the gulf between herself and Tito which only gathered a
more perceptible wideness from her attempts to bridge it by submission, bro=
ught
a doubt whether, after all, the bond to which she had laboured to be true m=
ight
not itself be false - if she came away from her confessor, Fra Salvestro, or
from some contact with the disciples of Savonarola amongst whom she worship=
ped,
with a sickening sense that these people were miserably narrow, and with an
almost impetuous reaction towards her old contempt for their superstition -=
she
found herself recovering a firm footing in her works of womanly sympathy.
Whatever else made her doubt, the help she gave to her fellow-citizens made=
her
sure that Fra Girolamo had been right to call her back. According to his
unforgotten words, her place had not been empty: it had been filled with her
love and her labour. Florence had had need of her, and the more her own sor=
row
pressed upon her, the more gladness she felt in the memories, stretching
through the two long years, of hours and moments in which she had lightened=
the
burden of life to others. All that ardour of her nature which could no long=
er
spend itself in the woman's tenderness for father and husband, had transfor=
med
itself into an enthusiasm of sympathy with the general life. She had ceased=
to
think that her own lot could be happy - had ceased to think of happiness at
all: the one end of her life seemed to her to be the diminishing of sorrow.=
Her enthusiasm was continually sti=
rred
to fresh vigour by the influence of Savonarola. In spite of the wearisome
visions and allegories from which she recoiled in disgust when they came as
stale repetitions from other lips than his, her strong affinity for his
passionate sympathy and the splendour of his aims had lost none of its powe=
r.
His burning indignation against the abuses and oppression that made the dai=
ly
story of the Church and of States had kindled the ready fire in her too. His
special care for liberty and purity of government in Florence, with his
constant reference of this immediate object to the wider end of a universal
regeneration, had created in her a new consciousness of the great drama of
human existence in which her life was a part; and through her daily helpful
contact with the less fortunate of her fellow-citizens this new consciousne=
ss
became something stronger than a vague sentiment; it grew into a more and m=
ore
definite motive of self-denying practice. She thought little about dogmas, =
and
shrank from reflecting closely on the Frate's prophecies of the immediate
scourge and closely-following regeneration. She had submitted her mind to h=
is
and had entered into communion with the Church, because in this way she had
found an immediate satisfaction for moral needs which all the previous cult=
ure
and experience of her life had left hungering. Fra Girolamo's voice had wak=
ed
in her mind a reason for living, apart from personal enjoyment and personal
affection; but it was a reason that seemed to need feeding with greater for=
ces
than she possessed within herself, and her submissive use of all offices of=
the
Church was simply a watching and waiting if by any means fresh strength mig=
ht
come. The pressing problem for Romola just then was not to settle questions=
of
controversy, but to keep alive that flame of unselfish emotion by which a l=
ife
of sadness might still be a life of active love.
Her trust in Savonarola's nature as
greater than her own made a large part of the strength she had found. And t=
he
trust was not to be lightly shaken. It is not force of intellect which caus=
es
ready repulsion from the aberration and eccentricities of greatness, any mo=
re
than it is force of vision that causes the eye to explore the warts on a fa=
ce
bright with human expression; it is simply the negation of high sensibiliti=
es.
Romola was so deeply moved by the grand energies of Savonarola's nature, th=
at
she found herself listening patiently to all dogmas and prophecies, when th=
ey
came in the vehicle of his ardent faith and believing utterance.
No soul is desolate as long as the=
re
is a human being for whom it can feel trust and reverence. Romola's trust in
Savonarola was something like a rope suspended securely by her path, making=
her
step elastic while she grasped it; if it were suddenly removed, no firmness=
of
the ground she trod could save her from staggering, or perhaps from falling=
.
After that welcome appearance as t=
he
messenger with the olive-branch, which was an unpromised favour of fortune,
Tito had other commissions to fulfil of a more premeditated character. He
paused at the Palazzo Vecchio, and awaited there the return of the Ten, who
managed external and war affairs, that he might duly deliver to them the
results of his private mission to Pisa, intended as a preliminary to an avo=
wed
embassy of which Bernardo Rucellai was to be the head, with the object of
coming, if possible, to a pacific understanding with the Emperor Maximilian=
and
the League.
Tito's talents for diplomatic work=
had
been well ascertained, and as he gave with fulness and precision the result=
s of
his inquiries and interviews, Bernardo del Nero, who was at that time one of
the Ten, could not withhold his admiration. He would have withheld it if he
could; for his original dislike of Tito had returned, and become stronger,
since the sale of the library. Romola had never uttered a word to her godfa=
ther
on the circumstances of the sale, and Bernardo had understood her silence a=
s a
prohibition to him to enter on the subject, but he felt sure that the breac=
h of
her father's wish had been a blighting grief to her, and the old man's
observant eyes discerned other indications that her married life was not ha=
ppy.
'Ah,' he said, inwardly, 'that
doubtless is the reason she has taken to listening to Fra Girolamo, and goi=
ng
amongst the Piagnoni, which I never expected from her. These women, if they=
are
not happy, and have no children, must either take to folly or to some
overstrained religion that makes them think they've got all heaven's work on
their shoulders. And as for my poor child Romola, it is as I always said - =
the
cramming with Latin and Greek has left her as much a woman as if she had do=
ne
nothing all day but prick her fingers with the needle. And this husband of
hers, who gets employed everywhere, because he's a tool with a smooth handl=
e, I
wish Tornabuoni and the rest may not find their fingers cut. Well, well, so=
lco
torto, sacco dritto - many a full sack comes from a crooked furrow; and he =
who
will be captain of none but honest men will have small hire to pay.'
With this long-established convict=
ion
that there could be no moral sifting of political agents, the old Florentine
abstained from all interference in Tito's disfavour. Apart from what must be
kept sacred and private for Romola's sake, Bernardo had nothing direct to
allege against the useful Greek, except that he was a Greek, and that he,
Bernardo, did not like him; for the doubleness of feigning attachment to the
popular government, while at heart a Medicean, was common to Tito with more
than half the Medicean party. He only feigned with more skill than the rest:
that was all. So Bernardo was simply cold to Tito, who returned the coldness
with a scrupulous, distant respect. And it was still the notion in Florence
that the old tie between Bernardo and Bardo made any service done to Romola=
's
husband an acceptable homage to her godfather.
After delivering himself of his ch=
arge
at the Old Palace, Tito felt that the avowed official work of the day was d=
one.
He was tired and adust with long riding; but he did not go home. There were
certain things in his scarsella and on his mind, from which he wished to fr=
ee
himself as soon as possible, but the opportunities must be found so skilful=
ly
that they must not seem to be sought. He walked from the Palazzo in a
sauntering fashion towards the Piazza del Duomo. The procession was at an e=
nd
now, but the bells were still ringing, and the people were moving about the
streets restlessly, longing for some more definite vent to their joy. If the
Frate could have stood up in the great Piazza and preached to them, they mi=
ght
have been satisfied, but now, in spite of the new discipline which declared=
Christ
to be the special King of the Florentines and required all pleasures to be =
of a
Christian sort, there was a secret longing in many of the youngsters who
shouted 'Viva Gesu!' for a little vigorous stone-throwing in sign of
thankfulness.
Tito, as he passed along, could not
escape being recognised by some as the welcome bearer of the olive-branch, =
and
could only rid himself of an inconvenient ovation, chiefly in the form of e=
ager
questions, by telling those who pressed on him that Meo di Sasso, the true
messenger from Leghorn, must now be entering, and might certainly be met
towards the Porta San Frediano. He could tell much more than Tito knew.
Freeing himself from importunities=
in
this adroit manner, he made his way to the Piazza del Duomo, casting his lo=
ng
eyes round the space with an air of the utmost carelessness, but really see=
king
to detect some presence which might furnish him with one of his desired
opportunities. The fact of the procession having terminated at the Duomo ma=
de
it probable that there would be more than the usual concentration of lounge=
rs
and talkers in the Piazza and round Nello's shop. It was as he expected. Th=
ere
was a group leaning against the rails near the north gates of the Baptister=
y,
so exactly what he sought, that he looked more indifferent than ever, and
seemed to recognise the tallest member of the group entirely by chance as he
had half passed him, just turning his head to give him a slight greeting, w=
hile
he tossed the end of his becchetto over his left shoulder.
Yet the tall, broad-shouldered
personage greeted in that slight way looked like one who had considerable
claims. He wore a richly-embroidered tunic, with a great show of linen, aft=
er
the newest French mode, and at his belt there hung a sword and poniard of f=
ine
workmanship. His hat, with a red plume in it, seemed a scornful protest aga=
inst
the gravity of Florentine costume, which had been exaggerated to the utmost
under the influence of the Piagnoni. Certain undefinable indications of you=
th
made the breadth of his face and the large diameter of his waist appear the
more emphatically a stamp of coarseness, and his eyes had that rude desecra=
ting
stare at all men and things which to a refined mind is as intolerable as a =
bad
odour or a flaring light.
He and his companions, also young =
men
dressed expensively and wearing arms, were exchanging jokes with that sort =
of
ostentatious laughter which implies a desire to prove that the laughter is =
not
mortified though some people might suspect it. There were good reasons for =
such
a suspicion; for this broad-shouldered man with the red feather was Dolfo
Spini, leader of the Compagnacci, or Evil Companions - that is to say, of a=
ll
the dissolute young men belonging to the old aristocratic party, enemies of=
the
Mediceans, enemies of the popular government, but still more bitter enemies=
of
Savonarola. Dolfo Spini, heir of the great house with the loggia, over the
bridge of the Santa Trinita, had organised these young men into an armed ba=
nd,
as sworn champions of extravagant suppers and all the pleasant sins of the
flesh, against reforming pietists who threatened to make the world chaste a=
nd
temperate to so intolerable a degree that there would soon be no reason for
living, except the extreme unpleasantness of the alternative. Up to this ve=
ry
morning he had been loudly declaring that Florence was given up to famine a=
nd
ruin entirely through its blind adherence to the advice of the Frate, and t=
hat
there could be no salvation for Florence but in joining the League and driv=
ing
the Frate out of the city - sending him to Rome, in fact, whither he ought =
to
have gone long ago in obedience to the summons of the Pope. It was suspecte=
d,
therefore, that Messer Dolfo Spini's heart was not aglow with pure joy at t=
he
unexpected succours which had come in apparent fulfilment of the Frate's
prediction, and the laughter, which was ringing out afresh as Tito joined t=
he
group at Nello's door, did not serve to dissipate the suspicion. For leaning
against the door-post in the centre of the group was a close-shaven, keen-e=
yed
personage, named Niccolo Macchiavelli, who, young as he was, had penetrated=
all
the small secrets of egoism.
'Messer Dolfo's head,' he was sayi=
ng,
'is more of a pumpkin than I thought. I measure men's dulness by the devices
they trust for deceiving others. Your dullest animal of all is he who grins=
and
says he doesn't mind just after he has had his shins kicked. If I were a tr=
ifle
duller, now,' he went on, smiling as the circle opened to admit Tito, 'I sh=
ould
pretend to be fond of this Melema, who has got a secretaryship that would
exactly suit me - as if Latin ill-paid could love better Latin that's better
paid! Melema, you are a pestiferously clever fellow, very much in my way, a=
nd
I'm sorry to hear you've had another piece of good-luck to-day.'
'Questionable luck, Niccolo,' said
Tito, touching him on the shoulder in a friendly way; 'I have got nothing b=
y it
yet but being laid hold of and breathed upon by wool-beaters, when I am as
soiled and battered with riding as a tabellario (letter-carrier) from Bolog=
na.'
'Ah! you want a touch of my art,
Messer Oratore,' said Nello, who had come forward at the sound of Tito's vo=
ice;
'your chin, I perceive, has yesterday's crop upon it. Come, come - consign
yourself to the priest of all the Muses. Sandro, quick with the lather!'
'In truth, Nello, that is just wha=
t I
most desire at this moment,' said Tito, seating himself; 'and that was why I
turned my steps towards thy shop, instead of going home at once, when I had
done my business at the Palazzo.'
'Yes, indeed, it is not fitting th=
at
you should present yourself to Madonna Romola with a rusty chin and a tangl=
ed
zazzera. Nothing that is not dainty ought to approach the Florentine lily;
though I see her constantly going about like a sunbeam amongst the rags that
line our corners - if indeed she is not more like a moonbeam now, for I tho=
ught
yesterday, when I met her, that she looked as pale and worn as that fainting
Madonna of Fra Giovanni's. You must see to it, my bel erudito: she keeps too
many fasts and vigils in your absence.'
Tito gave a melancholy shrug. 'It =
is
too true, Nello. She has been depriving herself of half her proper food eve=
ry
day during this famine. But what can I do? Her mind has been set all aflame=
. A
husband's influence is powerless against the Frate's.'
'As every other influence is likel=
y to
be, that of the Holy Father included,' said Domenico Cennini, one of the gr=
oup
at the door, who had turned in with Tito. 'I don't know whether you have
gathered anything at Pisa about the way the wind sits at Rome, Melema?'
'Secrets of the council chamber,
Messer Domenico!' said Tito, smiling and opening his palms in a deprecatory
manner. 'An envoy must be as dumb as a father confessor.'
'Certainly, certainly,' said Cenni=
ni.
'I ask for no breach of that rule. Well, my belief is, that if his Holiness
were to drive Fra Girolamo to extremity, the Frate would move heaven and ea=
rth
to get a General Council of the Church - ay, and would get it too; and I, f=
or
one, should not be sorry, though I'm no Piagnone.'
'With leave of your greater
experience, Messer Domenico.' said Macchiavelli, 'I must differ from you - =
not
in your wish to see a General Council which might reform the Church, but in
your belief that the Frate will checkmate his Holiness. The Frate's game is=
an
impossible one. If he had contented himself with preaching against the vice=
s of
Rome, and with prophesying that in some way, not mentioned, Italy would be
scourged, depend upon it Pope Alexander would have allowed him to spend his
breath in that way as long as he could find hearers. Such spiritual blasts =
as
those knock no walls down. But the Frate wants to be something more than a
spiritual trumpet: he wants to be a lever, and what is more, he is a lever.=
He
wants to spread the doctrine of Christ by maintaining a popular government =
in
Florence, and the Pope, as I know, on the best authority, has private views=
to
the contrary.'
'Then Florence will stand by the
Frate,' Cennini broke in, with some fervour. 'I myself should prefer that he
would let his prophesying alone, but if our freedom to choose our own
government is to be attacked - I am an obedient son of the Church, but I wo=
uld
vote for resisting Pope Alexander the Sixth, as our forefathers resisted Po=
pe
Gregory the Eleventh.'
'But pardon me, Messer Domenico,' =
said
Macchiavelli sticking his thumbs into his belt, and speaking with that cool
enjoyment of exposition which surmounts every other force in discussion. 'H=
ave
you correctly seized the Frate's position? How is it that he has become a
lever, and made himself worth attacking by an acute man like his Holiness?
Because he has got the ear of the people: because he gives them threats and
promises, which they believe come straight from God, not only about hell,
purgatory, and paradise, but about Pisa and our Great Council. But let even=
ts
go against him, so as to shake the people's faith, and the cause of his pow=
er
will be the cause of his fall. He is accumulating three sorts of hatred on =
his
head - the hatred of average mankind against every one who wants to lay on =
them
a strict yoke of virtue; the hatred of the stronger powers in Italy who wan=
t to
farm Florence for their own purposes; and the hatred of the people, to whom=
he
has ventured to promise good in this world, instead of confining his promis=
es
to the next. If a prophet is to keep his power, he must be a prophet like
Mahomet, with an army at his back, that when the people's faith is fainting=
it
may be frightened into life again.'
'Rather sum up the three sorts of
hatred in one,' said Francesco Cei, impetuously, 'and say he has won the ha=
tred
of all men who have sense and honesty, by inventing hypocritical lies. His
proper place is among the false prophets in the Inferno, who walk with their
heads turned hindforemost.'
'You are too angry, my Francesco,' said Macchiavelli, smiling; 'you poets are apt to cut the clouds in your wr= ath. I am no votary of the Frate's, and would not lay down my little finger for = his veracity. But veracity is a plant of paradise, and the seeds have never flo= urished beyond the walls. You, yourself, my Francesco, tell poetical lies only; par= tly compelled by the poet's fervour, partly to please your audience; but you ob= ject to lies in prose. Well, the Frate differs from you as to the boundary of poetry, that's all. When he gets into the pulpit of the Duomo, he has the fervour within him, and without him he has the audience to please. Ecco!' <= o:p>
'You are somewhat lax there, Nicco=
lo,'
said Cennini, gravely. 'I myself believe in the Frate's integrity, though I
don't believe in his prophecies, and as long as his integrity is not dispro=
ved,
we have a popular party strong enough to protect him and resist foreign
interference.'
'A party that seems strong enough,'
said Macchiavelli, with a shrug, and an almost imperceptible glance towards
Tito, who was abandoning himself with much enjoyment to Nello's combing and
scenting. 'But how many Mediceans are there among you? How many who will no=
t be
turned round by a private grudge?'
'As to the Mediceans,' said Cennin=
i,
'I believe there is very little genuine feeling left on behalf of the Medic=
i.
Who would risk much for Piero de' Medici? A few old staunch friends, perhap=
s,
like Bernardo del Nero; but even some of those most connected with the fami=
ly
are hearty friends of the popular government, and would exert themselves for
the Frate. I was talking to Giannozzo Pucci only a little while ago, and I =
am
convinced there's nothing he would set his face against more than against a=
ny
attempt to alter the new order of things.'
'You are right there, Messer
Domenico,' said Tito, with a laughing meaning in his eyes, as he rose from =
the
shaving-chair; 'and I fancy the tender passion came in aid of hard theory
there. I am persuaded there was some jealousy at the bottom of Giannozzo's
alienation from Piero de' Medici; else so amiable a creature as he would ne=
ver
feel the bitterness he sometimes allows to escape him in that quarter. He w=
as
in the procession with you, I suppose?'
'No,' said Cennini; 'he is at his
villa - went there three days ago.'
Tito was settling his cap and glan=
cing
down at his splashed hose as if he hardly heeded the answer. In reality he =
had
obtained a much-desired piece of information. He had at that moment in his
scarsella a crushed gold ring which he had engaged to deliver to Giannozzo
Pucci. He had received it from an envoy of Piero de' Medici, whom he had ri=
dden
out of his way to meet at Certaldo on the Siena road. Since Pucci was not in
the town, he would send the ring by Fra Michele, a Carthusian lay Brother in
the service of the Mediceans, and the receipt of that sign would bring Pucci
back to hear the verbal part of Tito's mission.
'Behold him!' said Nello, flourish=
ing
his comb and pointing it at Tito, 'the handsomest scholar in the world or in
the wolds, now he has passed through my hands! A trifle thinner in the face,
though, than when he came in his first bloom to Florence - eh? and, I vow,
there are some lines just faintly hinting themselves about your mouth, Mess=
er
Oratore! Ah, mind is an enemy to beauty! I myself was thought beautiful by =
the
women at one time - when I was in my swaddling-bands. But now - oime! I car=
ry
my unwritten poems in cipher on my face!'
Tito, laughing with the rest as Ne=
llo
looked at himself tragically in the hand-mirror, made a sign of farewell to=
the
company generally, and took his departure.
'I'm of our old Piero di Cosimo's
mind,' said Francesco Cei. 'I don't half like Melema. That trick of smiling
gets stronger than ever - no wonder he has lines about the mouth.'
'He's too successful,' said
Macchiavelli, playfully. 'I'm sure there's something wrong about him, else =
he
wouldn't have that secretaryship.'
'He's an able nan,' said Cennini, =
in a
tone of judicial fairness. 'I and my brother have always found him useful w=
ith
our Greek sheets, and he gives great satisfaction to the Ten. I like to see=
a
young man work his way upward by merit. And the secretary Scala, who befrie=
nded
him from the first, thinks highly of him still, I know.'
'Doubtless,' said a notary in the
background. 'He writes Scala's official letters for him, or corrects them, =
and
gets well paid for it too.'
'I wish Messer Bartolommeo would p=
ay
me to doctor his gouty Latin,' said Macchiavelli, with a shrug 'Did he tell=
you
about the pay, Ser Ceccone, or was it Melema himself?' he added, looking at=
the
notary with a face ironically innocent.
'Melema? no, indeed,' answered Ser
Ceccone. 'He is as close as a nut. He never brags. That's why he's employed
everywhere. They say he's getting rich with doing all sorts of underhand wo=
rk.'
'It is a little too bad,' said
Macchiavelli, 'and so many able notaries out of employment!'
'Well, I must say I thought that w=
as a
nasty story a year or two ago about the man who said he had stolen jewels,'
said Cei. 'It got hushed up somehow; but I remember Piero di Cosimo said, at
the time, he believed there was something in it, for he saw Melema's face w=
hen
the man laid hold of him, and he never saw a visage so ‘painted with
fear,’ as our sour old Dante says.'
'Come, spit no more of that venom,
Francesco,' said Nello, getting indignant, 'else I shall consider it a publ=
ic
duty to cut your hair awry the next time I get you under my scissors. That
story of the stolen jewels was a lie. Bernardo Rucellai and the Magnificent
Eight knew all about it. The man was a dangerous madman, and he was very
properly kept out of mischief in prison. As for our Piero di Cosimo, his wi=
ts
are running after the wind of Mongibello: he has such an extravagant fancy =
that
he would take a lizard for a crocodile. No: that story has been dead and bu=
ried
too long - our noses object to it.'
'It is true,' said Macchiavelli. '=
You
forget the danger of the precedent, Francesco. The next mad beggarman may
accuse you of stealing his verses, or me, God help me! of stealing his copp=
ers.
Ah!' he went on, turning towards the door, 'Dolfo Spini has carried his red
feather out of the Piazza. That captain of swaggerers would like the Republ=
ic
to lose Pisa just for the chance of seeing the people tear the frock off the
Frate's back. With your pardon, Francesco - I know he is a friend of yours -
there are few things I should like better than to see him play the part of =
Capo
d'Oca, who went out to the tournament blowing his trumpets and returned with
them in a bag.'
That evening, when it was dark and
threatening rain, Romola, returning with Maso and the lantern by her side, =
from
the hospital of San Matteo, which she had visited after vespers, encountered
her husband just issuing from the monastery of San Marco. Tito, who had gone
out again shortly after his arrival in the Via de' Bardi, and had seen litt=
le
of Romola during the day, immediately proposed to accompany her home,
dismissing Maso, whose short steps annoyed him. It was only usual for him to
pay her such an official attention when it was obviously demanded from him.
Tito and Romola never jarred, never remonstrated with each other. They were=
too
hopelessly alienated in their inner life ever to have that contest which is=
an
effort to- wards agreement. They talked of all affairs, public and private,
with careful adherence to an adopted course. If Tito wanted a supper prepar=
ed
in the old library, now pleasantly furnished as a banqueting-room, Romola
assented, and saw that everything needful was done: and Tito, on his side, =
left
her entirely uncontrolled in her daily habits, accepting the help she offer=
ed
him in transcribing or making digests, and in return meeting her conjectured
want of supplies for her charities. Yet he constantly, as on this very morn=
ing,
avoided exchanging glances with her; affected to believe that she was out of
the house, in order to avoid seeking her in her own room; and playfully
attributed to her a perpetual preference of solitude to his society.
In the first ardour of her
self-conquest, after she had renounced her resolution of flight, Romola had
made many timid efforts towards the return of a frank relation between them.
But to her such a relation could only come by open speech about their
differences, and the attempt to arrive at a moral understanding; while Tito
could only be saved from alienation from her by such a recovery of her effu=
sive
tenderness as would have presupposed oblivion of their differences. He cared
for no explanation between them; he felt any thorough explanation impossibl=
e: he
would have cared to have Romola fond again, and to her, fondness was
impossible. She could be submissive and gentle, she could repress any sign =
of
repulsion; but tenderness was not to be feigned. She was helplessly conscio=
us
of the result: her husband was alienated from her.
It was an additional reason why she
should be carefully kept outside of secrets which he would in no case have
chosen to communicate to her. With regard to his political action he sought=
to
convince her that he considered the cause of the Medici hopeless; and that =
on
that practical ground, as well as in theory, he heartily served the popular
government in which she had now a warm interest. But impressions subtle as
odours made her uneasy about his relations with San Marco. She was painfully
divided between the dread of seeing any evidence to arouse her suspicions, =
and
the impulse to watch lest any harm should come that she might have arrested=
.
As they walked together this eveni=
ng,
Tito said - 'The business of the day is not yet quite ended for me. I shall
conduct you to our door, my Romola, and then I must fulfil another commissi=
on,
which will take me an hour, perhaps, before I can return and rest, as I very
much need to do.'
And then he talked amusingly of wh=
at
he had seen at Pisa, until they were close upon a loggia, near which there =
hung
a lamp before a picture of the Virgin. The street was a quiet one, and hith=
erto
they had passed few people; but now there was a sound of many approaching
footsteps and confused voices.
'We shall not get home without a
wetting, unless we take shelter under this convenient loggia,' Tito said,
hastily, hurrying Romola, with a slightly startled movement, up the step of=
the
loggia.
'Surely it is useless to wait for =
this
small drizzling rain,' said Romola, in surprise.
'No: I felt it becoming heavier. L=
et
us wait a little.' With that wakefulness to the faintest indication which
belongs to a mind habitually in a state of caution, Tito had detected by the
glimmer of the lamp that the leader of the advancing group wore a red feath=
er
and a glittering sword-hilt - in fact, was almost the last person in the wo=
rld
he would have chosen to meet at this hour with Romola by his side. He had
already during the day had one momentous interview with Dolfo Spini, and the
business he had spoken of to Romola as yet to be done was a second interview
with that personage, a sequence of the visit he had paid at San Marco. Tito=
, by
a long-preconcerted plan, had been the bearer of letters to Savonarola -
carefully-forged letters; one of them, by a stratagem, bearing the very
signature and seal of the Cardinal of Naples, who of all the Sacred College=
had
most exerted his influence at Rome in favour of the Frate. The purport of t=
he
letters was to state that the Cardinal was on his progress from Pisa, and,
unwilling for strong reasons to enter Florence, yet desirous of taking coun=
sel
with Savonarola at this difficult juncture, intended to pause this very day=
at
San Casciano, about ten miles from the city, whence he would ride out the n=
ext
morning in the plain garb of a priest, and meet Savonarola, as if casually,
five miles on the Florence road, two hours after sunrise. The plot, of which
these forged letters were the initial step, was that Dolfo Spini with a ban=
d of
his Compagnacci was to be posted in ambush on the road, at a lonely spot ab=
out
five miles from the gates; that he was to seize Savonarola with the Dominic=
an
brother who would accompany him according to rule, and deliver him over to a
small detachment of Milanese horse in readiness near San Casciano, by whom =
he
was to be carried into the Roman territory.
There was a strong chance that the
penetrating Frate would suspect a trap, and decline to incur the risk, whic=
h he
had for some time avoided, of going beyond the city walls. Even when he had
preached, his friends held it necessary that he should be attended by an ar=
med
guard; and here he was called on to commit himself to a solitary road, with=
no
other attendant than a fellow-monk. On this ground the minimum of time had =
been
given him for decision, and the chance in favour of his acting on the lette=
rs
was, that the eagerness with which his mind was set on the combining of
interests within and without the Church towards the procuring of a General
Council, and also the expectation of immediate service from the Cardinal in=
the
actual juncture of his contest with the Pope, would triumph over his shrewd=
ness
and caution in the brief space allowed for deliberation.
Tito had had an audience of
Savonarola, having declined to put the letters into any hands but his, and =
with
consummate art had admitted that incidentally, and by inference, he was abl=
e so
far to conjecture their purport as to believe they referred to a rendezvous
outside the gates, in which case he urged that the Frate should seek an arm=
ed
guard from the Signoria, and offered his services in carrying the request w=
ith
the utmost privacy. Savonarola had replied briefly that this was impossible=
: an
armed guard was incompatible with privacy. He spoke with a flashing eye, an=
d Tito
felt convinced that he meant to incur the risk.
Tito himself did not much care for=
the
result. He managed his affairs so cleverly, that all results, he considered,
must turn to his advantage. Whichever party came uppermost, he was secure of
favour and money. That is an indecorously naked statement; the fact, clothe=
d as
Tito habitually clothed it, was that his acute mind, discerning the equal
hollowness of all parties, took the only rational course in making them
subservient to his own interest.
If Savonarola fell into the snare,
there were diamonds in question and papal patronage; if not, Tito's adroit
agency had strengthened his position with Savonarola and with Spini, while =
any
confidences he obtained from them made him the more valuable as an agent of=
the
Mediceans.
But Spini was an inconvenient
colleague. He had cunning enough to delight in plots, but not the ability or
self-command necessary to so complex an effect as secrecy. He frequently got
excited with drinking, for even sober Florence had its 'Beoni,' or topers, =
both
lay and clerical, who became loud at taverns and private banquets; and in s=
pite
of the agreement between him and Tito, that their public recognition of each
other should invariably be of the coolest sort, there was always the possib=
ility
that on an evening encounter he would be suddenly blurting and affectionate.
The delicate sign of casting the becchetto over the left shoulder was
understood in the morning, but the strongest hint short of a threat might n=
ot
suffice to keep off a fraternal grasp of the shoulder in the evening.
Tito's chief hope now was that Dol=
fo
Spini had not caught sight of him, and the hope would have been well founde=
d if
Spini had had no clearer view of him than he had caught of Spini. But, hims=
elf
in shadow, he had seen Tito illuminated for an instant by the direct rays of
the lamp, and Tito in his way was as strongly marked a personage as the cap=
tain
of the Compagnacci. Romola's black-shrouded figure had escaped notice, and =
she
now stood behind her husband's shoulder in the corner of the loggia. Tito w=
as
not left to hope long.
'Ha! my carrier-pigeon!' grated
Spini's harsh voice, in what he meant to be an undertone, while his hand
grasped Tito's shoulder; 'what did you run into hiding for? You didn't know=
it
was comrades who were coming. It's well I caught sight of you; it saves tim=
e.
What of the chase tomorrow morning? Will the bald-headed game rise? Are the
falcons to be got ready?'
If it had been in Tito's nature to
feel an access of rage, he would have felt it against this bull-faced
accomplice, unfit either for a leader or a tool. His lips turned white, but=
his
excitement came from the pressing difficulty of choosing a safe device. If =
he
attempted to hush Spini, that would only deepen Romola's suspicion, and he =
knew
her well enough to know that if some strong alarm were roused in her, she w=
as
neither to be silenced nor hoodwinked: on the other hand, if he repelled Sp=
ini
angrily the wine-breathing Compagnaccio might become savage, being more rea=
dy
at resentment than at the divination of motives. He adopted a third course,
which proved that Romola retained one sort of power over him - the power of
dread.
He pressed her hand, as if intendi=
ng a
hint to her, and said in a good-humoured tone of comradeship -
'Yes, my Dolfo, you may prepare in=
all
security. But take no trumpets with you.'
'Don't be afraid,' said Spini, a
little piqued. 'No need to play Ser Saccente with me. I know where the devil
keeps his tail as well as you do. What! he swallowed the bait whole? The
prophetic nose didn't scent the hook at all?' he went on, lowering his tone=
a
little, with a blundering sense of secrecy.
'The brute will not be satisfied t=
ill
he has emptied the bag,' thought Tito: but aloud he said, - 'Swallowed all =
as
easily as you swallow a cup of Trebbiano. Ha! I see torches: there must be a
dead body coming. The pestilence has been spreading, I hear.'
'Santiddio! I hate the sight of th=
ose
biers. Good night,' said Spini, hastily moving off.
The torches were really coming, bu=
t they
preceded a church dignitary who was returning homeward; the suggestion of t=
he
dead body and the pestilence was Tito's device for getting rid of Spini wit=
hout
telling him to go. The moment he had moved away, Tito turned to Romola, and
said, quietly -
'Do not be alarmed by anything that
bestia has said, my Romola. We will go on now: I think the rain has not
increased.'
She was quivering with indignant
resolution; it was of no use for Tito to speak in that unconcerned way. She
distrusted every word he could utter.
'I will not go on,' she said. 'I w=
ill
not move nearer home until I have some security against this treachery being
perpetrated.'
'Wait, at least, until these torch=
es
have passed,' said Tito, with perfect self-command, but with a new rising o=
f dislike
to a wife who this time, he foresaw, might have the power of thwarting him =
in
spite of the husband's predominance.
The torches passed, with the Vicar=
io
dell' Arcivescovo, and due reverence was done by Tito, but Romola saw nothi=
ng
outward. If for the defeat of this treachery, in which she believed with all
the force of long presentiment, it had been necessary at that moment for he=
r to
spring on her husband and hurl herself with him down a precipice, she felt =
as
if she could have done it. Union with this man! At that moment the
self-quelling discipline of two years seemed to be nullified: she felt noth=
ing
but that they were divided.
They were nearly in darkness again,
and could only see each other's faces dimly.
'Tell me the truth, Tito - this ti=
me tell
me the truth,' said Romola, in a low quivering voice. 'It will be safer for
you.'
'Why should I desire to tell you
anything else, my angry saint?' said Tito, with a slight touch of contempt,
which was the vent of his annoyance; 'since the truth is precisely that over
which you have most reason to rejoice - namely, that my knowing a plot of
Spini's enables me to secure the Frate from falling a victim to it.'
'What is the plot?'
'That I decline to tell,' said Tit=
o.
'It is enough that the Frate's safety will be secured.'
'It is a plot for drawing him outs=
ide
the gates that Spini may murder him.'
'There has been no intention of
murder. It is simply a plot for compelling him to obey the Pope's summons to
Rome. But as I serve the popular govemment, and think the Frate's presence =
here
is a necessary means of maintaining it at present, I choose to prevent his
departure. You may go to sleep with entire ease of mind to-night.'
For a moment Romola was silent. Th=
en
she said, in a voice of anguish, 'Tito, it is of no use: I have no belief in
you.
She could just discern his action =
as
he shrugged his shoulders, and spread out his palms in silence. That cold
dislike which is the anger of unimpassioned beings was hardening within him=
.
'If the Frate leaves the city - if=
any
harm happens to him,' said Romola, after a slight pause, in a new tone of
indignant resolution, - 'I will declare what I have heard to the Signoria, =
and
you will be disgraced. What if I am your wife?' she went on, impetuously; 'I
will be disgraced with you. If we are united. I am that part of you that wi=
ll
save you from crime. Others shall not be betrayed.'
'I am quite aware of what you woul=
d be
likely to do, anima mia,' said Tito, in the coolest of his liquid tones;
'therefore if you have a small amount of reasoning at your disposal just no=
w,
consider that if you believe me in nothing else, you may believe me when I =
say
I will take care of myself, and not put it in your power to ruin me.'
'Then you assure me that the Frate=
is
warned - he will not go beyond the gates?'
'He shall not go beyond the gates.=
'
There was a moment's pause, but
distrust was not to be expelled.
'I will go back to San Marco now a=
nd
find out,' Romola said, making a movement forward.
'You shall not!' said Tito, in a
bitter whisper, seizing her wrists with all his masculine force. 'I am mast=
er
of you. You shall not set yourself in opposition to me.'
There were passers-by approaching.
Tito had heard them, and that was why he spoke in a whisper. Romola was too
conscious of being mastered to have struggled, even if she had remained
unconscious that witnesses were at hand. But she was aware now of footsteps=
and
voices, and her habitual sense of personal dignity made her at once yield to
Tito's movement towards leading her from the loggia.
They walked on in silence for some
time, under the small drizzling rain. The first rush of indignation and ala=
rm
in Romola had begun to give way to more complicated feelings, which rendered
speech and action difficult. In that simpler state of vehemence, open
opposition to the husband from whom she felt her soul revolting had had the
aspect of temptation for her; it seemed the easiest of all courses. But now,
habits of self-questioning, memories of impulse subdued, and that proud res=
erve
which all discipline had left unmodified, began to emerge from the flood of
passion. The grasp of her wrists, which asserted her husband's physical
predominance, instead of arousing a new fierceness in her as it might have =
done
if her impetuosity had been of a more vulgar kind, had given her a momentary
shuddering horror at this form of contest with him. It was the first time t=
hey
had been in declared hostility to each other since her flight and return, a=
nd
the check given to her ardent resolution then, retained the power to arrest=
her
now. In this altered condition her mind began to dwell on the probabilities
that would save her from any desperate course: Tito would not risk betrayal=
by
her; whatever had been his original intention, he must be determined now by=
the
fact that she knew of the plot. She was not bound now to do anything else t=
han
to hang over him that certainty, that if he deceived her, her lips would no=
t be
closed. And then, it was possible - yes, she must cling to that possibility
till it was disproved - that Tito had never meant to aid in the betrayal of=
the
Frate.
Tito, on his side, was busy with
thoughts, and did not speak again till they were near home. Then he said - =
'Well, Romola, have you now had ti=
me
to recover calmness? If so, you can supply your want of belief in me by a
little rational inference: you can see, I presume, that if I had had any
intention of furthering Spini's plot, I should now be aware that the posses=
sion
of a fair Piagnone for my wife, who knows the secret of the plot, would be a
serious obstacle in my way.'
Tito assumed the tone which was ju=
st
then the easiest to him, conjecturing that in Romola's present mood persuas=
ive
deprecation would be lost upon her.
'Yes, Tito,' she said, in a low vo=
ice,
'I think you believe that I would guard the Republic from further treachery.
You are right to believe it: if the Frate is betrayed, I will denounce you.'
She paused a moment, and then said, with an effort, 'But it was not so. I h=
ave
perhaps spoken too hastily - you never meant it. Only, why will you seem to=
be
that man's comrade?'
'Such relations are inevitable to
practical men, my Romola,' said Tito, gratified by discerning the struggle
within her. 'You fair creatures live in the clouds. Pray go to rest with an
easy heart,' he added, opening the door for her.
Tito's clever arrangements had been
unpleasantly frustrated by trivial incidents which could not enter into a
clever man's calculations. It was very seldom that he walked with Romola in=
the
evening, yet he had happened to be walking with her precisely on this eveni=
ng
when her presence was supremely inconvenient. Life was so complicated a game
that the devices of skill were liable to be defeated at every turn by air-b=
lown
chances, incalculable as the descent of thistle-down.
It was not that he minded about the
failure of Spini's plot but he felt an awkward difficulty in so adjusting h=
is
warning to Savonarola on the one hand, and to Spini on the other, as not to
incur suspicion. Suspicion roused in the popular party might be fatal to his
reputation and ostensible position in Florence: suspicion roused in Dolfo S=
pini
might be as disagreeable in its effects as the hatred of a fierce dog not t=
o be
chained.
If Tito went forthwith to the
monastery to warn Savonarola before the monks went to rest, his warning wou=
ld
follow so closely on his delivery of the forged letters that he could not
escape unfavourable surmises. He could not warn Spini at once without telli=
ng
him the true reason, since he could not immediately allege the discovery th=
at
Savonarola had changed his purpose; and he knew Spini well enough to know t=
hat
his understanding would discern nothing but that Tito had 'turned round' and
frustrated the plot. On the other hand, by deferring his warning to Savonar=
ola
until the morning, he would be almost sure to lose the opportunity of warni=
ng
Spini that the Frate had changed his mind; and the band of Compagnacci would
come back in all the rage of disappointment. This last, however, was the ri=
sk
he chose, trusting to his power of soothing Spini by assuring him that the
failure was due only to the Frate's caution.
Tito was annoyed. If he had had to
smile it would have been an unusual effort to him. He was determined not to
encounter Romola again, and he did not go home that night.
She watched through the night, and
never took off her clothes. She heard the rain become heavier and heavier. =
She
liked to hear the rain: the stormy heavens seemed a safeguard against men's
devices, compelling them to inaction. And Romola's mind was again assailed,=
not
only by the utmost doubt of her husband, but by doubt as to her own conduct.
What lie might he not have told her? What project might he not have, of whi=
ch
she was still ignorant? Every one who trusted Tito was in danger; it was
useless to try and persuade herself of the contrary. And was not she selfis=
hly
listening to the promptings of her own pride, when she shrank from warning =
men
against him? If her husband was a malefactor, her place was in the prison by
his side' - that might be; she was contented to fulfil that claim. But was =
she,
a wife, to allow a husband to inflict the injuries that would make him a
malefactor, when it might be in her power to prevent them? Prayer seemed
impossible to her. The activity of her thought excluded a mental state of w=
hich
the essence is expectant passivity.
The excitement became stronger and
stronger. Her imagination, in a state of morbid activity, conjured up possi=
ble
schemes by which, after all, Tito would have eluded her threat; and towards
daybreak the rain became less violent, till at last it ceased, the breeze r=
ose
again and dispersed the clouds, and the morning fell clear on all the objec=
ts
around her. It made her uneasiness all the less endurable. She wrapped her
mantle round her, and ran up to the loggia, as if there could be anything in
the wide landscape that might determine her action; as if there could be
anything but roofs hiding the line of street along which Savonarola might be
walking towards betrayal.
If she went to her godfather, might
she not induce him, without any specific revelation, to take measures for
preventing Fra Girolamo from passing the gates? But that might be too late.
Romola thought, with new distress, that she had failed to learn any guiding
details from Tito, and it was already long past seven. She must go to San
Marco: there was nothing else to be done.
She hurried down the stairs, she w=
ent
out into the street without looking at her sick people, and walked at a swi=
ft
pace along the Via de' Bardi towards the Ponte Vecchio. She would go through
the heart of the city; it was the most direct road, and, besides, in the gr=
eat
Piazza there was a chance of encountering her husband, who, by some possibi=
lity
to which she still clung, might satisfy her of the Frate's safety, and leav=
e no
need for her to go to San Marco. When she arrived in front of the Palazzo
Vecchio, she looked eagerly into the pillared court; then her eyes swept the
Piazza; but the well-known figure, once painted in her heart by young love,=
and
now branded there by eating pain, was nowhere to be seen. She hurried strai=
ght
on to the Piazza del Duomo. It was already full of movement: there were
worshippers passing up and down the marble steps, there were men pausing for
chat, and there were market-people carrying their burdens. Between those mo=
ving
figures Romola caught a glimpse of her husband. On his way from San Marco he
had turned into Nello's shop, and was now leaning against the door-post. As
Romola approached she could see that he was standing and talking, with the
easiest air in the world, holding his cap in his hand, and shaking back his
freshly-combed hair. The contrast of this ease with the bitter anxieties he=
had
created convulsed her with indignation: the new vision of his hardness heig=
htened
her dread. She recognised Cronaca and two other frequenters of San Marco
standing near her husband. It flashed through her mind -'I will compel him =
to
speak before those men.' And her light step brought her close upon him befo=
re
he had time to move, while Cronaca was saying, 'Here comes Madonna Romola.'=
A slight shock passed through Tito=
's
frame as he felt himself face to face with his wife. She was haggard with h=
er
anxious watching, but there was a flash of something else than anxiety in h=
er
eyes as she said -
'Is the Frate gone beyond the gate=
s?'
'No,' said Tito, feeling completely
helpless before this woman, and needing all the self-command he possessed to
preserve a countenance in which there should seem to be nothing stronger th=
an
surprise.
'And you are certain that he is not
going?' she insisted.
'I am certain that he is not going=
.'
'That is enough,' said Romola, and=
she
turned up the steps, to take refuge in the Duomo, till she could recover fr=
om
her agitation.
Tito never had a feeling so near
hatred as that with which his eyes followed Romola retreating up the steps.=
There were present not only genuine
followers of the Frate, but Ser Ceccone, the notary, who at that time, like
Tito himself, was secretly an agent of the Mediceans.
Ser Francesco di Ser Barone, more
briefly known to infamy as Ser Ceccone, was not learned, not handsome, not
successful, and the reverse of generous. He was a traitor without charm. It
followed that he was not fond of Tito Melema.
It was late in the afternoon when =
Tito
returned home. Romola, seated opposite the cabinet in her narrow room, copy=
ing
documents, was about to desist from her work because the light was getting =
dim,
when her husband entered. He had come straight to this room to seek her, wi=
th a
thoroughly defined intention, and there was something new to Romola in his
manner and expression as he looked at her silently on entering, and, without
taking off his cap and mantle, leaned one elbow on the cabinet, and stood
directly in front of her.
Romola, fully assured alluring the=
day
of the Frate's safety, was feeling the reaction of some penitence for the
access of distrust and indignation which had impelled her to address her
husband publicly on a matter that she knew he wished to be private. She told
herself that she had probably been wrong. The scheming duplicity which she =
had
heard even her godfather allude to as inseparable from party tactics might =
be
sufiicient to accoum for the connection with Spini, without the supposition=
that
Tito had ever meant to further the plot. She wanted to atone for her
impetuosity by confessing that she had been too hasty, and for some hours h=
er
mind had been dwelling on the possibility that this confession of hers might
lead to other frank words breaking the two years' silence of their hearts. =
The
silence had been so complete, that Tito was ignorant of her having fled from
him and come back again; they had never approached an avowal of that past
which, both in its young love and in the shock that shattered the love, lay
locked away from them like a banquet-room where death had once broken the
feast.
She looked up at him with that
submission in her glance which belonged to her state of self-reproof; but t=
he
subtle change in his face and manner arrested her speech. For a few moments
they remained silent, looking at each other.
Tito himself felt that a crisis was
come in his married life. The husband's determination to mastery, which lay
deep below all blandness and beseechingness, had risen permanently to the
surface now, and seemed to alter his face, as a face is altered by a hidden
muscular tension with which a man is secretly throttling or stamping out the
life from something feeble, yet dangerous.
'Romola,' he began, in the cool li=
quid
tone that made her shiver, 'it is time that we should understand each other=
.'
He paused.
'That is what I most desire, Tito,'
she said, faintly. Her sweet pale face, with all its anger gone and nothing=
but
the timidity of self-doubt in it, seemed to give a marked predominance to h=
er
husband's dark strength.
'You took a step this morning,' Ti=
to
went on, 'which you must now yourself perceive to have been useless - which
exposed you to remark and may involve me in serious practical difficulties.=
'
'I acknowledge that I was too hast=
y; I
am sorry for any injustice I may have done you.' Romola spoke these words i=
n a
fuller and firmer tone; Tito, she hoped, would look less hard when she
expressed her regret, and then she could say other things.
'I wish you once for all to unders=
tand,'
he said, without any change of voice, 'that such collisions are incompatible
with our position as husband and wife. I wish you to reflect on the mode in
which you were led to that step, that the process may not be repeated.'
'That depends chiefly on you, Tito=
,'
said Romola, taking fire slightly. It was not at all what she had thought of
saying, but we see a very little way before us in mutual speech.
'You would say, I suppose,' answer=
ed
Tito, 'that nothing is to occur in future which can excite your unreasonable
suspicions. You were frank enough to say last night that you have no belief=
in
me. I am not surprised at any exaggerated conclusion you may draw from slig=
ht
premises, but I wish to point out to you what is likely to be the fruit of =
your
making such exaggerated conclusions a ground for interfering in affairs of
which you are ignorant. Your attention is thoroughly awake to what I am
saying?'
He paused for a reply.
'Yes,' said Romola, flushing in
irrepressible resentment at this cold tone of superiority.
'Well, then, it may possibly not be
very long before some other chance words or incidents set your imagination =
at
work devising crimes for me, and you may perhaps rush to the Palazzo Vecchi=
o to
alarm the Signoria and set the city in an uproar. Shall I tell you what may=
be
the result? Not simply the disgrace of your husband, to which you look forw=
ard
with so much courage, but the arrest and ruin of many among the chief men in
Florence, including Messer Bernardo del Nero.'
Tito had meditated a decisive move,
and he had made it. The flush died out of Romola's face, and her very lips =
were
pale - an unusual effect with her, for she was little subject to fear. Tito
perceived his success.
'You would perhaps flatter yoursel=
f,'
he went on, 'that you were performing a heroic deed of deliverance; you mig=
ht
as well try to turn locks with fine words as apply such notions to the poli=
tics
of Florence. The question now is, not whether you can have any belief in me,
but whether, now you have been warned, you will dare to rush, like a blind =
man
with a torch in his hand, amongst intricate affairs of which you know nothi=
ng.'
Romola felt as if her mind were he=
ld
in a vice by Tito's: the possibilities he had indicated were rising before =
her
with terrible clearness.
'I am too rash,' she said. 'I will=
try
not to be rash.'
'Remember,' said Tito, with unspar=
ing
insistance, 'that your act of distrust towards me this morning might, for a=
ught
you knew, have had more fatal effects than that sacrifice of your husband w=
hich
you have learned to contemplate without flinching.'
'Tito, it is not so,' Romola burst
forth in a pleading tone, rising and going nearer to him, with a desperate
resolution to speak out. 'It is false that I would willingly sacrifice you.=
It
has been the greatest effort of my life to cling to you. I went away in my
anger two years ago, and I came back again because I was more bound to you =
than
to anything else on earth. But it is useless. You shut me out from your min=
d.
You affect to think of me as a being too unreasonable to share in the knowl=
edge
of your affairs. You will be open with me about nothing.'
She looked like his good angel
pleading with him, as she bent her face towards him with dilated eyes, and =
laid
her hand upon hus arm. But Romola's touch and glance no longer stirred any
fibre of tenderness in her husband. The good-humoured, tolerant Tito, incap=
able
of hatred, incapable almost of impatience, disposed always to be gentle tow=
ards
the rest of the world, felt himself becoming strangely hard towards this wi=
fe
whose presence had once been the strongest influence he had known. With all=
his
softness of disposition, he had a masculine effectiveness of intellect and
purpose which, like sharpness of edge, is itself an energy, working its way
without any strong momentum. Romola had an energy of her own which thwarted
his, and no man, who is not exceptionally feeble, will endure being thwarte=
d by
his wife. Marriage must be a relation either of sympathy or of conquest.
No emotion darted across his face =
as
he heard Romola for the first time speak of having gone awav from him. His =
lips
only looked a little harder as he smiled slightly and said -
'My Romola, when certain conditions
are ascertained, we must make up our minds to them. No amount of wishing wi=
ll
fill the Arno, as your people say, or turn a plum into an orange. I have not
observed even that prayers have much efficacy that way. You are so constitu=
ted
as to have certain strong impressions inaccessible to reason: I cannot share
those impressions, and you have withdrawn all trust from me in consequence.=
You
have changed towards me; it has followed that I have changed towards you. I=
t is
useless to take any retrospect. We have simply to adapt ourselves to altered
conditions.'
'Tito, it would not be useless for=
us
to speak openly,' said Romola, with the sort of exasperation that comes from
using living muscle against some lifeless insurmountable resistance. 'It was
the sense of deception in you that changed me, and that has kept us apart. =
And
it is not true that I changed first. You changed towards me the night you f=
irst
wore that chain-armour. You had some secret from me - it was about that old=
man
- and I saw him again yesterday. Tito,' she went on, in a tone of agonised
entreaty, 'if you would once tell me everything, let it be what it may - I
would not mind pain - that there might be no wall between us! Is it not
possible that we could begin a new life?'
This time there was a flash of emo=
tion
across Tito's face. He stood perfectly still; but the flash seemed to have
whitened him. He took no notice of Romola's appeal, but after a moment's pa=
use,
said quietly -
'Your impetuosity about trifles, Romola, has a freezing influence that would cool the baths of Nero.' At the= se cutting words, Romola shrank and drew herself up into her usual self-sustai= ned attitude. Tito went on.'If by ‘that old man’ you mean the mad Jacopo di Nola who attempted my life and made a strange accusation against = me, of which I told you nothing because it would have alarmed you to no purpose, he, poor wretch, has died in prison. I saw his name in the list of dead.' <= o:p>
'I know nothing about his accusati=
on,'
said Romola. 'But I know he is the man whom I saw with the rope round his n=
eck
in the Duomo - the man whose portrait Piero di Cosimo painted, grasping your
arm as he saw him grasp it the day the French entered, the day you first wo=
re
the armour.'
'And where is he now, pray?' said
Tito, still pale, but governing himself.
'He was lying lifeless in the stre=
et
from starvation,' said Romola. I revived him with bread and wine. I brought=
him
to our door, but he refused to come in. Then I gave him some money, and he =
went
away without telling me anything. But he had found out that I was your wife.
Who is he?'
'A man, half mad, half imbecile, w=
ho
was once my father's servant in Greece, and who has a rancorous hatred towa=
rds
me because I got him dismissed for theft. Now you have the whole mystery, a=
nd
the further satisfaction of knowing that I am again in danger of assassinat=
ion.
The fact of my wearing the armour, about which you seem to have thought so
much, must have led you to infer that I was in danger from this man. Was th=
at
the reason you chose to cultivate his acquaintance and invite him into the
house?'
Romola was mute. To speak was only=
like
rushing with bare breast against a shield.
Tito moved from his leaning postur=
e,
slowly took off his cap and mantle, and pushed back his hair. He was collec=
ting
himself for some final words. And Romola stood upright looking at him as she
might have looked at some on-coming deadly force, to be met only by silent
endurance.
'We need not refer to these matters
again, Romola,' he said, precisely in the same tone as that in which he had
spoken at first. 'It is enough if you will remember that the next time your
generous ardour leads you to interfere in political affairs, you are likely,
not to save any one from danger, but to be raising scaffolds and setting ho=
uses
on fire. You are not yet a sufficiently ardent Piagnone to believe that Mes=
ser
Bernardo del Nero is the prince of darkness, and Messer Francesco Valori the
archangel Michael. I think I need demand no promise from you?'
'I have understood you too well,
Tito.'
'It is enough,' he said, leaving t=
he
room.
Romola turned round with despair in
her face and sank into her seat. 'O God, I have tried - I cannot help it. We
shall always be divided.' Those words passed silently through her mind.
'Unless,' she said aloud, as if some sudden vision had startled her into sp=
eech
- 'unless misery should come and join us!'
Tito, too, had a new thought in his
mind after he had closed the door behind him. With the project of leaving
Florence as soon as his life there had become a high enough stepping-stone =
to a
life elsewhere, perhaps at Rome or Milan, there was now for the first time
associated a desire to be free from Romola, and to leave her behind him. She
had ceased to belong to the desirable furniture of his life: there was no
possibility of an easy relation between them without genuineness on his par=
t.
Genuineness implied confession of the past, and confession involved a chang=
e of
purpose. But Tito had as little bent that way as a leopard has to lap milk =
when
its teeth are grown. From all relations that were not easy and agreeable, we
know that Tito shrank: why should he cling to them?
And Romola had made his relations
difficult with others besides herself. He had had a troublesome interview w=
ith
Dolfo Spini, who had come back in a rage after an ineffectual soaking with =
rain
and long waiting in ambush, and that scene between Romola and himself at
Nello's door, once reported in Spini's ear, might be a seed of something mo=
re
unmanageable than suspicion. But now, at least, he believed that he had
mastered Romola by a terror which appealed to the strongest forces of her
nature. He had alarmed her affection and her conscience by the shadowy imag=
e of
consequences; he had arrested her intellect by hanging before it the idea o=
f a
hopeless complexity in affairs which defied any moral judgment.
Yet Tito was not at ease. The world
was not yet quite cushioned with velvet, and, if it had been, he could not =
have
abandoned himself to that softness with thorough enjoyment; for before he w=
ent
out again this evening he put on his coat of chain-armour.
The wintry days passed for Romola =
as
the white ships pass one who is standing lonely on the shore - passing in
silence and sameness, yet each bearing a hidden burden of coming change. Ti=
to's
hint had mingled so much dread with her interest in the progress of public
affairs that she had begun to court ignorance rather than knowledge. The
threatening German Emperor was gone again; and, in other ways besides, the
position of Florence was alleviated; but so much distress remained that
Romola's active duties were hardly diminished, and in these, as usual, her =
mind
found a refuge from its doubt.
She dared not rejoice that the rel=
ief
which had come in extremity and had appeared to justify the policy of the
Frate's party was making that party so triumphant, that Francesco Valori,
hot-tempered chieftain of the Piagnoni, had been elected Gonfaloniere at the
beginning of the year, and was making haste to have as much of his own libe=
ral
way as possible during his two months of power. That seemed for the moment =
like
a strengthening of the party most attached to freedom, and a reinforcement =
of
protection to Savonarola; but Romola was now alive to every suggestion like=
ly
to deepen her foreboding, that whatever the present might be, it was only an
unconscious brooding over the mixed germs of Change which might any day bec=
ome
tragic. And already by Carnival time, a little after mid-February, her
presentiment was confirmed by the signs of a very decided change: the Medic=
eans
had ceased to be passive, and were openly exerting themselves to procure the
election of Bernardo del Nero as the new Gonfaloniere.
On the last day of the Carnival,
between ten and eleven in the morning, Romola walked out, according to prom=
ise,
towards the Corso degli Albizzi, to fetch her cousin Brigida, that they mig=
ht
both be ready to start from the Via de' Bardi early in the afternoon, and t=
ake
their places at a window which Tito had had reserved for them in the Piazza
della Signoria, where there was to be a scene of so new and striking a sort=
, that
all Florentine eyes must desire to see it. For the Piagnoni were having the=
ir
own way thoroughly about the mode of keeping the Carnival. In vain Dolfo Sp=
ini
and his companions had struggled to get up the dear old masques and practic=
al
jokes, well spiced with indecency. Such things were not to be in a city whe=
re
Christ had been declared king.
Romola set out in that languid sta=
te
of mind with which every one enters on a long day of sight-seeing purely for
the sake of gratifying a child, or some dear childish friend. The day was
certainly an epoch in carnival-keeping; but this phase of reform had not
touched her enthusiasm: and she did not know that it was an epoch in her own
life when another lot would begin to be no longer secretly but visibly entw=
ined
with her own.
She chose to go through the great
Piazza that she might take a first survey of the unparalleled sight there w=
hile
she was still alone. Entering it from the south, she saw something monstrous
and many-coloured in the shape of a pyramid, or, rather, like a huge fir-tr=
ee,
sixty feet high, with shelves on the branches, widening and widening towards
the base till they reached a circumference of eighty yards. The Piazza was =
full
of life: slight young figures, in white garments, with olive wreaths on the=
ir
heads, were moving to and fro about the base of the pyramidal tree, carrying
baskets full of bright-coloured things; and maturer forms, some in the mona=
stic
frock, some in the loose tunics and dark-red caps of artists, were helping =
and
examining, or else retreating to various points in the distance to survey t=
he
wondrous whole: while a considerable group, amongst whom Romola recognised
Piero di Cosimo, standing on the marble steps of Orcagna's Loggia, seemed t=
o be
keeping aloof in discontent and scorn.
Approaching nearer, she paused to =
look
at the multifarious objects ranged in gradation from the base to the summit=
of
the pyramid. There were tapestries and brocades of immodest design, pictures
and sculptures held too likely to incite to vice; there were boards and tab=
les
for all sorts of games, playing-cards along with the blocks for printing th=
em,
dice, and other apparatus for gambling; there were worldly music-books, and
musical instruments in all the pretty varieties of lute, drum, cymbal, and =
trumpet;
there were masks and masquerading-dresses used in the old Carnival shows; t=
here
were handsome copies of Ovid, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Pulci, and other books o=
f a
vain or impure sort; there were all the implements of feminine
vanity-rouge-pots, false hair, mirrors, perfumes, powders, and transparent
veils intended to provoke inquisitive glances: lastly, at the very summit,
there was the unflattering effigy of a probably mythical Venetian merchant,=
who
was understood to have offered a heavy sum for this collection of marketable
abominations, and, soaring above him in surpassing ugliness, the symbolic
figure of the old debauched Carnival.
This was the preparation for a new
sort of bonfire - the Burning of Vanities. Hidden in the interior of the
pyramid was a plentiful store of dry fuel and gunpowder; and on this last d=
ay
of the festival, at evening, the pile of vanities was to be set ablaze to t=
he
sound of trumpets, and the ugly old Carnival was to tumble into the flames =
amid
the songs of reforming triumph.
This crowning act of the new
festivities could hardly have been prepared but for a peculiar organisation
which had been started by Savonarola two years before. The mass of the
Florentine boyhood and youth was no longer left to its own genial prompting=
s towards
street mischief and crude dissoluteness. Under the training of Fra Domenico=
, a
sort of lieutenant to Savonarola, lads and striplings, the hope of Florence,
were to have none but pure words on their lips, were to have a zeal for Uns=
een
Good that should put to shame the luke-warmness of their elders, and were to
know no pleasures save of an angelic sort - singing divine praises and walk=
ing
in white robes. It was for them that the ranges of seats had been raised hi=
gh
against the walls of the Duomo; and they had been used to hear Savonarola
appeal to them as the future glory of a city specially appointed to do the =
work
of God.
These fresh-cheeked troops were the
chief agents in the regenerated merriment of the new Carnival, which was a =
sort
of sacred parody of the old. Had there been bonfires in the old time? There=
was
to be a bonfire now, consuming impurity from off the earth. Had there been
symbolic processions? There were to be processions now, but the symbols wer=
e to
be white robes and red crosses and olive wreaths - emblems of peace and
innocent gladness - and the banners and images held aloft were to tell the
triumphs of goodness. Had there been dancing in a ring under the open sky of
the Piazza, to the sound of choral voices chanting loose songs? There was t=
o be
dancing in a ring now, but dancing of monks and laity in fraternal love and
divine joy, and the music was to be the music of hymns. As for the collecti=
ons
from street passengers, they were to be greater than ever - not for gross a=
nd
superfluous suppers, but - for the benefit of the hungry and needy; and,
besides, there was the collecting of the Anathema, or the Vanities to be la=
id
on the great pyramidal bonfire.
Troops of young inquisitors went f=
rom
house to house on this exciting business of asking that the Anathema should=
be
given up to them. Perhaps, after the more avowed vanities had been surrende=
red,
Madonna, at the head of the household had still certain little reddened bal=
ls
brought from the Levant, intended to produce on a sallow cheek a sudden blo=
om
of the most ingenuous falsity? If so, let her bring them down and cast them
into the basket of doom. Or perhaps, she had ringlets and coils of 'dead ha=
ir?'
- if so, let her bring them to the street-door, not on her head, but in her
hands, and publicly renounce the Anathema which hid the respectable signs of
age under a ghastly mockery of youth. And, in reward, she would hear fresh
young voices pronounce a blessing on her and her house.
The beardless inquisitors, organis=
ed
into little regiments, doubtless took to their work very willingly. To coer=
ce
people by shame, or other spiritual pelting, into the giving up of things it
will probably vex them to part with, is a form of piety to which the boyish
mind is most readily converted and if some obstinately wicked men got enrag=
ed
and threatened the whip or the cudgel, this also was exciting. Savonarola
himself evidently felt about the training of these boys the difficulty weig=
hing
on all minds with noble yearnings towards great ends, yet with that imperfe=
ct
perception of means which forces a resort to some supernatural constraining
influence as the only sure hope. The Florentine youth had had very evil hab=
its
and foul tongues: it seemed at first an unmixed blessing when they were got=
to
shout 'Viva Gesu!' But Savonarola was forced at last to say from the pulpit,
'There is a little too much shouting of ‘Yiva Gesu!’ This const=
ant
utterance of sacred words brings them into contempt. Let me have no more of
that shouting till the next Festa.'
Nevertheless, as the long stream of
white-robed youthfulness, with its little red crosses and olive wreaths, had
gone to the Duomo at dawn this morning to receive the communion from the ha=
nds
of Savonarola, it was a sight of beauty; and, doubtless, many of those young
souls were laying up memories of hope and awe that might save them from ever
resting in a merely vulgar view of their work as men and citizens. There is=
no
kind of conscious obedience that is not an advance on lawlessness, and these
boys became the generation of men who fought greatly and endured greatly in=
the
last struggle of their Republic. Now, in the intermediate hours between the
early communion and dinner-time, they were making their last perambulations=
to
collect alms and vanities, and this was why Romola saw the slim white figur=
es
moving to and fro about the base of the great pyramid.
'What think you of this folly, Mad=
onna
Romola?' said a brusque voice close to her ear. 'Your Piagnoni will make
l'inferno a pleasant prospect to us, if they are to carry things their own =
way
on earth. It's enough to fetch a cudgel over the mountains to see painters,
like Lorenzo di Credi and young Baccio there, helping to burn colour out of
life in this fashion.'
'My good Piero,' said Romola, look=
ing
up and smiling at the grim man, 'even you must be glad to see some of these
things burnt. Look at those gewgaws and wigs and rouge-pots: I have heard y=
ou
talk as indignantly against those things as Fra Girolamo himself.'
'What then?' said Piero, turning r=
ound
on her sharply. 'I never said a woman should make a black patch of herself
against the background. Va! Madonna Antigone, it's a shame for a woman with
your hair and shoulders to run into such nonsense - leave it to women who a=
re
not worth painting. What! the most holy Virgin herself has always been dres=
sed
well; that's the doctrine of the Church: - talk of heresy, indeed! And I sh=
ould
like to know what the excellent Messer Bardo would have said to the burning=
of
the divine poets by these Frati, who are no better an imitation of men than=
if
they were onions with the bulbs uppermost. Look at that Petrarca sticking up
beside a rouge-pot: do the idiots pretend that the heavenly Laura~ was a
painted harridan? And Boccaccio, now: do you mean to say, Madonna Romola - =
you
who are fit to be a model for a wise Saint Catherine of Egypt - do you mean=
to
say you have never read the stories of the immortal Messer Giovanni?'
'It is true I have read them, Pier=
o,'
said Romola. 'Some of them a great many times over, when I was a little gir=
l. I
used to get the book down when my father was asleep, so that I could read to
myself.'
'Ebbene?' said Piero, in a fiercely
challenging tone.
'There are some things in them I do
not want ever to forget,' said Romola; 'but you must confess, Piero, that a
great many of those stories are only about low deceit for the lowest ends. =
Men
do not want books to make them think lightly of vice, as if life were a vul=
gar
joke. And I cannot blame Fra Girolamo for teaching that we owe our time to
something better.'
'Yes, yes, it's very well to say so
now you've read them,' said Piero, bitterly, turning on his heel and walking
away from her.
Romola, too, walked on, smiling at
Piero's innuendo, with a sort of tenderness towards the old painter's anger,
because she knew that her father would have felt something like it. For
herself, she was conscious of no inward collision with the strict and sombre
view of pleasure which tended to repress poetry in the attempt to repress v=
ice.
Sorrow and joy have each their peculiar narrowness; and a religious enthusi=
asm
like Savonarola's which ultimately blesses mankind by giving the soul a str=
ong
propulsion towards sympathy with pain, indignation against wrong, and the
subjugation of sensual desire, must always incur the reproach of a great
negation. Romola's life had given her an affinity for sadness which inevita=
bly
made her unjust towards merriment. That subtle result of culture which we c=
all
Taste was subdued by the need for deeper motive; just as the nicer demands =
of
the palate are annihilated by urgent hunger. Moving habitually amongst scen=
es
of suffering, and carrying woman's heaviest disappointment in her heart, the
severity which allied itself with self-renouncing beneficent strength had no
dissonance for her.
Another figure easily recognised b=
y us
- a figure not clad in black, but in the old red, green, and white - was
approaching the Piazza that morning to see the Carnival. She came from an
opposite point, for Tessa no longer lived on the hill of San Giorgio. After
what had happened there with Baldassarre, Tito had thought it best for that=
and
other reasons to find her a new home, but still in a quiet airy quarter, in=
a
house bordering on the wide garden grounds north of the Porta Santa Croce. =
Tessa was not come out sight-seeing
without special leave. Tito had been with her the evening before, and she h=
ad
kept back the entreaty which she felt to be swelling her heart and throat u=
ntil
she saw him in a state of radiant ease, with one arm round the sturdy Lillo,
and the other resting gently on her own shoulder as she tried to make the t=
iny
Ninna steady on her legs. She was sure then that the weariness with which he
had come in and flung himself into his chair had quite melted away from his
brow and lips. Tessa had not been slow at learning a few small stratagems by
which she might avoid vexing Naldo and yet have a little of her own way. She
could read nothing else, but she had learned to read a good deal in her
husband's face.
And certainly the charm of that
bright, gentle-humoured Tito who woke up under the Loggia de' Cerchi on a
Lenten morning five years before, not having yet given any hostages to dece=
it,
never returned so nearly as in the person of Naldo, seated in that straight=
-backed,
carved arm-chair which he had provided for his comfort when he came to see
Tessa and the children. Tito himself was surprised at the growing sense of
relief which he felt in these moments. No guile was needed towards Tessa: s=
he
was too ignorant and too innocent to suspect him of anything. And the little
voices calling him 'Babbo' were very sweet in his ears for the short while =
that
he heard them. When he thought of leaving Florence, he never thought of lea=
ving
Tessa and the little ones behind. He was very fond of these round-cheeked,
wide-eyed human things that clung about him and knew no evil of him. And
wherever affection can spring, it is like the green leaf and the blossom -
pure, and breathing purity, whatever soil it may grow in. Poor Romola, with=
all
her self-sacrificing effort was really helping to harden Tito's nature by
chilling it with a positive dislike which had beforehand seemed impossible =
in
him; but Tessa kept open the fountains of kindness.
'Ninna is very good without me now=
,'
began Tessa, feeling her request rising very high in her throat, and letting
Ninna seat herself on the floor. 'I can leave her with Monna Lisa any time,=
and
if she is in the cradle and cries, Lillo is as sensible as can be- he goes =
and
thumps Monna Lisa.'
Lillo, whose great dark eyes looked
all the darker because his curls were of a light brown like his mother's,
jumped off Babbo's knee, and went forthwith to attest his intelligence by
thumping Monna Lisa, who was shaking her head slowly over her spinning at t=
he
other end of the room.
'A wonderful boy!' said Tito,
laughing.
'Isn't he?' said Tessa, eagerly,
getting a little closer to him; 'and I might go and see the Carnival to-mor=
row,
just for an hour or two, mightn't I?'
'Oh, you wicked pigeon!' said Tito,
pinching her cheek; 'those are your longings, are they? What have you to do
with carnivals now you are an old woman with two children?'
'But old women like to see things,'
said Tessa, her lower lip hanging a little. 'Monna Lisa said she should lik=
e to
go, only she's so deaf she can't hear what is behind her, and she thinks we
couldn't take care of both the children.'
'No, indeed, Tessa,' said Tito,
looking rather grave, 'you must not think of taking the children into the
crowded streets, else I shall be angry.'
'But I have never been into the Pi=
azza
without leave,' said Tessa, in a frightened, pleading tone, 'since the Holy
Saturday, and I think Nofri is dead, for you know the poor madre died; and I
shall never forget the Carnival I saw once; it was so pretty - all roses an=
d a
king and queen under them - and singing. I liked it better than the San
Giovanni.'
But there's nothing like that now,=
my
Tessa. They are going to make a bonfire in the Piazza - that's all. But I
cannot let you go out by yourself in the evening.'
'Oh no, no! I don't want to go in =
the
evening. I only want to go and see the procession by daylight. There will b=
e a
procession - is it not true?
'Yes, after a sort,' said Tito, 'as
lively as a flight of cranes. You must not expect roses and glittering kings
and queens, my Tessa. However, I suppose any string of people to be called a
procession will please your blue eyes. And there's a thing they have raised=
in
the Piazza de' Signori for the bonfire. You may like to see that. But come =
home
early and look like a grave little old woman; and if you see any men with
feathers and swords, keep out of their way: they are very fierce, and like =
to
cut old women's heads off.'
Santa Madonna! where do they come
from? Ah! you are laughing; it is not so bad. But I will keep away from the=
m.
Only,' Tessa went on in a whisper, putting her lips near Naldo's ear, 'if I
might take Lillo with me! He is very sensible.'
'But who will thump Monna Lisa the=
n,
if she doesn't hear?' said Tito, finding it difficult not to laugh, but
thinking it necessary to look serious. 'No, Tessa, you could not take care =
of
Lillo if you got into a crowd, and he's too heavy for you to carry him.'
'It is true,' said Tessa, rather
sadly, 'and he likes to run away. I forgot that. Then I will go alone. But =
now
look at Ninna - you have not looked at her enough.'
Ninna was a blue-eyed thing, at the tottering, tumbling age - a fair solid, which, like a loaded die, found its base with a constancy that warranted prediction. Tessa went to snatch her u= p, and when Babbo was paying due attention to the recent teeth and other marve= ls, she said, in a whisper, 'And shall I buy some confetti for the children?' <= o:p>
Tito drew some small coins from his
scarsella, and poured them into her palm.
'That will buy no end,' said Tessa,
delighted at this abundance. 'I shall not mind going without Lillo so much,=
if
I bring him something.'
So Tessa set out in the morning
towards the great Piazza where the bonfire was to be. She did not think the
February breeze cold enough to demand further covering than her green wooll=
en
dress. A mantle would have been oppressive, for it would have hidden a new
necklace and a new clasp, mounted with silver, the only ornamental presents
Tito had ever made her. Tessa did not think at all of showing her figure, f=
or
no one had ever told her it was pretty; but she was quite sure that her
necklace and clasp were of the prettiest sort ever worn by the richest
contadina, and she arranged her white hood over her head so that the front =
of
her necklace might be well displayed. These ornaments, she considered, must
inspire respect for her as the wife of some one who could afford to buy the=
m.
She tripped along very cheerily in=
the
February sunshine, thinking much of the purchases for the little ones, with
which she was to fill her small basket, and not thinking at all of any one =
who
might be observing her. Yet her descent from her upper storey into the stre=
et
had been watched, and she was being kept in sight as she walked by a person=
who
had often waited in vain to see if it were not Tessa who lived in that hous=
e to
which he had more than once dogged Tito. Baldassarre was carrying a package=
of
yarn: he was constantly employed in that way, as a means of earning his sca=
nty
bread, and keeping the sacred fire of vengeance alive; and he had come out =
of
his way this morning, as he had often done before, that he might pass by the
house to which he had followed Tito in the evening. His long imprisonment h=
ad
so intensified his timid suspicion and his belief in some diabolic fortune
favouring Tito, that he had not dared to pursue him, except under cover of a
crowd or of the darkness; he felt, with instinctive horror, that if Tito's =
eyes
fell upon him, he should again be held up to obloquy, again be dragged away;
his weapon would be taken from him, and he should be cast helpless into a
prison-cell. His fierce purpose had become as stealthy as a serpent's, which
depends for its prey on one dart of the fang. Justice was weak and unfriend=
ed;
and he could not hear again the voice that pealed the promise of vengeance =
in
the Duomo; he had been there again and again, but that voice, too, had
apparently been stifled by cunning strong-armed wickedness. For a long whil=
e,
Baldassarre's ruling thought was to ascertain whether Tito still wore the
armour, for now at last his fainting hope would have been contented with a
successful stab on this side the grave; but he would never risk his precious
knife again. It was a weary time he had had to wait for the chance of answe=
ring
this question by touching Tito's back in the press of the street. Since the=
n,
the knowledge that the sharp steel was useless, and that he had no hope but=
in
some new device, had fallen with leaden weight on his enfeebled mind. A dim
vision of winning one of those two wives to aid him came before him
continually, and continually slid away. The wife who had lived on the hill =
was
no longer there. If he could find her again, he might grasp some thread of a
project, and work his way to more clearness.
And this morning he had succeeded.=
He
was quite certain now where this wife lived, and as he walked, bent a little
under his burden of yarn, yet keeping the green and white figure in sight, =
his
mind was dwelling upon her and her circumstances as feeble eyes dwell on li=
nes
and colours, trying to interpret them into consistent significance.
Tessa had to pass through various =
long
streets without seeing any other sign of the Carnival than unusual groups of
the country people in their best garments, and that disposition in everybod=
y to
chat and loiter which marks the early hours of a holiday, before the specta=
cle
has begun. Presently, in her disappointed search for remarkable objects, her
eyes fell on a man with a pedlar's basket before him, who seemed to be sell=
ing
nothing but little red crosses to all the passengers. A little red cross wo=
uld
be pretty to hang up over her bed; it would also help to keep off harm, and
would perhaps make Ninna stronger. Tessa went to the other side of the stre=
et
that she might ask the pedlar the price of the crosses, fearing that they w=
ould
cost a little too much for her to spare from her purchase of sweets. The
pedlar's back had been turned towards her hitherto, but when she came near =
him
she recognised an old acquaintance of the Mercato, Bratti Ferravecchi, and,
accustomed to feel that she was to avoid old acquaintances, she turned away
again and passed to the other side of the street. But Bratti's eye was too =
well
practised in looking out at the corner after possible customers, for her
movement to have escaped him, and she was presently arrested by a tap on the
arm from one of the red crosses.
'Young woman,' said Bratti, as she
unwillingly turned her head, 'you come from some castello a good way off, it
seems to me, else you'd never think of walking about, this blessed Carnival,
without a red cross in your hand. Santa Madonna! Four white quattrini is a
small price to pay for your soul - prices rise in purgatory, let me tell yo=
u.'
'Oh, I should like one,' said Tess=
a,
hastily, 'but I couldn't spare four white quattrini.'
Bratti had at first regarded Tessa=
too
abstractedly as a mere customer to look at her with any scrutiny, but when =
she
began to speak he exclaimed, 'By the head of San Giovanni, it must be the
little Tessa, and looking as fresh as a ripe apple! What! you've done none =
the
worse, then, for running away from father Nofri? You were in the right of i=
t,
for he goes on crutches now, and a crabbed fellow with crutches is dangerou=
s;
he can reach across the house and beat a woman as he sits.'
'I'm married,' said Tessa, rather
demurely, remembering Naldo's command that she should behave with gravity; =
'and
my husband takes great care of me.'
'Ah, then, you've fallen on your f=
eet!
Nofri said you were good-for-nothing vermin; but what then? An ass may bray=
a
good while before he shakes the stars down. I always said you did well to r=
un
away, and it isn't often Bratti's in the wrong. Well, and so you've got a
husband and plenty of money? Then you'll never think much of giving four wh=
ite
quattrini for a red cross. I get no profit; but what with the famine and the
new religion, all other merchandise is gone down. You live in the country w=
here
the chestnuts are plenty, eh? You've never wanted for polenta, I can see.' =
'No, I've never wanted anything,' =
said
Tessa, still on her guard.
'Then you can afford to buy a cros=
s. I
got a Padre to bless them, and you get blessing and all for four quattrini.=
It
isn't for the profit; I hardly get a danaro by the whole lot. But then they=
're
holy wares, and it's getting harder and harder work to see your way to
Paradise: the very Carnival is like Holy Week, and the least you can do to =
keep
the Devil from getting the upper hand is to buy a cross. God guard you! thi=
nk
what the Devil's tooth is! You've seen him biting the man in San Giovanni, I
should hope?'
Tessa felt much teased and frighte=
ned.
'Oh, Bratti,' she said, with a discomposed face, 'I want to buy a great many
confetti: I've got little Lillo and Ninna at home. And nice coloured sweet
things cost a great deal. And they will not like the cross so well, though I
know it would be good to have it.'
'Come, then,' said Bratti, fond of
laying up a store of merits by imagining possible extortions and then
heroically renouncing them, 'since you're an old acquaintance, you shall ha=
ve
it for two quattrini. It's making you a present of the cross, to say nothin=
g of
the blessing.'
Tessa was reaching out her two
quattrini with trembling hesitation, when Bratti said abruptly, 'Stop a bit!
Where do you live?'
'Oh, a long way off,' she answered,
almost automatically, being preoccupied with her quattrini; 'beyond San
Ambrogio, in the Via Piccola, at the top of the house where the wood is sta=
cked
below.'
'Very good,' said Bratti, in a
patronising tone; then I'll let you have the cross on trust, and call for t=
he
money. So you live inside the gates? Well, well, I shall be passing.'
'No, no!' said Tessa, frightened l=
est
Naldo should be angry at this revival of an old acquaintance. 'I can spare =
the
money. Take it now.'
'No,' said Bratti, resolutely; 'I'm
not a hard-hearted pedlar. I'll call and see if you've got any rags, and you
shall make a bargain. See, here's the cross: and there's Pippo's shop not f=
ar
behind you: you can go and fill your basket, and I must go and get mine emp=
ty.
Addio, piccina.'
Bratti went on his way, and Tessa,
stimulated to change her money into confetti before further accident, went =
into
Pippo's shop, a little fluttered by the thought that she had let Bratti know
more about her than her husband would approve. There were certainly more
dangers in coming to see the Carnival than in staying at home; and she would
have felt this more strongly if she had known that the wicked old man, who =
had
wanted to kill her husband on the hill, was still keeping her in sight. But=
she
had not noticed the man with the burden on his back.
The consciousness of having a small
basketful of things to make the children glad, dispersed her anxiety, and as
she entered the Via de' Libraj her face had its usual expression of childli=
ke
content. And now she thought there was really a procession coming, for she =
saw
white robes and a banner, and her heart began to palpitate with expectation.
She stood a little aside, but in that narrow street there was the pleasure =
of
being obliged to look very close. The banner was pretty: it was the Holy Mo=
ther
with the Babe, whose love for her Tessa had believed in more and more since=
she
had had her babies; and the figures in white had not only green wreaths on
their heads, but little red crosses by their side, which caused her some
satisfaction that she also had her red cross. Certainly, they looked as
beautiful as the angels on the clouds, and to Tessa's mind they too had a
background of cloud, like everything else that came to her in life. How and
whence did they come? She did not mind much about knowing. But one thing
surprised her as newer than wreaths and crosses; it was that some of the wh=
ite
figures carried baskets between them. What could the baskets be for?
But now they were very near, and, =
to
her astonishment, they wheeled aside and came straight up to her. She tremb=
led
as she would have done if St Michael in the picture had shaken his head at =
her,
and was conscious of nothing but terrified wonder till she saw close to her=
a
round boyish face, lower than her own, and heard a treble voice saying,
'Sister, you carry the Anathema about you. Yield it up to the blessed Gesu,=
and
He will adorn you with the gems of His grace.'
Tessa was only more frightened,
understanding nothing. Her first conjecture settled on her basket of sweets.
They wanted that, these alarming angels. Oh dear, dear! She looked down at =
it.
'No, sister,' said a taller youth,
pointing to her necklace and the clasp of her belt, 'it is those vanities t=
hat
are the Anathema. Take off that necklace and unclasp that belt, that they m=
ay
be burned in the holy Bonfire of Vanities, and save you from burning.'
'It is the truth, my sister,' said=
a
still taller youth, evidently the archangel of this band. 'Listen to these
voices speaking the divine message. You already carry a red cross: let that=
be
your only adornment. Yield up your necklace and belt, and you shall obtain
grace.'
This was too much. Tessa, overcome
with awe, dared not say 'no,' but she was equally unable to render up her
beloved necklace and clasp. Her pouting lips were quivering, the tears rush=
ed
to her eyes, and a great drop fell. For a moment she ceased to see anything;
she felt nothing but confused terror and misery. Suddenly a gentle hand was
laid on her arm, and a soft, wonderful voice, as if the Holy Madonna were
speaking, said, 'Do not be afraid; no one shall harm you.'
Tessa looked up and saw a lady in
black, with a young heavenly face and loving hazel eyes. She had never seen=
any
one like this lady before, and under other circumstances might have had
awe-struck thoughts about her; but now everything else was overcome by the
sense that loving protection was near her. The tears only fell the faster,
relieving her swelling heart, as she looked up at the heavenly face, and, p=
utting
her hand to her necklace, said sobbingly -
'I can't give them to be burnt. My
husband - he bought them for me - and they are so pretty - and Ninna - oh, I
wish I'd never comel'
'Do not ask her for them,' said
Romola, speaking to the white-robed boys in a tone of mild authority. 'It
answers no good end for people to give up such things against their will. T=
hat
is not what Fra Girolamo approves: he would have such things given up freel=
y.'
Madonna Romola's word was not to be
resisted, and the white train moved on. They even moved with haste, as if s=
ome
new object had caught their eyes; and Tessa felt with bliss that they were
gone, and that her necklace and clasp were still with her.
'Oh, I will go back to the house,'=
she
said, still agitated; 'I will go nowhere else. But if I should meet them ag=
ain,
and you not be there?' she added, expecting everything from this heavenly l=
ady.
'Stay a little,' said Romola. 'Come
with me under this doorway, and we will hide the necklace and clasp, and th=
en
you will be in no danger.'
She led Tessa under the archway, a=
nd
said, 'Now, can we find room for your necklace and belt in your basket? Ah!
your basket is full of crisp things that will break: let us be careful, and=
lay
the heavy necklace under them.'
It was like a change in a dream to
Tessa - the escape from nightmare into floating safety and joy - to find
herself taken care of by this lady, so lovely, and powerful, and gentle. She
let Romola unfasten her necklace and clasp, while she herself did nothing b=
ut
look up at the face that bent over her.
'They are sweets for Lillo and Nin=
na,'
she said, as Romola carefully lifted up the light parcels in the basket, and
placed the ornaments below them.
'Those are your children?' said
Romola, smiling. 'And you would rather go home to them than see any more of=
the
Carnival? Else you have not far to go to the Piazza de' Signori, and there =
you
would see the pile for the great bonfire.'
'No, oh no!' said Tessa, eagerly; =
'I
shall never like bonfires again. I will go back.'
'You live at some castello,
doubtless,' said Romola, not waiting for an answer. 'Towards which gate do =
you
go?'
'Towards Por' Santa Croce.'
'Come, then,' said Romola, taking =
her
by the hand and leading her to the corner of a street nearly opposite. 'If =
you
go down there,' she said, pausing, 'you will soon be in a straight road. An=
d I
must leave you now, because some one else expects me. You will not be
frightened. Your pretty things are quite safe now. Addio.'
'Addio, Madonna,' said Tessa, almo=
st
in a whisper, not knowing what else it would be right to say; and in an ins=
tant
the heavenly lady was gone. Tessa turned to catch a last glimpse, but she o=
nly
saw the tall gliding figure vanish round the projecting stonework. So she w=
ent
on her way in wonder, longing to be once more safely housed with Monna Lisa,
undesirous of carnivals for evermore.
Baldassarre had kept Tessa in sight
till the moment of her parting with Romola: then he went away with his bund=
le
of yarn. It seemed to him that he had discerned a clue which might guide hi=
m if
he could only grasp the necessary details firmly enough. He had seen the two
wives together, and the sight had brought to his conceptions that vividness
which had been wanting before. His power of imagining facts needed to be
reinforced continually by the senses. The tall wife was the noble and right=
ful
wife; she had the blood in her that would be readily kindled to resentment;=
she
would know what scholarship was, and how it might lie locked in by the
obstructions of the stricken body, like a treasure buried by earthquake. She
could believe him: she would be inclined to believe him, if he proved to her
that her husband was unfaithful. Women cared about that: they would take
vengeance for that. If this wife of Tito's loved him, she would have a sens=
e of
injury which Baldassarre's mind dwelt on with keen longing, as if it would =
be
the strength of another Will added to his own, the strength of another mind=
to
form devices.
Both these wives had been kind to
Baldassarre, and their acts towards him, being bound up with the very image=
of
them, had not vanished from his memory; yet the thought of their pain could=
not
present itself to him as a check. To him it seemed that pain was the order =
of
the world for all except the hard and base. If any were innocent, if any we=
re
noble, where could the utmost gladness lie for them? Where it lay for him -=
in
unconquerable hatred and triumphant vengeance. But he must be cautious: he =
must
watch this wife in the Via de' Bardi, and learn more of her; for even here
frustration was possible. There was no power for him now but in patience.
When Romola said that some one else
expected her, she meant her cousin Brigida, but she was far from suspecting=
how
much that good kinswoman was in need of her. Returning together towards the
Piazza, they had descried the company of youths coming to a stand before Te=
ssa,
and when Romola, having approached near enough to see the simple little
contadina's distress, said, 'Wait for me a moment, cousin,' Monna Brigida s=
aid
hastily, 'Ah, I will not go on: come for me to Boni's shop, - I shall go ba=
ck
there.'
The truth was, Monna Brigida had a
consciousness on the one hand of certain 'vanities' carried on her person, =
and
on the other of a growing alarm lest the Piagnoni should be right in holding
that rouge, and false hair, and pearl embroidery, endamaged the soul. Their
serious view of things filled the air like an odour; nothing seemed to have
exactly the same flavour as it used to have; and there was the dear child
Romola, in her youth and beauty, leading a life that was uncomfortably
suggestive of rigorous demands on woman. A widow at fifty-five whose
satisfaction has been largely drawn from what she thinks of her own person,=
and
what she believes others think of it, requires a great fund of imagination =
to
keep her spirits buoyant. And Monna Brigida had begun to have frequent
struggles at her toilet. If her soul would prosper better without them, was=
it
reallv worth while to put on the rouge and the braids? But when she lifted =
up
the hand-mirror and saw a sallow face with baggy cheeks, and crows'-feet th=
at
were not to be dissimulated by any simpering of the lips - when she parted =
her
grey hair, and let it lie in simple Piagnone fashion round her face, her
courage failed. Monna Berta would certainly burst out laughing at her, and =
call
her an old hag, and as Monna Berta was really only fifty-two, she had a
superiority which would make the observation cutting. Every woman who was n=
ot a
Piagnone would give a shrug at the sight of her, and the men would accost h=
er
as if she were their grandmother. Whereas, at fifty-five a woman was not so
very old - she only required making up a little. So the rouge and the braids
and the embroidered berretta went on again, and Monna Brigida was satisfied
with the accustomed effect; as for her neck, if she covered it up, people m=
ight
suppose it was too old to show, and, on the contrary, with the necklaces ro=
und
it, it looked better than Monna Berta's. This very day, when she was prepar=
ing
for the Piagnone Carnival, such a struggle had occurred, and the conflicting
fears and longings which caused the struggle, caused her to turn back and s=
eek
refuge in the druggist's shop rather than encounter the collectors of the A=
nathema
when Romola was not by her side. But Monna Brigida was not quite rapid enou=
gh
in her retreat. She had been descried, even before she turned away, by the
white-robed boys in the rear of those who wheeled round towards Tessa, and =
the
willingness with which. Tessa was given up was, perhaps, slightly due to the
fact that part of the troop had already accosted a personage carrying more
markedly upon her the dangerous weight of the Anathema. It happened that
several of this troop were at the youngest age taken into peculiar training;
and a small fellow of ten, his olive wreath resting above cherubic cheeks a=
nd
wide brown eyes, his imagination really possessed with a hovering awe at
existence as something in which great consequences impended on being good o=
r bad,
his longings nevertheless running in the direction of mastery and mischief,=
was
the first to reach Monna Brigida and place himself across her path. She felt
angry, and looked for an open door, but there was not one at hand, and by
attempting to escape now, she would only make things worse. But it was not =
the
cherubic-faced young one who first addressed her; it was a youth of fifteen,
who held one handle of a wide basket.
'Venerable mother!' he began, 'the
blessed Jesus commands you to give up the Anathema which you carry upon you.
That cap embroidered with pearls, those jewels that fasten up your false ha=
ir -
let them be given up and sold for the poor; and cast the hair itself away f=
rom
you, as a lie that is only fit for burning. Doubtless, too, you have other
jewels under your silk mantle.'
'Yes, lady,' said the youth at the
other handle, who had many of Fra Girolamo's phrases by heart, 'they are too
heavy for you: they are heavier than a millstone, and are weighting you for
perdition. Will you adorn yourself with the hunger of the poor, and be prou=
d to
carry God's curse upon your head?'
'In truth you are old, buona madre=
,'
said the cherubic boy, in a sweet soprano. 'You look very ugly with the red=
on
your cheeks and that black glistening hair, and those fine things. It is on=
ly
Satan who can like to see you. Your Angel is sorry. He wants you to rub away
the red.'
The little fellow snatched a soft =
silk
scarf from the basket, and held it towards Monna Brigida, that she might us=
e it
as her guardian angel desired. Her anger and mortification were fast giving=
way
to spiritual alarm. Monna Berta and that cloud of witnesses, highly-dressed
society in general, were not looking at her, and she was surrounded by young
monitors, whose white robes, and wreaths, and red crosses, and dreadful
candour, had something awful in their unusualness. Her Franciscan confessor,
Fra Cristoforo, of Santa Croce, was not at hand to reinforce her distrust of
Dominican teaching, and she was helplessly possessed and shaken by a vague =
sense
that a supreme warning was come to her. Unvisited by the least suggestion of
any other course that was open to her, she took the scarf that was held out,
and rubbed her cheeks, with trembling submissiveness.
'It is well, madonna,' said the se=
cond
youth. 'It is a holy beginning. And when you have taken those vanities from
your head, the dew of heavenly grace will descend on it.' The infusion of
mischief was getting stronger, and putting his hand to one of the jewelled =
pins
that fastened her braids to the berretta, he drew it out. The heavy black p=
lait
fell down over Monna Brigida's face, and dragged the rest of the head-gear
forward. It was a new reason for not hesitating: she put up her hands hasti=
ly,
undid the other fastenings, and hung down into the basket of doom her belov=
ed
crimson-velvet berretta, with all its unsurpassed embroidery of seed-pearls,
and stood an unrouged woman, with grey hair pushed backward from a face whe=
re
certain deep lines of age had triumphed over embonpoint.
But the berretta was not allowed to
lie in the basket. With impish zeal the youngsters lifted it, and held it up
pitilessly, with the false hair dangling.
'See, venerable mother,' said the
taller youth, 'what ugly lies you have delivered yourself from! And now you
look like the blessed Saint Anna, the mother of the Holy Virgin.'
Thoughts of going into a convent
forthwith, and never showing herself in the world again, were rushing throu=
gh
Monna Brigida's mind. There was nothing possible for her but to take care of
her soul. Of course, there were spectators laughing: she had no need to look
round to assure herself of that. Well! it would, perhaps, be better to be
forced to think more of Paradise. But at the thought that the dear accustom=
ed
world was no longer in her choice, there gathered some of those hard tears
which just moisten elderly eyes, and she could see but dimly a large rough =
hand
holding a red cross, which was suddenly thrust before her over the shoulder=
s of
the boys, while a strong guttural voice said -
'Only four quattrini, madonna,
blessing and all! Buy it. You'll find a comfort in it now your wig's gone. =
Deh!
what are we sinners doing all our lives? Making soup in a basket, and getti=
ng
nothing but the scum for our stomachs. Better buy a blessing, madonna! Only
four quattrini; the profit is not so much as the smell of a danaro, and it =
goes
to the poor.'
Monna Brigida, in dim-eyed confusi=
on,
was proceeding to the further submission of reaching money from her embroid=
ered
scarsella, at present hidden by her silk mantle, when the group round her,
which she had not yet entertained the idea of escaping, opened before a fig=
ure
as welcome as an angel loosing prison-bolts.
'Romola, look at me!' said Monna
Brigida, in a piteous tone, putting out both her hands.
The white troop was already moving
away, with a slight consciousness that its zeal about the headgear had been
superabundant enough to afford a dispensation from any further demand for
penitential offerings.
'Dear cousin, don't be distressed,'
said Romola, smitten with pity, yet hardly able to help smiling at the sudd=
en
apparition of her kinswoman in a genuine, natural guise, strangely contrast=
ed
with all memories of her. She took the black drapery from her own head, and
threw it over Monna Brigida's. 'There,' she went on soothingly, 'no one will
remark you now. We will turn down the Via del Palagio and go straight to our
house.'
They hastened away, Monna Brigida
grasping Romola's hand tightly, as if to get a stronger assurance of her be=
ing
actually there.
'Ah, my Romola, my dear child!' sa=
id
the short fat woman, hurrying with frequent steps to keep pace with the
majestic young figure beside her; 'what an old scarecrow I am! I must be go=
od -
I mean to be good!'
'Yes, yes; buy a cross!' said the
guttural voice, while the rough hand was thrust once more before Monna Brig=
ida:
for Bratti was not to be abashed by Romola's presence into renouncing a
probable customer, and had quietly followed up their retreat. 'Only four
quattrini, blessing and all - and if there was any profit, it would all go =
to
the poor.'
Monna Brigida would have been
compelled to pause, even if she had been in a less submissive mood. She put=
up
one hand deprecatingly to arrest Romola's remonstrance, and with the other
reached out a grosso, worth many white quattrini, saying, in an entreating =
tone
-
'Take it, good man, and begone.' <= o:p>
'You're in the right, madonna,' sa=
id
Bratti, taking the coin quickly, and thrusting the cross into her hand; 'I'=
ll
not offer you change, for I might as well rob you of a mass. What! we must =
all
be scorched a little, but you'll come off the easier; better fall from the
window than the roof. A good Easter and a good year to you!'
'Well, Romola,' cried Monna Brigid=
a,
pathetically, as Bratti left them, 'if I'm to be a Piagnone it's no matter =
how
I look!'
'Dear cousin,' said Romola, smilin=
g at
her affectionately, 'you don't know how much better you look than you ever =
did
before. I see now how good-natured your face is, like yourself. That red and
finery seemed to thrust themselves forward and hide expression. Ask our Pie=
ro
or any other painter if he would not rather paint your portrait now than
before. I think all lines of the human face have something either touching =
or
grand, unless they seem to come from low passions. How fine old men are, li=
ke
my godfather! Why should not old women look grand and simple?'
'Yes, when one gets to be sixty, my
Romola,' said Brigida, relapsing a little; 'but I'm only fify-five, and Mon=
na
Berta, and everybody - but it's no use: I will be good, like you. Your moth=
er,
if she'd been alive, would have been as old as I am; we were cousins togeth=
er.
One must either die or get old. But it doesn't matter about being old, if o=
ne's
a Piagnone.'
The incidents of that Carnival day
seemed to Romola to carry no other personal consequences to her than the new
care of supporting poor cousin Brigida in her fluctuating resignation to age
and grey hairs; but they introduced a Lenten time in which she was kept at a
high pitch of mental excitement and active effort.
Bernardo del Nero had been elected
Gonfaloniere. By great exertions the Medicean party had so far triumphed, a=
nd
that triumph had deepened Romola's presentiment of some secretly-prepared
scheme likely to ripen either into success or betrayal during these two mon=
ths
of her godfather's auth ority. Every morning the dim daybreak as it peered =
into
her room seemed to be that haunting fear coming back to her. Every morning =
the
fear went with her as she passed through the streets on her way to the early
sermon in the Duomo: but there she gradually lost the sense of its chill
presence, as men lose the dread of death in the clash of battle.
In the Duomo she felt herself shar=
ing
in a passionate conflict which had wider relations than any enclosed within=
the
walls of Florence. For Savonarola was preaching - preaching the last course=
of
Lenten sermons he was ever allowed to finish in the Duomo: he knew that
excommunication was imminent, and he had reached the point of defying it. He
held up the condition of the Church in the terrible mirror of his unflinchi=
ng
speech, which called things by their right names and dealt in no polite
periphrases; he proclaimed with heightening confidence the advent of renova=
tion
- of a moment when there would be a general revolt against corruption. As to
his own destiny, he seemed to have a double and alternating prevision:
sometimes he saw himself taking a glorious part in that revolt, sending for=
th a
voice that would be heard through all Christendom, and making the dead body=
of
the Church tremble into new life, as the body of Lazarus trembled when the
Divine voice pierced the sepulchre; sometimes he saw no prospect for himself
but persecution and martyrdom: - this life for him was only a vigil, and on=
ly
after death would come the dawn.
The position was one which must ha=
ve
had its impressiveness for all minds that were not of the dullest order, ev=
en
if they were inclined, as Macchiavelli was, to interpret the Frate's charac=
ter
by a key that presupposed no loftiness. To Romola, whose kindred ardour gave
her a firm belief in Savonarola's genuine greatness of purpose, the crisis =
was
as stirring as if it had been part of her personal lot. It blent itself as =
an
exalting memory with all her daily labours; and those labours were calling =
not
only for difficult perseverance, but for new courage. Famine had never yet
taken its flight from Florence, and all distress, by its long continuance, =
was
getting harder to bear; disease was spreading in the crowded city, and the
Plague was expected. As Romola walked, often in weariness, among the sick, =
the
hungry, and the murmuring, she felt it good to be inspired by something more
than her pity - by the belief in a heroism struggling for sublime ends, tow=
ards
which the daily action of her pity could only tend feebly, as the dews that
freshen the weedy ground to-day tend to prepare an unseen harvest in the ye=
ars
to come.
But that mighty music which stirred
her in the Duomo was not without its jarring notes. Since those first days =
of
glowing hope when the Frate, seeing the near triumph of good in the reform =
of
the Republic and the coming of the French deliverer, had preached peace,
charity, and oblivion of political differences, there had been a marked cha=
nge
of conditions: political intrigue had been too obstinate to allow of the
desired oblivion; the belief in the French deliverer, who had turned his ba=
ck
on his high mission, seemed to have wrought harm; and hostility, both on a
petty and on a grand scale, was attacking the Prophet with new weapons and =
new
determination.
It followed that the spirit of
contention and self-vindication pierced more and more conspicuously in his
sermons; that he was urged to meet the popular demands not only by increased
insistance and detail concerning visions and private revelations, but by a =
tone
of defiant confidence against objectors; and from having denounced the desi=
re
for the miraculous, and declared that miracles had no relation to true fait=
h,
he had come to assert that at the right moment the Divine power would attest
the truth of his prophetic preaching by a miracle. And continually, in the
rapid transitions of excited feeling, as the vision of triumphant good rece=
ded
behind the actual predominance of evil, the threats of coming vengeance aga=
inst
vicious tyrants and corrupt priests gathered some impetus from personal
exasperation, as well as from indignant zeal.
In the career of a great public or=
ator
who yields himself to the inspiration of the moment, that conflict of selfi=
sh
and unselfish emotion which in most men is hidden in the chamber of the sou=
l,
is brought into terrible evidence: the language of the inner voices is writ=
ten
out in letters of fire.
But if the tones of exasperation
jarred on Romola, there was often another member of Fra Girolamo's audience=
to
whom they were the only thrilling tones, like the vibration of deep bass no=
tes
to the deaf. Baldassarre had found out that the wonderful Frate was preachi=
ng
again, and as often as he could, he went to hear the Lenten sermon, that he
might drink in the threats of a voice which seemed like a power on the side=
of
justice. He went the more because he had seen that Romola went too; for he =
was
waiting and watching for a time when not only outward circumstances, but his
own varying mental state, would mark the right moment for seeking an interv=
iew
with her. Twice Romola had caught sight of his face in the Duomo - once when
its dark glance was fixed on hers. She wished not to see it again, and yet =
she
looked for it, as men look for the reappearance of a portent. But any
revelation that might be yet to come about this old man was a subordinate f=
ear
now: it referred, she thought, only to the past, and her anxiety was almost
absorbed by the present.
Yet the stirring Lent passed by;
April, the second and final month of her godfather's supreme authority, was
near its close; and nothing had occurred to fulfil her presentiment. In the
public mind, too, there had been fears, and rumours had spread from Rome of=
a
menacing activity on the part of Piero de' Medici; but in a few days the
suspected Bernardo would go out of power.
Romola was trying to gather some
courage from the review of her futile fears, when on the twenty-seventh, as=
she
was walking out on her usual errands of mercy in the afternoon, she was met=
by
a messenger from Camilla Rucellai, chief among the feminine seers of Floren=
ce,
desiring her presence forthwith on matters of the highest moment. Romola, w=
ho
shrank with unconquerable repulsion from the shrill volubility of those
illuminated women, and had just now a special repugnance towards Camilla
because of a report that she had announced revelations hostile to Bernardo =
del
Nero, was at first inclined to send back a flat refusal. Camilla's message
might refer to public affairs, and Romola's immediate prompting was to close
her ears against knowledge that might only make her mental burden heavier. =
But
it had become so thoroughly her habit to reject her impulsive choice, and to
obey passively the guidance of outward claims, that, reproving herself for =
allowing
her presentiments to make her cowardly and selfish, she ended by compliance,
and went straight to Camilla.
She found the nervous grey-haired
woman in a chamber arranged as much as possible like a convent cell. The th=
in
fingers clutching Romola as she sat, and the eager voice addressing her at
first in a loud whisper, caused her a physical shrinking that made it diffi=
cult
for her to keep her seat.
Camilla had a vision to communicat=
e -
a vision in which it had been revealed to her by Romola's Angel, that Romola
knew certain secrets concerning her godfather, Bernardo del Nero, which, if
disclosed, might save the Republic from peril. Camilla's voice rose louder =
and
higher as she narrated her vision, and ended by exhorting Romola to obey the
command of her Angel, and separate herself from the enemy of God.
Romola's impetuosity was that of a
massive nature, and, except in moments when she was deeply stirred, her man=
ner
was calm and self-controlled. She had a constitutional disgust for the shal=
low
excitability of women like Camilla, whose faculties seemed all wrought up i=
nto
fantasies, leaving nothing for emotion and thought. The exhortation was not=
yet
ended when she started up and attempted to wrench her arm from Camilla's
tightening grasp. It was of no use. The prophetess kept her hold like a cra=
b,
and, only incited to more eager exhortation by Romola's resistance, was car=
ried
beyond her own intention into a shrill statement of other visions which wer=
e to
corroborate this. Christ himself had appeared to her and ordered her to send
his commands to certain citizens in office that they should throw Bernardo =
del
Nero from the window of the Palazzo Vecchio. Fra Girolamo himself knew of i=
t,
and had not dared this time to say that the vision was not of Divine author=
ity.
'And since then,' said Camilla, in=
her
excited treble, straining upward with wild eyes towards Romola's face, 'the
Blessed Infant has come to me and laid a wafer of sweetness on my tongue in
token of his pleasure that I had done his will.'
'Let me go!' said Romola, in a deep voice of anger. 'God grant you are mad! else you are detestably wicked! ' <= o:p>
The violence of her effort to be f=
ree
was too strong for Camilla now. She wrenched away her arm and rushed out of=
the
room, not pausing till she had hurriedly gone far along the street, and fou=
nd
herself close to the church of the Badia. She had but to pass behind the
curtain under the old stone arch, and she would find a sanctuary shut in fr=
om
the noise and hurry of the street, where all objects and all uses suggested=
the
thought of an eternal peace subsisting in the midst of turmoil.
She turned in, and sinking down on=
the
step of the altar in front of Filippino Lippi's serene Virgin appearing to =
St
Bernard, she waited in hope that the inward tumult which agitated her would
by-and-by subside.
The thought which pressed on her t=
he
most acutely was that Camilla could allege Savonarola's countenance of her
wicked folly. Romola did not for a moment believe that he had sanctioned the
throwing of Bernardo del Nero from the window as a Divine suggestion; she f=
elt
certain that there was falsehood or mistake in that allegation. Savonarola =
had
become more and more severe in his views of resistance to malcontents; but =
the
ideas of strict law and order were fundamental to all his political teachin=
g.
Still, since he knew the possibly fatal effects of visions like Camilla's,
since he had a marked distrust of such spirit-seeing women, and kept aloof =
from
them as much as possible, why, with his readiness to denounce wrong from the
pulpit, did he not publicly denounce these pretended revelations which brou=
ght
new darkness instead of light across the conception of a Supreme Will? Why?=
The
answer came with painful clearness: he was fettered inwardly by the
consciousness that such revelations were not, in their basis, distinctly
separable from his own visions; he was fettered outwardly by the foreseen
consequence of raising a cry against himself even among members of his own
party, as one who would suppress all Divine inspiration of which he himself=
was
not the vehicle - he or his confidential and supplementary seer of visions,=
Fra
Salvestro.
Romola, kneeling with buried face =
on
the altar-step, was enduring one of those sickening moments, when the
enthusiasm which had come to her as the only energy strong enough to make l=
ife
worthy, seemed to be inevitably bound up with vain dreams and wilful
eye-shutting. Her mind rushed back with a new attraction towards the strong
worldly sense, the dignified prudence, the untheoretic virtues of her
godfather, who was to be treated as a sort of Agag because he held that a m=
ore
restricted form of government was better than the Great Council, and becaus=
e he
would not pretend to forget old ties to the banished family.
But with this last thought rose the
presentiment of some plot to restore the Medici; and then again she felt th=
at
the popular party was half justified in its fierce suspicion. Again she felt
that to keep the Government of Florence pure, and to keep out a vicious rul=
e,
was a sacred cause; the Frate was right there, and had carried her
understanding irrevocably with him. But at this moment the assent of her
understanding went alone; it was given unwillingly. Her heart was recoiling
from a right allied to so much narrowness; a right apparently entailing that
hard systematic judgment of men which measures them by assents and denials
quite superficial to the manhood within them. Her affection and respect were
clinging with new tenacity to her godfather, and with him to those memories=
of her
father which were in the same opposition to the division of men into sheep =
and
goats by the easy mark of some political or religious symbol.
After all has been said that can be
said about the widening influence of ideas, it remains true that they would
hardly be such strong agents unless they were taken in a solvent of feeling.
The great world-struggle of developing thought is continually foreshadowed =
in
the struggle of the affections, seeking a justification for love and hope. =
If Romola's intellect had been less
capable of discerning the complexities in human things, all the early loving
associations of her life would have forbidden her to accept implicitly the
denunciatory exclusiveness of Savonarola. She had simply felt that his mind=
had
suggested deeper and more efficacious truth to her than any other, and the
large breathing-room she found in his grand view of human duties had made h=
er
patient towards that part of his teaching which she could not absorb, so lo=
ng
as its practical effect came into collision with no strong force in her. But
now a sudden insurrection of feeling had brought about that collision. Her
indignation, once roused by Camilla's visions, could not pause there, but r=
an
like an illuminating fire over all the kindred facts in Savonarola's teachi=
ng,
and for the moment she felt what was true in the scornful sarcasms she heard
continually flung against him, more keenly than she felt what was false.
But it was an illumination that ma=
de
all life look ghastly to her. Where were the beings to whom she could cling,
with whom she could work and endure, with the belief that she was working f=
or
the right? On the side from which moral energy came lay a fanaticism from w=
hich
she was shrinking with newly-startled repulsion; on the side to which she w=
as
drawn by affection and memory, there was the presentiment of some secret
plotting, which her judgment told her would not be unfairly called crime. A=
nd
still surmounting every other thought was the dread inspired by Tito's hint=
s,
lest that presentiment should be converted into knowledge, in such a way th=
at
she would be torn by irreconcilable claims.
Calmness would not come even on the
altar-steps; it would not come from looking at the serene picture where the
saint, writing in the rocky solitude, was being visited by faces with celes=
tial
peace in them. Romola was in the hard press of human difficulties, and that
rocky solitude was too far off. She rose from her knees that she might hast=
en
to her sick people in the courtyard, and by some immediate beneficent actio=
n,
revive that sense of worth in life which at this moment was unfed by any wi=
der
faith. But when she turned round, she found herself face to face with a man=
who
was standing only two yards off her. The man was Baldassarre.
I would speak with you,' said
Baldassarre, as Romola looked at him in silent expectation. It was plain th=
at
he had followed her, and had been waiting for her. She was going at last to
know the secret about him.
'Yes,' she said, with the same sor=
t of
submission that she might have shown under an imposed penance. 'But you wis=
h to
go where no one can hear us?'
'Where he will not come upon us,' =
said
Baldassarre, turning and glancing behind him timidly. 'Out - in the air - a=
way
from the streets.'
'I sometimes go to San Miniato at =
this
hour,' said Romola. 'If you like, I will go now, and you can follow me. It =
is
far, but we can be solitary there.'
He nodded assent, and Romola set o=
ut.
To some women it might have seemed an alarming risk to go to a comparatively
solitary spot with a man who had some of the outward signs of that madness
which Tito attributed to him. But Romola was not given to personal fears, a=
nd
she was glad of the distance that interposed some delay before another blow
fell on her. The afternoon was far advanced and the sun was already low in =
the
west, when she paused on some rough ground in the shadow of the cypress-tru=
nks,
and looked round for Baldassarre. He was not far off, but when he reached h=
er,
he was glad to sink down on an edge of stony earth. His thick-set frame had=
no
longer the sturdy vigour which belonged to it when he first appeared with t=
he
rope round him in the Duomo; and under the transient tremor caused by the
exertion of walking up the hill, his eyes seemed to have a more helpless
vagueness.
'The hill is steep,' said Romola, =
with
compassionate gentleness, seating herself by him. 'And I fear you have been
weakened by want?'
He turned his head and fixed his e=
yes
on her in silence, unable, now the moment of speech was come, to seize the
words that would convey the thought he wanted to utter: and she remained as
motionless as she could, lest he should suppose her impatient. He looked li=
ke
nothing higher than a common-bred, neglected old man; but she was used now =
to
be very near to such people, and to think a great deal about their troubles.
Gradually his glance gathered a more definite expression, and at last he sa=
id
with abrupt emphasis -
'Ah! you would have been my daught=
er!'
The swift flush came in Romola's f=
ace
and went back again as swiftly, leaving her with white lips a little apart,
like a marble image of horror. For her mind, the revelation was made. She
divined the facts that lay behind that single word, and in the first moment
there could be no check to the impulsive belief which sprang from her keen
experience of Tito's nature. The sensitive response of her face was a stimu=
lus
to Baldassarre; for the first time his words had wrought their right effect=
. He
went on with gathering eagerness and firmness, laying his hand on her arm. =
'You are a woman of proud blood - =
is
it not true? You go to hear the preacher; you hate baseness - baseness that
smiles and triumphs. You hate your husband?'
'Oh God! were you really his fathe=
r?'
said Romola, in a low voice, too entirely possessed by the images of the pa=
st
to take any note of Baldassarre's question. 'Or was it as he said? Did you =
take
him when he was little?'
'Ah, you believe me - you know wha=
t he
is!' said Baldassarre, exultingly, tightening the pressure on her arm, as if
the contact gave him power. 'You will help me?'
'Yes,' said Romola, not interpreti=
ng
the words as he meant them. She laid her palm gently on the rough hand that
grasped her arm, and the tears came to her eyes as she looked at him. 'Oh, =
it
is piteous! Tell me - you were a great scholar, you taught him. How is it?'=
She broke off. Tito's allegation of
this man's madness had come across her; and where were the signs even of pa=
st
refinement? But she had the self-command not to move her hand. She sat perf=
ectly
still, waiting to listen with new caution.
'It is gone! - it is all gone!' sa=
id
Baldassarre; 'and they would not believe me, because he lied, and said I was
mad and they had me dragged to prison. And I am old - my mind will not come
back. And the world is against me.'
He paused a moment, and his eyes s=
ank
as if he were under a wave of despondency. Then he looked up at her again, =
and
said with renewed eagerness -
'But you are not against me. He ma=
de
you love him, and he has been false to you; and you hate him. Yes, he made =
me
love him: he was beautiful and gentle, and I was a lonely man. I took him w=
hen
they were beating him. He slept in my bosom when he was little, and I watch=
ed
him as he grew and gave him all my knowledge, and everything that was mine I
meant to be his. I had many things; money, and books, and gems. He had my g=
ems
- he sold them; and he left me in slavery. He never came to seek me, and wh=
en I
came back poor and in misery, he denied me. He said I was a madman.'
'He told us his father was dead - =
was
drowned,' said Romola, faintly. 'Surely he must have believed it then. Oh! =
he
could not have been so base then.'
A vision had risen of what Tito wa=
s to
her in those first days when she thought no more of wrong in him than a chi=
ld
thinks of poison in flowers. The yearning regret that lay in that memory
brought some relief from the tension of horror. With one great sob the tears
rushed forth.
'Ah, you are young, and the tears =
come
easily,' said Baldassarre, with some impatience. 'But tears are no good; th=
ey
only put out the fire within, and it is the fire that works. Tears will hin=
der
us. Listen to me.'
Romola turned towards him with a
slight start. Again the possibility of his madness had darted through her m=
ind,
and checked the rush of belief. If, after all, this man were only a mad
assassin? But her deep belief in this story still lay behind, and it was mo=
re
in sympathy than in fear that she avoided the risk of paining him by any sh=
ow
of doubt.
'Tell me,' she said, as gently as =
she
could, 'how did you lose your memory - your scholarship.'
'I was ill. I can't tell how long =
- it
was a blank. I remember nothing, only at last I was sitting in the sun among
the stones, and everything else was darkness. And slowly, and by degrees, I
felt something besides that: a longing for something - I did not know what -
that never came. And when I was in the ship on the waters I began to know w=
hat
I longed for; it was for the Boy to come back - it was to find all my thoug=
hts
again, for I was locked away outside them all. And I am outside now. I feel
nothing but a wall and darkness.'
Baldassarre had become dreamy agai=
n,
and sank into silence, resting his head between his hands; and again Romola=
's
belief in him had submerged all cautioning doubts. The pity with which she
dwelt on his words seemed like the revival of an old pang. Had she not daily
seen how her father missed Dino and the future he had dreamed of in that so=
n?
'It all came back once,' Baldassar=
re
went on presently. 'I was master of everything. I saw all the world again, =
and
my gems, and my books; and I thought I had him in my power, and I went to
expose him where - where the lights were and the trees; and he lied again, =
and
said I was mad, and they dragged me away to prison ... Wickedness is strong;
and he wears armour.'
The fierceness had flamed up again=
. He
spoke with his former intensity, and again he grasped Romola's arm.
'But you will help me? He has been
false to you too. He has another wife, and she has children. He makes her
believe he is her husband, and she is a foolish, helpless thing. I will show
you where she lives.'
The first shock that passed through
Romola was visibly one of anger. The woman's sense of indignity was inevita=
bly
foremost. Baldassarre instinctively felt her in sympathy with him.
'You hate him,' he went on. 'Is it=
not
true? There is no love between you; I know that. I know women can hate; and=
you
have proud blood. You hate falseness, and you can love revenge.'
Romola sat paralysed by the shock =
of
conflicting feelings. She was not conscious of the grasp that was bruising =
her
tender arm.
'You shall contrive it,' said
Baldassarre, presently, in an eager whisper. 'I have learned by heart that =
you
are his rightful wife. You are a noble woman. You go to hear the preacher o=
f vengeance;
you will help justice. But you will think for me. My mind goes - everything
goes sometimes - all but the fire. The fire is God: it is justice: it will =
not
die. You believe that - is it not true? If they will not hang him for robbi=
ng
me, you will take away his armour - you will make him go without it, and I =
will
stab him. I have a knife, and my arm is still strong enough.'
He put his hand under his tunic, a=
nd
reached out the hidden knife, feeling the edge abstractedly, as if he needed
the sensation to keep alive his ideas.
It seemed to Romola as if every fr=
esh
hour of her life were to become more difficult than the last. Her judgment =
was
too vigorous and rapid for her to fall into the mistake of using futile
deprecatory words to a man in Baldassarre's state of mind. She chose not to
answer his last speech. She would win time for his excitement to allay itse=
lf
by asking something else that she cared to know. She spoke rather tremulous=
ly -
'You say she is foolish and helple=
ss -
that other wife - and believes him to be her real husband. Perhaps he is:
perhaps he married her before he married me.'
'I cannot tell,' said Baldassarre,
pausing in that action of feeling the knife, and looking bewildered. 'I can
remember no more. I only know where she lives. You shall see her. I will ta=
ke
you; but not now,' he added hurriedly, 'he may be there. The night is coming
on.'
'It is true,' said Romola, startin=
g up
with a sudden consciousness that the sun had set and the hills were darkeni=
ng;
'but you will come and take me - when?'
'In the morning' said Baldassarre,
dreaming that she, too, wanted to hurry to her vengeance.
'Come to me, then, where you came =
to
me to-day, in the church. I will be there at ten; and if you are not there,=
I
will go again towards mid-day. Can you remember?'
'Mid-day,' said Baldassarre - 'only
mid-day. The same place, and mid-day. And, after that,' he added, rising and
grasping her arm again with his left hand, while he held the knife in his
right; 'we will have our revenge. He shall feel the sharp edge of justice. =
The
world is against me, but you will help me.'
'I would help you in other ways,' =
said
Romola, making a first, timid effort to dispel his illusion about her. 'I f=
ear
you are in want; you have to labour, and get little. I should like to bring=
you
comforts, and make you feel again that there is some one who cares for you.=
'
'Talk no more about that,' said
Baldassarre, fiercely. 'I will have nothing else. Help me to wring one drop=
of
vengeance on this side of the grave. I have nothing but my knife. It is sha=
rp;
but there is a moment after the thrust when men see the face of death, - an=
d it
shall be my face that he will see.'
He loosed his hold, and sank down
again in a sitting posture. Romola felt helpless: she must defer all intent=
ions
till the morrow.
'Mid-day, then,' she said, in a
distinct voice.
'Yes,' he answered, with an air of
exhaustion. 'Go; I will rest here.'
She hastened away. Turning at the =
last
spot whence he was likely to be in sight, she saw him seated still.
Romola had a purpose in her mind as
she was hastening away; a purpose which had been growing through the aftern=
oon
hours like a side-stream, rising higher and higher along with the main curr=
ent.
It was less a resolve than a necessity of her feeling. Heedless of the
darkening streets, and not caring to call for Maso's slow escort, she hurri=
ed
across the bridge where the river showed itself black before the distant dy=
ing
red, and took the most direct way to the Old Palace. She might encounter her
husband there. No matter. She could not weigh probabilities; she must disch=
arge
her heart. She did not know what she passed in the pillared court or up the
wide stairs; she only knew that she asked an usher for the Gonfaloniere, gi=
ving
her name, and begging to be shown into a private room.
She was not left long alone with t=
he
frescoed figures and the newly-lit tapers. Soon the door opened, and Bernar=
do
del Nero entered, still carrying his white head erect above his silk lucco.=
'Romola, my child, what is this?' =
he
said, in a tone of anxious surprise as he closed the door.
She had uncovered her head and went
rowards him without speaking. He laid his hand on her shoulder, and held he=
r a
little way from him that he might see her better. Her face was haggard from
fatigue and long agitation, her hair had rolled down in disorder; but there=
was
an excitement in her eyes that seemed to have triumphed over the bodily
consciousness.
'What has he done?' said Bernardo,
abruptly. 'Tell me everything, child; throw away pride. I am your father,' =
'It is not about myself - nothing
about myself,' said Romola, hastily. 'Dearest godfather, it is about you. I
have heard things - some I cannot tell you. But you are in danger in the
palace; you are in danger everywhere. There are fanatical men who would harm
you, and - and there are traitors. Trust nobody. If you trust, you will be
betrayed.' Bernardo smiled.
'Have you worked yourself up into =
this
agitation, my poor child,' he said, raising his hand to her head and pattin=
g it
gently, 'to tell such old truth as that to an old man like me?'
'Oh no, no! they are not old truths
that I mean,' said Romola, pressing her clasped hands painfully together, a=
s if
that action would help her to suppress what must not be told. 'They are fre=
sh
things that I know, but cannot tell. Dearest godfather, you know I am not
foolish. I would not come to you without reason. Is it too late to warn you
against any one, every one who seems to be working on your side? Is it too =
late
to say, ‘Go to your villa and keep away in the country when these thr=
ee
more days of office are over?’ Oh God! perhaps it is too late! and if=
any
harm comes to you, it will be as if I had done it!'
The last words had burst from Romo=
la
involuntarily: a long-stifled feeling had found spasmodic utterance. But she
herself was startled and arrested.
'I mean,' she added, hesitantly, 'I
know nothing positive. I only know what fills me with fears.'
'Poor child!' said Bernardo, looki=
ng
at her with quiet penetration for a moment or two. Then he said: 'Go, Romol=
a -
go home and rest. These fears may be only big ugly shadows of something very
little and harmless. Even traitors must see their interest in betraying; the
rats will run where they smell the cheese, and there is no knowing yet which
way the scent will come.'
He paused, and turned away his eyes
from her with an air of abstraction, till, with a slow shrug, he added -
'As for warnings, they are of no u=
se
to me, child. I enter into no plots, but I never forsake my colours. If I m=
arch
abreast with obstinate men, who will rush on guns and pikes, I must share t=
he
consequences. Let us say no more about that. I have not many years left at =
the
bottom of my sack for them to rob me of. Go, child; go home and rest.'
He put his hand on her head again
caressingly, and she could not help clinging to his arm, and pressing her b=
row
against his shoulder. Her godfather's caress seemed the last thing that was
left to her out of that young filial life, which now looked so happy to her
even in its troubles, for they were troubles untainted by anything hateful.=
'Is silence best, my Romola?' said=
the
old man.
'Yes, now; but I cannot tell wheth=
er
it always will be,' she answered, hesitantly, raising her head with an
appealing look.
'Well, you have a father's ear whi=
le I
am above ground' - he lifted the black drapery and folded it round her head,
adding - 'and a father's home; remember that.' Then opening the door, he sa=
id:
'There, hasten away. You are like a black ghost: you will be safe enough.' =
When Romola fell asleep that night,
she slept deep. Agitation had reached its limits; she must gather strength
before she could suffer more; and, in spite of rigid habit, she slept on far
beyond sunrise.
When she awoke, it was to the soun=
d of
guns. Piero de' Medici, with thirteen hundred men at his back, was before t=
he
gate that looks towards Rome.
So much Romola learned from Maso, =
with
many circumstantial additions of dubious quality. A countryman had come in =
and
alarmed the Signoria before it was light, else the city would have been tak=
en
by surprise. His master was not in the house, having been summoned to the
Palazzo long ago. She sent out the old man again, that he might gather news,
while she went up to the loggia from time to time to try and discern any si=
gns
of the dreaded entrance having been made, or of its having been effectively
repelled. Maso brought her word that the great Piazza was full of armed men,
and that many of the chief citizens suspected as friends of the Medici had =
been
summoned to the palace and detained there. Some of the people seemed not to
mind whether Piero got in or not, and some said the Signoria itself had inv=
ited
him; but however that might be, they were giving him an ugly welcome; and t=
he
soldiers from Pisa were coming against him.
In her memory of those morning hou=
rs,
there were not many things that Romola could distinguish as actual external
experiences standing markedly out above the tumultuous waves of retrospect =
and
anticipation. She knew that she had really walked to the Badia by the appoi=
nted
time in spite of street alarms; she knew that she had waited there in vain.=
And
the scene she had witnessed when she came out of the church, and stood watc=
hing
on the steps while the doors were being closed behind her for the afternoon
interval, always came back to her like a remembered waking.
There was a change in the faces and
tones of the people, armed and unarmed, who were pausing or hurrying along =
the
streets. The guns were firing again, but the sound only provoked laughter. =
She
soon knew the cause of the change. Piero de' Medici and his horsemen had tu=
rned
their backs on Florence, and were galloping as fast as they could along the
Siena road. She learned this from a substantial shop-keeping Piagnone, who =
had
not yet laid down his pike.
'It is true,' he ended, with a cer=
tain
bitterness in his emphasis. 'Piero is gone, but there are those left behind=
who
were in the secret of his coming - we all know that; and if the new Signoria
does its duty we shall soon know how they are.'
The words darted through Romola li=
ke a
sharp spasm; but the evil they foreshadowed was not yet close upon her, and=
as
she entered her home again, her most pressing anxiety was the possibility t=
hat
she had lost sight for a long while of Baldassarre.
The lengthening sunny days went on
without bringing either what Romola most desired or what she most dreaded. =
They
brought no sign from Baldassarre, and, in spite of special watch on the par=
t of
the Government, no revelation of the suspected conspiracy. But they brought
other things which touched her closely, and bridged the phantom-crowded spa=
ce
of anxiety with active sympathy in immediate trial. They brought the spread=
ing
Plague and the Excommunication of Savonarola.
Both these events tended to arrest=
her
incipient alienation from the Frate, and to rivet again her attachment to t=
he
man who had opened to her the new life of duty, and who seemed now to be
worsted in the fight for principle against profligacy. For Romola could not
carry from day to day into the abodes of pestilence and misery the sublime
excitement of a gladness that, since such anguish existed, she too existed =
to
make some of the anguish less bitter, without remembering that she owed this
transcendent moral life to Fra Girolamo. She could not witness the silencing
and excommunication of a man whose distinction from the great mass of the
clergy lay, not in any heretical belief, not in his superstitions, but in t=
he
energy with which he sought to make the Christian life a reality, without
feeling herself drawn strongly to his side.
Far on in the hot days of June the
Excommunication, for some weeks arrived from Rome, was solemnly published in
the Duomo. Romola went to witness the scene, that the resistance it inspired
might invigorate that sympathy with Savonarola which was one source of her
strength. It was in memorable contrast with the scene she had been accustom=
ed
to witness there.
Instead of upturned citizen-faces
filling the vast area under the morning light, the youngest rising
amphitheatrewise towards the walls, and making a garland of hope around the
memories of age - instead of the mighty voice thrilling all hearts with the
sense of great things, visible and invisible, to be struggled for - there w=
ere
the bare walls at evening made more sombre by the glimmer of tapers; there =
was
the black and grey flock of monks and secular clergy with bent, unexpectant
faces; there was the occasional tinkling of little bells in the pauses of a
monotonous voice reading a sentence which had already been long hanging up =
in
the churches; and at last there was the extinction of the tapers, and the s=
low,
shuffling tread of monkish feet departing in the dim silence.
Romola's ardour on the side of the
Frate was doubly strengthened by the gleeful triumph she saw in hard and co=
arse
faces, and by the fear-stricken confusion in the faces and speech of many a=
mong
his strongly-attached friends. The question where the duty of obedience end=
s,
and the duty of resistance begins, could in no case be an easy one; but it =
was
made overwhelmingly difficult by the belief that the Church was - not a
compromise of parties to secure a more or less approximate justice in the
appropriation of funds, but - a living organism, instinct with Divine power=
to
bless and to curse. To most of the pious Florentines, who had hitherto felt=
no
doubt in their adherence to the Frate, that belief in the Divine potency of=
the
Church was not an embraced opinion, it was an inalienable impression, like =
the
concavity of the blue firmament; and the boldness of Savonarola's written
arguments that the Excommunication was unjust, and that, being unjust, it w=
as
not valid, only made them tremble the more, as a defiance cast at a mystic
image, against whose subtle immeasurable power there was neither weapon nor
defence.
But Romola, whose mind had not been
allowed to draw its early nourishment from the traditional associations of =
the
Christian community in which her father had lived a life apart, felt her
relation to the Church only through Savonarola; his moral force had been the
only authority to which she had bowed; and in his excommunication she only =
saw
the menace of hostile vice: on one side she saw a man whose life was devote=
d to
the ends of public virtue and spiritual purity, and on the other the assaul=
t of
alarmed selfishness, headed by a lustful, greedy, lying, and murderous old =
man,
once called Rodrigo Borgia, and now lifted to the pinnacle of infamy as Pope
Alexander the Sixth. The finer shades of fact which soften the edge of such
antitheses are not apt to be seen except by neutrals, who are not distresse=
d to
discern some folly in martyrs and some judiciousness in the men who burnt t=
hem.
But Romola required a strength that
neutrality could not give; and this Excommunication, which simplified and
ennobled the resistant position of Savonarola by bringing into prominence i=
ts
wider relations, seemed to come to her like a rescue from the threatening
isolation of criticism and doubt. The Frate was now withdrawn from that sma=
ller
antagonism against Florentine enemies into which he continually fell in the
unchecked excitement of the pulpit, and presented himself simply as appeali=
ng
to the Christian world against a vicious exercise of ecclesiastical power. =
He
was a standard-bearer leaping into the breach. Life never seems so clear and
easy as when the heart is beating faster at the sight of some generous
self-risking deed. We feel no doubt then what is the highest prize the soul=
can
win; we almost believe in our own power to attain it. By a new current of s=
uch
enthusiasm Romola was helped through these difficult summer days. She had
ventured on no words to Tito that would apprise him of her late interview w=
ith
Baldassarre, and the revelation he had made to her. What would such agitati=
ng,
difficult words win from him? No admission of the truth; nothing, probably,=
but
a cool sarcasm about her sympathy with his assassin. Baldassarre was eviden=
tly
helpless: the thing to be feared was, not that he should injure Tito, but t=
hat
Tito, coming upon his traces, should carry out some new scheme for ridding
himself of the injured man who was a haunting dread to him. Romola felt that
she could do nothing decisive until she had seen Baldassarre again, and lea=
rned
the full truth about that 'other wife' - learned whether she were the wife =
to
whom Tito was first bound.
The possibilities about that other
wife, which involved the worst wound to her hereditary pride, mingled
themselves as a newly-embittering suspicion with the earliest memories of h=
er
illusory love, eating away the lingering associations of tenderness with the
past image of her husband; and her irresistible belief in the rest of
Baldassarre's revelation made her shrink from Tito with a horror which would
perhaps have urged some passionate speech in spite of herself if he had not
been more than usually absent from home. Like many of the wealthier citizen=
s in
that time of pestilence, he spent the intervals of business chiefly in the
country: the agreeable Melema was welcome at many villas, and since Romola =
had
refused to leave the city, he had no need to provide a country residence of=
his
own.
But at last, in the later days of
July, the alleviation of those public troubles which had absorbed her activ=
ity
and much of her thought, left Romola to a less counteracted sense of her
personal lot. The Plague had almost disappeared, and the position of Savona=
rola
was made more hopeful by a favourable magistracy, who were writing urgent
vindicatory letters to Rome on his behalf, entreating the withdrawal of the
Excommunication.
Romola's healthy and vigorous frame
was undergoing the reaction of languor inevitable after continuous exciteme=
nt
and over-exertion; but her mental restlessness would not allow her to remai=
n at
home without peremptory occupation, except during the sultry hours. In the =
cool
of the morning and evening she walked out constantly, varying her direction=
as
much as possible, with the vague hope that if Baldassarre were still alive =
she
might encounter him. Perhaps some illness had brought a new paralysis of
memory, and he had forgotten where she lived - forgotten even her existence.
That was her most sanguine explanation of his non-appearance. The explanati=
on
she felt to be most probable was, that he had died of the Plague.
The morning warmth was already
beginning to be rather oppressive to Romola, when, after a walk along by the
walls on her way from San Marco, she turned towards the intersecting streets
again at the gate of Santa Croce.
The Borgo La Croce was so still, t=
hat
she listened to her own footsteps on the pavement in the sunny silence, unt=
il,
on approaching a bend in the street, she saw, a few yards before her, a lit=
tle
child not more than three years old, with no other clothing than his white
shirt, pause from a waddling run and look around him. In the first moment of
coming nearer she could only see his back - a boy's back, square and sturdy,
with a cloud of reddish-brown curls above it; but in the next he turned tow=
ards
her, and she could see his dark eyes wide with tears, and his lower lip pus=
hed
up and trembling, while his fat brown fists dutched his shirt helplessly. T=
he
glimpse of a tall black figure sending a shadow over him brought his bewild=
ered
fear to a climax, and a loud crying sob sent the big tears rolling.
Romola, with the ready maternal
instinct which was one hidden source of her passionate tenderness, instantly
uncovered her head, and, stooping down on the pavement, put her arms round =
him,
and her cheeks against his, while she spoke to him in caressing tones. At f=
irst
his sobs were only the louder, but he made no effort to get away, and prese=
ntly
the outburst ceased with that strange abruptness which belongs to childish =
joys
and griefs: his face lost its distortion, and was fixed in an open-mouthed =
gaze
at Romola.
'You have lost yourself, little on=
e,'
she said, kissing him. 'Never mind I we will find the house again. Perhaps
mamma will meet us.'
She divined that he had made his
escape at a moment when the mother's eyes were turned away from him, and
thought it likely that he would soon be followed.
'Oh, what a heavy, heavy boy!' she
said, trying to lift him. 'I cannot carry you. Come, then, you must toddle =
back
by my side.'
The parted lips remained motionles=
s in
awed silence, and one brown fist still clutched the shirt with as much tena=
city
as ever; but the other yielded itself quite willingly to the wonderful white
hand, strong but soft.
'You have a mamma?' said Romola, as
they set out, looking down at the boy with a certain yearning. But he was m=
ute.
A girl under those circumstances might perhaps have chirped abundantly; not=
so
this square-shouldered little man with the big cloud of curls.
He was awake to the first sign of =
his
whereabout, however. At the turning by the front of San Ambrogio he dragged
Romola towards it, looking up at her.
'Ah, that is the way home, is it?'=
she
said, smiling at him. He only thrust his head forward and pulled, as an
admonition that they should go faster.
There was still another turning th=
at
he had a decided opinion about, and then Romola found herself in a short st=
reet
leading to open garden ground. It was in front of a house at the end of this
street that the little fellow paused, pulling her towards some stone stairs=
. He
had evidently no wish for her to loose his hand, and she would not have been
willing to leave him without being sure that she was delivering him to his
friends. They mounted the stairs, seeing but dimly in that sudden withdrawal
from the sunlight, till, at the final landing-place, an extra stream of lig=
ht
came from an open doorway. Passing through a small lobby, they came to anot=
her
open door, and there Romola paused. Her approach had not been heard.
On a low chair at the farther end =
of
the room, opposite the light, sat Tessa, with one hand on the edge of the
cradle, and her head hanging a little on one side, fast asleep. Near one of=
the
windows, with her back turned towards the door, sat Monna Lisa at her work =
of
preparing salad, in deaf unconsciousness. There was only an instant for
Romola's eyes to take in that still scene; for Lillo snatched his hand away
from her and ran up to his mother's side, not making any direct effort to w=
ake
her, but only leaning his head back against her arm, and surveying Romola
seriously from that distance.
As Lillo pushed against her, Tessa
opened her eyes, and looked up in bewilderment; but her glance had no sooner
rested on the figure at the opposite doorway than she started up, blushed
deep]y, and began to tremble a little, neither speaking nor moving forward.=
'Ah I we have seen each other befo=
re,'
said Romola, smiling, and coming forward. 'I am glad it was your little boy=
. He
was crying in the street; I suppose he had run away. So we walked together a
little way, and then he knew where he was, and brought me here. But you had=
not
missed him? That is well, else you would have been frightened.'
The shock of finding that Lillo had
run away overcame every other feeling in Tessa for the moment. Her colour w=
ent
again, and, seizing Lillo's arm, she ran with him to Monna Lisa, saying, wi=
th a
half sob, loud in the old woman's ear -
'Oh, Lisa, you are wicked! Why will
you stand with your back to the door? Lillo ran away ever so far into the
street.'
'Holy Mother!' said Monna Lisa, in=
her
meek, thick tone, letting the spoon fall from her hands. 'Where were you, t=
hen?
I thought you were there, and had your eye on hum.'
'But you know I go to sleep when I=
am
rocking,' said Tessa, in pettish remonstrance.
'Well, well, we must keep the outer
door shut, or else tie him up,' said Monna Lisa, 'for he'll be as cunning as
Satan before long, and that's the holy truth. But how came he back, then?' =
This question recalled Tessa to the
consciousness of Romola's presence. Without answering, she turned towards h=
er,
blushing and timid again, and Monna Lisa's eyes followed her movement. The =
old
woman made a low reverence, and said -
'Doubtless the most noble lady bro=
ught
him back.' Then, advancing a little nearer to Romola, she added, 'It's my s=
hame
for him to have been found with only his shirt on; but he kicked, and would=
n't
have his other clothes on this morning, and the mother, poor thing, will ne=
ver
hear of his being beaten. But what's an old woman to do without a stick when
the lad's legs get so strong? Let your nobleness look at his legs.'
Lillo, conscious that his legs wer=
e in
question, pulled his shirt up a little higher, and looked down at their oli=
ve
roundness with a dispassionate and curious air. Romola laughed, and stooped=
to
give him a caressing shake and a kiss, and this action helped the reassuran=
ce
that Tessa had already gathered from Monna Lisa's address to Romola. For wh=
en
Naldo had been told about the adventure at the Carnival, and Tessa had asked
him who the heavenly lady that had come just when she was wanted, and had
vanished so soon, was likely to be - whether she could be the Holy Madonna
herself? - he had answered, 'Not exactly, my Tessa; only one of the saints,'
and had not chosen to say more. So that in the dream-like combination of sm=
all
experience which made up Tessa's thought, Romola had remained confusedly
associated with the pictures in the churches, and when she reappeared, the
grateful remembrance of her protection was slightly tinctured with religious
awe - not deeply, for Tessa's dread was chiefly of ugly and evil beings. It
seemed unlikely that good beings would be angry and punish her, as it was t=
he
nature of Nofri and the devil to do. And now that Monna Lisa had spoken fre=
ely
about Lillo's legs and Romola had laughed, Tessa was more at her ease.
'Ninna's in the cradle,' she said.
'She's pretty too.'
Romola went to look at the sleeping
Ninna, and Monna Lisa, one of the exceptionally meek deaf, who never expect=
to
be spoken to, returned to her salad.
'Ah! she is waking: she has opened=
her
blue eyes,' said Romola. 'You must take her up, and I will sit down in this
chair - may I? - and nurse Lillo. Come, Lillo.'
She sat down in Tito's chair, and =
put
out her arms towards the lad, whose eyes had followed her. He hesitated: an=
d,
pointing his small fingers at her with a half-puzzled, half-angry feeling,
said, 'That's Babbo's chair,' not seeing his way out of the difficulty if B=
abbo
came and found Romola in his place.
'But Babbo is not here, and I shal=
l go
soon. Come, let me nurse you as he does,' said Romola, wondering to herself=
for
the first time what sort of Babbo he was whose wife was dressed in contadina
fashion, but had a certain daintiness about her person that indicated idlen=
ess
and plenty. Lillo consented to be lifted up, and, finding the lap exceeding=
ly
comfortable, began to explore her dress and hands, to see if there were any
ornaments beside the rosary.
Tessa, who had hitherto been occup=
ied
in coaxing Ninna out of her waking peevishness, now sat down in her low cha=
ir,
near Romola's knee, arranging Ninna's tiny person to advantage, jealous that
the strange lady too seemed to notice the boy most, as Naldo did.
'Lillo was going to be angry with =
me,
because I sat in Babbo's chair,' said Romola, as she bent forward to kiss
Ninna's little foot. 'Will he come soon and want it?'
'Ah, no!' said Tessa, 'you can sit=
in
it a long while. I shall be sorry when you go. When you first came to take =
care
of me at the Carnival, I thought it was wonderful; you came and went away a=
gain
so fast. And Naldo said, perhaps you were a saint, and that made me tremble=
a
little, though the saints are very good, I know; and you were good to me, a=
nd
now you have taken care of Lillo. Perhaps you will always come and take car=
e of
me. That was how Naldo did a long while ago; he came and took care of me wh=
en I
was frightened, one San Giovanni. I couldn't think where he came from - he =
was
so beautiful and good. And so are you,' ended Tessa, looking up at Romola w=
ith
devout admiration.
'Naldo is your husband. His eyes a=
re
like Lillo's,' said Romola, looking at the boy's darkly-pencilled eyebrows,
unusual at his age. She did not speak interrogatively, but with a quiet
certainty of inference which was necessarily mysterious to Tessa.
'Ah! you know him!' she said, paus=
ing
a little in wonder. 'Perhaps you know Nofri and Peretola, and our house on =
the
hill, and everything. Yes, like Lillo's; but not his hair. His hair is dark=
and
long-' she went on, getting rather excited. 'Ah! if you know it, ecco!'
She had put her hand to a thin red
silk cord that hung round her neck, and drew from her bosom the tiny old
parchment Breve, the horn of red coral, and a long dark curl carefully tied=
at
one end and suspended with those mystic treasures. She held them towards
Romola, away from Ninna's snatching hand.
'It is a fresh one. I cut it latel=
y.
See how bright it is!' she said, laying it against the white background of
Romola's fingers. 'They get dim, and then he lets me cut another when his h=
air
is grown; and I put it with the Breve, because sometimes he is away a long
while, and then I think it helps to take care of me.'
A slight shiver passed through Rom=
ola
as the curl was laid across her fingers. At Tessa's first mention of her
husband as having come mysteriously she knew not whence, a possibility had
risen before Romola that made her heart beat faster; for to one who is
anxiously in search of a certain object the faintest suggestions have a
peculiar significance. And when the curl was held towards her, it seemed fo=
r an
instant like a mocking phantasm of the lock she herself had cut to wind with
one of her own five years ago. But she preserved her outward calmness, bent=
not
only on knowing the truth, but also on coming to that knowledge in a way th=
at
would not pain this poor, trusting, ignorant thing, with the child's mind in
the woman's body. 'Foolish and helpless: ' yes; so far she corresponded to
Baldassarre's account.
'It is a beautiful curl,' she said,
resisting the impulse to withdraw her hand. 'Lillo's curls will be like it,
perhaps, for his cheek, too, is dark. And you never know where your husband
goes to when he leaves you?'
'No,' said Tessa, putting back her
treasures out of the children's way. 'But I know Messer San Michele takes c=
are
of him, for he gave him a beautiful coat, all made of little chains; and if=
he
puts that on, nobody can kill him. And perhaps, if -' Tessa hesitated a lit=
tle,
under a recurrence of that original dreamy wonder about Romola which had be=
en
expelled by chatting contact - 'if you were a saint, you would take care of
him, too, because you have taken care of me and Lillo.'
An agitated flush came over Romola=
's
face in the first moment of certainty, but she had bent her cheek against
Lillo's head. The feeling that leaped out in that flush was something like
exultation at the thought that the wife's burden might be about to slip from
her overladen shoulders; that this little ignorant creature might prove to =
be
Tito's lawful wife. A strange exultation for a proud and high-born woman to
have been brought to! But it seemed to Romola as if that were the only issue
that would make duty anything else for her than an insoluble problem. Yet s=
he
was not deaf to Tessa's last appealing words; she raised her head, and said=
, in
her clearest tones -
'I will always take care of you if=
I
see you need me. But that beautiful coat? your husband did not wear it when=
you
were first married? Perhaps he used not to be so long away from you then?' =
'Ah, yes! he was. Much - much long=
er.
So long, I thought he would never come back. I used to cry. Oh me! I was be=
aten
then; a long, long while ago at Peretola, where we had the goats and mules.=
'
'And how long had you been married
before your husband had that chain coat?' said Romola, her heart beating fa=
ster
and faster.
Tessa looked meditative, and began=
to
count on her fingers, and Romola watched the fingers as if they would tell =
the
secret of her destiny.
'The chestnuts were ripe when we w=
ere
married,' said Tessa, marking off her thumb and fingers again as she spoke;
'and then again they were ripe at Peretola before he came back, and then ag=
ain,
after that, on the hill. And soon the soldiers came, and we heard the trump=
ets,
and then Naldo had the coat.'
'You had been married more than two
years. In which church were you married?' said Romola, too entirely absorbe=
d by
one thought to put any question that was less direct. Perhaps before the ne=
xt
morning she might go to her godfather and say that she was not Tito Melema's
lawful wife - that the vows which had bound her to strive after an impossib=
le
union had been made void beforehand.
Tessa gave a slight start at Romol=
a's
new tone of inquiry, and looked up at her with a hesitating expression.
Hitherto she had prattled on without consciousness that she was making
revelations, any more than when she said old things over and over again to
Monna Lisa.
'Naldo said I was never to tell ab=
out
that,' she said, doubtfully. 'Do you think he would not be angry if I told
you?'
'It is right that you should tell =
me.
Tell me everything,' said Romola, looking at her with mild authority.
If the impression from Naldo's com=
mand
had been much more recent than it was, the constraining effect of Romola's
mysterious authority would have overcome it. But the sense that she was tel=
ling
what she had never told before made her begin with a lowered voice.
'It was not in a church - it was at
the Nativita, when there was a fair, and all the-people went overnight to s=
ee
the Madonna in the Nunziata, and my mother was ill and couldn't go, and I t=
ook
the bunch of cocoons for her; and then he came to me in the church and I he=
ard
him say, ‘Tessa! ‘ I knew him because he had taken care of me at
the San Giovanni, and then we went into the piazza where the fair was, and I
had some berlingozzi, for I was hungry and he was very good to me; and at t=
he
end of the piazza there was a holy father, and an altar like what they have=
at
the processions outside the churches. So he married us, and then Naldo took=
me
back into the church and left me; and I went home, and my mother died, and
Nofri began to beat me more, and Naldo never came back. And I used to cry, =
and
once at the Carnival I saw him and followed him, and he was angry, and said=
he
would come some time, I must wait. So I went and waited; but, oh! it was a =
long
while before he came; but he would have come if he could, for he was good; =
and
then he took me away, because I cried and said I could not bear to stay with
Nofri. And, oh! I was so glad, and since then I have been always happy, for=
I
don't mind about the goats and mules, because I have Lillo and Ninna now; a=
nd
Naldo is never angry, only I think he doesn't love Ninna so well as Lillo, =
and
she is pretty.'
Quite forgetting that she had thou=
ght
her speech rather momentous at the beginning, Tessa fell to devouring Ninna=
with
kisses, while Romola sat in silence with absent eyes. It was inevitable tha=
t in
this moment she should think of the three beings before her chiefly in their
relation to her own lot, and she was feeling the chill of disappointment th=
at
her difficulties were not to be solved by external law. She had relaxed her
hold of Lillo, and was leaning her cheek against her hand, seeing nothing of
the scene around her. Lillo was quick in perceiving a change that was not
agreeable to him; he had not yet made any return to her caresses, but he
objected to their withdrawal, and putting up both his brown arms to pull her
head towards him, he said, 'Play with me again!'
Romola, roused from her
self-absorption, clasped the lad anew, and looked from him to Tessa, who had
now paused from her shower of kisses, and seemed to have returned to the mo=
re
placid delight of contemplating the heavenly lady's face. That face was
undergoing a subtle change, like the gradual oncoming of a warmer, softer
light. Presently Romola took her scissors from her scarsella, and cut off o=
ne
of her long wavy locks, while the three pair of wide eyes followed her
movements with kitten-like observation.
'I must go away from you now,' she
said, 'but I will leave this lock of hair that it may remind you of me, bec=
ause
if you are ever in trouble you can think that perhaps God will send me to t=
ake
care of you again. I cannot tell you where to find me, but if I ever know t=
hat
you want me, I will come to you. Addio!'
She had set down Lillo hurriedly, =
and
held out her hand to Tessa, who kissed it with a mixture of awe and sorrow =
at
this parting. Romola's mind was oppressed with thoughts; she needed to be a=
lone
as soon as possible, but with her habitual care for the least fortunate, she
turned aside to put her hand in a friendly way on Monna Lisa's shoulder and
make her a farewell sign. Before the old woman-had finished her deep revere=
nce,
Romola had disappeared.
Monna Lisa and Tessa moved towards
each other by simultaneous impulses, while the two children stood clinging =
to
their mother's skirts as if they, too, felt the atmosphere of awe.
'Do you think she was a saint?' sa=
id
Tessa, in Lisa's ear, showing her the lock.
Lisa rejected that notion very
decidedly by a backward movement of her fingers, and then stroking the ripp=
led
gold, said -
'She's a great and noble lady. I s=
aw
such in my youth.'
Romola went home and sat alone thr=
ough
the sultry hours of that day with the heavy certainty that her lot was
unchanged. She was thrown back again on the conflict between the demands of=
an
outward law, which she recognised as a widely-ramifying obligation, and the
demands of inner moral facts which were becoming more and more peremptory. =
She
had drunk in deeply the spirit of that teaching by which Savonarola had urg=
ed her
to return to her place. She felt that the sanctity attached to all close
relations, and, therefore, preeminently to the closest, was but the express=
ion
in outward law of that result towards which all human goodness and nobleness
must spontaneously tend; that the light abandonment of ties, whether inheri=
ted
or voluntary, because they had ceased to be pleasant, was the uprooting af
social and personal virtue. What else had Tito's crime towards Baldassarre =
been
but that abandonment working itself out to the most hideous extreme of fals=
ity
and ingratitude?
And the inspiring consciousness
breathed into her by Savonarola's influence that her lot was vitally united
with the general lot had exalted even the minor details of obligation into
religion. She was marching with a great army; she was feeling the stress of=
a
common life. If victims were needed, and it was uncertain on whom the lot m=
ight
fall, she would stand ready to answer to her name. She had stood long; she =
had
striven hard to fulfil the bond, but she had seen all the conditions which =
made
the fulfilment possible gradually forsaking her. The one effect of her
marriage-tie seemed to be the stifling predominance over her of a nature th=
at
she despised. All her efforts at union had only made its impossibility more
palpable, and the relation had become for her simply a degrading servitude.=
The
law was sacred. Yes, but the rebellion might be sacred too. It flashed upon=
her
mind that the problem before her was essentially the same as that which had
lain before Savonarola - the problem where the sacredness of obedience ende=
d,
and where the sacredness of rebellion began. To her, as to him, there had c=
ome
one of those moments in life when the soul must dare to act on its own warr=
ant,
not only without external law to appeal to, but in the face of a law which =
is
not unarmed with Divine lightnings - lightnings that may yet fall if the
warrant has been false.
Before the sun had gone down she h=
ad
adopted a resolve. She would ask no counsel of her godfather or of Savonaro=
la
until she had made one determined effort to speak freely with Tito and obta=
in
his consent that she should live apart from him. She desired not to leave h=
im
clandestinely again, or to forsake Florence. She would tell him that if he =
ever
felt a real need of her, she would come back to him. Was not that the utmost
faithfulness to her bond that could be required of her? A shuddering
anticipation came over her that he would clothe a refusal in a sneering
suggestion that she should enter a convent as the only mode of quitting him
that would not be scandalous. He knew well that her mind revolted from that
means of escape, not only because of her own repugnance to a narrow rule, b=
ut
because all the cherished memories of her father forbade that she should ad=
opt a
mode of life which was associated with his deepest griefs and his bitterest
dislike.
Tito had announced his intention of
coming home this evening. She would wait for him, and say what she had to s=
ay
at once, for it was difficult to get his ear during the day. If he had the
slightest suspicion that personal words were coming, he slipped away with an
appearance of unpremeditated ease. When she sent for Maso to tell him that =
she
would wait for his master, she observed that the old man looked at her and =
lingered
with a mixture of hesitation and wondering anxiety; but finding that she as=
ked
him no question, he slowly turned away. Why should she ask questions? Perha=
ps
Maso only knew or guessed something of what she knew already.
It was late before Tito came. Romo=
la
had been pacing up and down the long room which had once been the library, =
with
the windows open, and a loose white linen robe on instead of her usual black
garment. She was glad of that change after the long hours of heat and
motionless meditation; but the coolness and exercise made her more intensely
wakeful, and as she went with the lamp in her hand to open the door for Tit=
o,
he might well have been startled by the vividness of her eyes and the
expression of painful resolution, which was in contrast with her usual
self-restrained quiescence before him. But it seemed that this excitement w=
as
just what he expected.
'Ah! it is you, Romola. Maso is go=
ne
to bed,' he said, in a grave, quiet tone, interposing to close the door for
her. Then, turning round, he said, looking at her more fully than he was wo=
nt,
'You have heard it all, I see.'
Romola quivered. He then was incli=
ned
to take the initiative. He had been to Tessa. She led the way through the
nearest door, set down her lamp, and turned towards him again.
'You must not think despairingly of
the consequences,' said Tito, in a tone of soothing encouragement, at which
Romola stood wondering, until he added, 'The accused have too many family t=
ies
with all parties not to escape; and Messer Bernardo del Nero has other thin=
gs
in his favour besides his age.'
Romola started, and gave a cry as =
if
she had been suddenly stricken by a sharp weapon.
'What! you did not know it?' said
Tito, putting his hand under her arm that he might lead her to a seat; but =
she
seemed to be unaware of his touch.
'Tell me,' she said, hastily - 'te=
ll
me what it is.'
'A man, whose name you may forget -
Lamberto dell' Antella - who was banished, has been seized within the
territory: a letter has been found on him of very dangerous import to the c=
hief
Mediceans, and the scoundrel, who was once a favourite hound of Piero de'
Medici, is ready now to swear what any one pleases against him or his frien=
ds.
Some have made their escape, but five are now in prison.'
'My godfather?' said Romola, scarc=
ely
above a whisper, as Tito made a slight pause.
'Yes: I grieve to say it. But along
with him there are three, at least, whose names have a commanding interest =
even
among the popular party - Niccolo Ridolfi, Lorenzo Tornabuoni, and Giannozzo
Pucci.'
The tide of Romola's feelings had =
been
violently turned into a new channel. In the tumult of that moment there cou=
ld
be no check to the words which came as the impulsive utterance of her
long-accumulating horror. When Tito had named the men of whom she felt cert=
ain
he was the confederate, she said, with a recoiling gesture and low-toned
bitterness -
'And you - you are safe?'
'You are certainly an amiable wife=
, my
Romola,' said Tito, with the coldest irony. 'Yes; I am safe.'
They turned away from each other in
silence.
Tito had good reasons for saying t=
hat
he was safe. In the last three months, during which he had foreseen the
discovery of the Medicean conspirators as a probable event, he had had plen=
ty
of time to provide himself with resources. He had been strengthening his
influence at Rome and at Milan, by being the medium of secret information a=
nd
indirect measures against the Frate and the popular party; he had cultivated
more assiduously than ever the regard of this party, by showing subtle evid=
ence
that his political convictions were entirely on their side; and all the whi=
le,
instead of withdrawing his agency from the Mediceans, he had sought to be m=
ore
actively employed and exclusively trusted by them. It was easy to him to ke=
ep
up this triple game. The principle of duplicity admitted by the Mediceans on
their own behalf deprived them of any standard by which they could measure =
the
trustworthiness of a colleague who had not, like themselves, hereditary
interests, alliances, and prejudices, which were intensely Medicean. In the=
ir
minds, to deceive the opposite party was fair stratagem; to deceive their o=
wn
party was a baseness to which they felt no temptation; and, in using Tito's
facile ability, they were not keenly awake to the fact that the absence of
traditional attachments which made him a convenient agent was also the abse=
nce
of what among themselves was the chief guarantee of mutual honour. Again, t=
he
Roman and Milanese friends of the aristocracy party, or Arrabbiati, who were
the bitterest enemies of Savonarola, carried on a system of underhand
correspondence and espionage, in which the deepest hypocrisy was the best
service, and demanded the heaviest pay; so that to suspect an agent because=
he
played a part strongly would have been an absurd want of logic. On the other
hand, the Piagnoni of the popular party, who had the directness that belong=
s to
energetic conviction, were the more inclined to credit Tito with sincerity =
in
his political adhesion to them, because he affected no religious sympathies=
.
By virtue of these conditions, the
last three months had been a time of flattering success to Tito. The result=
he
most cared for was the securing of a future position for himself at Rome or=
at
Milan for he had a growing determination, when the favourable moment should
come, to quit Florence for one of those great capitals where life was easie=
r,
and the rewards of talent and learning were more splendid. At present, the
scale dipped in favour of Milan; and if within the year he could render cer=
tain
services to Duke Ludovico Sforza, he had the prospect of a place at the
Milanese court which outweighed the advantages of Rome.
The revelation of the Medicean
conspiracy, then, had been a subject of forethought to Tito; but he had not
been able to foresee the mode in which it would be brought about. The arres=
t of
Lamberto dell' Antella with a tell-tale letter on his person, and a bitter
rancour against the Medici in his heart, was an incalculable event. It was =
not
possible, in spite of the careful pretexts with which his agency had been
guarded, that Tito should escape implication: he had never expected this in
case of any wide discovery concerning the Medicean plots. But his quick mind
had soon traced out the course that would secure his own safety with the fe=
west
unpleasant concomitants. It is agreeable to keep a whole skin; but the skin
still remains an organ sensitive to the atmosphere.
His reckoning had not deceived him.
That night, before he returned home, he had secured the three results for w=
hich
he most cared: he was to be freed from all proceedings against him on accou=
nt
of complicity with the Mediceans; he was to retain his secretaryship for
another year, unless he previously resigned it; and, lastly, the price by w=
hich
he had obtained these guarantees was to be kept as a State secret. The price
would have been thought heavy by most men; and Tito himself would rather not
have paid it.
He had applied himself first to win
the mind of Francesco Valori, who was not only one of the Ten under whom he
immediately held his secretaryship, but one of the special council appoinre=
d to
investigate the evidence of the plot. Francesco Valori, as we have seen, was
the head of the Piagnoni, a man with certain fine qualities that were not
incompatible with violent partisanship, with an arrogant temper that aliena=
ted
his friends, nor with bitter personal animosities - one of the bitterest be=
ing
directed against Bernardo del Nero. To him, in a brief private interview, a=
fter
obtaining a pledge of secrecy, Tito avowed his own agency for the Mediceans=
-
an agency induced by motives about which he was very frank, declaring at the
same time that he had always believed their efforts futile, and that he
sincerely preferred the maintenance of the popular government; affected to
confide to Valori, as a secret, his own personal dislike for Bernardo del N=
ero;
and, after this preparation, came to the important statement that there was
another Medicean plot, of which, if he obtained certain conditions from the
government, he could, by a journey to Siena and into Romagna, where Piero d=
e'
Medici was again trying to gather forces, obtain documentary evidence to lay
before the council. To this end it was essential that his character as a
Medicean agent should be unshaken for all Mediceans, and hence the fact tha=
t he
had been a source of information to the authorities must be wrapped in prof=
ound
secrecy. Still, some odour of the facts might escape in spite of precaution,
and before Tito could incur the unpleasant consequences of acting against h=
is
friends, he must be assured of immunity from any prosecution as a Medicean,=
and
from deprivation of office for a year to come.
These propositions did not sound in
the ear of Francesco Valori precisely as they sound to us. Valori's mind was
not intensely bent on the estimation of Tito's conduct; and it was intensely
bent on procuring an extreme sentence against the five prisoners. There were
sure to be immense efforts to save them; and it was to be wished (on public=
grounds)
that the evidence against them should be of the strongest, so as to alarm a=
ll
well-affected men at the dangers of clemency. The character of legal
proceedings at that time implied that evidence was one of those desirable
things which could only be come at by foul means. To catch a few people and
torture them into confessing everybody's guilt was one step towards justice;
and it was not always easy to see the next, unless a traitor turned up.
Lamberto dell' Antella had been tortured in aid of his previous willingness=
to
tell more than he knew; nevertheless, additional and stronger facts were
desirable, especially against Bernardo del Nero, who, so far as appeared
hitherto, had simply refrained from betraying the late plot after having tr=
ied
in vain to discourage it; for the welfare of Florence demanded that the gui=
lt
of Bernardo del Nero should be put in the strongest light. So Francesco Val=
ori
zealously believed; and perhaps he was not himself aware that the strength =
of
his zeal was determined by his hatred. He decided that Tito's proposition o=
ught
to be accepted, laid it before his colleagues without disclosing Tito's nam=
e,
and won them over to his opinion. Late in the day, Tito was admitted to an
audience of the Special Council, and produced a deep sensation among them by
revealing another plot for insuring the mastery of Florence to Piero de'
Medici, which was to have been carried into execution in the middle of this
very month of August. Documentary evidence on this subject would do more th=
an
anything else to make the right course clear. He received a commission to s=
tart
for Siena by break of day; and, besides this, he carried away with him from=
the
council chamber a written guarantee of his immunity and of his retention of
office.
Among the twenty Florentines who b=
ent
their grave eyes on Tito, as he stood gracefully before them, speaking of
startling things with easy periphrasis, and with that apparently unaffected
admission of being actuated by motives short of the highest, which is often=
the
intensest affectation, there were several whose minds were not too entirely
preoccupied to pass a new judgment on him in these new circumstances; they
silently concluded that this ingenious and serviceable Greek was in future
rather to be used for public needs than for private intimacy. Unprincipled =
men
were useful, enabling those who had more scruples to keep their hands toler=
ably
clean in a world where there was much dirty work to be done. Indeed, it was=
not
clear to respectable Florentine brains, unless they held the Frate's
extravagant belief in a possible purity and loftiness to be striven for on =
this
earth, how life was to be carried on in any department without human
instruments whom it would not be unbecoming to kick or to spit upon in the =
act
of handing them their wages. Some of these very men who passed a tacit judg=
ment
on Tito were shortly to be engaged in a memorable transaction that could by=
no
means have been carried through without the use of an unscrupulousness as
decided as his; but, as their own bright poet Pulci had said for them, it is
one thing to love the fruits of treachery, and another thing to love traito=
rs -
'Il tradim=
ento
a molti piace assai,
Ma il traditore a gnun non piacque mai.'
The same society has had a gibbet =
for
the murderer and a gibbet for the martyr, an execrating hiss for a dastardly
act, and as loud a hiss for many a word of generous truthfulness or just
insight: a mixed condition of things which is the sign, not of hopeless
confusion, but of struggling order.
For Tito himself, he was not unawa=
re
that he had sunk a little in the estimate of the men who had accepted his
services. He had that degree of self-contemplation which necessarily
accompanies the habit of acting on well-considered reasons, of whatever
quality; and if he could have chosen, he would have declined to see himself
disapproved by men of the world. He had never meant to be disapproved; he h=
ad
meant always to conduct himself so ably that if he acted in opposition to t=
he
standard of other men they should not be aware of it; and the barrier betwe=
en
himself and Romola had been raised by the impossibility of such concealment
with her. He shrank from condemnatory judgments as from a climate to which =
he
could not adapt himself. But things were not so plastic in the hands of
cleverness as could be wished, and events had turned out inconveniently. He=
had
really no rancour against Messer Bernardo del Nero; he had a personal liking
for Lorenzo Tornabuoni and Giannozzo Pucci. He had served them very ably, a=
nd
in such a way that if their party had been winners he would have merited hi=
gh
reward; but was he to relinquish all the agreeable fruits of life because t=
heir
party had failed? His proffer of a little additional proof against them wou=
ld
probably have no influence on their fate; in fact, he felt convinced they w=
ould
escape any extreme consequences; but if he had not given it, his own fortun=
es,
which made a promising fabric, would have been utterly ruined. And what mot=
ive
could any man really have, except his own interest? Florentines whose passi=
ons
were engaged in their petty and precarious political schemes might have no
self-interest separable from family pride and tenacity in old hatreds and
attachments; a modern simpleton who swallowed whole one of the old systems =
of philosophy,
and took the indigestion it occasioned for the signs of a divine afflux or =
the
voice of an inward monitor, might see his interest in a form of self-conceit
which he called self-rewarding virtue; fanatics who believed in the coming
Scourge and Renovation might see their own interest in a future palm-branch=
and
white robe: but no man of clear intellect allowed his course to be determin=
ed
by such puerile impulses or questionable inward fumes. Did not Pontanus, po=
et
and philosopher of unrivalled Latinity, make the finest possible oration at
Naples to welcome the French king, who had come to dethrone the learned
orator's royal friend and patron? and still Pontanus held up his head and
prospered. Men did not really care about these things, except when their
personal spleen was touched. It was weakness only that was despised; power =
of
any sort carried its immunity; and no man, unless by very rare good fortune,
could mount high in the world without incurring a few unpleasant necessities
which laid him open to enmity, and perhaps to a little hissing, when enmity
wanted a pretext.
It was a faint prognostic of that
hissing, gathered by Tito from certain indications when he was before the
council, which gave his present conduct the character of an epoch to him, a=
nd
made him dwell on it with argumentative vindication. It was not that he was
taking a deeper step in wrong-doing, for it was not possible that he should
feel any tie to the Mediceans to be stronger than the tie to his father; but
his conduct to his father had been hidden by successful lying: his present =
act
did not admit of total concealment - in its very nature it was a revelation.
And Tito winced under his new liability to disesteem.
Well! a little patience, and in
another year, or perhaps in half a year, he might turn his back on these ha=
rd,
eager Florentines, with their futile quarrels and sinking fortunes. His
brilliant success at Florence had had some ugly flaws in it: he had fallen =
in
love with the wrong woman, and Baldassarre had come back under incalculable
circumstances. But as Tito galloped with a loose rein towards Siena, he saw=
a
future before him in which he would no longer be haunted by those mistakes.=
He
had much money safe out of Florence already; he was in the fresh ripeness of
eight-and-twenty; he was conscious of well-tried skill. Could he not strip
himself of the past, as of rehearsal clothing, and throw away the old bundl=
e,
to robe himself for the real scene?
It did not enter into Tito's
meditations on the future, that, on issuing from the council chamber and
descending the stairs, he had brushed against a man whose face he had not
stayed to recognise in the lamplight. The man was Ser Ceccone - also willin=
g to
serve the State by giving information against unsuccessful employers.
Tito soon returned from Siena, but
almost immediately set out on another journey, from which he did not return
till the seventeenth of August. Nearly a fortnight had passed since the arr=
est
of the accused, and still they were in prison, still their fate was uncerta=
in.
Romola had felt during this interval as if all cares were suspended for her,
other than watching the fluctuating probabilities concerning that fate.
Sometimes they seemed strongly in favour of the prisoners; for the chances =
of
effective interest on their behalf were heightened by delay, and an indefin=
ite
prospect of delay was opened by the reluctance of all persons in authority =
to
incur the odium attendant on any decision. On the one side there was a loud=
cry.
that the Republic was in danger, and that lenity to the prisoners would be =
the
signal of attack for all its enemies; on the other, there was a certainty t=
hat
a sentence of death and confiscation of property passed on five citizens of
distinguished name, would entail the rancorous hatred of their relatives on=
all
who were conspicuously instrumental to such a sentence.
The final judgment properly lay wi=
th
the Eight, who presided over the administration of criminal justice; and the
sentence depended on a majority of six votes. But the Eight shrank from the=
ir
onerous responsibility, and asked in this exceptional case to have it share=
d by
the Signoria (or the Gonfaloniere and the eight Priors). The Signoria in its
turn shrugged its shoulders, and proposed the appeal to the Great Council. =
For,
according to a law passed by the earnest persuasion of Savonarola nearly th=
ree
years before, whenever a citizen was condemned to death by the fatal six vo=
tes
(called the sei fave or six beans, beans being in more senses than one the
political pulse of Florence), he had the right of appealing from that sente=
nce
to the Great Council.
But in this stage of the business,=
the
friends of the accused resisted the appeal, determined chiefly by the wish =
to
gain delay; and, in fact, strict legality required that sentence should have
been passed prior to the appeal. Their resistance prevailed, and a middle
course was taken; the sentence was referred to a large assembly convened on=
the
seventeenth, consisting of all the higher magistracies, the smaller council=
or
Senate of Eighty, and a select number of citizens.
On this day Romola, with anxiety
heightened by the possibility that before its close her godfather's fate mi=
ght
be decided, had obtained leave to see him for the second time, but only in =
the
presence of witnesses. She had returned to the Via de' Bardi in company with
her cousin Brigida, still ignorant whether the council had come to any deci=
sive
issue; and Monna Brigida had gone out again to await the momentous news at =
the
house of a friend belonging to one of the magistracies, that she might bring
back authentic tidings as soon as they were to be had.
Romola had sunk on the first seat =
in
the bright saloon, too much agitated, too sick at heart, to care about her
place, or be conscious of discordance in the objects that surrounded her. S=
he
sat with her back to the door, resting her head on her hands. It seemed a l=
ong
while since Monna Brigida had gone, and Romola was expecting her return. But
when the door opened she knew it was not Monna Brigida who entered.
Since she had parted from Tito on =
that
memorable night, she had had no external proof to warrant her belief that he
had won his safety by treachery; on the contrary, she had had evidence that=
he
was still trusted by the Mediceans, and was believed by them to be
accomplishing certain errands of theirs in Romagna, under cover of fulfilli=
ng a
commission of the government. For the obscurity in which the evidence
concerning the conspirators was shrouded allowed it to be understood that T=
ito
had escaped any implication.
But Romola's suspicion was not to =
be
dissipated: her horror of his conduct towards Baldassarre projected itself =
over
every conception of his acts; it was as if she had seen him committing a
murder, and had had a diseased impression ever after that his hands were
covered with fresh blood.
As she heard his step on the stone
floor, a chill shudder passed through her; she could not turn round, she co=
uld
not rise to give any greeting. He did not speak, but after an instant's pau=
se
took a seat on the other side of the table just opposite to her. Then she
raised her eyes and looked at him; but she was mute. He did not show any
irritation, but said, coolly -
'This meeting corresponds with our
parting, Romola. But I understand that it is a moment of terrible suspense.=
I
am come, however, if you will listen to me, to bring you the relief of hope=
.'
She started, and altered her posit=
ion,
but looked at him dubiously.
'It will not be unwelcome to you to
hear - even though it is I who tell it - that the council is prorogued till=
the
twenty-first. The Eight have been frightened at last into passing a sentenc=
e of
condemnation, but the demand has now been made on behalf of the condemned f=
or
the Appeal to the Great Council.'
Romola's face lost its dubious
expression; she asked eagerly -
'And when is it to be made?'
'It has not yet been granted; but =
it
may be granted. The Special Council is to meet again on the twenty-first to
deliberate whether the Appeal shall be allowed or not. In the meantime ther=
e is
an interval of three days, in which chances may occur in favour of the
prisoners - in which interest may be used on their behalf.'
Romola started from her seat. The
colour had risen to her face like a visible thought, and her hands trembled=
. In
that moment her feeling towards Tito was forgotten.
'Possibly,' said Tito, also rising,
'your own intention may have anticipated what I was going to say. You are
thinking of the Frate.'
'I am,' said Romola, looking at him
with surprise. 'Has he done anything? Is there anything to tell me?'
'Only this. It was Messer Francesco
Valori's bitterness and violence which chiefly determined the course of thi=
ngs
in the council to-day. Half the men who gave in their opinion against the
prisoners were frightened into it, and there are Council and out of it who =
are
strongly opposed to the sentence of death - Piero Guicciardini, for example,
who is one member of the Signoria that made the stoutest resistance; and th=
ere
is Giovan Battista Ridolfi, who, Piagnone as he is, will not lightly forgive
the death of his brother Niccolo.'
'But how can the Appeal be denied,'
said Romola, indignantly, 'when it is the law - when it was one of the chief
glories of the popular government to have passed the law?'
'They call this an exceptional cas=
e.
Of course there are ingenious arguments, but there is much more of loud blu=
ster
about the danger of the Republic. But, you see, no opposition could prevent=
the
assembly from being prorogued, and a certain powerful influence rightly app=
lied
during the next three days might determine the wavering courage of those who
desire that the Appeal should be granted, and might even give a check to the
headlong enmity of Francesco Valori. It happens to have come to my knowledge
that the Frate has so far interfered as to send a message to him in favour =
of
Lorenzo Tornabuoni. I know you can sometimes have access to the Frate: it m=
ight
at all events be worth while to use your privilege now.'
'It is true,' said Romola, with an=
air
of abstraction. 'I cannot believe that the Frate would approve denying the
Appeal.'
'I heard it said by more than one
person in the court of the Palazzo, before I came away, that it would be to=
the
everlasting discredit of Fra Girolamo if he allowed a government which is
almost entirely made up of his party, to deny the Appeal, without entering =
his
protest, when he has been boasting in his books and sermons that it was he =
who
got the law passed.' But between ourselves, with all respect for your Frate=
's
ability, my Romola, he has got into the practice of preaching that form of
human sacrifices called killing tyrants and wicked malcontents, which some =
of
his followers are likely to think inconsistent with lenity in the present
case.'
'I know, I know,' said Romola, wit=
h a look
and tone of pain. 'But he is driven into those excesses of speech. It used =
to
be different. I will ask for an interview. I cannot rest without it. I trus=
t in
the greatness of his heart.'
She was not looking at Tito; her e=
yes
were bent with a vague gaze towards the ground, and she had no distinct
consciousness that the words she heard came from her husband.
'Better lose no time, then,' said
Tito, with unmixed suavity, moving his cap round in his hands as if he were
about to put it on and depart. 'And now, Romola, you will perhaps be able to
see, in spite of prejudice, that my wishes go with yours in this matter. You
will not regard the misfortune of my safety as an offence.'
Something like an electric shock
passed through Romola: it was the full consciousness of her husband's prese=
nce
returning to her. She looked at him without speaking.
'At least,' he added, in a slightly
harder tone, 'you will endeavour to base our intercourse on some other
reasonings than that because an evil deed is possible, I have done it. Am I
alone to be beyond the pale of your extensive charity?'
The feeling which had been driven =
back
from Romola's lips a fortnight before rose again with the gathered force of=
a
tidal wave. She spoke with a decision which told him that she was careless =
of
consequences.
'It is too late, Tito. There is no
killing the suspicion that deceit has once begotten. And now I know everyth=
ing.
I know who that old man was: he was your father, to whom you owe everything=
-
to whom you owe more than if you had been his own child. By the side of tha=
t,
it is a small thing that you broke my trust and my father's. As long as you
deny the truth about that old man, there is a horror rising between us: the=
law
that should make us one can never be obeyed. I too am a human being. I have=
a
soul of my own that abhors your actions. Our union is a pretence - as if a
perpetual lie could be a sacred marriage.'
Tito did not answer immediately. W=
hen
he did speak it was with a calculated caution, that was stimulated by alarm=
.
'And you mean to carry out that
independence by quitting me, I presume?'
'I desire to quit you,' said Romol=
a,
impetuously.
'And suppose I do not submit to pa=
rt
with what the law gives me some security for retaining? You will then, of
course, proclaim your reasons in the ear of all Florence. You will bring
forward your mad assassin, who is doubtless ready to obey your call, and you
will tell the world that you believe his testimony because he is so rationa=
l as
to desire to assassinate me. You will first inform the Signoria that I am a
Medicean conspirator, and then you will inform the Mediceans that I have
betrayed them, and in both cases you will offer the excellent proof that you
believe me capable in general of everything bad. It will certainly be a str=
iking
position for a wife to adopt. And if, on such evidence, you succeed in hold=
ing
me up to infamy, you will have surpassed all the heroines of the Greek dram=
a.'
He paused a moment, but she stood
mute. He went on with the sense of mastery.
'I believe you have no other griev=
ance
against me - except that I have failed in fulfilling some lofty indefinite
conditions on which you gave me your wifely affection, so that, by withdraw=
ing
it, you have gradually reduced me to the careful supply of your wants as a =
fair
Piagnone of high condition and liberal charities. I think your success in
gibbeting me is not certain. But doubtless you would begin by winning the e=
ar
of Messer Bernardo del Nero?'
'Why do I speak of anything?' cried
Romola, in anguish, sinking on her chair again. 'It is hateful in me to be
thinking of myself.'
She did not notice when Tito left =
the
room, or know how long it was before the door opened to admit Monna Brigida.
But in that instant she started up and said -
'Cousin, we must go to San Marco
directly. I must see my confessor, Fra Salvestro.'
The morning was in its early
brightness when Romola was again on her way to San Marco, having obtained
through Fra Salvestro, the evening before, the promise of an interview with=
Fra
Girolamo in the chapter-house of the convent. The rigidity with which
Savonarola guarded his life from all the pretexts of calumny made such
interviews very rare, and whenever they were granted, they were kept free f=
rom
any appearance of mystery. For this reason the hour chosen was one at which
there were likely to be other visitors in the outer cloisters of San Marco.=
She chose to pass through the hear=
t of
the city that she might notice the signs of public feeling. Every loggia, e=
very
convenient corner of the piazza, every shop that made a rendezvous for goss=
ips,
was astir with the excitement of gratuitous debate; a languishing trade ten=
ding
to make political discussion all the more vigorous. It was clear that the
parties for and against the death of the conspirators were bent on making t=
he
fullest use of the three days' interval in order to determine the popular m=
ood.
Already handbills were in circulation; some presenting, in large print, the
alternative of justice on the conspirators or ruin to the Republic; others =
in
equally large print urging the observance of the law and the granting of the
Appeal. Round these jutting islets of black capitals there were lakes of
smaller characters setting forth arguments less necessary to be read: for it
was an opinion entertained at that time (in the first flush of triumph at t=
he
discovery of printing), that there was no argument more widely convincing t=
han
question-begging phrases in large type.
Romola, however, cared especially =
to
become acquainted with the arguments in smaller type, and, though obliged to
hasten forward, she looked round anxiously as she went that she might miss =
no
opportunity of securing copies. For a long way she saw none but such as wer=
e in
the hands of eager readers, or else fixed on the walls, from which in some
places the sbirri were tearing them down. But at last, passing behind San
Giovanni with a quickened pace that she might avoid the many acquaintances =
who
frequented the piazza, she saw Bratti with a stock of handbills which he ap=
peared
to be exchanging for small coin with the passers-by. She was too familiar w=
ith
the humble life of Florence for Bratti to be any stranger to her, and turni=
ng
towards him she said, 'Have you two sorts of handbills, Bratti? Let me have
them quickly.'
'Two sorts,' said Bratti, separati=
ng
the wet sheets with a slowness that tried Romola's patience. 'There's ̵=
6;Law,’
and there's ‘Justice.’ '
'Which sort do you sell most of?' =
' ‘Justice’ - ‘J=
ustice’
goes the quickest, - so I raised the price, and made it two danari. But the=
n I
bethought me the ‘Law’ was good ware too, and had as good a rig=
ht
to be charged for as ‘Justice;’ for people set no store by cheap
things, and if I sold the ‘Law’ at one danaro, I should be doin=
g it
a wrong. And I'm a fair trader. ‘Law,’ or ‘Justice,’
it's all one to me; they're good wares. I got 'em both for nothing, and I s=
ell
'em at a fair profit. But you'll want more than one of a sort?'
'No, no: here's a white quattrino =
for
the two,' said Romola, folding up the bills and hurrying away.
She was soon in the outer cloister=
s of
San Marco, where Fra Salvestro was awaiting her under the cloister, but did=
not
notice the approach of her light step. He was chatting, according to his ha=
bit,
with lay visitors; for under the auspices of a government friendly to the
Frate, the timidity about frequenting San Marco, which had followed on the
first shock of the Excommunication, had been gradually giving way. In one of
these lay visitors she recognised a well-known satellite of Francesco Valor=
i,
named Andrea Cambini,' who was narrating or expounding with emphatic
gesticulation, while Fra Salvestro was listening with that air of trivial
curiosity which tells that the listener cares very much about news and very
little about its quality. This characteristic of her confessor, which was
always repulsive to Romola, was made exasperating to her at this moment by =
the
certainty she gathered, from the disjointed words which reached her ear, th=
at
Cambini was narrating something relative to the fate of the conspirators. S=
he
chose not to approach the group, but as soon as she saw that she had arrest=
ed
Fra Salvestro's attention, she turned towards the door of the chapter-house,
while he, making a sign of approval, disappeared within the inner cloister.=
A
lay Brother stood ready to open the door of the chapter-house for her, and
closed it behind her as she entered.
Once more looked at by those sad
frescoed figures which had seemed to be mourning with her at the death of h=
er
brother Dino, it was inevitable that something of that scene should come ba=
ck
to her; but the intense occupation of her mind with the present made the
remembrance less a retrospect than an indistinct recurrence of impressions
which blended themselves with her agitating fears, as if her actual anxiety
were a revival of the strong yearning she had once before brought to this s=
pot
- to be repelled by marble rigidity. She gave no space for the remembrance =
to
become more definite, for she at once opened the handbills, thinking she sh=
ould
perhaps be able to read them in the interval before Fra Girolamo appeared. =
But
by the time she had read to the end of the one that recommended the observa=
nce
of the law, the door was opening, and doubling up the papers she stood
expectant.
When the Frate had entered she kne=
lt,
according to the usual practice of those who saw him in private; but as soo=
n as
he had uttered a benedictory greeting she rose and stood opposite to him at=
a
few yards' distance. Owing to his seclusion since he had been excommunicate=
d,
it had been an unusually long while since she had seen him, and the late mo=
nths
had visibly deepened in his face the marks of overtaxed mental activity and
bodily severities; and yet Romola was not so conscious of this change as of
another, which was less definable. Was it that the expression of serene
elevation and pure human fellowship which had once moved her was no longer
present in the same force, or was it that the sense of his being divided fr=
om
her in her feeling about her godfather roused the slumbering sources of
alienation, and marred her own vision? Perhaps both causes were at work. Our
relations with our fellow-men are most often determined by coincident curre=
nts
of that sort; the inexcusable word or deed seldom comes until after affecti=
on
or reverence has been already enfeebled by the strain of repeated excuses. =
It was true that Savonarola's glan=
ce
at Romola had some of that hardness which is caused by an egotistic
prepossession. He divined that the interview she had sought was to turn on =
the
fate of the conspirators, a subject on which he had already had to quell in=
ner
voices that might become loud again when encouraged from without. Seated in=
his
cell, correcting the sheets of his 'Triumph of the Cross,' it was easier to
repose on a resolution of neutrality.
'It is a question of moment,
doubtless, on which you wished to see me, my daughter,' he began, in a tone
which was gentle rather from self-control than from immediate inclination. =
'I
know you are not wont to lay stress on small matters.'
'Father, you know what it is befor=
e I
tell you,' said Romola, forgetting everything else as soon as she began to =
pour
forth her plea. 'You know what I am caring for - it is for the life of the =
old
man I love best in the world. The thought of him has gone together with the
thought of my father as long as I remember the daylight. That is my warrant=
for
coming to you, even if my coming should have been needless. Perhaps it is:
perhaps you have already determined that your power over the hearts of men
shall be used to prevent them from denying to Florentines a right which you
yourself helped to earn for them.'
'I meddle not with the functions of
the State, my daughter,' said Fra Girolamo, strongly disinclined to reopen
externally a debate which he had already gone through inwardly. 'I have
preached and laboured that Florence should have a good government, for a go=
od
government is needful to the perfecting of the Christian life; but I keep a=
way
my hands from particular affairs which it is the office of experienced citi=
zens
to administer.'
'Surely, father-' Romola broke off.
Sbe had uttered this first word almost impetuously, but she was checked by =
the
counter-agitation of feeling herself in an attitude of remonstrance towards=
the
man who had been the source of guidance and strength to her. In the act of
rebelling she was bruising her own reverence.
Savonarola was too keen not to div=
ine
something of the conflict that was arresting her - too noble, deliberately =
to
assume in calm speech that self-justifying evasiveness into which he was of=
ten
hurried in public by the crowding impulses of the orator.
'Say what is in your heart; speak =
on,
my daughter,' he said, standing with his arms laid one upon the other, and
looking at her with quiet expectation.
'I was going to say, father, that =
this
matter is surely of higher moment than many about which I have heard you pr=
each
and exhort fervidly. If it belonged to you to urge that men condemned for
offences against the State should have the right to appeal to the Great Cou=
ncil
- if -' Romola was getting eager again - 'if you count it a glory to have w=
on
that right for them, can it less belong to you to declare yourself against =
the
right being denied to almost the first men who need it? Surely that touches=
the
Christian life more closely than whether you knew beforehand that the Dauph=
in
would die, or whether Pisa will be conquered.'
There was a subtle movement, like a
subdued sign of pain, in Savonarola's strong lips, before he began to speak=
.
'My daughter, I speak as it is giv=
en
me to speak - I am not master of the times when I may become the vehicle of
knowledge beyond the common lights of men. In this case I have no illuminat=
ion
beyond what wisdom may give to those who are charged with the safety of the
State. As to the law of Appeal against the Six Votes, I laboured to have it
passed in order that no Florentine should be subject to loss of life and go=
ods
through the private hatred of a few who might happen to be in power; but th=
ese
five men, who have desired to overthrow a free government and restore a cor=
rupt
tyrant, have been condemned with the assent of a large assembly of their
fellow-citizens. They refused at first to have their cause brought before t=
he
Great Council. They have lost the right to appeal.'
'How can they have lost it?' said
Romola. 'It is the right to appeal against condemnation, and they have never
been condemned till now; and, forgive me, father, it is private hatred that
would deny them the appeal; it is the violence of the few that frightens
others; else why was the assembly divided again directly after it had seeme=
d to
agree? And if anything weighs against the observance of the law, let this w=
eigh
for it - this, that you used to preach more earnestly than all else, that t=
here
should be no place given to hatred and bloodshed because of these party
strifes, so that private ill-will should not find its opportunities in publ=
ic
acts. Father, you know that there is private hatred concerned here: will it=
not
dishonour you not to have interposed on the side of mercy, when there are m=
any
who hold that it is also the side of law and justice?'
'My daughter,' said Fra Girolamo, =
with
more visible emotion than before, 'there is a mercy which is weakness, and =
even
treason against the common good. The safety of Florence, which means even m=
ore
than the welfare of Florentines, now demands severity, as it once demanded
mercy. It is not only for a past plot that these men are condemned, but also
for a plot which has not yet been executed; and the devices that were leadi=
ng
to its execution are not put an end to: the tyrant is still gathering his
forces in Romagna, and the enemies of Florence, who sit in the highest plac=
es
of Italy, are ready to hurl any stone that will crush her.'
'What plot?' said Romola, reddenin=
g,
and trembling with alarmed surprise.
'You carry papers in your hand, I
see,' said Fra Girolamo, pointing to the handbills. 'One of them will, perh=
aps,
tell you that the government has had new information.'
Romola hastily opened the handbill=
she
had not yet read, and saw that the government had now positive evidence of a
second plot, which was to have been carried out in this August time. To her
mind it was like reading a confirmation that Tito had won his safety by foul
means; his pretence of wishing that the Frate should exert himself on behal=
f of
the condemned only helped the wretched conviction. She crushed up the paper=
in
her hand, and, turning to Savonarola, she said, with new passion, 'Father, =
what
safety can there be for Florence when the worst man can always escape? And,'
she went on, a sudden flash of remembrance coming from the thought about her
husband, 'have not you yourself encouraged this deception which corrupts the
life of Florence, by wanting more favour to be shown to Lorenzo Tornabuoni,=
who
has worn two faces, and flattered you with a show of affection, when my
godfather has always been honest? Ask all Florence who of those five men has
the truest heart, and there will not be many who will name any other name t=
han
Bernardo del Nero. You did interpose with Francesco Valori for the sake of =
one
prisoner: you have not then been neutral; and you know that your word will =
be
powerful.'
'I do not desire the death of
Bernardo,' said Savonarola colouring deeply. 'It would be enough if he were
sent out of the city.
'Then why do you not speak to save=
an
old man of seventy-five from dying a death of ignominy - to give him at lea=
st
the fair chances of the law?' burst out Romola, the impetuosity of her natu=
re
so roused that she forgot everything but her indignation. 'It is not that y=
ou
feel bound to be neutral; else why did you speak for Lorenzo Tornabuoni? You
spoke for him because he is more friendly to San Marco; my godfather feigns=
no
friendship. It is not, then, as a Medicean that my godfather is to die; it =
is
as a man you have no love for! '
When Romola paused, with cheeks
glowing, and with quivering lips, there was dead silence. As she saw Fra
Girolamo standing motion]ess before her, she seemed to herself to be hearing
her own words over again; words that in this echo of consciousness were in
strange, painful dissonance with the memories that made part of his presenc=
e to
her. The moments of silence were expanded by gathering com- punction and
self-doubt. She had committed sacrilege in her passion. And even the sense =
that
she could retract nothing of her plea, that her mind could not submit itsel=
f to
Savonarola's negative, made it the more needful to her to satisfy those
reverential memories. With a sudden movement towards him she said -
'Forgive me, father; it is pain to=
me
to have spoken those words - yet I cannot help speaking. I am little and fe=
eble
compared with you; you brought me light and strength. But I submitted becau=
se I
felt the proffered strength - because I saw the light. Now I cannot see it.
Father, you yourself declare that there comes a moment when the soul must h=
ave
no guide but the voice within it, to tell whether the consecrated thing has
sacred virtue. And therefore I must speak.'
Savonarola had that readily-roused
resentment towards opposition, hardly separable from a power-loving and
powerful nature, accustomed to seek great ends that cast a reflected grande=
ur
on the means by which they are sought. His sermons have much of that red fl=
ame
in them. And if he had been a meaner man his susceptibility might have shown
itself in irritation at Romola's accusatory freedom, which was in strong
contrast with the deference he habitually received from his disciples. But =
at
this moment such feelings were nullified by that hard struggle which made h=
alf
the tragedy of his life - the struggle of a mind possessed by a never-silent
hunger after purity and simplicity, yet caught in a tangle of egoistic dema=
nds,
false ideas, and difficult outward conditions, that made simplicity impossi=
ble.
Keenly alive to all the suggestions of Romola's remonstrating words, he was
rapidly surveying, as he had done before, the courses of action that were o=
pen
to him, and their probable results. But it was a question on which arguments
could seem decisive only in proportion as they were charged with feeling, a=
nd
he had received no impulse that could alter his bias. He looked at Romola, =
and
said -
'You have full pardon for your
frankness, my daughter. You speak, I know, out of the fulness of your family
affections. But these affections must give way to the needs of the Republic=
. If
those men who have a close acquaintance with the affairs of the State belie=
ve,
as I understand they do, that the public safety requires the extreme punish=
ment
of the law to fall on the five conspirators, I cannot control their opinion,
seeing that I stand aloof from such affairs.'
'Then you desire that they should =
die?
You desire that the Appeal should be denied them?' said Romola, feeling anew
repelled by a vindication which seemed to her to have the nature of a subte=
rfuge.
'I have said that I do not desire
their death.'
'Then,' said Romola, her indignati=
on
rising again, 'you can be indifferent that Florentines should inflict death
which you do not desire, when you might have protested against it - when you
might have helped to hinder it, by urging the observance of a law which you
held it good to get passed. Father, you used not to stand aloof: you used n=
ot
to shrink from protesting. Do not say you cannot protest where the lives of=
men
are concerned; say rather, you desire their death. Say rather, you hold it =
good
for Florence that there shall be more blood and more hatred. Will the death=
of
five Mediceans put an end to parties in Florence? Will the death of a noble=
old
man like Bernardo del Nero save a city that holds such men as Dolfo Spini?'=
'My daughter, it is enough. The ca=
use
of freedom, which is the cause of God's kingdom upon earth, is often most
injured by the enemies who carry within them the power of certain human
virtues. The wickedest man is often not the most insurmountable obstacle to=
the
triumph of good.'
'Then why do you say again, that y=
ou
do not desire my godfather's death?' said Romola, in mingled anger and desp=
air.
'Rather, you hold it the more needful he should die because he is the better
man. I cannot unravel your thoughts, father; I cannot hear the real voice of
your judgment and conscience.'
There was a moment's pause. Then
Savonarola said, with keener emotion than he had yet shown -
'Be thankful, my daughter, if your=
own
soul has been spared perplexity; and judge not those to whom a harder lot h=
as
been given. You see one ground of action in this matter. I see many. I have=
to
choose that which will further the work intrusted to me. The end I seek is =
one
to which minor respects must be sacrificed. The death of five men - were th=
ey
less guilty than these - is a light matter weighed against the withstanding=
of
the vicious tyrannies which stifle the life of Italy, and foster the corrup=
tion
of the Church; a light matter weighed against the furthering of God's kingd=
om
upon earth, the end for which I live and am willing myself to die.'
Under any other circumstances, Rom=
ola
would have been sensitive to the appeal at the beginning of Savonarola's
speech; but at this moment she was so utterly in antagonism with him, that =
what
he called perplexity seemed to her sophistry and doubleness; and as he went=
on,
his words only fed that flame of indignation, which now again, more fully t=
han
ever before, lit up the memory of all his mistakes, and made her trust in h=
im
seem to have been a purblind delusion. She spoke almost with bitterness.
'Do you, then, know so well what w=
ill
further the coming of God's kingdom, father, that you will dare to despise =
the
plea of mercy - of justice - of faithfulness to your own teaching? Has the
French king, then, brought renovation to Italy? Take care, father, lest your
enemies have some reason when they say, that in your visions of what will
further God's kingdom you see only what will strengthen your own party.'
'And that is true!' said Savonarol=
a,
with flashing eyes. Romola's voice had seemed to him in that moment the voi=
ce
of his enemies. 'The cause of my party is the cause of God's kingdom.'
'I do not believe it!' said Romola,
her whole frame shaken with passionate repugnance. 'God's kingdom is someth=
ing
wider - else, let me stand outside it with the beings that I love.'
The two faces were lit up, each wi=
th
an opposite emotion, each with an opposite certitude. Further words were
impossible. Romola hastily covered her head and went out in silence.
Three days later the moon that was
just surmounting the buildings of the piazza in front of the Old Palace wit=
hin
the hour of midnight, did not make the usual broad lights and shadows on the
pavement. Not a hand's-breadth of pavement was to be seen, but only the hea=
ds
of an eager struggling multitude. And instead of that background of silence=
in
which the pattering footsteps and buzzing voices, the lute-thrumming or rap=
id
scampering of the many night wanderers of Florence stood out in obtrusive
distinctness, there was the background of a roar from mingled shouts and
imprecations, tramplings and pushings, and accidental clashing of weapons,
across which nothing was distinguishable but a darting shriek, or the heavy
dropping toll of a bell.
Almost all who could call themselv=
es
the public of Florence were awake at that hour, and either enclosed within =
the
limits of that piazza, or struggling to enter it. Within the palace were st=
ill
assembled in the council chamber all the chief magistracies, the eighty mem=
bers
of the senate, and the other select citizens who had been in hot debate thr=
ough
long hours of daylight and torchlight whether the Appeal should be granted =
or
whether the sentence of death should be executed on the prisoners forthwith=
, to
forestall the dangerous chances of delay. And the debate had been so much l=
ike
fierce quarrel that the noise from the council chamber had reached the crowd
outside. Only within the last hour had the question been decided: the Signo=
ria
had remained divided, four of them standing out resolutely for the Appeal in
spite of the strong argument that if they did not give way their houses sho=
uld
be sacked, until Francesco Valori, in brief and furious speech, made the
determination of his party more ominously distinct by declaring that if the
Signoria would not defend the liberties of the Florentine people by executi=
ng
those five perfidious citizens, there would not be wanting others who would
take that cause in hand to the peril of all who opposed it. The Florentine =
Cato
triumphed. When the votes were counted again, the four obstinate white bean=
s no
longer appeared; the whole nine were of the fatal affirmative black, decidi=
ng
the death of the five prisoners without delay - deciding also, only tacitly=
and
with much more delay, the death of Francesco Valori.
And now, while the judicial Eight =
were
gone to the Bargello to prepare for the execution, the five condemned men w=
ere
being led barefoot and in irons through the midst of the council. It was th=
eir
friends who had contrived this: would not Florentines be moved by the visib=
le
association of such cruel ignominy with two venerable men like Bernardo del
Nero and Niccolo Ridolfi, who had taken their bias long before the new orde=
r of
things had come to make Mediceanism retrograde - with two brilliant popular
young men like Tornabuoni and Pucci, whose absence would be felt as a haunt=
ing
vacancy wherever there was a meeting of chief Florentines? It was useless: =
such
pity as could be awakened now was of that hopeless sort which leads not to
rescue, but to the tardier action of revenge.
While this scene was passing up-st=
airs
Romola stood below against one of the massive pillars in the court of the
palace, expecting the moment when her godfather would appear, on his way to
execution. By the use of strong interest she had gained permission to visit=
him
in the evening of this day, and remain with him until the result of the cou=
ncil
should be determined. And now she was waiting with his confessor to follow =
the
guard that would lead him to the Bargello. Her heart was bent on clinging to
the presence of the childless old man to the last moment, as her father wou=
ld
have done; and she had overpowered all remonstrances. Giovan Battista Ridol=
fi,
a disciple of Savonarola, who was going in bitterness to behold the death of
his elder brother Niccolo, had promised that she should be guarded, and now
stood by her side.
Tito, too, was in the palace; but
Romola had not seen him. Since the evening of the seventeenth they had avoi=
ded
each other, and Tito only knew by inference from the report of the Frate's
neutrality that her pleading had failed. He was now surrounded with official
and other personages, both Florentine and foreign, who had been awaiting the
issue of the long-protracted council, maintaining, except when he was direc=
tly
addressed, the subdued air and grave silence of a man whom actual events are
placing in a painful state of strife between public and private feeling. Wh=
en
an allusion was made to his wife in relation to those events, he implied th=
at,
owing to the violent excitement of her mind, the mere fact of his continuin=
g to
hold office under a government concerned in her godfather's condemnation,
roused in her a diseased hostility towards him; so that for her sake he fel=
t it
best not to approach her.
'Ah, the old Bardi blood!' said
Cennini, with a shrug. 'I shall not be surprised if this business shakes her
loose from the Frate, as well as some others I could name.'
'It is excusable in a woman, who is
doubtless beautiful, since she is the wife of Messer Tito,' said a young Fr=
ench
envoy, smiling and bowing to Tito, 'to think that her affections must overr=
ule
the good of the State, and that nobody is to be beheaded who is anybody's
cousin; but such a view is not to be encouraged in the male population. It
seems to me your Florentine polity is much weakened by it.'
'That is true,' said Niccolo
Macchiavelli; 'but where personal ties are strong, the hostilities they rai=
se
must be taken due account of. Many of these half-way severities are mere
hot-headed blundering. The only safe blows to be inflicted on men and parti=
es
are the blows that are too heavy to be avenged.'
'Niccolo,' said Cennini, 'there is=
a
clever wickedness in thy talk sometimes that makes me mistrust thy pleasant
young face as if it were a mask of Satan.'
'Not at all, my good Domenico,' sa=
id
Macchiavelli, smiling, and laying his hand on the elder's shoulder. 'Satan =
was
a blunderer, an introducer of novita, who made a stupendous failure. If he =
had
succeeded, we should all have been worshipping him, and his portrait would =
have
been more flattered.'
'Well, well,' said Cennini, 'I say=
not
thy doctrine is not too clever for Satan: I only say it is wicked enough for
him.'
'I tell you,' said Macchiavelli, '=
my
doctrine is the doctrine of all men who seek an end a little farther off th=
an
their own noses. Ask our Frate, our prophet, how his universal renovation i=
s to
be brought about: he will tell you, first, by getting a free and pure gover=
nment;
and since it appears that this cannot be done by making all Florentines love
each other, it must be done by cutting off every head that happens to be
obstinately in the way. Only if a man incurs odium by sanctioning a severity
that is not thorough enough to be final, he commits a blunder. And something
like that blunder, I suspect, the Frate has committed. It was an occasion on
which he might have won some lustre by exerting himself to maintain the App=
eal;
instead of that, he has lost lustre, and has gained no strength.'
Before any one else could speak, t=
here
came the expected announcement that the prisoners were about to leave the
council chamber; and the majority of those who were present hurried towards=
the
door, intent on securing the freest passage to the Bargello in the rear of =
the
prisoners' guard; for the scene of the execution was one that drew alike th=
ose
who were moved by the deepest passions and those who were moved by the cold=
est
curiosity.
Tito was one of those who remained
behind. He had a native repugnance to sights of death and pain, and five da=
ys
ago whenever he had thought of this execution as a possibility he had hoped
that it would not take place, and that the utmost sentence would be exile: =
his
own safety demanded no more. But now he felt that it would be a welcome
guarantee of his security when he had learned that Bernardo del Nero's head=
was
off the shoulders. The new knowledge and new attitude towards him disclosed=
by
Romola on the day of his return, had given him a new dread of the power she
possessed to make his position insecure. If any act of hers only succeeded =
in
making him an object of suspicion and odium, he foresaw not only frustratio=
n,
but frustration under unpleasant circumstances. Her belief in Baldassarre h=
ad
clearly determined her wavering feelings against further submission, and if=
her
godfather lived she would win him to share her belief without much trouble.
Romola seemed more than ever an unmanageable fact in his destiny. But if
Bernardo del Nero were dead, the difficulties that would beset her in placi=
ng
herself in opposition to her husband would probably be insurmountable to her
shrinking pride. Therefore Tito had felt easier when he knew that the Eight=
had
gone to the Bargello to order the instant erection of the scaffold. Four ot=
her
men - his intimates and confederates - were to die, besides Bernardo del Ne=
ro.
But a man's own safety is a god that sometimes makes very grim demands. Tito
felt them to be grim: even in the pursuit of what was agreeable, this parad=
oxical
life forced upon him the desire for what was disagreeable. But he had had o=
ther
experience of this sort, and as he heard through the open doorway the shuff=
le
of many feet and the clanking of metal on the stairs he was able to answer =
the
questions of the young French envoy without showing signs of any other feel=
ing
than that of sad resignation to State necessities.
Those sounds fell on Romola as if =
her
power of hearing had been exalted along with every other sensibility of her
nature. She needed no arm to support her; she shed no tears. She felt that
intensity of life which seems to transcend both grief and joy - in which the
mind seems to itself akin to elder forces that wrought out existence before=
the
birth of pleasure and pain. Since her godfather's fate had been decided, the
previous struggle of feeling in her had given way to an identification of
herself with him in these supreme moments: she was inwardly asserting for h=
im
that, if he suffered the punishment of treason, he did not deserve the name=
of traitor;
he was the victim to a collision between two kinds of faithfulness. It was =
not
given him to die for the noblest cause, and yet he died because of his
nobleness. He might have been a meaner man and found it easier not to incur
this guilt. Romola was feeling the full force of that sympathy with the
individual lot that is continually opposing itself to the formulae by which
actions and parties are judged. She was treading the way with her second fa=
ther
to the scaffold, and nerving herself to defy ignominy by the consciousness =
that
it was not deserved.
The way was fenced in by three hun=
dred
armed men, who had been placed as a guard by the orders of Francesco Valon,=
for
among the apparent contradictions that belonged to this event, not the least
striking was the alleged alarm on the one hand at the popular rage against =
the
conspirators, and the alleged alarm on the other lest there should be an
attempt to rescue them in the midst of a hostile crowd. When they had arriv=
ed
within the court of the Bargello, Romola was allowed to approach Bernardo w=
ith
his confessor for a moment of farewell. Many eyes were bent on them even in
that struggle of an agitated throng, as the aged man, forgetting that his h=
ands
were bound with irons, lifted them towards the golden head that was bent
towards him, and then, checking that movement, leaned to kiss her. She seiz=
ed
the fettered hands that were hung down again, and kissed them as if they had
been sacred things.
'My poor Romola,' said Bernardo, i=
n a
low voice, 'I have only to die, but thou hast to live - and I shall not be
there to help thee.'
'Yes,' said Romola, hurriedly, 'you
will help me - always - because I shall remember you.'
She was taken away and conducted up
the flight of steps that led to the loggia surrounding the grand old court.=
She
took her place there, determined to look till the moment when her godfather
laid his head on the block. Now while the prisoners were allowed a brief
interval with their confessor, the spectators were pressing into the court =
until
the crowd became dense around the black scaffold, and the torches fixed in =
iron
rings against the pillars threw a varying startling light at one moment on
passionless stone carvings, at another on some pale face agitated with
suppressed rage or suppressed grief - the face of one among the many near
relatives of the condemned, who were presently to receive their dead and ca=
rry
them home.
Romola's face looked like a marble
image against the dark arch as she stood watching for the moment when her
godfather would appear at the foot of the scaffold. He was to suffer first,=
and
Battista Ridolfi, who was by her side, had promised to take her away throug=
h a
door behind them when she would have seen the last look of the man who alon=
e in
all the world had shared her pitying love for her father. And still, in the
background of her thought, there was the possibility striving to be a hope,
that some rescue might yet come, something that would keep that scaffold
unstained by blood.
For a long while there was constant
movement, lights flickering, heads swaying to and fro, confused voices with=
in
the court, rushing waves of sound through the entrance from without. It see=
med
to Romola as if she were in the midst of a storm-troubled sea, caring nothi=
ng
about the storm, caring only to hold out a signal till the eyes that looked=
for
it could seek it no more.
Suddenly there was stillness, and =
the
very tapers seemed to tremble into quiet. The executioner was ready on the
scaffold, and Bernardo del Nero was seen ascending it with a slow firm step.
Romola made no visible movement, uttered not even a suppressed sound: she s=
tood
more firmly, caring for his firmness. She saw him pause, saw the white head
kept erect, while he said, in a voice distinctly audible -
'It is but a short space of life t=
hat
my fellow citizens have taken from me.'
She perceived that he was gazing
slowly round him as he spoke. She felt that his eyes were resting on her, a=
nd
that she was stretching out her arms towards him. Then she saw no more till=
- a
long while after, as it seemed - a voice said, 'My daughter, all is peace n=
ow.
I can conduct you to your house.'
She uncovered her head and saw her
godfather's confessor standing by her, in a room where there were other gra=
ve
men talking in subdued tones.
'I am ready,' she said, starting u=
p.
'Let us lose no time.'
She thought all clinging was at an=
end
for her: all her strength now should be given to escape from a grasp under
which she shuddered.
On the eighth day from that memora=
ble
night Romola was standing on the brink of the Mediterranean, watching the
gentle summer pulse of the sea just above what was then the little fishing
village of Viareggio.
Again she had fled from Florence, =
and
this time no arresting voice had called her back. Again she wore the grey
religious dress; and this time, in her heart-sickness, she did not care tha=
t it
was a disguise. A new rebellion had risen within her, a new despair. Why sh=
ould
she care about wearing one badge more than another, or about being called by
her own name? She despaired of finding any consistent duty belonging to that
name. What force was there to create for her that supremely hallowed motive
which men call duty, but which can have no inward constraining existence sa=
ve
through some form of believing love?
The bonds of all strong affection =
were
snapped. In her marriage, the highest bond of all, she had ceased to see the
mystic union which is its own guarantee of indissolubleness, had ceased eve=
n to
see the obligation of a voluntary pledge: had she not proved that the thing=
s to
which she had pledged herself were impossible? The impulse to set herself f=
ree
had risen again with overmastering force; yet the freedom could only be an
exchange of calamity. There is no compensation for the woman who feels that=
the
chief relation of her life has been no more than a mistake. She has lost her
crown. The deepest secret of human blessedness has half whispered itself to
her, and then for ever passed her by.
And now Romola's best support under
that supreme woman's sorrow had slipped away from her. The vision of any gr=
eat
purpose, any end of existence which could ennoble endurance and exalt the
common deeds of a dusty life with divine ardours, was utterly eclipsed for =
her
now by the sense of a confusion in human things which made all effort a mere
dragging at tangled threads; all fellowship, either for resistance or advoc=
acy,
mere unfairness and exclusiveness. What, after all, was the man who had
represented for her the highest heroism: the heroism not of hard,
self-contained endurance, but of willing, self-offering love? What was the
cause he was struggling for? Romola had lost her trust in Savonarola, had l=
ost
that fervour of admiration which had made her unmindful of his aberrations,=
and
attentive only to the grand curve of his orbit. And now that her keen feeli=
ng
for her godfather had thrown her into antagonism with the Frate, she saw all
the repulsive and inconsistent details in his teaching with a painful lucid=
ity
which exaggerated their proportions. In the bitterness of her disappointment
she said that his striving after the renovation of the Church and the world=
was
a striving after a mere name which told no more than the title of a book: a
name that had come to mean practically the measures that would strengthen h=
is
own position in Florence; nay, often questionable deeds and words, for the =
sake
of saving his influence from suffering by his own errors. And that political
reform which had once made a new interest in her life seemed now to reduce =
itself
to narrow devices for the safety of Florence, in contemptible contradiction
with the alternating professions of blind trust in the Divine care.
It was inevitable that she should
judge the Frate unfairly on a question of individual suffering, at which she
looked with the eyes of personal tenderness, and he with the eyes of theore=
tic
conviction. In that declaration of his, that the cause of his party was the
cause of God's kingdom, she heard only the ring of egoism. Perhaps such wor=
ds
have rarely been uttered without that meaner ring in them; yet they are the
implicit formula of all energetic belief. And if such energetic belief,
pursuing a grand and remote end, is often in danger of becoming a
demon-worship, in which the votary lets his son and daughter pass through t=
he
fire with a readiness that hardly looks like sacrifice; tender fellow-feeli=
ng
for the nearest has its danger too, and is apt to be timid and sceptical
towards the larger aims without which life cannot rise into religion. In th=
is
way poor Romola was being blinded by her tears.
No one who has ever known what it =
is
thus to lose faith in a fellow-man whom he has profoundly loved and reveren=
ced,
will lightly say that the shock can leave the faith in the Invisible Goodne=
ss
unshaken. With the sinking of high human trust, the dignity of life sinks t=
oo;
we cease to believe in our own better self, since that also is part of the
common nature which is degraded in our thought; and all the finer impulses =
of
the soul are dulled. Romola felt even the springs of her once active pity
drying up, and leaving her to barren egoistic complaining. Had not she had =
her
sorrows too? And few had cared for her, while she had cared for many. She h=
ad
done enough; she had striven after the impossible, and was weary of this st=
ifling
crowded life. She longed for that repose in mere sensation which she had
sometimes dreamed of in the sultry afternoons of her early girlhood, when s=
he
had fancied herself floating naiad-like in the waters.
The clear waves seemed to invite h=
er:
she wished she could lie down to sleep on them and pass from sleep into dea=
th.
But Romola could not directly seek death; the fulness of young life in her
forbade that. She could only wish that death would come.
At the spot where she had paused t=
here
was a deep bend in the shore, and a small boat with a sail was moored there=
. In
her longing to glide over the waters that were getting golden with the level
sunrays, she thought of a story which had been one of the things she had lo=
ved
to dwell on in Boccaccio, when her father fell asleep and she glided from h=
er
stool to sit on the floor and read the 'Decamerone.' It was the story of th=
at
fair Gostanza who in her love-lornness desired to live no longer, but not
having the courage to attack her young life, had put herself into a boat and
pushed off to sea; then, lying down in the boat, had wrapt her mantle round=
her
head, hoping to be wrecked, so that her fear would be helpless to flee from
death. The memory had remained a mere thought in Romola's mind, without bud=
ding
into any distinct wish; but now, as she paused again in her walking to and =
fro,
she saw gliding black against the red gold another boat with one man in it,
making towards the bend where the first and smaller boat was moored. Walkin=
g on
again, she at length saw the man land, pull his boat ashore and begin to un=
lade
something from it. He was perhaps the owner of the smaller boat also: he wo=
uld
be going away soon, and her opportunity would be gone with him - her
opportunity of buying that smaller boat. She had not yet admitted to herself
that she meant to use it, but she felt a sudden eagerness to secure the
possibility of using it, which disclosed the half-unconscious growth of a
thought into a desire.
'Is that little boat yours also?' =
she
said to the fisherman, who had looked up, a little startled by the tall grey
figure, and had made a reverence to this holy Sister wandering thus
mysteriously in the evening solitude.
It was his boat; an old one, hardly
seaworthy, yet worth repairing to any man who would buy it. By the blessing=
of
San Antonio, whose chapel was in the village yonder, his fishing had prospe=
red,
and he had now a better boat, which had once been Gianni's who died. But he=
had
not yet sold the old one. Romola asked him how much it was worth, and then,
while he was busy, thrust the price into a little satchel lying on the grou=
nd
and containing the remnant of his dinner. After that, she watched him furli=
ng
his sail and asked him how he should set it if he wanted to go out to sea, =
and
then pacing up and down again, waited to see him depart.
The imagination of herself gliding
away in that boat on the darkening waters was growing more and more into a
longing, as the thought of a cool brook in sultriness becomes a painful thi=
rst.
To be freed from the burden of choice when all motive was bruised, to commit
herself, sleeping, to destiny which would either bring death or else new
necessities that might rouse a new life in her! - it was a thought that
beckoned her the more because the soft evening air made her long to rest in=
the
still solitude, instead of going back to the noise and heat of the village.=
At last the slow fisherman had
gathered up all his movables and was walking away. Soon the gold was shrink=
ing
and getting duskier in sea and sky, and there was no living thing in sight,=
no
sound but the lulling monotony of the lapping waves. In this sea there was =
no
tide that would help to carry her away if she waited for its ebb; but Romola
thought the breeze from the land was rising a little. She got into the boat,
unfurled the sail, and fastened it as she had learned in that first brief
lesson. She saw that it caught the light breeze, and this was all she cared
for. Then she loosed the boat from its moorings, and tried to urge it with =
an
oar, till she was far out from the land, till the sea was dark even to the
west, and the stars were disclosing themselves like a palpitating life over=
the
wide heavens. Resting at last, she threw back her cowl, and, taking off the
kerchief underneath, which confined her hair, she doubled them both under h=
er
head for a pillow on one of the boat's ribs. The fair head was still very y=
oung
and could bear a hard pillow.
And so she lay, with the soft night
air breathing on her while she glided on the water and watched the deepening
quiet of the sky. She was alone now: she had freed herself from all claims,=
she
had freed herself even from that burden of choice which presses with heavier
and heavier weight when claims have loosed their guiding hold.
Had she found anything like the dr=
eam
of her girlhood? No. Memories hung upon her like the weight of broken wings
that could never be lifted - memories of human sympathy which even in its p=
ains
leaves a thirst that the Great Mother has no milk to still. Romola felt
orphaned in those wide spaces of sea and sky. She read no message of love f=
or
her in that far-off symbolic writing of the heavens, and with a great sob s=
he
wished that she might be gliding into death.
She drew the cowl over her head ag=
ain
and covered her face, choosing darkness rather than the light of the stars,
which seemed to her like the hard light of eyes that looked at her without
seeing her. Presently she felt that she was in the grave, but not resting
there: she was touching the hands of the beloved dead beside her, and tryin=
g to
wake them.
About ten o'clock on the morning of
the twenty-seventh of February the currents of passengers along the Florent=
ine
streets set decidedly towards San Marco. It was the last morning of the
Carnival, and every one knew there was a second Bonfire of Vanities being
prepared in front of the Old Palace; but at this hour it was evident that t=
he
centre of popular interest lay elsewhere.
The Piazza di San Marco was filled=
by
a multitude who showed no other movement than that which proceeded from the
pressure of new-comers trying to force their way forward from all the openi=
ngs:
but the front ranks were already close-serried and resisted the pressure. T=
hose
ranks were ranged around a semicircular barrier in front of the church, and
within this barrier were already assembling the Dominican Brethren of San
Marco.
But the temporary wooden pulpit
erected over the church door was still empty. It was presently to be entere=
d by
the man whom the Pope's command had banished from the pulpit of the Duomo, =
whom
the other ecclesiastics of Florence had been forbidden to consort with, whom
the citizens had been forbidden to hear on pain of excommunication. This man
had said, 'A wicked, unbelieving Pope who has gained the pontifical chair by
bribery is not Christ's Vicar. His curses are broken swords: he grasps a hi=
lt
without a blade. His commands are contrary to the Christian life: it is law=
ful
to disobey them - nay, it is not lawful to obey them.' And the people still
flocked to hear him as he preached in his own church of San Marco, though t=
he
Pope was hanging terrible threats over Florence if it did not renounce the
pestilential schismatic and send him to Rome to be 'converted' - still, as =
on
this very morning, accepted the Communion from his excommunicated hands. For
how if this Frate had really more command over the Divine lightnings than t=
hat
official successor of Saint Peter? It was a momentous question, which for t=
he
mass of citizens could never be decided by the Frate's ultimate test, namel=
y,
what was and what was not accordant with the highest spiritual law. No: in =
such
a case as this, if God had chosen the Frate as his prophet to rebuke the Hi=
gh
Priest who carried the mystic raiment unworthily, he would attest his choic=
e by
some unmistakable sign. As long as the belief in the Prophet carried no thr=
eat
of outward calamity, but rather the confident hope of exceptional safety, no
sign was needed: his preaching was a music to which the people felt themsel=
ves
marching along the way they wished to go; but now that belief meant an
immediate blow to their commerce, the shaking of their position among the
Italian States, and an interdict on their city, there inevitably came the
question, 'What miracle showest thou?' Slowly at first, then faster and fas=
ter,
that fatal demand had been swelling in Savonarola's ear, provoking a respon=
se,
outwardly in the declaration that at the fitting time the miracle would com=
e;
inwardly in the faith - not unwavering, for what faith is so? - that if the
need for miracle became urgent, the work he had before him was too great for
the Divine power to leave it halting. His faith wavered, but not his speech=
: it
is the lot of every man who has to speak for the satisfaction of the crowd,
that he must often speak in virtue of yesterday's faith, hoping it will come
back to-morrow.
It was in preparation for a scene
which was really a response to the popular impatience for some supernatural
guarantee of the Prophet's mission, that the wooden pulpit had been erected
above the church-door. But while the ordinary Frati in black mantles were
entering and arranging themselves, the faces of the multitude were not yet
eagerly directed towards the pulpit: it was felt that Savonarola would not
appear just yet, and there was some interest in singling out the various mo=
nks,
some of them belonging to high Florentine families, many of them having
fathers, brothers, or cousins among the artisans and shopkeepers who made t=
he
majority of the crowd. It was not till the tale of monks was complete, not =
till
they had fluttered their books and had begun to chant, that people said to =
each
other, 'Fra Girolamo must be coming now.'
That expectation rather than any s=
pell
from the accustomed wail of psalmody was what made silence and expectation =
seem
to spread like a paling solemn light over the multitude of upturned faces, =
all
now directed towards the empty pulpit.
The next instant the pulpit was no
longer empty. A figure covered from head to foot in black cowl and mantle h=
ad
entered it, and was kneeling with bent head and with face turned away. It
seemed a weary time to the eager people while the black figure knelt and the
monks chanted. But the stillness was not broken, for the Frate's audiences =
with
Heaven were yet charged with electric awe for that mixed multitude, so that
those who had already the will to stone him felt their arms unnerved.
At last there was a vibration among
the multitude, each seeming to give his neighbour a momentary aspen-like to=
uch
as when men who have been watching for something in the heavens see the
expected presence silently disclosing itself. The Frate had risen, turned
towards the people, and partly pushed back his cowl. The monotonous wail of
psalmody had ceased, and to those who stood near the pulpit, it was as if t=
he
sounds which had just been filling their ears had suddenly merged themselve=
s in
the force of Savonarola's flashing glance, as he looked round him in the
silence. Then he stretched out his hands, which, in their exquisite delicacy
seemed transfigured from an animal organ for grasping into vehicles of
sensibility too acute to need any gross contact: hands that came like an
appealing speech from that part of his soul which was masked by his strong
passionate face, written on now with deeper lines about the mouth and brow =
than
are made by forty-four years of ordinary life.
At the first stretching out of the
hands some of the crowd in the front ranks fell on their knees, and here and
there a devout disciple farther off; but the great majority stood firm some
resisting the impulse to kneel before this excommunicated man (might not a
great judgment fall upon him even in thus act of blessing?) - others jarred
with scorn and hatred of the ambitious deceiver who was getting up this new
comedy, before which, nevertheless, they felt themselves impotent, as before
the triumph of a fashion.
But then came the voice, clear and=
low
at first, uttering the words of absolution - 'Misereatur vestri' - and more
fell on their knees: and as it rose higher and yet clearer, the erect heads
became fewer and fewer, till at the words 'Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus,'-=
it
rose to a masculine cry, as if protesting its power to bless under the clut=
ch
of a demon that wanted to stifle it: it rang like a trumpet to the extremit=
ies of
the Piazza, and under it every head was bowed.
After the utterance of that blessi=
ng,
Savonarola himself fell on his knees and hid his face in temporary exhausti=
on.
Those great jets of emotion were a necessary part of his life; he himself h=
ad
said to the people long ago, 'Without preaching I cannot live.' But it was a
life that shattered him.
In a few minutes more, some had ri=
sen
to their feet, but a larger number remained kneeling, and all faces were
intently watching him. He had taken into his hands a crystal vessel, contai=
ning
the consecrated Host, and was about to address the people.
'You remember, my children, three =
days
ago I besought you, when I should hold this Sacrament in my hand in the fac=
e of
you all, to pray fervently to the Most High that if this work of mine does =
not
come from Him, He will send a fire and consume me, that I may vanish into t=
he
eternal darkness away from His light which I have hidden with my falsity. A=
gain
I beseech you to make that prayer, and to make it now.'
It was a breathless moment: perhap=
s no
man really prayed, if some in a spirit of devout obedience made the effort =
to
pray. Every consciousness was chiefly possessed by the sense that Savonarola
was praying, in a voice not loud, but distinctly audible in the wide stilln=
ess.
'Lord, if I have not wrought in
sincerity of soul, if my word cometh not from Thee, strike me in this moment
with Thy thunder, and let the fires of Thy wrath enclose me.'
He ceased to speak, and stood
motionless, with the consecrated Mystery in his hand, with eyes uplifted an=
d a
quivering excitement in his whole aspect. Every one else was motionless and
silent too, while the sunlight, which for the last quarter of an hour had h=
ere
and there been piercing the greyness, made fitful streaks across the convent
wall, causing some awe-stricken spectators to start timidly. But soon there=
was
a wider parting, and with a gentle quickness, like a smile, a stream of
brightness poured itself on the crystal vase, and then spread itself over
Savonarola's face with mild glorification.
An instantaneous shout rang through
the Piazza, 'Behold the answer!'
The warm radiance thrilled through
Savonarola's frame, and so did the shout. It was his last moment of untroub=
led
triumph, and in its rapturous confidence he felt carried to a grander scene=
yet
to come, before an audience that would represent all Christendom, in whose
presence he should again be sealed as the messenger of the supreme
righteousness, and feel himself full charged with Divine strength. It was b=
ut a
moment that expanded itself in that prevision. While the shout was still
ringing in his ears he turned away within the church, feeling the strain too
great for him to bear it longer.
But when the Frate had disappeared,
and the sunlight seemed no longer to have anything special in its illuminat=
ion,
but was spreading itself impartially over all things clean and unclean, the=
re
began, along with the general movement of the crowd, a confusion of voices =
in
which certain strong discords and varying scales of laughter made it evident
that, in the previous silence and universal kneeling, hostility and scorn h=
ad
only submitted unwillingly to a momentary spell.
'It seems to me the plaudits are
giving way to criticism,' said Tito, who had been watching the scene attent=
ively
from an upper loggia in one of the houses opposite the church. 'Nevertheles=
s it
was a striking moment, eh, Messer Pietro? Fra Girolamo is a man to make one
understand that there was a time when the monk's frock was a symbol of power
over men's minds rather than over the keys of women's cupboards.'
'Assuredly,' said Pietro Cennini. =
'And
until I have seen proof that Fra Girolamo has much less faith in God's
judgments than the common run of men, instead of having considerably more, I
shall not believe that he would brave Heaven in this way if his soul were l=
aden
with a conscious lie.'
A month after that Carnival, one
morning near the end of March, Tito descended the marble steps of the Old
Palace, bound on a pregnant errand to San Marco. For some reason, he did not
choose to take the direct road, which was but a slightly-bent line from the=
Old
Palace; he chose rather to make a circuit by the Piazza di Santa Croce, whe=
re
the people would be pouring out of the church after the early sermon.
It was in the grand church of Santa
Croce that the daily Lenten sermon had of late had the largest audience. For
Savonarola's voice had ceased to be heard even in his own church of San Mar=
co,
a hostile Signoria having imposed silence on him in obedience to a new lett=
er
from the Pope, threatening the city with an immediate interdict if this
'wretched worm' and 'monstrous idol' were not forbidden to preach, and sent=
to
demand pardon at Rome. And next to hearing Fra Girolamo himself, the most e=
xciting
Lenten occupation was to hear him argued against and vilified. This excitem=
ent
was to be had in Santa Croce, where the Franciscan appointed to preach the
Quaresimal sermons had offered to clench his arguments by walking through t=
he
fire with Fra Girolamo. Had not that schismatical Dominican said, that his
prophetic doctrine would be proved by a miracle at the fitting time? Here,
then, was the fitting time. Let Savonarola walk through the fire, and if he
came out unhurt, the Divine origin of his doctrine would be demonstrated; b=
ut
if the fire consumed him, his falsity would be manifest; and that he might =
have
no excuse for evading the test, the Franciscan declared himself willing to =
be a
victim to this high logic, and to be burned for the sake of securing the
necessary minor premiss.
Savonarola, according to his habit,
had taken no notice of these pulpit attacks. But it happened that the zealo=
us
preacher of Santa Croce was no other than the Fra Francesco di Puglia, who =
at
Prato the year before had been engaged in a like challenge with Savonarola's
fervent follower Fra Domenico, but had been called home by his superiors wh=
ile
the heat was simply oratorical. Honest Fra Domenico, then, who was preaching
Lenten sermons to the women in the Via del Cocomero, no sooner heard of this
new challenge, than he took up the gauntlet for his master, and declared
himself ready to walk through the fire with Fra Francesco. Already the peop=
le
were beginning to take a strong interest in what seemed to them a short and=
easy
method of argument (for those who were to be convinced), when Savonarola,
keenly alive to the dangers that lay in the mere discussion of the case,
commanded Fra Domenico to withdraw his acceptance of the challenge and sece=
de
from the affair. The Franciscan declared himself content: he had not direct=
ed
his challenge to any subaltern, but to Fra Girolamo himself.
After that, the popular interest in
the Lenten sermons had flagged a little. But this morning, when Tito entered
the Piazza di Santa Croce, he found, as he expected, that the people were
pouring from the church in large numbers. Instead of dispersing, many of th=
em
concentrated themselves towards a particular spot near the entrance of the
Franciscan monastery, and Tito took the same direction, threading the crowd
with a careless and leisurely air, but keeping careful watch on that monast=
ic
entrance, as if he expected some object of interest to issue from it.
It was no such expectation that
occupied the crowd. The object they were caring about was already visible to
them in the shape of a large placard, affixed by order of the Signoria, and
covered with very legible official handwriting. But curiosity was somewhat
balked by the fact that the manuscript was chiefly in Latin, and though nea=
rly
every man knew beforehand approximately what the placard contained, he had =
an
appetite for more exact knowledge, which gave him an irritating sense of his
neighbour's ignorance in not being able to interpret the learned tongue. For
that aural acquaintance with Latin phrases which the unlearned might pick up
from pulpit quotations constantly interpreted by the preacher could help th=
em
little when they saw written Latin; the spelling even of the modern language
being in an unorganised and scrambling condition for the mass of people who
could read and write, while the majority of those assembled nearest to the
placard were not in the dangerous predicament of possessing that little
knowledge.
'It's the Frate's doctrines that h=
e's
to prove by being burned,' said that large public character Goro, who happe=
ned
to be among the foremost gazers. 'The Signoria has taken it in hand, and the
writing is to let us know. It's what the Padre has been telling us about in=
his
sermon.'
'Nay, Goro,' said a sleek shopkeep=
er,
compassionately, 'thou hast got thy legs into twisted hose there. The Frate=
has
to prove his doctrines by not being burned: he is to walk through the fire,=
and
come out on the other side sound and whole.'
'Yes, yes,' said a young sculptor,=
who
wore his white-streaked cap and tunic with a jaunty air. 'But Fra Girolamo
objects to walking through the fire. Being sound and whole already, he sees=
no
reason why he should walk through the fire to come out in just the same
condition. He leaves such odds and ends of work to Fra Domenico.'
'Then I say he flinches like a
coward,' said Goro, in a wheezy treble. 'Suffocation! that was what he did =
at
the Carnival. He had us all in the Piazza to see the lightning strike him, =
and
nothing came of it.'
'Stop that bleating,' said a rall =
shoemaker,
who had stepped in to hear part of the sermon, with bunches of slippers han=
ging
over his shoulders. 'It seems to me, friend, that you are about as wise as a
calf with water on its brain. The Frate will flinch from nothing: he'll say
nothing beforehand, perhaps, but when the moment comes he'll walk through t=
he
fire without asking any grey-frock to keep him company. But I would give a
shoestring to know what this Latin all is.'
'There's so much of it,' said the
shopkeeper, 'else I'm pretty good at guessing. Is there no scholar to be se=
en?'
he added, with a slight expression of disgust.
There was a general turning of hea=
ds,
which caused the talkers to descry Tito approaching in their rear.
'Here is one,' said the young
sculptor, smiling and raising his cap.
'It is the secretary of the Ten: h=
e is
going to the convent, doubtless; make way for him,' said the shopkeeper, al=
so
doffing, though that mark of respect was rarely shown by Florentines except=
to
the highest officials. The exceptional reverence was really exacted by the
splendour and grace of Tito's appearance, which made his black mantle, with=
its
gold fibula, look like a regal robe, and his ordinary black velvet cap like=
an
entirely exceptional head-dress. The hardening of his cheeks and mouth, whi=
ch
was the chief change in his face since he came to Florence, seemed to a
superficial glance only to give his beauty a more masculine character. He
raised his own cap immediately and said -
'Thanks, my friend, I merely wishe=
d,
as you did, to see what is at the foot of this placard - ah, it is as I
expected. I had been informed that the government permits any one who will,=
to
subscribe his name as a candidate to enter the fire - which is an act of
liberality worthy of the magnificent Signoria - reserving of course the rig=
ht
to make a selection. And doubtless many believers will be eager to subscribe
their names. For what is lit to enter the fire, to one whose faith is firm?=
A
man is afraid of the fire, because he believes it will burn him; but if he =
believes
the contrary?' - here Tito lifted his shoulders and made an oratorical paus=
e -
'for which reason I have never been one to disbelieve the Frate, when he has
said that he would enter the fire to prove his doctrine. For in his place, =
if
you believed the fire would not burn you, which of you, my friends, would n=
ot
enter it as readily as you would walk along the dry bed of the Mugnone?'
As Tito looked round him during th=
is
appeal, there was a change in some of his audience very much like the chang=
e in
an eager dog when he is invited to smell something pungent. Since the quest=
ion
of burning was becoming practical, it was not every one who would rashly co=
mmit
himself to any general view of the relation between faith and fire. The sce=
ne
might have been too much for a gravity less under command than Tito's.
'Then, Messer Segretario,' said the
young sculptor, 'it seems to me Fra Francesco is the greater hero, for he
offcrs to enter the fire for the truth, though he is sure the fire will burn
him.'
'I do not deny it,' said Tito,
blandly. 'But if it turns out that Fra Francesco is mistaken, he will have =
been
burned for the wrong side, and the Church has never reckoned such victims t=
o be
martyrs. We must suspend our judgment until the trial has really taken plac=
e.'
'It is true, Messer Segretario,' s=
aid
the shopkeeper, with subdued impatience. 'But will you favour us by
interpreting the Latin?'
'Assuredly,' said Tito. 'It does b=
ut
express the conclusions or doctrines which the Frate specially teaches, and
which the trial by fire is to prove true or false. They are doubtless famil=
iar
to you. First, that Florence -'
'Let us have the Latin bit by bit,=
and
then tell us what it means,' said the shoemaker, who had been a frequent he=
arer
of Fra Girolamo.
'Willingly,' said Tito, smiling. '=
You
will then judge if I give you the right meaning.'
'Yes, yes; that's fair,' said Goro=
.
'Ecclesia Dei indiget renovatione;
that it, the Church of God needs purifying or regenerating.'
'It is true,' said several voices =
at
once.
'That means, the priests ought to =
lead
better lives; there needs no miracle to prove that. That's what the Frate h=
as
always been saying,' said the shoemaker.
'Flagellabitur,' Tito went on. 'Th=
at
is, it will be scourged. Renovabitur: it will be purified. Florentia quoque
post flagellam renovabitur et prosperabitur: Florence also, after the
scourging, shall be purified and shall prosper.'
'That means we are to get Pisa aga=
in,'
said the shop-keeper.
'And get the wool from England as =
we
used to do, I should hope,' said an elderly man, in an old-fashioned berret=
ta,
who had been silent till now. 'There's been scourging enough with the sinki=
ng
of the trade.'
At this moment, a tall personage,
surmounted by a red feather, issued from the door of the convent, and excha=
nged
an indifferent glance with Tito; who, tossing his becchetto carelessly over=
his
left shoulder, turned to his reading again, while the bystanders, with more
timidity than respect, shrank to make a passage for Messer Dolfo Spini.
'Infideles convertentur ad Christu=
m,'
Tito went on. 'That is, the infidels shall be converted to Christ.'
'Those are the Turks and the Moors.
Well, I've nothing to say against that,' said the shopkeeper, dispassionate=
ly.
'Haec autem omnia erunt temporibus
nostris: and all these things shall happen in our times.'
'Why, what use would they be else?'
said Goro.
'Excommunicatio nuper lata contra
Reverendum Patrem nostrum Fratrem Hieronymum nulla est: the excommunication
lately pronounced against our reverend father, Fra Girolamo is null. Non
observantes eam non peccant: those who disregard it are not committing a si=
n.'
'I shall know better what to say to
that when we have had the Trial by Fire,' said the shopkeeper.
'Which doubtless will clear up
everything,' said Tito. 'That is all the Latin - all the conclusions that a=
re
to be proved true or false by the trial. The rest you can perceive is simpl=
y a
proclamation of the Signoria in good Tuscan, calling on such as are eager to
walk through the fire, to come to the Palazzo and subscribe their names. Ca=
n I
serve you further? If not - '
Tito, as he turned away, raised his
cap and bent slightly, with so easy an air that the movement seemed a natur=
al
prompting of deference.
He quickened his pace as he left t=
he
Piazza, and after two or three turnings he paused in a quiet street before a
door at which he gave a light and peculiar knock. It was opened by a young
woman whom he chucked under the chin as he asked her if the Padrones was
within, and he then passed, without further ceremony, through another door
which stood ajar on his right hand. It admitted him into a handsome but unt=
idy
room, where Dolfo Spini sat playing with a fine stag-hound which alternately
snuffed at a basket of pups and licked his hands with that affectionate dis=
regard
of her master's morals sometimes held to be one of the most agreeable
attributes of her sex. He just looked up as Tito entered, but continued his
play, simply from that disposition to persistence in some irrelevant action=
, by
which slow-witted sensual people seem to be continually counteracting their=
own
purposes. Tito was patient.
'A handsome bracca that,' he said,
quietly, standing with his thumbs in his belt. Presently he added, in that =
cool
liquid tone which seemed mild, but compelled attention, 'When you have fini=
shed
such caresses as cannot possibly be deferred, my Dolfo, we will talk of
business, if you please. My time, which I could wish to be eternity at your
service, is not entirely my own this morning.'
'Down, Mischief, down!' said Spini=
, with
sudden roughness. 'Malediction!' he added, still more gruffly, pushing the =
dog
aside; then, starting from his seat, he stood close to Tito, and put a hand=
on
his shoulder as he spoke.
'I hope your sharp wits see all the
ins and outs of this business, my fine necromancer, for it seems to me no
clearer than the bottom of a sack.'
'What is your difficulty, my
cavalier?'
'These accursed Frati Minori at Sa=
nta
Croce. They are drawing back now. Fra Francesco himself seems afraid of
sticking to his challenge; talks of the Prophet being likely to use magic to
get up a false miracle - thinks he himself might be dragged into the fire a=
nd
burned, and the Prophet might come out whole by magic, and the Church be no=
ne
the better. And then, after all our talking, there's not so much as a bless=
ed
lay brother who will offer himself to pair with that pious sheep Fra Domeni=
co.'
'It is the peculiar stupidity of t=
he
tonsured skull that prevents them from seeing of how little consequence it =
is
whether they are burned or not,' said Tito. 'Have you sworn well to them th=
at
they shall be in no danger of entering the fire ? '
'No,' said Spini, looking puzzled;
'because one of them will be obliged to go in with Fra Domenico, who thinks=
it
a thousand years till the fagots are ready.'
'Not at all. Fra Domenico himself =
is
not likely to go in. I have told you before, my Dolfo, only your powerful m=
ind
is not to be impressed without more repetition than suffices for the vulgar=
- I
have told you that now you have got the Signoria to take up this affair and
prevent it from being hushed up by Fra Girolamo, nothing is necessary but t=
hat
on a given day the fuel should be prepared in the Piazza, and the people got
together with the expectation of seeing something prodigious. If, after tha=
t, the
Prophet quits the Piazza without any appearance of a miracle on his side, h=
e is
ruined with the people: they will be ready to pelt him out of the city, the
Signoria will find it easy to banish him from the territory, and his Holine=
ss
may do as he likes with him. Therefore, my Alcibiades, swear to the Francis=
cans
that their grey frocks shall not come within singeing distance of the fire.=
'
Spini rubbed the back of his head =
with
one hand, and tapped his sword against his leg with the other, to stimulate=
his
power of seeing these intangible combinations.
'But,' he said presently, looking =
up
again, 'unless we fall on him in the Piazza, when the people are in a rage,=
and
make an end of him and his lies then and there, Valori and the Salviati and=
the
Albizzi will take up arms and raise a fight for him. I know that was talked=
of
when there was the hubbub on Ascension Sunday. And the people may turn round
again: there may be a story raised of the French king coming again, or some
other cursed chance in the hypocrite's favour. The city will never be safe =
till
he's out of it.'
'He will be out of it before long,
without your giving yourself any further trouble than this little comedy of=
the
Trial by Fire. The wine and the sun will make vinegar without any shouting =
to
help them, as your Florentine sages would say. You will have the satisfacti=
on
of delivering your city from an incubus by an able stratagem, instead of
risking blunders with sword-thrusts.'
'But suppose he did get magic and =
the
devil to help him, and walk through the fire after all?' said Spini, with a
grimace intended to hide a certain shyness in trenching on this speculative
ground. 'How do you know there's nothing in those things. Plenty of scholars
believe in them, and this Frate is bad enough for anything.'
'Oh, of course there are such thin=
gs,'
said Tito, with a shrug: 'but I have particular reasons for knowing that the
Frate is not on such terms with the devil as can give him any confidence in
this affair. The only magic he relies on is his own ability.'
'Ability!' said Spini. 'Do you cal=
l it
ability to be setting Florence at loggerheads with the Pope and all the pow=
ers
of Italy - all to keep beckoning at the French king who never comes? You may
call him able, but I call him a hypocrite who wants to be master of everybo=
dy,
and get himself made Pope.'
'You judge with your usual
penetration, my captain, but our opinions do not clash. The Frate, wanting =
to
be master, and to carry out his projects against the Pope, requires the lev=
er
of a foreign power, and requires Florence as a fulcrum. I used to think him=
a
narrow-minded bigot, but now, I think him a shrewd ambitious man who knows =
what
he is aiming at, and directs his aim as skilfully as you direct a ball when=
you
are playing at maglio.'
'Yes, yes,' said Spini, cordially,=
'I
can aim a ball.'
'It is true,' said Tito, with bland
gravity; 'and I should not have troubled you with my trivial remark on the
Frate's ability, but that you may see how this will heighten the credit of =
your
success against him at Rome and at Milan, which is sure to serve you in good
stead when the city comes to change its policy.'
'Well, thou art a good little demo=
n,
and shalt have good pay,' said Spini, patronisingly; whereupon he thought it
only natural that the useful Greek adventurer should smile with gratificati=
on
as he said -
'Of course, any advantage to me
depends entirely on your -'
'We shall have our supper at my pa=
lace
to-night,' interrupted Spini, with a significant nod and an affectionate pa=
t on
Tito's shoulder, 'and I shalI expound the new scheme to them all.'
'Pardon, my magnificent patron,' s=
aid
Tito; 'the scheme has been the same from the first - it has never varied ex=
cept
in your memory. Are you sure you have fast hold of it now?' Spini rehearsed=
.
'One thing more,' he said, as Tito=
was
hastening away. 'There is that sharp-nosed notary, Ser Ceccone; he has been
handy of late. Tell me, you who can see a man wink when you're behind him, =
do
you think I may go on making use of him?'
Tito dared not say 'No.' He knew h=
is
companion too well to trust him with advice when all Spini's vanity and
self-interest were not engaged in concealing the adviser.
'Doubtless,' he answered, promptly=
. 'I
have nothing to say against Ceccone.'
That suggestion of the notary's
intimate access to Spini caused Tito a passing twinge, interrupting his amu=
sed
satisfaction in the success with which he made a tool of the man who fancied
himself a patron. For he had been rather afraid of Ser Ceccone. Tito's natu=
re
made him peculiarly alive to circumstances that might be turned to his
disadvantage; his memory was much haunted by such possibilities, stimulating
him to contrivances by which he might ward them off. And it was not likely =
that
he should forget that October morning more than a year ago, when Romola had
appeared suddenly before him at the door of Nello's shop, and had compelled=
him
to declare his certainty that Fra Girolamo was not going outside the gates.=
The
fact that Ser Ceccone had been a witness of that scene, together with Tito'=
s perception
that for some reason or other he was an object of dislike to the notary, had
received a new importance from the recent turn of events. For after having =
been
implicated in the Medicean plots, and having found it advisable in conseque=
nce
to retire into the country for some time, Ser Ceccone had of late, since his
reappearance in the city, attached himself to the Arrabbiati, and cultivated
the patronage of Dolfo Spini. Now that captain of the Compagnacci was much
given, when in the company of intimates, to confidential narrative about his
own doings, and if Ser Ceccone's powers of combination were sharpened by
enmity, he might gather some knowledge which he could use against Tito with
very unpleasant results.
It would be pitiable to be balked =
in
well-conducted schemes by an insignificant notary; to be lamed by the sting=
of
an insect whom he had offended unawares. 'But,' Tito said to himself, 'the
man's dislike to me can be nothing deeper than the ill-humour of a dinnerle=
ss
dog; I shall conquer it if I can make him prosperous.' And he had been very
glad of an opportunity which had presented itself of providing the notary w=
ith
a temporary post as an extra cancelliere or registering secretary under the
Ten, believing that with this sop and the expectation of more, the waspish =
cur
must be quite cured of the disposition to bite him.
But perfect scheming demands
omniscience, and the notary's envy had been stimulated into hatred by cause=
s of
which Tito knew nothing. That evening when Tito, returning from his critical
audience with the Special Council had brushed by Ser Ceccone on the stairs,=
the
notary, who had only just returned from Pistoja, and learned the arrest of =
the
conspirators, was bound on an errand which bore a humble resemblance to Tit=
o's.
He also without giving up a show of popular zeal, had been putting in the
Medicean lottery. He also had been privy to the unexecuted plot, and was
willing to tell what he knew, but knew much less to tell. He also would have
been willing to go on treacherous errands, but a more eligible agent had
forestalled him. His propositions were received coldly; the council, he was
told, was already in possession of the needed information, and since he had
been thus busy in sedition, it would be well for him to retire out of the w=
ay
of mischief, otherwise the government might be obliged to take note of him.=
Ser
Ceccone wanted no evidence to make him attribute his failure to Tito and his
spite was the more bitter because the nature of the case compelled him to h=
old
his peace about it. Nor was this the whole of his grudge against the
flourishing Melema. On issuing from his hiding-place, and attaching himself=
to
the Arrabbiati, he had earned some pay as one of the spies who reported
information on Florentine affairs to the Milanese court; but his pay had be=
en
small, notwithstanding his pains to write full letters, and he had lately b=
een
apprised that his news was seldom more than a late and imperfect edition of
what was known already. Now Ser Ceccone had no positive knowledge that Tito=
had
an underhand connection with the Arrabbiati and the Court of Milan, but he =
had
a suspicion of which he chewed the cud with as strong a sense of flavour as=
if
it had been a certainty.
This fine-grown vigorous hatred co=
uld
swallow the feeble opiate of Tito's favours, and be as lively as ever after=
it.
Why should Ser Ceccone like Melema any the better for doing him favours?
Doubtless the suave secretary had his own ends to serve; and what right had=
he
to the superior position which made it possible for him to show favour? But
since he had tuned his voice to flattery, Ser Ceccone would pitch his in the
same key, and it remained to be seen who would win at the game of outwittin=
g.
To have a mind well oiled with that
sort of argument which prevents any claim from grasping it, seems eminently
convenient sometimes; only the oil becomes objectionable when we find it
anointing other minds on which we want to establish a hold.
Tito, however, not being quite
omniscient, felt now no more than a passing twinge of uneasiness at the
suggestion of Ser Ceccone's power to hurt him. It was only for a little whi=
le
that he cared greatly about keeping clear of suspicions and hostility. He w=
as
now playing his final game in Florence, and the skill he was conscious of
applying gave him a pleasure in it even apart from the expected winnings. T=
he
errand on which he was bent to San Marco was a stroke in which he felt so m=
uch
confidence that he had already given notice to the Ten of his desire to res=
ign
his office at an indefinite period within the next month or two, and had
obtained permission to make that resignation suddenly, if his affairs needed
it, with the understanding that Niccolo Macchiavelli was to be his provisio=
nal
substitute, if not his successor. He was acting on hypothetic grounds, but =
this
was the sort of action that had the keenest interest for his diplomatic min=
d.
From a combination of general knowledge concerning Savonarola's purposes wi=
th
diligently observed details he had framed a conjecture which he was about to
verify by this visit to San Marco. If he proved to be right, his game would=
be
won, and he might soon turn his back on Florence. He looked eagerly towards
that consummation, for many circumstances besides his own weariness of the
place told him that it was time for him to be gone.
Tito's visit to San Marco had been announced beforehand, and he was at once conducted by Fra Niccolo, Savonaro= la's secretary, up the spiral staircase into the long corridors lined with cells= - corridors where Fra Angelico's frescoes, delicate as the rainbow on the mel= ting cloud, startled the unaccustomed eye here and there, as if they had been su= dden reflections cast from an ethereal world, where the Madonna sat crowned in h= er radiant glory, and the Divine infant looked forth with perpetual promise. <= o:p>
It was an hour of relaxation in the
monastery, and most of the cells were empty. The light through the narrow
windows looked in on nothing but bare walls, and the hard pallet and the
crucifix. And even behind that door at the end of a long corridor, in the i=
nner
cell opening from an ante-chamber where the Prior usually sat at his desk or
received private visitors, the high jet of light fell on only one more obje=
ct
that looked quite as common a monastic sight as the bare walls and hard pal=
let.
It was but the back of a figure in the long white Dominican tunic and
scapulary, kneeling with bowed head before a crucifix. It might have been a=
ny
ordinary Fra Girolamo, who had nothing worse to confess than thinking of wr=
ong
things when he was singing in coro, or feeling a spiteful joy when Fra
Benedetto dropped the ink over his own miniatures in the breviary he was
illuminating - who had no higher thought than that of climbing safely into
Paradise up the narrow ladder of prayer, fasting, and obedience. But under =
this
particular white tunic there was a heart beating with a consciousness
inconceivable to the average monk, and perhaps hard to be conceived by any =
man
who has not arrived at self-knowledge through a tumultuous inner life: a
consciousness in which irrevocable errors and lapses from veracity were so
entwined with noble purposes and sincere beliefs, in which self-justifying
expediency was so inwoven with the tissue of a great work which the whole b=
eing
seemed as unable to abandon as the body was unable to abandon glowing and
trembling before the objects of hope and fear, that it was perhaps impossib=
le,
whatever course might be adopted, for the conscience to find perfect repose=
.
Savonarola was not only in the
attitude of prayer, there were Latin words of prayer on his lips; and yet he
was not praying. He had entered his cell, had fallen on his knees, and burst
into words of supplication, seeking in this way for an influx of calmness w=
hich
would be a warrant to him that the resolutions urged on him by crowding
thoughts and passions were not wresting him away from the Divine support; b=
ut
the previsions and impulses which had been at work within him for the last =
hour
were too imperious; and while he pressed his hands against his face, and wh=
ile
his lips were uttering audibly, 'Cor mundum crea in me,' his mind was still
filled with the images of the snare his enemies had prepared for him, was s=
till
busy with the arguments by which he could justify himself against their tau=
nts
and accusations.
And it was not only against his
opponents that Savonarola had to defend himself. This morning he had had new
proof that his friends and followers were as much inclined to urge on the T=
rial
by Fire as his enemies: desiring and tacitly expecting that he himself woul=
d at
last accept the challenge and evoke the long-expected miracle which was to
dissipate doubt and triumph over malignity. Had he not said that God would
declare himself at the fitting time? And to the understanding of plain
Florentines, eager to get party questions settled, it seemed that no time c=
ould
be more fitting than this. Certainly, if Fra Domenico walked through the fi=
re
unhurt, that would be a miracle, and the faith and ardour of that good brot=
her
were felt to be a cheering augury; but Savonarola was acutely conscious that
the secret longing of his followers to see him accept the challenge had not
been dissipated by any reasons he had given for his refusal.
Yet it was impossible to him to
satisfy them; and with bitter distress he saw now that it was impossible for
him any longer to resist the prosecution of the trial in Fra Domenico's cas=
e.
Not that Savonarola had uttered and written a falsity when he declared his
belief in a future supernatural attestation of his work; but his mind was so
constituted that while it was easy for him to believe in a miracle which, b=
eing
distant and undefined, was screened behind the strong reasons he saw for its
occurrence, and yet easier for him to have a belief in inward miracles such=
as
his own prophetic inspiration and divinely-wrought intuitions; it was at the
same time insurmountably difficult to him to believe in the probability of a
miracle which, like this of being carried unhurt through the fire, pressed =
in
all its details on his imagination and involved a demand not only for belief
but for exceptional action.
Savonarola's nature was one of tho=
se
in which opposing tendencies coexist in almost equal strength: the passiona=
te
sensibility which, impatient of definite thought, floods every idea with
emotion and tends towards contemplative ecstasy, alternated in him with a k=
een
perception of outward facts and a vigorous practical judgment of men and
things. And in this case of the Trial by Fire, the latter characteristics w=
ere
stimulated into unusual activity by an acute physical sensitiveness which g=
ives
overpowering force to the conception of pain and destruction as a necessary
sequence of facts which have already been causes of pain in our experience.=
The
promptitude with which men will consent to touch red-hot iron with a wet fi=
nger
is not to be measured by their theoretic acceptance of the impossibility th=
at
the iron will burn them: practical belief depends on what is most strongly
represented in the mind at a given moment. And with the Frate's constitutio=
n,
when the Trial by Fire was urged on his imagination as an immediate demand,=
it
was impossible for him to believe that he or any other man could walk throu=
gh
the flames unhurt - impossible for him to believe that even if he resolved =
to
offer himself, he would not shrink at the last moment.
But the Florentines were not likel=
y to
make these fine distinctions. To the common run of mankind it has always se=
emed
a proof of mental vigour to find moral questions easy, and judge conduct
according to concise alternatives. And nothing was likely to seem plainer t=
han
that a man who at one time declared that God would not leave him without the
guarantee of a miracle, and yet drew back when it was proposed to test his
declaration, had said what he did not believe. Were not Fra Domenico and Fra
Mariano, and scores of Piagnoni besides, ready to enter the fire? What was =
the
cause of their superior courage, if it was not their superior faith? Savona=
rola
could not have explained his conduct satisfactorily to his friends, even if=
he
had been able to explain it thoroughly to himself. And he was not. Our naked
feelings make haste to clothe themselves in propositions which lie at hand
among our store of opinions, and to give a true account of what passes with=
in
us something else is necessary besides sincerity, even when sincerity is
unmixed. In these very moments, when Savonarola was kneeling in audible pra=
yer,
he had ceased to hear the words on his lips. They were drowned by argumenta=
tive
voices within him that shaped their reasons more and more for an outward
audience.
'To appeal to heaven for a miracle=
by
a rash acceptance of a challenge, which is a mere snare prepared for me by
ignoble foes, would be a tempting of God, and the appeal would not be respo=
nded
to. Let the Pope's legate come, let the ambassadors of all the great Powers
come and promise that the calling of a General Council and the reform of the
Church shall hang on the miracle, and I will enter the flames, trusting that
God will not withhold His seal from that great work. Until then I reserve
myself for higher duties which are directly laid upon me: it is not permitt=
ed
to me to leap from the chariot for the sake of wrestling with every loud
vaunter. But Fra Domenico's invincible zeal to enter into the trial may be =
the
sign of a Divine vocation, may be a pledge that the miracle -'
But no! when Savonarola brought his
mind close to the threatened scene in the Piazza, and imagined a human body
entering the fire, his belief recoiled again. It was not an event that his
imagination could simply see: he felt it with shuddering vibrations to the
extremities of his sensitive fingers. The miracle could not be. Nay, the tr=
ial
itself was not to happen: he was warranted in doing all in his power to hin=
der
it. The fuel might be got ready in the Piazza, the people might be assemble=
d,
the preparatory formalities might be gone through: all this was perhaps
inevitable now, and he could no longer resist it without bringing dishonour=
on
- himself? Yes, and therefore on the cause of God. But it was not really
intended that the Franciscan should enter the fire, and while he hung back
there would be the means of preventing Fra Domenico's entrance. At the very
worst, if Fra Domenico were compelled to enter, he should carry the consecr=
ated
Host with him, and with that Mystery in his hand, there might be a warrant =
for
expecting that the ordinary effects of fire would be stayed; or, more proba=
bly,
this demand would be resisted, and might thus be a final obstacle to the tr=
ial.
But these intentions could not be
avowed: he must appear frankly to await the trial, and to trust in its issu=
e.
That dissidence between inward reality and outward seeming was not the
Christian simplicity after which he had striven through years of his youth =
and
prime, and which he had preached as a chief fruit of the Divine life. In the
stress and heat of the day, with cheeks burning, with shouts ringing in the
ears, who is so blest as to remember the yearnings he had in the cool and s=
ilent
morning and know that he has not belied them?
'God, it is for the sake of the pe=
ople
- because they are blind - because their faith depends on me. If I put on
sack-cloth and cast myself among the ashes, who will take up the standard a=
nd
head the battle? Have I not been led by a way which I knew not to the work =
that
lies before me?'
The conflict was one that could not
end, and in the effort at prayerful pleading the uneasy mind laved its smart
continually in thoughts of the greatness of that task which there was no man
else to fulfil if he forsook it. It was not a thing of every day that a man
should be inspired with the vision and the daring that made a sacred rebel.=
Even the words of prayer had died
away. He continued to kneel, but his mind was filled with the images of res=
ults
to be felt through all Europe; and the sense of immediate difficulties was
being lost in the glow of that vision, when the knocking at the door announ=
ced
the expected visit.
Savonarola drew on his mantle befo=
re
he left his cell, as was his custom when he received visitors; and with that
immediate response to any appeal from without which belongs to a power-lovi=
ng
nature accustomed to make its power felt by speech, he met Tito with a glan=
ce
as self-possessed and strong as if he had risen from resolution instead of
conflict.
Tito did not kneel, but simply mad=
e a
greeting of profound deference, which Savonarola received quietly without a=
ny
sacerdotal words, and then desiring him to be seated, said at once -
'Your business is something of wei=
ght,
my son, that could not be conveyed through others?'
'Assuredly, father, else I should =
not
have presumed to ask it. I will not trespass on your time by any proem. I
gathered from a remark of Messer Domenico Mazzinghi that you might be glad =
to
make use of the next special courier who is sent to France with despatches =
from
the Ten. I must entreat you to pardon me if I have been too ofiicious; but
inasmuch as Messer Domenico is at this moment away at his villa, I wished to
apprise you that a courier carrying important letters is about to depart for
Lyons at daybreak to-morrow;'
The muscles of Fra Girolamo's face
were eminently under command, as must be the case with all men whose
personality is powerful, and in deliberate speech he was habitually cautiou=
s,
confiding his intentions to none without necessity. But under any strong me=
ntal
stimulus, his eyes were liable to a dilatation and added brilliancy that no
strength of will could control. He looked steadily at Tito, and did not ans=
wer
immediately, as if he had to consider whether the information he had just h=
eard
met any purpose of his.
Tito, whose glance never seemed
observant, but rarely let anything escape it, had expected precisely that
dilatation and flash of Savonarola's eyes which he had noted on other
occasions. He saw it, and then immediately busied himself in adjusting his =
gold
fibula, which had got wrong; seeming to imply that he awaited an answer
patiently.
The fact was that Savonarola had
expected to receive this intimation from Domenico Mazzinghi, one of the Ten=
, an
ardent disciple of his whom he had already employed to write a private lett=
er
to the Florentine ambassador in France, to prepare the way for a letter to =
the
French king himself in Savonarola's handwriting, which now lay ready in the
desk at his side. It was a letter calling on the king to assist in summonin=
g a
General Council, that might reform the abuses of the Church, and begin by
deposing Pope Alexander, who was not rightfully Pope, being a vicious
unbeliever, elected by corruption and governing by simony.
This fact was not what Tito knew, =
but
what his constructive talent, guided by subde indications, had led him to g=
uess
and hope.
'It is true, my son,' said Savonar=
ola,
quietly, - 'it is true I have letters which I would gladly send by safe
conveyance under cover to our ambassador. Our community of San Marco, as you
know, has affairs in France, being, amongst other things, responsible for a
debt to that singularly wise and experienced Frenchman, Signor Philippe de =
Comines,
on the library of the Medici, which we purchased; but I apprehend that Dome=
nico
Mazzinghi himself may return to the city before evening, and I should gain =
more
time for preparation of the letters if I waited to deposit them in his hand=
s.'
'Assuredly, reverend father, that
might be better on all grounds, except one, namely, that if anything occurr=
ed
to hinder Messer Domenico's return, the despatch of the letters would requi=
re
either that I should come to San Marco again at a late hour, or that you sh=
ould
send them to me by your secretary; and I am aware that you wish to guard
against the false inferences which might be drawn from a too frequent
communication between yourself and any officer of the government.' In throw=
ing
out this difficulty Tito felt that the more unwillingness the Frate showed =
to
trust him, the more certain he would be of his conjecture.
Savonarola was silent; but while he
kept his mouth firm, a slight glow rose in his face with the suppressed
excitement that was growing within him. It would be a critical moment - tha=
t in
which he delivered the letter out of his own hands.
'It is most probable that Messer
Domenico will return in time,' said Tito, affecting to consider the Frate's
determination settled, and rising from his chair as he spoke. 'With your
permission, I will take my leave, father, not to trespass on your time when=
my
errand is done - but as I may not be favoured with another interview, I ven=
ture
to confide to you - what is not yet known to others except to the magnifice=
nt Ten
- that I contemplate resigning my secretaryship, and leaving Florence short=
ly.
Am I presuming too much on your interest in stating what relates chiefly to
myself?'
'Speak on, my son,' said the Frate=
; 'I
desire to know your prospects.'
'I find, then, that I have mistake=
n my
real vocation in forsaking the career of pure letters, for which I was brou=
ght
up. The politics of Florence, father, are worthy to occupy the greatest min=
d -
to occupy yours - when a man is in a position to execute his own ideas; but
when, like me, he can only hope to be the mere instrument of changing schem=
es,
he requires to be animated by the minor attachments of a born Florentine: a=
lso,
my wife's unhappy alienation from a Florentine residence since the painful
events of August naturally influences me. I wish to join her.'
Savonarola inclined his head
approvingly.
'I intend, then, soon to leave
Florence, to visit the chief courts of Europe, and to widen my acquaintance
with the men of letters in the various universities. I shall go first to the
court of Hungary, where scholars are eminently welcome; and I shall probably
start in a week or ten days. I have not concealed from you, father, that I =
am
no religious enthusiast; I have not my wife's ardour but religious enthusia=
sm,
as I conceive, is not necessary in order to appreciate the grandeur and jus=
tice
of your views concerning the government of nations and the Church. And if y=
ou
condescend to intrust me with any commission that will further the relations
you wish to establish, I shall feel honoured. May I now take my leave?'
'Stay, my son. When you depart from
Florence I will send a letter to your wife, of whose spiritual welfare I wo=
uld
fain be assured, for she left me in anger. As for the letters to France, su=
ch
as I have ready -'
Savonarola rose and turned to his =
desk
as he spoke. He took from it a letter on which Tito could see, but not read=
. an
address in the Frate's own minute and exquisite handwriting, still to be se=
en
covering the margins of his Bibles. He took a large sheet of paper, enclosed
the letter, and sealed it.
'Pardon me, father,' said Tito, be=
fore
Savonarola had time to speak, 'unless it were your decided wish, I would ra=
ther
not incur the responsibility of carrying away the letter. Messer Domenico
Mazzinghi will doubtless return, or, if not, Fra Niccolo can convey it to m=
e at
the second hour of the evening, when I shall place the other despatches in =
the
courier's hands.'
'At present, my son,' said the Fra=
te,
waiving that point, 'I wish you to address this packet to our ambassador in
your own handwriting, which is preferable to my secretary's.'
Tito sat down to write the address
while the Frate stood by him with folded arms, the glow mounting in his che=
ek,
and his lip at last quivering. Tito rose and was about to move away, when
Savonarola said abruptly - 'Take it, my son. There is no use in waiting. It
does not please me that Fra Niccolo should have needless errands to the
Palazzo.'
As Tito took the letter, Savonarola
stood in suppressed excitement that forbade further speech. There seems to =
be a
subtle emanation from passionate natures like his, making their mental stat=
es
tell immediately on others; when they are absent-minded and inwardly excited
there is silence in the air.
Tito made a deep reverence and wen=
t out
with the letter under his mantle.
The letter was duly delivered to t=
he
courier and carried out of Florence. But before that happened another
messenger, privately employed by Tito, had conveyed information in cipher,
which was carried by a series of relays to armed agents of Ludovico Sforza,
Duke of Milan, on the watch for the very purpose of intercepting despatches=
on
the borders of the Milanese territory.
Little more than a week after, on =
the
seventh of April, the great Piazza della Signoria presented a stranger
spectacle even than the famous Bonfire of Vanities. And a greater multitude=
had
assembled to see it than had ever before tried to find place for themselves=
in
the wide Piazza, even on the day of San Giovanni.
It was near mid-day, and since the
early morning there had been a gradual swarming of the people at every coig=
n of
vantage or disadvantage offered by the facades and roofs of the houses, and
such spaces of the pavement as were free to the public. Men were seated on =
iron
rods that made a sharp angle with the rising wall, were clutching slim pill=
ars
with arms and legs, were astride on the necks of the rough statuary that he=
re
and there surmounted the entrances of the grander houses, were finding a
palm's-breadth of seat on a bit of architrave, and a footing on the rough
projections of the rustic stonework, while they clutched the strong iron ri=
ngs
or staples driven into the walls beside them.
For they were come to see a Miracl=
e:
cramped limbs and abraded flesh seemed slight inconveniences with that pros=
pect
close at hand. It is the ordinary lot of mankind to hear of miracles, and m=
ore
or less to believe in them; but now the Florentines were going to see one. =
At
the very least they would see half a miracle; for if the monk did not come
whole out of the fire, they would see him enter it, and infer that he was
burned in the middle.
There could be no reasonable doubt=
, it
seemed, that the fire would be kindled, and that the monks would enter it. =
For
there, before their eyes, was the long platform, eight feet broad, and twen=
ty
yards long, with a grove of fuel heaped up terribly, great branches of dry =
oak
as a foundation, crackling thorns above, and well-anointed tow and rags, kn=
own
to make fine flames in Florentine illuminations. The platform began at the
corner of the marble terrace in front of the Old Palace, close to Marzocco,=
the
stone lion, whose aged visage looked frowningly along the grove of fuel that
stretched obliquely across the Piazza.
Besides that, there were three lar=
ge
bodies of armed men: five hundred hired soldiers of the Signoria stationed
before the palace; five hundred Compagnacci under Dolfo Spini, far off on t=
he
opposite side of the Piazza; and three hundred armed citizens of another so=
rt,
under Marco Salviati, Savonarola's friend, in front of Orcagna's Loggia, wh=
ere
the Franciscans and Dominicans were to be placed with their champions.
Here had been much expense of money
and labour, and high dignities were concerned. There could be no reasonable=
doubt
that something great was about to happen; and it would certainly be a great
thing if the two monks were simply burned, for in that case too God would h=
ave
spoken, and said very plainly that Fra Girolamo was not His prophet.
And there was not much longer to w=
ait,
for it was now near mid-day. Half the monks were already at their post, and
that half of the Loggia that lies towards the Palace was already filled with
grey mantles; but the other half, dividcd off by boards, was still empty of
everything except a small altar. The Franciscans had entered and taken their
places in silence. But now, at the other side of the Piazza was heard loud
chanting from two hundred voices, and there was general satisfaction, if no=
t in
the chanting, at least in the evidence that the Dominicans were come. That =
loud
chanting repetition of the prayer, 'Let God arise, and let His enemies be
scattered,' was unpleasantly suggestive to some impartial ears of a desire =
to
vaunt confidence and excite dismay; and so was the flame-coloured velvet co=
pe
in which Fra Domenico was arrayed as he headed the procession, cross in han=
d,
his simple mind really exalted with faith, and with the genuine intention to
enter the flames for the glory of God and Fra Girolamo. Behind him came
Savonarola in the white vestment of a priest, carrying in his hands a vessel
containing the consecrated Host. He, too, was chanting loudly; he, too, loo=
ked
firm and confident, and as all eyes were turned eagerly on him, either in
anxiety, curiosity, or malignity, from the moment when he entered the Piazza
till he mounted the steps of the Loggia and deposited the Sacrament on the
altar, there was an intensifying flash and energy in his countenance respon=
ding
to that scrutiny.
We are so made, almost all of us, =
that
the false seeming which we have thought of with painful shrinking when
beforehand in our solitude it has urged itself on us as a necessity, will
possess our muscles and move our lips as if nothing but that were easy when
once we have come under the stimulus of expectant eyes and ears. And the
strength of that stimulus to Savonarola can hardly be measured by the
experience of ordinary lives. Perhaps no man has ever had a mighty influence
over his fellows without having the innate need to dominate, and this need =
usually
becomes the more imperious in proportion as the complications of life make =
Self
inseparable from a purpose which is not selfish. In this way it came to pass
that on the day of the Trial by Fire, the doubleness which is the pressing
temptation in every public career, whether of priest, orator, or statesman,=
was
more strongly defined in Savonarola's consciousness as the acting of a part,
than at any other period in his life. He was struggling not against impendi=
ng
martyrdom, but against impending ruin.
Therefore he looked and acted as i=
f he
were thoroughly confident, when all the while foreboding was pressing with
leaden weight on his heart, not only because of the probable issues of this
trial, but because of another event already past - an event which was sprea=
ding
a sunny satisfaction through the mind of a man who was looking down at the
passion-worn prophet from a window of the Old Palace. It was a common
turning-point towards which those widely-sundered lives had been converging,
that two evenings ago the news had come that the Florentine courier of the =
Ten
had been arrested and robbed of all his despatches, so that Savonarola's le=
tter
was already in the hands of the Duke of Milan, and would soon be in the han=
ds
of the Pope, not only heightening rage, but giving a new justification to
extreme measures. There was no malignity in Tito Melema's satisfaction: it =
was
the mild self-gratulation of a man who has won a game that has employed
hypothetic skill, not a game that has stirred the muscles and heated the bl=
ood.
Of course that bundle of desires and contrivances called human nature, when
moulded into the form of a plain-featured Frate Predicatore, more or less o=
f an
impostor, could not be a pathetic object to a brilliant-minded scholar who
understood everything. Yet this tonsured Girolamo with the high nose and la=
rge
under lip was an immensely clever Frate, mixing with his absurd superstitio=
ns
or fabrications very remarkable notions about government: no babbler, but a=
man
who could keep his secrets. Tito had no more spite against him than against
Saint Dominic. On the contrary, Fra Girolamo's existence had been highly
convenient to Tito Melema, furnishing him with that round of the ladder from
which he was about to leap on to a new and smooth footing very much to his
heart's content. And everything now was in forward preparation for that lea=
p:
let one more sun rise and set, and Tito hoped to quit Florence. He had been=
so
industrious that he felt at full leisure to amuse himself with to-day's com=
edy,
which the thick-headed Dolfo Spini could never have brought about but for h=
im.
Not yet did the loud chanting ceas=
e,
but rather swelled to a deafcning roar, being taken up in all parts of the
Piazza by the Piagnoni, who carried their little red crosses as a badge, an=
d,
most of them, chanted the prayer for the confusion of God's enemies with the
expectation of an answer to be given through the medium of a more signal
personage than Fra Domenico. This good Frate in his flame-coloured cope was=
now
kneeling before the little altar on which the Sacrament was deposited, awai=
ting
his summons.
On the Franciscan side of the Logg=
ia
there was no chanting and no flame-colour: only silence and greyness. But t=
here
was this counterbalancing difference, that the Franciscans had two champion=
s: a
certain Fra Giuliano was to pair with Fra Domenico, while the original
champion, Fra Francesco, confined his challenge to Savonarola.
'Surely,' thought the men perched
uneasily on the rods and pillars, 'all must be ready now. This chanting mig=
ht
stop, and we should see better when the Frati are moving towards the platfo=
rm.'
But the Frati were not to be seen
moving yet. Pale Franciscan faces were looking uneasily over the boarding at
that flame-coloured cope. It had an evil look and might be enchanted, so th=
at a
false miracle would be wrought by magic. Your monk may come whole out of the
fire, and yet it may be the work of the devil.
And now there was passing to and f=
ro
between the Loggia and the marble terrace of the Palazzo, and the roar of
chanting became a little quieter, for every one at a distance was beginning=
to
watch more eagerly. But it soon appeared that the new movement was not a
beginning, but an obstacle to beginning. The dignified Florentines appointe=
d to
preside over this affair as moderators on each side, went in and out of the
Palace, and there was much debate with the Franciscans. But at last it was
clear that Fra Domenico, conspicuous in his flame-colour, was being fetched
towards the Palace. Probably the fire had already been kindled - it was
difficult to see at a distance - and the miracle was going to begin.
Not at all. The flame-coloured cope
disappeared within the Palace; then another Dominican was fetched away- and=
for
a long while everything went on as before - the tiresome chanting, which was
not miraculous, and Fra Girolamo in his white vestment standing just in the
same place. But at last something happened: Fra Domenico was seen coming ou=
t of
the Palace again, and returning to his brethren. He had changed all his clo=
thes
with a brother monk, but he was guarded on each flank by a Franciscan, lest
coming into the vicinity of Savonarola he should be enchanted again.
'Ah, then,' thought the distant
spectators, a little less conscious of cramped limbs and hunger, 'Fra Domen=
ico
is not going to enter the fire. It is Fra Girolamo who offers himself after
all. We shall see him move presently, and if he comes out of the flames we
shall have a fine view of him!'
But Fra Girolamo did not move, exc=
ept
with the ordinary action accompanying speech. The speech was bold and firm,
perhaps somewhat ironically remonstrant, like that of Elijah to the priests=
of
Baal,5 demanding the cessation of these trivial delays. But speech is the m=
ost
irritating kind of argument for those who are out of hearing, cramped in the
limbs, and empty in the stomach. And what need was there for speech? If the
miracle did not begin, it could be no one's fault but Fra Girolamo's, who m=
ight
put an end to all difficulties by offering himself now the fire was ready, =
as
he had been forward enough to do when there was no fuel in sight.
More movement to and fro, more
discussion; and the afternoon seemed to be slipping away all the faster bec=
ause
the clouds had gathered, and changed the light on everything, and sent a ch=
ill
through the spectators, hungry in mind and body.
No, it was the crucifix which Fra
Domenico wanted to carry into the fire and must not be allowed to profane in
that manner. After some little resistance Savonarola gave way to this
objection, and thus had the advantage of making one more concession; but he
immcdiately placed in Fra Domenico's hands the vessel containing the
consecrated Host. The idea that the presence of the sacred Mystery might in=
the
worst extremity avert the ordinary effects of fire hovered in his mind as a
possibility; but the issue on which he counted was of a more positive kind.=
In
taking up the Host he said quietly, as if he were only doing what had been
presupposed from the first -
'Since they are not willing that y=
ou
should enter with the crucifix, my brother, enter simply with the Sacrament=
.'
New horror in the Franciscans; new
firmness in Savonarola. 'It was impious presumption to carry the Sacrament =
into
the fire: if it were burned the scandal would be great in the minds of the =
weak
and ignorant.' 'Not at all: even if it were burned, the Accidents only woul=
d be
consumed, the Substance would remain.' Here was a question that might be ar=
gued
till set of sun and remain as elastic as ever; and no one could propose set=
tling
it by proceeding to the trial, since it was essentially a preliminary quest=
ion.
It was only necessary that both sides should remain firm - that the Francis=
cans
should persist in not permitting the Host to be carried into the fire, and =
that
Fra Domenico should persist in refusing to enter without it.
Meanwhile the clouds were getting
darker, the air chiller. Even the chanting was missed now it had given way =
to
inaudible argument; and the confused sounds of talk from all points of the
Piazza, showing that expectation was everywhere relaxing, contributed to the
irritating presentiment that nothing decisive would be done. Here and there=
a
dropping shout was heard; then, more frequent shouts in a rising scale of
scorn.
'Light the fire and drive them in!'
'Let us have a smell of roast - we want our dinner!' 'Come Prophet, let us =
know
whether anything is to happen before the twenty-four hours are over!' 'Yes,
yes, what's your last vision?' 'Oh, he's got a dozen in his inside; they're=
the
small change for a miracle! ' 'Ola, Frate, where are you ? Never mind wasti=
ng
the fuel!'
Still the same movement to and fro
between the Loggia and the Palace; still the same debate, slow and
unintelligible to the multitude as the colloquies of insects that touch
antennae to no other apparent effect than that of going and coming. But an
interpretation was not long wanting to unheard debates in which Fra Girolamo
was constantly a speaker: it was he who was hindering the trial; everybody =
was
appealing to him now, and he was hanging back.
Soon the shouts ceased to be
distinguishable, and were lost in an uproar not simply of voices, but of
clashing metal and trampling feet. The suggestions of the irritated people =
had
stimulated old impulses in Dolfo Spini and his band of Compagnacci; it seem=
ed
an opportunity not to be lost for putting an end to Florentine difficulties=
by
getting possession of the arch-hypocrite's person - and there was a vigorous
rush of the armed men towards the Loggia, thrusting the people aside, or
driving them on to the file of soldiery stationed in front of the Palace. At
this movement, everything was suspended both with monks and embarrassed
magistrates except the palpitating watch to see what would come of the
struggle.
But the Loggia was well guarded by=
the
band under the brave Salviati; the soldiers of the Signoria assisted in the
repulse; and the trampling and rushing were all backward again towards the
Tetto de' Pisani, when the blackness of the heavens seemed to intensify in =
this
moment of utter confusion; and the rain, which had already been felt in
scattered drops, began to fall with rapidly growing violence, wetting the f=
uel,
and running in streams off the platform, wetting the weary hungry people to=
the
skin, and driving every man's disgust and rage inwards to ferment there in =
the
damp darkness.
Everybody knew now that the Trial =
by
Fire was not to happen. The Signoria was doubtless glad of the rain, as an
obvious reason, better than any pretext, for declaring that both parties mi=
ght
go home. It was the issue which Savonarola had expected and desired; yet it
would be an ill description of what he felt to say that he was glad. As that
rain fell, and plashed on the edge of the Loggia, and sent spray over the a=
ltar
and all garments and faces, the Frate knew that the demand for him to enter=
the
fire was at an end. But he knew too, with a certainty as irresistible as the
damp chill that had taken possession of his frame, that the design of his
enemies was fulfilled, and that his honour was not saved. He knew that he
should have to make his way to San Marco again through the enraged crowd, a=
nd
that the hearts of many friends who would once have defended him with their
lives would now be turned against him.
When the rain had ceased he asked =
for
a guard from the Signoria, and it was given him. Had he said that he was
willing to die for the work of his life? Yes, and he had not spoken falsely.
But to die in dishonour - held up to scorn as a hypocrite and a false proph=
et?
'O God! that is not martyrdom! It is the blotting out of a life that has be=
en a
protest against wrong. Let me die because of the worth that is in me, not
because of my weakness.'
The rain had ceased, and the light
from the breaking clouds fell on Savonarola as he left the Loggia in the mi=
dst
of his guard, walking as he had come, with the Sacrament in his hand. But t=
here
seemed no glory in the light that fell on him now, no smile of heaven: it w=
as
only that light which shines on, patiently and impartially, justifying or
condemning by simply showing all things in the slow history of their ripeni=
ng.
He heard no blessing, no tones of pity, but only taunts and threats. He knew
this was a foretaste of coming bitterness; yet his courage mounted under all
moral attack, and he showed no sign of dismay.
'Well parried, Frate!' said Tito, =
as
Savonarola descended the steps of the Loggia. 'But I fear your career at
Florence is ended. What say you, my Niccolo?'
'It is a pity his falsehoods were =
not
all of a wise sort,' said Macchiavelli, with a melancholy shrug. 'With the
times so much on his side as they are about Church affairs, he might have d=
one
something great.'
The next day was Palm Sunday, or O=
live
Sunday, as it was chiefly called in the olive-growing Valdarno; and the mor=
ning
sun shone with a more delicious clearness for the yesterday's rain. Once mo=
re
Savonarola mounted the pulpit in San Marco, and saw a flock around him whose
faith in him was still unshaken; and this morning in calm and sad sincerity=
he
declared himself ready to die: in front of all visions he saw his own doom.
Once more he uttered the benediction, and saw the faces of men and women li=
fted
towards him in venerating love. Then he descended the steps of the pulpit a=
nd
turned away from that sight for ever.
For before the sun had set Florence
was in an uproar. The passions which had been roused the day before had been
smouldering through that quiet morning, and had now burst out again with a =
fury
not unassisted by design, and not without official connivance. The uproar h=
ad
begun at the Duomo in an attempt of some Compagnacci to hinder the evening
sermon, which the Piagnoni had assembled to hear. But no sooner had men's b=
lood
mounted and the disturbances had become an affray than the cry arose, 'To S=
an
Marco! the fire to San Marco!'
And long before the daylight had d=
ied,
both the church and convent were being besieged by an enraged and continual=
ly
increasing multitude. Not without resistance. For the monks, long conscious=
of
growing hostility without, had arms within their walls, and some of them fo=
ught
as vigorously in their long white tunics as if they had been Knights Templa=
rs.
Even the command of Savonarola could not prevail against the impulse to
self-defence in arms that were still muscular under the Dominican serge. Th=
ere
were laymen too who had not chosen to depart, and some of them fought fierc=
ely:
there was firing from the high altar close by the great crucifix, there was
pouring of stones and hot embers from the convent roof, there was close
fighting with swords in the cloisters. Notwithstanding the force of the
assailants, the attack lasted till deep night.
The demonstrations of the Governme=
nt
had all been against the convent; early in the attack guards had been sent =
for,
not to disperse the assailants, but to command all within the convent to lay
down their arms, all laymen to depart from it, and Savonarola himself to qu=
it
the Florentine territory within twelve hours. Had Savonarola quitted the
convent then, he could hardly have escaped being torn to pieces; he was wil=
ling
to go, but his friends hindered him. It was felt to be a great risk even for
some laymen of high name to depart by the garden wall, but among those who =
had
chosen to do so was Francesco Valori, who hoped to raise rescue from withou=
t.
And now when it was deep night - w=
hen
the struggle could hardly have lasted much longer, and the Compagnacci might
soon have carried their swords into the library, where Savonarola was prayi=
ng
with the Brethren who had either not taken up arms or had laid them down at=
his
command - there came a second body of guards, commissioned by the Signoria =
to
demand the persons of Fra Girolamo and his two coadjutors, Fra Domenico and=
Fra
Salvestro.
Loud was the roar of triumphant ha=
te
when the light of lanterns showed the Frate issuing from the door of the
convent with a guard who promised him no other safety than that of the pris=
on.
The struggle now was, who should get first in the stream that rushed up the
narrow street to see the Prophet carried back in ignominy to the Piazza whe=
re
he had braved it yesterday - who should be in the best place for reaching h=
is
ear with insult, nay, if possible, for smiting him and kicking him. This was
not difficult for some of the armed Compagnacci who were not prevented from
mixing themselves with the guards.
When Savonarola felt himself dragg=
ed
and pushed along in the midst of that hooting multitude; when lanterns were
lifted to show him deriding faces; when he felt himself spit upon, smitten =
and
kicked with grossest words of insult, it seemed to him that the worst
bitterness of life was past. If men judged him guilty, and were bent on hav=
ing
his blood, it was only death that awaited him. But the worst drop of bitter=
ness
can never be wrung on to our lips from without: the lowest depth of resigna=
tion
is not to be found in martyrdom; it is only to be found when we have covered
our heads in silence and felt, 'I am not worthy to be a martyr; the Truth s=
hall
prosper, but not by me.'
But that brief imperfect triumph of
insulting the Frate, who had soon disappeared under the doorway of the Old
Palace, was only like the taste of blood to the tiger. Were there not the
houses of the hypocrite's friends to be sacked ? Already one-half of the ar=
med
multitude, too much in the rear to share greatly in the siege of the conven=
t,
had been employed in the more profitable work of attacking rich houses, not
with planless desire for plunder, but with that discriminating selection of
such as belonged to chief Piagnoni, which showed that the riot was under gu=
idance,
and that the rabble with clubs and staves was well officered by sword-girt
Compagnacci. Was there not - next criminal after the Frate - the ambitious
Francesco Valori, suspected of wanting with the Frate's help to make himsel=
f a
Doge or Gonfaloniere for life? And the grey-haired man who, eight months ag=
o,
had lifted his arm and his voice in such ferocious demand for justice on fi=
ve
of his fellow-citizens, only escaped from San Marco to experience what othe=
rs
called justice - to see his house surrounded by an angry, greedy multitude,=
to
see his wife shot dead with an arrow, and to be himself murdered, as he was=
on
his way to answer a summons to the Palazzo, by the swords of men named Rido=
lfi
and Tornabuoni.
In this way that Masque of the Fur=
ies,
called Riot, was played on in Florence through the hours of night and early
morning.
But the chief director was not
visible: he had his reasons for issuing his orders from a private retreat,
being of rather too high a name to let his red feather be seen waving among=
st
all the work that was to be done before the dawn. The retreat was the same
house and the same room in a quiet street between Santa Croce and San Marco,
where we have seen Tito paying a secret visit to Dolfo Spini. Here the Capt=
ain
of the Compagnacci sat through this memorable night, receiving visitors who
came and went, and went and came, some of them in the guise of armed
Compagnacci, others dressed obscurely and without visible arms. There was
abundant wine on the table, with drinking-cups for chance comers; and though
Spini was on his guard against excessive drinking, he took enough from time=
to
time to heighten the excitement produced by the news that was being brought=
to
him continually.
Among the obscurely-dressed visito=
rs
Ser Ceccone was one of the most frequent, and as the hours advanced towards=
the
morning twilight he had remained as Spini's constant companion, together wi=
th
Francesco Cei, who was then in rather careless hiding in Florence, expectin=
g to
have his banishment revoked when the Frate's fall had been accomplished.
The tapers had burnt themselves in=
to
low shapeless masses, and holes in the shutters were just marked by a sombre
outward light, when Spini, who had started from his seat and walked up and =
down
with an angry flush on his face at some talk that had been going forward wi=
th
those two unmilitary companions, burst out -
'The devil spit him! he shall pay =
for
it, though. Ha, ha! the claws shall be down on him when he little thinks of
them. So he was to be the great man after all! He's been pretending to chuck
everything towards my cap, as if I were a blind beggarman, and all the while
he's been winking and filling his own scarsella. I should like to hang skins
about him and set my hounds on him! And he's got that fine ruby of mine, I =
was
fool enough to give him yesterday. Malediction! And he was laughing at me in
his sleeve two years ago, and spoiling the best plan that ever was laid. I =
was
a fool for trusting myself with a rascal who had long-twisted contrivances =
that
nobody could see to the end of but himself.'
'A Greek, too, who dropped into
Florence with gems packed about him,' said Francesco Cei, who had a slight
smile of amusement on his face at Spini's fuming. 'You did not choose your
confidant very wisely, my Dolfo.'
'He's a cursed deal cleverer than =
you,
Francesco, and handsomer too,' said Spini, turning on his associate with a
general desire to worry anything that presented itself.
'I humbly conceive,' said Ser Cecc=
one,
'that Messer Francesco's poetic genius will outweigh -'
'Yes, yes, rub your hands! I hate =
that
notary's trick of yours,' interrupted Spini, whose patronage consisted larg=
ely
in this sort of frankness. 'But there comes Taddeo, or somebody: now's the
time! What news, eh?' he went on, as two Compagnacci entered with heated lo=
oks.
'Bad!' said one. 'The people have =
made
up their minds they were going to have the sacking of Soderini's house, and=
now
they have been balked we shall have them turning on us, if we don't take ca=
re.
I suspect there are some Mediceans buzzing about among them, and we may see
them attacking your palace over the bridge before long, unless we can find a
bait for them another way.'
'I have it!' said Spini, and seizi=
ng
Taddeo by the belt he drew him aside to give him directions, while the other
went on telling Cei how the Signoria had interfered about Soderini's house.=
'Ecco!' exclaimed Spini, presently,
giving Taddeo a slight push towards the door. 'Go, and make quick work.'
About the time when the two
Compagnacci went on their errand, there was another man who, on the opposite
side of the Arno, was also going out into the chill grey twilight. His erra=
nd,
apparently, could have no relation to theirs; he was making his way to the
brink of the river at a spot which, though within the city walls, was
overlooked by no dwellings, and which only seemed the more shrouded and lon=
ely
for the warehouses and granaries which at some little distance backward tur=
ned
their shoulders to the river. There was a sloping width of long grass and
rushes made all the more dank by broad gutters which here and there emptied
themselves into the Arno.
The gutters and the loneliness were
the attraction that drew this man to come and sit down among the grass, and
bend over the waters that ran swiftly in the channelled slope at his side. =
For
he had once had a large piece of bread brought to him by one of those frien=
dly
runlets, and more than once a raw carrot and apple-parings. It was worth wh=
ile
to wait for such chances in a place where there was no one to see, and ofte=
n in
his restless wakefulness he came to watch here before daybreak; it might sa=
ve
him for one day the need of that silent begging which consisted in sitting =
on a
church-step by the wayside out beyond the Porta San Frediano.
For Baldassarre hated begging so m=
uch
that he would perhaps have chosen to die rather than make even that silent
appeal, but for one reason that made him desire to live. It was no longer a
hope; it was only that possibility which clings to every idea that has taken
complete possession of the mind: the sort of possibility that makes a woman
watch on a headland for the ship which held something dear, though all her
neighbours are certain that the ship was a wreck long years ago. After he h=
ad
come out of the convent hospital, where the monks of San Miniato had taken =
care
of him as long as he was helpless; after he had watched in vain for the Wife
who was to help him, and had begun to think that she was dead of the pestil=
ence
that seemed to fill all the space since the night he parted from her, he had
been unable to conceive any way in which sacred vengeance could satisfy its=
elf
through his arm. His knife was gone, and he was too feeble in body to win
another by work, too feeble in mind, even if he had had the knife, to contr=
ive
that it should serve its one purpose. He was a shattered, bewildered, lonely
old man; yet he desired to live: he waited for something of which he had no
distinct vision - something dim, formless - that startled him, and made str=
ong
pulsations within him, like that unknown thing which we look for when we st=
art
from sleep, though no voice or touch has waked us. Baldassarre desired to l=
ive;
and therefore he crept out in the grey light, and seated himself in the long
grass, and watched the waters that had a faint promise in them.
Meanwhile the Compagnacci were bus=
y at
their work. The formidable bands of armed men, left to do their will with v=
ery
little interference from an embarrassed if not conniving Signoria, had part=
ed
into two masses, but both were soon making their way by different roads tow=
ards
the Arno. The smaller mass was making for the Ponte Rubaconte, the larger f=
or
the Ponte Vecchio- but in both the same words had passed from mouth to mout=
h as
a signal, and almost every man of the multitude knew that he was going to t=
he
Via de' Bardi to sack a house there. If he knew no other reason, could he
demand a better?
The armed Compagnacci knew somethi=
ng
more, for a brief word of command flies quickly, and the leaders of the two=
streams
of rabble had a perfect understanding that they would meet before a certain
house a little towards the eastern end of the Via de' Bardi, where the mast=
er
would probably be in bed, and be surprised in his morning sleep.
But the master of that house was
neither sleeping nor in bed; he had not been in bed that night. For Tito's
anxiety to quit Florence had been stimulated by the events of the previous =
day:
investigations would follow in which appeals might be made to him delaying =
his
departure: and in all delay he had an uneasy sense that there was danger.
Falsehood had prospered and waxed strong; but it had nourished the twin lif=
e,
Fear. He no longer wore his armour, he was no longer afraid of Baldassarre;=
but
from the corpse of that dead fear a spirit had risen - the undying habit of
fear. He felt he should not be safe till he was out of this fierce, turbid
Florence; and now he was ready to go. Maso was to deliver up his house to t=
he
new tenant; his horses and mules were awaiting him in San Gallo; Tessa and =
the
children had been lodged for the night in the Borgo outside the gate, and w=
ould
be dressed in readiness to mount the mules and join him. He descended the s=
tone
steps into the courtyard, he passed through the great doorway, not the same
Tito, but nearly as brilliant as on the day when he had first entered that
house and made the mistake of falling in love with Romola. The mistake was
remedied now: the old life was cast off, and was soon to be far behind him.=
He turned with rapid steps towards=
the
Piazza dei Mozzi, intending to pass over the Ponte Rubaconte; but as he went
along certain sounds came upon his ears that made him turn round and walk y=
et
more quickly in the opposite direction. Was the mob coming into Oltrarno? It
was a vexation, for he would have preferred the more private road. He must =
now
go by the Ponte Vecchio; and unpleasant sensations made him draw his mantle
close round him, and walk at his utmost speed. There was no one to see him =
in
that grey twilight. But before he reached the end of the Via de' Bardi, like
sounds fell on his ear again, and this time they were much louder and neare=
r.
Could he have been deceived before? The mob must be coming over the Ponte
Vecchio. Again he turned, from an impulse of fear that was stronger than re=
flection;
but it was only to be assured that the mob was actually entering the street
from the opposite end. He chose not to go back to his house: after all they
would not attack him. Still, he had some valuables about him; and all things
except reason and order are possible with a mob. But necessity does the wor=
k of
courage. He went on towards the Ponte Vecchio, the rush and the trampling a=
nd
the confused voices getting so loud before him that he had ceased to hear t=
hem
behind.
For he had reached the end of the
street, and the crowd pouring from the bridge met him at the turning and he=
mmed
in his way. He had not time to wonder at a sudden shout before he felt hims=
elf
surrounded, not, in the first instance, by an unarmed rabble, but by armed
Compagnacci; the next sensation was that his cap fell off, and that he was
thrust violently forward amongst the rabble, along the narrow passage of the
bridge. Then he distinguished the shouts, 'Piagnone! Medicean! Piagnone! Th=
row
him over the bridge! '
His mantle was being torn off him =
with
strong pulls that would have throttled him if the fibula had not given way.
Then his scarsella was snatched at; but all the while he was being hustled =
and
dragged; and the snatch failed - his scarsella still hung at his side. Shou=
ting,
yelling, half motiveless execration rang stunningly in his ears, spreading =
even
amongst those who had not yet seen him, and only knew there was a man to be
reviled. Tito's horrible dread was that he should be struck down or trample=
d on
before he reached the open arches that surmount the centre of the bridge. T=
here
was one hope for him, that they might throw him over before they had wounded
him or beaten the strength out of him; and his whole soul was absorbed in t=
hat
one hope and its obverse terror.
Yes - they were at the arches. In =
that
moment Tito, with bloodless face and eyes dilated, had one of the
self-preserving inspirations that come in extremity. With a sudden desperate
effort he mastered the clasp of his belt, and flung belt and scarsella forw=
ard
towards a yard of clear space against the parapet, crying in a ringing voic=
e -
'There are diamonds! there is gold=
!'
In the instant the hold on him was
relaxed, and there was a rush towards the scarsella. He threw himself on the
parapet with a desperate leap, and the next moment plunged - plunged with a
great plash into the dark river far below.
It was his chance of salvation; an=
d it
was a good chance. His life had been saved once before by his fine swimming,
and as he rose to the surface again after his long dive he had a sense of
deliverance. He struck out with all the energy of his strong prime, and the
current helped him. If he could only swim beyond the Ponte alla Carrara he
might land in a remote part of the city, and even yet reach San Gallo. Life=
was
still before him. And the idiot mob, shouting and bellowing on the bridge
there, would think he was drowned.
They did think so. Peering over the
parapet along the dark stream, they could not see afar off the moving black=
ness
of the floating hair, and the velvet tunic-sleeves.
It was only from the other way tha=
t a
pale olive face could be seen looking white above the dark water: a face not
easy even for the indifferent to forget, with its square forehead, the long=
low
arch of the eyebrows, and the long lustrous agate-like eyes. Onward the face
went on the dark current, with inflated quivering nostrils, with the blue v=
eins
distended on the temples. One bridge was passed - the bridge of Santa Trini=
ta.
Should he risk landing now rather than trust to his strength? No. He heard,=
or
fancied he heard, yells and cries pursuing him. Terror pressed him most from
the side of his fellow-men: he was less afraid of indefinite chances and he
swam on, panting and straining. He was not so fresh as he would have been i=
f he
had passed the night in sleep.
Yet the next bridge - the last bri=
dge
- was passed. He was conscious of it; but in the tumult of his blood, he co=
uld
only feel vaguely that he was safe and might land. But where? The current w=
as
having its way with him: he hardly knew where he was: exhaustion was bringi=
ng
on the dreamy state that precedes unconsciousness.
But now there were eyes that disce=
rned
him - aged eyes, strong for the distance. Baldassarre, looking up blankly f=
rom
the search in the runlet that brought him nothing, had seen a white object
coming along the broader stream. Could that be any fortunate chance for him=
? He
looked and looked till the object gathered form: then he leaned forward wit=
h a
start as he sat among the rank green stems, and his eyes seemed to be filled
with a new light. Yet he only watched - motionless. Something was being bro=
ught
to him.
The next instant a man's body was =
cast
violently on the grass twa yards from him, and he started forward like a
panther, clutching the velvet tunic as he fell forward on the body and flas=
hed
a look in the man's face.
Dead - was he dead? The eyes were
rigid. But no, it could not be - Justice had brought him. Men looked dead
sometimes, and yet the life came back into them. Baldassarre did not feel f=
eeble
in that moment. He knew just what he could do. He got his large fingers wit=
hin
the neck of the tunic and held them there, kneeling on one knee beside the =
body
and watching the face. There was a fierce hope in his heart, but it was mix=
ed
with trembling. In his eyes there was only fierceness: all the slow-burning
remnant of life within him seemed to have leaped into flame.
Rigid - rigid still. Those eyes wi=
th
the half-fallen lids were locked against vengeance. Could it be that he was
dead? There was nothing to measure the time: it seemed long enough for hope=
to
freeze into despair.
Surely at last the eyelids were
quivering: the eyes were no longer rigid. There was a vibrating light in th=
em:
they opened wide.
'Ah, yes! You see me - you know me=
!'
Tito knew him; but he did not know
whether it was life or death that had brought him into the presence of his
injured father. It might be death - and death might mean this chill gloom w=
ith
the face of the hideous past hanging over him for ever.
But now Baldassarre's only dread w=
as,
lest the young limbs should escape him. He pressed his knuckles against the
round throat, and knelt upon the chest with all the force of his aged frame.
Let death come now!
Again he kept his watch on the fac=
e.
And when the eyes were rigid again, he dared not trust them. He would never
lose his hold till some one came and found them. Justice would send some
witness, and then he, Baldassarre, would declare that he had killed this
traitor, to whom he had once been a father. They would perhaps believe him =
now,
and then he would be content with the struggle of justice on earth - then he
would desire to die with his hoid on this body, and follow the traitor to h=
ell
that he might clutch him there.
And so he knelt, and so he pressed=
his
knuckles against the round throat, without trusting to the seeming death, t=
ill
the light got strong and he could kneel no longer. Then he sat on the body,
still clutching the neck of the tunic. But the hours went on, and no witness
came. No eyes descried afar off the two human bodies among the tall grass by
the riverside. Florence was busy with greater affairs, and the preparation =
of a
deeper tragedy.
Not long after those two bodies we=
re
lying in the grass, Savonarola was being tortured, and crying out in his ag=
ony,
'I will confess!'
It was not until the sun was westw=
ard
that a waggon drawn by a mild grey ox came to the edge of the grassy margin,
and as the man who led it was leaning to gather up the round stones that lay
heaped in readiness to be carried away, he detected some startling object in
the grass. The aged man had fallen forward, and his dead clutch was on the
garment of the other. It was not possible to separate them: nay, it was bet=
ter
to put them into the waggon and carry them as they were into the great Piaz=
za,
that notice might be given to the Eight.
As the waggon entered the frequent=
ed
streets there was a growing crowd escorting it with its strange burden. No =
one
knew the bodies for a long while, for the aged face had fallen forward, half
hiding the younger. But before they had been moved out of sight, they had b=
een
recogmsed.
'I know that old man,' Piero di Co=
simo
had testified. 'I painted his likeness once. He is the prisoner who clutched
Melema on the steps of the Duomo.'
'He is perhaps the same old man who
appeared at supper in my gardens,' said Bernardo Rucellai, one of the Eight=
. 'I
had forgotten him. I thought he had died in prison. But there is no knowing=
the
truth now.'
Who shall put his finger on the wo=
rk
of justice, and say, 'It is there'? Justice is like the Kingdom of God - it=
is
not without us as a fact, it is within us as a great yearning.
Romola in her boat passed from
dreaming into long deep sleep, and then again from deep sleep into busy dre=
aming,
till at last she felt herself stretching out her arms in the court of the
Bargello, where the flickering flames of the tapers seemed to get stronger =
and
stronger till the dark scene was blotted out with light. Her eyes opened and
she saw it was the light of morning. Her boat was lying still in a little
creek; on her right hand lay the speckless sapphire-blue of the Mediterrane=
an;
on her left one of those scenes which were and still are repeated again and
again like a sweet rhythm, on the shores of that loveliest sea.
In a deep curve of the mountains l=
ay a
breadth of green land, curtained by gentle tree-shadowed slopes leaning tow=
ards
the rocky heights. Up these slopes might be seen here and there, gleaming
between the tree-tops, a pathway leading to a little irregular mass of buil=
ding
that seemed to have clambered in a hasty way up the mountain-side, and take=
n a
difficult stand there for the sake of showing the tall belfry as a sight of
beauty to the scattered and clustered houses of the village below. The rays=
of
the newly-risen sun fell obliquely on the westward horn of this crescent-sh=
aped
nook: all else lay in dewy shadow. No sound came across the stillness; the =
very
waters seemed to have curved themselves there for rest.
The delicious sun-rays fell on Rom=
ola
and thrilled her gently like a caress. She lay motionless, hardly watching =
the
scene; rather, feeling simply the presence of peace and beauty. While we are
still in our youth there can always come, in our early waking, moments when
mere passive existence is itself a Lethe, when the exquisiteness of subtle
indefinite sensation creates a bliss which is without memory and without
desire. As the soft warmth penetrated Romola's young limbs, as her eyes res=
ted
on this sequestered luxuriance, it seemed that the agitating past had glided
away like that dark scene in the Bargello, and that the afternoon dreams of=
her
girlhood had really come back to her. For a minute or two the oblivion was
untroubled; she did not even think that she could rest here for ever, she o=
nly
felt that she rested. Then she became distinctly conscious that she was lyi=
ng
in the boat which had been bearing her over the waters all through the nigh=
t.
Instead of bringing her to death, it had been the gently lulling cradle of a
new life. And in spite of her evening despair she was glad that the morning=
had
come to her again: glad to think that she was resting in the familiar sunli=
ght
rather than in the unknown regions of death. Could she not rest here? No so=
und
from Florence would reach her. Already oblivion was troubled; from behind t=
he
golden haze were piercing domes and towers and walls, parted by a river and
enclosed by the green hills.
She rose from her reclining posture
and sat up in the boat, willing, if she could, to resist the rush of though=
ts
that urged themselves along with the conjecture how far the boat had carried
her. Why need she mind? This was a sheltered nook where there were simple
villagers who would not harm her. For a little while, at least, she might r=
est
and resolve on nothing. Presently she would go and get some bread and milk,=
and
then she would nestle in the green quiet, and feel that there was a pause in
her life. She turned to watch the crescent-shaped valley, that she might get
back the soothing sense of peace and beauty which she had felt in her first
waking.
She had not been in this attitude =
of
contemplation more than a few minutes when across the stillness there came a
piercing cry; not a brief cry, but continuous and more and more intense. Ro=
mola
felt sure it was the cry of a little child in distress that no one came to
help. She started up and put one foot on the side of the boat ready to leap=
on
to the beach; but she paused there and listened: the mother of the child mu=
st
be near, the cry must soon cease. But it went on, and drew Romola so
irresistibly, seeming the more piteous to her for the sense of peace which =
had
preceded it, that she jumped on to the beach and walked many paces before s=
he
knew what direction she would take. The cry, she thought, came from some ro=
ugh
garden growth many yards on her right hand, where she saw a half-ruined hov=
el.
She climbed over a low broken stone fence, and made her way across patches =
of
weedy green crops and ripe but neglected corn. The cry grew plainer, and
convinced that she was right she hastened towards the hovel; but even in th=
at
hurried walk she felt an oppressive change in the air as she left the sea
behind. Was there some taint lurking amongst the green luxuriance that had
seemed such an inviting shelter from the heat of the coming day? She could =
see
the opening into the hovel now, and the cry was darting through her like a
pain. The next moment her foot was within the doorway, but the sight she be=
held
in the sombre light arrested her with a shock of awe and horror. On the str=
aw,
with which the floor was scattered, lay three dead bodies, one of a tall ma=
n,
one of a girl about eight years old, and one of a young woman whose long bl=
ack
hair was being clutched and pulled by a living child - the child that was
sending forth the piercing cry. Romola's experience in the haunts of death =
and
disease made thought and action prompt: she lifted the little living child,=
and
in trying to soothe it on her bosom, still bent to look at the bodies and s=
ee
if they were really dead. The strongly marked type of race in their feature=
s,
and their peculiar garb, made her conjecture that they were Spanish or
Portuguese Jews, who had perhaps been put ashore and abandoned there by
rapacious sailors, to whom their property remained as a prey. Such things w=
ere
happening continually to Jews compelled to abandon their homes by the
Inquisition: the cruelty of greed thrust them from the sea, and the cruelty=
of
superstition thrust them back to it.
'But, surely,' thought Romola, 'I
shall find some woman in the village whose mother's heart will not let her
refuse to tend this helpless child- if the real mother is indeed dead.'
This doubt remained, because while=
the
man and girl looked emaciated and also showed signs of having been long dea=
d,
the woman seemed to have been hardier, and had not quite lost the robusmess=
of
her form. Romola, kneeling, was about to lay her hand on the heart; but as =
she
lifted the piece of yellow woollen drapery that lay across the bosom, she s=
aw
the purple spots which marked the familiar pestilence. Then it struck her t=
hat
if the villagers knew of this, she might have more difficulty than she had
expected in getting help from them; they would perhaps shrink from her with
that child in her arms. But she had money to offer them, and they would not
refuse to give her some goat's milk in exchange for it.
She set out at once towards the
village, her mind filled now with the effort to soothe the little dark
creature, and with wondering how she should win some woman to be good to it=
. She
could not help hoping a little in a certain awe she had observed herself to
inspire, when she appeared, unknown and unexpected, in her religious dress.=
As
she passed across a breadth of cultivated ground, she noticed, with wonder,
that little patches of corn mingled with the other crops had been left to
over-ripeness untouched by the sickle, and that golden apples and dark figs=
lay
rotting on the weedy earth. There were grassy spaces within sight, but no c=
ow,
or sheep, or goat. The stillness began to have something fearful in it to
Romola; she hurried along towards the thickest cluster of houses, where the=
re
would be the most life to appeal to on behalf of the helpless life she carr=
ied
in her arms. But she had picked up two figs, and bit little pieces from the
sweet pulp to still the child with.
She entered between two lines of
dwellings. It was time that villagers should have been stirring long ago, b=
ut
not a soul was in sight. The air was becoming more and more oppressive, lad=
en,
it seemed, with some horrible impurity. There was a door open; she looked i=
n,
and saw grim emptiness. Another open door; and through that she saw a man l=
ying
dead with all his garments on, his head lying athwart a spade handle, and an
earthenware cruse in his hand, as if he had fallen suddenly.
Romola felt horror taking possessi=
on
of her. Was she in a village of the unburied dead? She wanted to listen if
there were any faint sound, but the child cried out afresh when she ceased =
to
feed it, and the cry filled her ears. At last she saw a figure crawling slo=
wly
out of a house, and soon sinking back in a sitting posture against the wall.
She hastened towards the figure; it was a young woman in fevered anguish, a=
nd
she, too, held a pitcher in her hand. As Romola approached her she did not
start; the one need was too absorbing for any other idea to impress itself =
on
her.
'Water! get me water!' she said, w=
ith
a moaning utterance.
Romola stooped to take the pitcher,
and said gently in her ear, 'You shall have water; can you point towards the
well?'
The hand was lifted towards the mo=
re
distant end of the little street, and Romola set off at once with as much s=
peed
as she could use under the difficulty of carrying the pitcher as well as
feeding the child. But the little one was getting more content as the morse=
ls
of sweet pulp were repeated, and ceased to distress her with its cry, so th=
at
she could give a less distracted attention to the objects around her.
The well lay twenty yards or more
beyond the end of the street, and as Romola was approaching it her eyes were
directed to the opposite green slope immediately below the church. High up,=
on
a patch of grass between the trees, she had descried a cow and a couple of
goats, and she tried to trace a line of path that would lead her close to t=
hat
cheering sight, when once she had done her errand to the well. Occupied in =
this
way, she was not aware that she was very near the well, and that some one
approaching it on the other side had fixed a pair of astonished eyes upon h=
er.
Romola certainly presented a sight
which, at that moment and in that place, could hardly have been seen without
some pausing and palpitation. With her gaze fixed intently on the distant
slope, the long lines of her thick grey garment giving a gliding character =
to
her rapid walk, her hair rolling backward and illuminated on the left side =
by
the sun-rays, the little olive baby on her right arm now looking out with
jet-black eyes, she might well startle that youth of fifteen, accustomed to
swing the censer in the presence of a Madonna less fair and marvellous than
this.
'She carries a pitcher in her hand=
-
to fetch water for the sick. It is the Holy Mother, come to take care of the
people who have the pestilence.'
It was a sight of awe: she would,
perhaps, be angry with those who fetched water for themselves only. The you=
th
flung down his vessel in terror, and Romola, aware now of some one near her,
saw the black and white figure fly as if for dear life towards the slope she
had just been contemplating. But remembering the parched sufferer, she
half-filled her pitcher quickly and hastened back.
Entering the house to look for a s=
mall
cup, she saw salt meat and meal: there were no signs of want in the dwellin=
g.
With nimble movement she seated baby on the ground, and lifted a cup of wat=
er
to the sufferer, who drank eagerly and then closed her eyes and leaned her =
head
backward, seeming to give herself up to the sense of relief. Presently she
opened her eyes, and, looking at Romola, said languidly -
'Who are you?'
'I came over the sea,' said Romola=
. 'I
only came this moming. Are all the people dead in these houses?'
'I think they are all ill now - all
that are not dead. My father and my sister lie dead up-stairs, and there is=
no
one to bury them: and soon I shall die.'
'Not so, I hope,' said Romola. 'I =
am
come to take care of you. I am used to the pestilence; I am not afraid. But
there must be some left who are not ill. I saw a youth running towards the
mountain when I went to the well.'
'I cannot tell. When the pestilence
came, a great many people went away, and drove off the cows and goats. Give=
me
more water!'
Romola, suspecting that if she
followed the direction of the youth's flight, she should find some men and
women who were still healthy and able, determined to seek them out at once,
that she might at least win them to take care of the child, and leave her f=
ree
to come back and see how many living needed help, and how many dead needed
burial. She trusted to her powers of persuasion to conquer the aid of the
timorous, when once she knew what was to be done.
Promising the sick woman to come b=
ack
to her, she lifted the dark bantling again, and set off towards the slope. =
She
felt no burden of choice on her now, no longing for death. She was thinking=
how
she would go to the other sufferers, as she had gone to that fevered woman.=
But, with the child on her arm, it=
was
not so easy to her as usual to walk up a slope, and it seemed a long while
before the winding path took her near the cow and the goats. She was beginn=
ing
herself to feel faint from heat, hunger, and thirst, and as she reached a
double turning, she paused to consider whether she would not wait near the =
cow,
which some one was likely to come and milk soon, rather than toil up to the
church before she had taken any rest. Raising her eyes to measure the steep
distance, she saw peeping between the boughs, not more than five yards off,=
a
broad round face, watching her attentively, and lower down the black skirt =
of a
priest's garment, and a hand grasping a bucket. She stood mutely observing,=
and
the face, too, remained motionless. Romola had often witnessed the overpowe=
ring
force of dread in cases of pestilence, and she was cautious.
Raising her voice in a tone of gen=
tle
pleading, she said, 'I came over the sea. I am hungry, and so is the child.
Will you not give us some milk?'
Romola had divined part of the tru=
th,
but she had not divined that preoccupation of the priest's mind which charg=
ed
her words with a strange significance. Only a little while ago, the young
acolyte had brought word to the Padre that he had seen the Holy Mother with=
the
Babe, fetching water for the sick: she was as tall as the cypresses, and ha=
d a
light about her head, and she looked up at the church. The pievano had not
listened with entire belief: he had been more than fifty years in the world
without having any vision of the Madonna, and he thought the boy might have
misinterpreted the unexpected appearance of a villager. But he had been made
uneasy, and before venturing to come down and milk his cow, he had repeated
many Aves. The pievano's conscience tormented him a little: he trembled at =
the
pestilence, but he also trembled at the thought of the mild-faced Mother,
conscious that that Invisible Mercy might demand something more of him than
prayers and 'Hails.' In this state of mind - unable to banish the image the=
boy
had raised of the Mother with the glory about her tending the sick - the
pievano had come down to milk his cow, and had suddenly caught sight of Rom=
ola
pausing at the parted way. Her pleading words, with their strange refinemen=
t of
tone and accent, instead of being explanatory, had a preternatural sound for
him. Yet he did not quite believe he saw the Holy Mother: he was in a state=
of
alarmed hesitation. If anything miraculous were happening, he felt there wa=
s no
strong presumption that the miracle would be in his favour. He dared not run
away; he dared not advance.
'Come down,' said Romola, after a
pause. 'Do not fear. Fear rather to deny food to the hungry when they ask y=
ou.'
A moment after, the boughs were
parted, and the complete figure of a thick-set priest with a broad, harmless
face, his black frock much worn and soiled, stood, bucket in hand, looking =
at
her timidly, and still keeping aloof as he took the path towards the cow in
silence.
Romola followed him and watched him
without speaking again, as he seated himself against the tethered cow, and,
when he had nervously drawn some milk, gave it to her in a brass cup he car=
ried
with him in the bucket. As Romola put the cup to the lips of the eager chil=
d,
and afterwards drank some milk herself, the Padre observed her from his woo=
den
stool with a timidity that changed its character a little. He recognised the
Hebrew baby, he was certain that he had a substantial woman before him; but
there was still something strange and unaccountable in Romola's presence in
this spot, and the Padre had a presentiment that things were going to change
with him. Moreover, that Hebrew baby was terribly associated with the dread=
of
pestilence.
Nevertheless, when Romola smiled at
the little one sucking its own milky lips, and stretched out the brass cup
again, saying, 'Give us more, good father,' he obeyed less nervously than
before.
Romola on her side was not
unobservant; and when the second supply of milk had been drunk, she looked =
down
at the round-headed man, and said with mild decision -
'And now tell me, father, how this
pestilence came, and why you let your people die without the sacraments, and
lie unburied. For I am come over the sea to help those who are left alive -=
and
you, too, will help them now.'
He told her the story of the
pestilence: and while he was telling it, the youth, who had fled before, had
come peeping and advancing gradually, till at last he stood and watched the
scene from behind a neighbouring bush.
Three families of Jews, twenty sou=
ls
in all, had been put ashore many weeks ago, some of them already ill of the
pestilence. The villagers, said the priest, had of course refused to give
shelter to the miscreants, otherwise than in a distant hovel, and under hea=
ps
of straw. But when the strangers had died of the plague, and some of the pe=
ople
had thrown the bodies into the sea, the sea had brought them back again in a
great storm, and everybody was smitten with terror. A grave was dug, and the
bodies were buried; but then the pestilence attacked the Christians, and the
greater number of the villagers went away over the mountain, driving away t=
heir
few cattle, and carrying provisions. The priest had not fled; he had stayed=
and
prayed for the people, and he had prevailed on the youth Jacopo to stay with
him; but he confessed that a mortal terror of the plague had taken hold of =
him,
and he had not dared to go down into the valley.
'You will fear no longer, father,'
said Romola, in a tone of encouraging authority; 'you will come down with m=
e,
and we will see who is living, and we will look for the dead to bury them. I
have walked about for months where the pestilence was, and see, I am strong.
Jacopo will come with us,' she added, motioning to the peeping lad, who came
slowly from behind his defensive bush, as if invisible threads were dragging
him.
'Come, Jacopo,' said Romola again,
smiling at him, 'you will carry the child for me. See, your arms are strong,
and I am tired.'
That was a dreadful proposal to
Jacopo, and to the priest also - but they were both under a peculiar influe=
nce
forcing them to obey. The suspicion that Romola was a supernatural form was
dissipated, but their minds were filled instead with the more effective sen=
se that
she was a human being whom God had sent over the sea to command them.
'Now we will carry down the milk,'
said Romola, 'and see if any one wants it.'
So they went all together down the
slope, and that morning the sufferers saw help come to them in their despai=
r.
There were hardly more than a score alive in the whole valley; but all of t=
hese
were comforted, most were saved, and the dead were buried.
In this way days, weeks, and months
passed with Romola till the men were digging and sowing again, till the wom=
en
smiled at her as they carried their great vases on their heads to the well,=
and
the Hebrew baby was a tottering tumbling Christian, Benedetto by name, havi=
ng
been baptised in the church on the mountain-side. But by that time she hers=
elf
was suffering from the fatigue and languor that must come after a continuous
stain on mind and body. She had taken for her dwelling one of the houses
abandoned by their owners, standing a little aloof from the village street;=
and
here on a thick heap of clean straw - a delicious bed for those who do not
dream of down - she felt glad to lie still through most of the daylight hou=
rs,
taken care of along with the little Benedetto by a woman whom the pestilence
had widowed.
Every day the Padre and Jacopo and=
the
small flock of surviving villagers paid their visit to this cottage to see =
the
blessed Lady, and to bring her of their best as an offering - honey, fresh
cakes, eggs, and polenta. It was a sight they could none of them forget, a
sight they all told of in their old age - how the sweet and sainted lady wi=
th
her fair face, her golden hair, and her brown eyes that had a blessing in t=
hem,
lay weary with her labours after she had been sent over the sea to help the=
m in
their extremity, and how the queer little black Benedetto used to crawl abo=
ut
the straw by her side and want everything that was brought to her, and she
always gave him a bit of what she took, and told them if they loved her they
must be good to Benedetto.
Many legends were afterwards told =
in
that valley about the blessed Lady who came over the sea, but they were leg=
ends
by which all who heard might know that in times gone by a woman had done
beautiful loving deeds there, rescuing those who were ready to perish.
In those silent wintry hours when
Romola lay resting from her weariness, her mind, travelling back over the p=
ast,
and gazing across the undefined distance of the future, saw all objects fro=
m a
new position. Her experience since the moment of her waking in the boat had
come to her with as strong an effect as that of the fresh seal on the
dissolving wax. She had felt herself without bonds, without motive; sinking=
in
mere egoistic complaining that life could bring her no content; feeling a r=
ight
to say, 'I am tired of life, I want to die.' That thought had sobbed within=
her
as she fell asleep, but from the moment after her waking when the cry had d=
rawn
her, she had not even reflected, as she used to do in Florence, that she was
glad to live because she could lighten sorrow - she had simply lived, with =
so
energetic an impulse to share the life around her, to answer the call of ne=
ed
and do the work which cried aloud to be done, that the reasons for living,
enduring, labouring, never took the form of argument.
The experience was like a new bapt=
ism
to Romola. In Florence the simpler relations of the human being to his
fellow-men had been complicated for her with all the special ties of marria=
ge,
the State, and religious discipleship, and when these had disappointed her
trust, the shock seemed to have shaken her aloof from life and stunned her
sympathy. But now she said, 'It was mere baseness in me to desire death. If
everything else is doubtful, this suffering that I can help is certain; if =
the
glory of the cross is an illusion, the sorrow is only the truer. While the
strength is in my arm I will stretch it out to the fainting; while the light
visits my eyes they shall seek the forsaken.'
And then the past arose with a fre=
sh
appeal to her. Her work in this green valley was done, and the emotions that
were disengaged from the people immediately around her rushed back into the=
old
deep channels of use and affection. That rare possibility of self-contempla=
tion
which comes in any complete severance from our wonted life made her judge h=
erself
as she had never done before: the compunction which is inseparable from a
sympathetic nature keenly alive to the possible experience of others, began=
to
stir in her with growing force. She questioned the justness of her own
conclusions, of her own deeds: she had been rash, arrogant, always dissatis=
fied
that others were not good enough, while she herself had not been true to wh=
at
her soul had once recognised as the best. She began to condemn her flight:
after all, it had been cowardly self-care; the grounds on which Savonarola =
had
once taken her back were truer, deeper than the grounds she had had for her
second flight. How could she feel the needs of others and not feel, above a=
ll,
the needs of the nearest?
But then came reaction against such
self-reproach. The memory of her life with Tito, of the conditions which ma=
de
their real union impossible, while their external union imposed a set of fa=
lse
duties on her which were essentially the concealment and sanctioning of what
her mind revolted from, told her that flight had been her only resource. All
minds, except such as are delivered from doubt by dulness of sensibility, m=
ust
be subject to this recurring conflict where the many-twisted conditions of =
life
have forbidden the fulfilment of a bond. For in strictness there is no
replacing of relations: the presence of the new does not nullify the failure
and breach of the old. Life has lost its perfection: it has been maimed; and
until the wounds are quite scarred, conscience continually casts backward,
doubting glances.
Romola shrank with dread from the
renewal of her proximity to Tito, and yet she was uneasy that she had put
herself out of reach of knowing what was his fate - uneasy that the moment
might yet come when he would be in misery and need her. There was still a
thread of pain within her, testifying to those words of Fra Girolamo, that =
she
could not cease to be a wife. Could anything utterly cease for her that had
once mingled itself with the current of her heart's blood?
Florence, and all her life there, =
had
come back to her like hunger; her feelings could not go wandering after the
possible and the vague: their living fibre was fed with the memory of famil=
iar
things. And the thought that she had divided herself from them for ever bec=
ame
more and more importunate in these hours that were unfilled with action. Wh=
at
if Fra Girolamo had been wrong? What if the life of Florence was a web of
inconsisteneies? Was she, then, something higher, that she should shake the
dust from off her feet, and say, 'This world is not good enough for me'? If=
she
had been really higher, she would not so easily have lost all her trust.
Her indignant grief for her godfat=
her
had no longer complete possession of her, and her sense of debt to Savonaro=
la
was recovering predominance. Nothing that had come, or was to come, could do
away with the fact that there had been a great inspiration in him which had
waked a new life in her. Who, in all her experience, could demand the same
gratitude from her as he? His errors - might they not bring calamities?
She could not rest. She hardly knew
whether it was her strength returning with the budding leaves that made her
active again, or whether it was her eager longing to get nearer Florence. S=
he
did not imagine herself daring to enter Florence, but the desire to be near
enough to learn what was happening there urged itself with a strength that
excluded all other purposes.
And one March morning the people in
the valley were gathered together to see the blessed Lady depart. Jacopo had
fetched a mule for her, and was going with her over the mountains. The Padr=
e,
too, was going with her to the nearest town, that he might help her in lear=
ning
the safest way by which she might get to Pistoja. Her store of trinkets and
money, untouched in this valley, was abundant for her needs.
If Romola had been less drawn by t=
he
longing that was taking her away, it would have been a hard moment for her =
when
she walked along the village street for the last time, while the Padre and
Jacopo, with the mule, were awaiting her near the well. Her steps were hind=
ered
by the wailing people, who knelt and kissed her hands, then clung to her sk=
irts
and kissed the grey folds, crying, 'Ah, why will you go, when the good seas=
on
is beginning and the crops will be plentiful? Why will you go?'
'Do not be sorry,' said Romola, 'y=
ou
are well now, and I shall remember you. I must go and see if my own people =
want
me.'
'Ah, yes, if they have the
pestilence!'
'Look at us again, Madonna!'
'Yes, yes, we will be good to the
little Benedetto! '
At last Romola mounted her mule, b=
ut a
vigorous screaming from Benedetto as he saw her turn from him in this new
position, was an excuse for all the people to follow her and insist that he
must ride on the mule's neck to the foot of the slope.
The parting must come at last, but=
as
Romola turned continually before she passed out of sight, she saw the little
flock lingering to catch the last waving of her hand.
On the fourteenth of April Romola =
was
once more within the walls of Florence. Unable to rest at Pistoja, where
contradictory reports reached her about the Trial by Fire, she had gone on =
to
Prato; and was beginning to think that she should be drawn on to Florence in
spite of dread, when she encountered that monk of San Spirito who had been =
her
godfather's confessor. From him she learned the full story of Savonarola's
arrest, and of her husband's death. This Augustinian monk had been in the
stream of people who had followed the waggon with its awful burthen into the
Piazza, and he could tell her what was generally known in Florence - that T=
ito
had escaped from an assaulting mob by leaping into the Arno, but had been
murdered on the bank by an old man who had long had an enmity against him. =
But
Romola understood the catastrophe as no one else did. Of Savonarola the monk
told her, in that tone of unfavourable prejudice which was usual in the Bla=
ck
Brethren (Frati Neri) towards the brother who showed white under his black,
that he had confessed himself a deceiver of the people.
Romola paused no longer. That even=
ing
she was in Florence, sitting in agitated silence under the exclamations of =
joy
and wailing, mingled with exuberant narrative, which were poured into her e=
ars
by Monna Brigida, who had backslided into false hair in Romola's absence, b=
ut
now drew it off again and declared she would not mind being grey, if her de=
ar
child would stay with her.
Romola was too deeply moved by the
main events which she had known before coming to Florence, to be wrought up=
on
by the doubtful gossiping details added in Brigida's narrative. The tragedy=
of
her husband's death, of Fra Girolamo's confession of duplicity under the
coercion of torture, left her hardly any power of apprehending minor
circumstances. All the mental activity she could exert under that load of
awe-stricken grief, was absorbed by two purposes which must supersede every
other; to try and see Savonarola, and to learn what had become of Tessa and=
the
children.
'Tell me, cousin,' she said abrupt=
ly,
when Monna Brigida's tongue had run quite away from troubles into projects =
of
Romola's living with her, 'has anything been seen or said since Tito's deat=
h of
a young woman with two little children?'
Brigida started, rounded her eyes,=
and
lifted up her hands.
'Cristo! no. What! was he so bad as
that, my poor child? Ah, then, that was why you went away, and left me word
only that you went of your own free will. Well, well; if I'd known that, I
shouldn't have thought you so strange and flighty. For I did say to myself,
though I didn't tell anybody else, ‘What was she to go away from her
husband for, leaving him to mischief, only because they cut poor Bernardo's
head off? She's got her father's temper,’ I said, ‘that's what =
it
is.’ Well, well; never scold me, child: Bardo was fierce, you can't d=
eny
it. But if you had only told me the truth, that there was a young hussey and
children, I should have understood it all. Anything seen or said of her? No;
and the less the better. They say enough of ill about him without that. But
since that was the reason you went -'
'No, dear cousin,' said Romola,
interrupting her earnestly, 'pray do not talk so. I wish above all things to
find that young woman and her children, and to take care of them. They are
quite helpless. Say nothing against it; that is the thing I shall do first =
of
all.'
'Well,' said Monna Brigida, shrugg=
ing
her shoulders and lowering her voice with an air of puzzled discomfiture, '=
if
that's being a Piagnone, I've been taking peas for paternosters. Why, Fra
Girolamo said as good as that widows ought not to marry again. Step in at t=
he
door and it's a sin and a shame, it seems; but come down the chimney and yo=
u're
welcome. Two children - Santiddio!'
'Cousin, the poor thing has done no
conscious wrong: she is ignorant of everything I will tell you - but not no=
w.'
Early the next morning Romola's st=
eps
were directed to the house beyond San Ambrogio where she had once found Tes=
sa;
but it was as she had feared: Tessa was gone. Romola conjectured that Tito =
had
sent her away beforehand to some spot where he had intended to join her, for
she did not believe that he would willingly part with those children. It wa=
s a
painful conjecture, because, if Tessa were out of Florence, there was hardl=
y a
chance of finding her, and Romola pictured the childish creature waiting and
waiting at some wayside spot in wondering, helpless misery. Those who lived
near could tell her nothing except that old deaf Lisa had gone away a week =
ago
with her goods, but no one knew where Tessa had gone. Romola saw no further=
active
search open to her; for she had no knowledge that could serve as a
starting-point for inquiry, and not only her innate reserve but a more noble
sensitiveness made her shrink from assuming an attitude of generosity in the
eyes of others by publishing Tessa's relation to Tito, along with her own
desire to find her. Many days passed in anxious inaction. Even under strong
solicitation from other thoughts Romola found her heart palpitating if she
caught sight of a pair of round brown legs, or of a short woman in the
contadina dress.
She never for a moment told herself
that it was heroism or exalted charity in her to seek these beings; she nee=
ded
something that she was bound specially to care for; she yearned to clasp the
children and to make them love her. This at least would be some sweet resul=
t,
for others as well as herself, from all her past sorrow. It appeared there =
was
much property of Tito's to which she had a claim; but she distrusted the
cleanness of that money, and she had determined to make it all over to the
State, except so much as was equal to the price of her father's library. Th=
is
would be enough for the modest support of Tessa and the children. But Monna
Brigida threw such planning into the background by clamorously insisting th=
at
Romola must live with her and never forsake her till she had seen her safe =
in
Paradise - else why had she persuaded her to turn Piagnone? - and if Romola
wanted to rear other people's children, she, Monna Brigida, must rear them =
too.
Only they must be found first.
Romola felt the full force of that
innuendo. But strong feeling unsatisfied is never without its superstition,
either of hope or despair. Romola's was the superstition of hope: somehow s=
he
was to find that mother and the children. And at last another direction for
active inquiry suggested itself. She learned that Tito had provided horses =
and
mules to await him in San Gallo; he was therefore going to leave Florence by
the gate of San Gallo, and she determined, though without much confidence in
the issue, to try and ascertain from the gatekeepers if they had observed a=
ny
one corresponding to the description of Tessa, with her children, to have
passed the gates before the morning of the ninth of April. Walking along the
Via San Gallo, and looking watchfully about her through her long widow's ve=
il,
lest she should miss any object that might aid her, she descried Bratti
chaffering with a customer. That roaming man, she thought, might aid her: s=
he
would not mind talking of Tessa to him. But as she put aside her veil and
crossed the street towards him, she saw something hanging from the corner of
his basket which made her heart leap with a much stronger hope.
'Bratti, my friend,' she said
abruptly, 'where did you get that necklace?'
'Your servant, madonna,' said Brat=
ti,
looking round at her very deliberately, his mind not being subject to surpr=
ise.
'It's a necklace worth money, but I shall get little by it, for my heart's =
too
tender for a trader's; I have promised to keep it in pledge.'
'Pray tell me where you got it; - =
from
a little woman named Tessa, is it not true?'
'Ah! if you know her,' said Bratti,
'and would redeem it of me at a small profit, and give it her again, you'd =
be
doing a charity, for she cried at parting with it - you'd have thought she =
was
running into a brook. It's a small profit I'll charge you. You shall have it
for a florin, for I don't like to be hard-hearted.'
'Where is she?' said Romola, giving
him the money, and unclasping the necklace from the basket in joyful agitat=
ion.
'Outside the gate there, at the ot=
her
end of the Borg, at old Sibilla Manetti's: anybody will tell you which is t=
he
house.'
Romola went along with winged feet,
blessing that incident of the Carnival which had made her learn by heart the
appearance of this necklace. Soon she was at the house she sought. The young
woman and the children were in the inner room - were to have been fetched a=
way
a fortnight ago and more - had no money, only their clothes, to pay a poor
widow with for their food and lodging. But since madonna knew them - Romola
waited to hear no more, but opened the door.
Tessa was seated on the low bed: h=
er
crying had passed into tearless sobs, and she was looking with sad blank ey=
es
at the two children, who were playing in an opposite corner - Lillo coverin=
g his
head with his skirt and roaring at Ninna to frighten her, then peeping out
again to see how she bore it. The door was a little behind Tessa, and she d=
id
not turn round when it opened, thinking it was only the old woman: expectat=
ion
was no longer alive. Romola had thrown aside her veil and paused a moment,
holding the necklace in sight. Then she said, in that pure voice that used =
to
cheer her father -
'Tessa!'
Tessa started to her feet and look=
ed
round.
'See,' said Romola, clasping the b=
eads
on Tessa's neck, 'God has sent me to you again.'
The poor thing screamed and sobbed,
and clung to the arms that fastened the necklace. She could not speak. The =
two
children came from their corner, laid hold of their mother's skirts, and lo=
oked
up with wide eyes at Romola.
That day they all went home to Mon=
na
Brigida's, in the Borgo degli Albizzi. Romola had made known to Tessa by ge=
ntle
degrees, that Naldo could never come to her again: not because he was cruel,
but because he was dead.
'But be comforted, my Tessa,' said
Romola. 'I am come to take care of you always. And we have got Lillo and
Ninna.'
Monna Brigida's mouth twitched in =
the
struggle between her awe of Romola and the desire to speak unseasonably.
'Let be, for the present,' she
thought; 'but it seems to me a thousand years till I tell this little
contadina, who seems not to know how many fingers she's got on her hand, who
Romola is. And I will tell her some day, else she'll never know her place. =
It's
all very well for Romola; - nobody will call their souls their own when she=
's
by; but if I'm to have this puss-faced minx living in my house she must be
humble to me.'
However, Monna Brigida wanted to g=
ive
the children too many sweets for their supper, and confessed to Romola, the
last thing before going to bed, that it would be a shame not to take care of
such cherubs.
'But you must give up to me a litt=
le,
Romola, about their eating, and those things. For you have never had a baby,
and I had twins, only they died as soon as they were born.'
When Romola brought home Tessa and=
the
children, April was already near its close, and the other great anxiety on =
her
mind had been wrought to its highest pitch by the publication in print of F=
ra
Girolamo's Trial, or rather of the confessions drawn from him by the sixteen
Florentine citizens commissioned to interrogate him. The appearance of this
document, issued by order of the Signoria, had called forth such strong
expressions of public suspicion and discontent, that severe measures were i=
mmediately
taken for recalling it. Of course there were copies accidentally mislaid, a=
nd a
second edition, not by order of the Signoria, was soon in the hands of eager
readers.
Romola, who began to despair of ev=
er
speaking with Fra Girolamo, read this evidence again and again, desiring to
judge it by some clearer light than the contradictory impressions that were
taking the form of assertions in the mouths of both partisans and enemies. =
In the more devout followers of
Savonarola his want of constancy under torture, and his retractation of
prophetic claims, had produced a consternation too profound to be at once
displaced as it ultimately was by the suspicion, which soon grew into a
positive datum, that any reported words of his which were in inexplicable c=
ontradiction
to their faith in him, had not come from the lips of the prophet, but from =
the
falsifying pen of Ser Ceccone, that notary of evil repute, who had made the
digest of the examination. But there were obvious facts that at once threw
discredit on the printed document. Was not the list of sixteen examiners ha=
lf
made up of the prophet's bitterest enemies? Was not the notorious Dolfo Spi=
ni
one of the new Eight prematurely elected, in order to load the dice against=
a
man whose ruin had been determined on by the party in power? It was but a
murder with slow formalities that was being transacted in the Old Palace. T=
he
Signoria had resolved to drive a good bargain with the Pope and the Duke of
Milan, by extinguishing the man who was as great a molestation to vicious
citizens and greedy foreign tyrants as to a corrupt clergy. The Frate had b=
een
doomed beforehand, and the only question that was pretended to exist now wa=
s,
whether the Republic, in return for a permission to lay a tax on ecclesiast=
ical
property should deliver him alive into the hands of the Pope, or whether the
Pope should further concede to the Republic what its dignity demanded - the
privilege of hanging and burning its own prophet on its own piazza.
Who, under such circumstances, wou=
ld
give full credit to this so-called confession? If the Frate had denied his
prophetic gift, the denial had only been wrenched from him by the agony of
torture - agony that, in his sensitive frame, must quickly produce raving. =
What
if these wicked examiners declared that he had only had the torture of the =
rope
and pulley thrice, and only on one day, and that his confessions had been m=
ade
when he was under no bodily coercion - was that to be believed? He had been
tortured much more; he had been tortured in proportion to the distress his
confessions had created in the hearts of those who loved him.
Other friends of Savonarola, who w=
ere
less ardent partisans, did not doubt the substantial genuineness of the
confession, however it might have been coloured by the transpositions and
additions of the notary; but they argued indignantly that there was nothing
which could warrant a condemnation to death, or even to grave punishment. It
must be clear to all impartial men that if this examination represented the
only evidence against the Frate, he would die, not for any crime, but becau=
se
he had made himself inconvenient to the Pope, to the rapacious Italian Stat=
es
that wanted to dismember their Tuscan neighbour, and to those unworthy citi=
zens
who sought to gratify their private ambition in opposition to the common we=
al.
Not a shadow of political crime had
been proved against him. Not one stain had been detected on his private
conduct: his fellow-monks, including one who had formerly been his secretary
for several years, and who, with more than the average culture of his
companions, had a disposition to criticise Fra Girolamo's Rule as Prior, bo=
re
testimony, even after the shock of his retractation, to an unimpeachable pu=
rity
and consistency in his life, which had commanded their unsuspecting venerat=
ion.
The Pope himself had not been able to raise a charge of heresy against the
Frate, except on the ground of disobedience to a mandate, and disregard of =
the
sentence of excommunication. It was difficult to justify that breach of dis=
cipline
by argument, but there was a moral insurgence in the minds of grave men aga=
inst
the Court of Rome, which tended to confound the theoretic distinction betwe=
en
the Church and churchmen, and to lighten the scandal of disobedience.
Men of ordinary morality and public
spirit felt that the triumph of the Frate's enemies was really the triumph =
of
gross licence. And keen Florentines like Soderini and Piero Guicciardini may
well have had an angry smile on their lips at a severity which dispensed wi=
th
all law in order to hang and burn a man in whom the seductions of a public
career had warped the strictness of his veracity; may well have remarked th=
at
if the Frate had mixed a much deeper fraud with a zeal and ability less
inconvenient to high personages, the fraud would have been regarded as an
excellent oil for ecclesiastical and political wheels.
Nevertheless such shrewd men were
forced to admit that, however poor a figure the Florentine government made =
in
its clumsy pretence of a judicial warrant for what had in fact been
predetermined as an act of policy, the measures of the Pope against Savonar=
ola
were necessary measures of self-defence. Not to try and rid himself of a man
who wanted to stir up the Powers of Europe to summon a General Council and
depose him, would have been adding ineptitude to iniquity. There was no den=
ying
that towards Alexander the Sixth Savonarola was a rebel, and, what was much
more, a dangerous rebel. Florence had heard him say, and had well understood
what he meant, that he would not obey the devil. It was inevitably a life a=
nd
death struggle between the Frate and the Pope; but it was less inevitable t=
hat
Florence should make itself the Pope's executioner.
Romola's ears were filled in this =
way
with the suggestions of a faith still ardent under its wounds, and the
suggestions of worldly discernment, judging things according to a very mode=
rate
standard of what is possible to human nature. She could be satisfied with
neither. She brought to her long meditations over that printed document many
painful observations, registered more or less consciously through the years=
of
her discipleship, which whispered a presentiment that Savonarola's retracta=
tion
of his prophetic claims was not merely a spasmodic effort to escape from
torture. But, on the other hand, her soul cried out for some explanation of=
his
lapses which would make it still possible for her to believe that the main
striving of his life had been pure and grand. The recent memory of the self=
ish
discontent which had come over her like a blighting wind along with the los=
s of
her trust in the man who had been for her an incarnation of the highest
motives, had produced a reaction which is known to many as a sort of faith =
that
has sprung up to them out of the very depths of their despair. It was
impossible, she said now, that the negative disbelieving thoughts which had
made her soul arid of all good, could be founded in the truth of things:
impossible that it had not been a living spirit, and no hollow pretence, wh=
ich
had once breathed in the Frate's words, and kindled a new life in her. What=
ever
falsehood there had been in him, had been a fall and not a purpose; a gradu=
al
entanglement in which he struggled, not a contrivance encouraged by success=
.
Looking at the printed confessions,
she saw many sentences which bore the stamp of bungling fabrication: they h=
ad
that emphasis and repetition in self-accusation which none but very low
hypocrites use to their fellow-men. But the fact that these sentences were =
in
striking opposition, not only to the character of Savonarola, but also to t=
he
general tone of the confessions, strengthened the impression that the rest =
of
the text represented in the main what had really fallen from his lips. Hard=
ly a
word was dishonourable to him except what turned on his prophetic
annunciations. He was unvarying in his statement of the ends he had pursued=
for
Florence, the Church, and the world; and, apart from the mixture of falsity=
in
that claim to special inspiration by which he sought to gain hold of men's
minds, there was no admission of having used unworthy means. Even in this
confession, and without expurgation of the notary's malign phrases, Fra
Girolamo shone forth as a man who had sought his own glory indeed, but soug=
ht
it by labouring for the very highest end - the moral welfare of men - not by
vague exhortations, but by striving to turn beliefs into energies that would
work in all the details of life.
'Everything that I have done,' said
one memorable passage, which may perhaps have had its erasures and interpol=
ations,
'I have done with the design of being for ever famous in the present and in
future ages; and that I might win credit in Florence; and that nothing of g=
reat
import should be done without my sanction. And when I had thus established =
my
position in Florence, I had it in my mind to do great things in Italy and
beyond Italy, by means of those chief personages with whom I had contracted
friendship and consulted on high matters, such as this of the General Counc=
il.
And in proportion as my first efforts succeeded, I should have adopted furt=
her
measures. Above all, when the General Council had once been brought about, I
intended to rouse the princes of Christendom, and especially those beyond t=
he
borders of Italy, to subdue the infidels. It was not much in my thoughts to=
get
myself made a Cardinal or Pope, for when I should have achieved the work I =
had
in view, I should, without being Pope, have been the first man in the world=
in
the authority I should have possessed, and the reverence that would have be=
en paid
me. If I had been made Pope, I would not have refused the office: but it se=
emed
to me that to be the head of that work was a greater thing than to be Pope,
because a man without virtue may be Pope; but such a work as I contemplated
demanded a man of excellent virtues.'
That blending of ambition with bel=
ief
in the supremacy of goodness made no new tone to Romola, who had been used =
to
hear it in the voice that rang through the Duomo. It was the habit of
Savonarola's mind to conceive great things, and to feel that he was the man=
to
do them. Iniquity should be brought low; the cause of justice, purity, and =
love
should triumph; and it should triumph by his voice, by his work, by his blo=
od.
In moments of ecstatic contemplation doubtless, the sense of self melted in=
the
sense of the Unspeakable, and in that part of his experience lay the elemen=
ts
of genuine self-abasement; but in the presence of his fellow-men for whom he
was to act, pre-eminence seemed a necessary condition of his life.
And perhaps this confession, even =
when
it described a doubleness that was conscious and deliberate, really implied=
no
more than that wavering of belief concerning his own impressions and motives
which most human beings who have not a stupid inflexibility of self-confide=
nce
must be liable to under a marked change of external conditions. In a life w=
here
the experience was so tumultuously mixed as it must have been in the Frate'=
s,
what a possibility was opened for a change of self-judgment, when, instead =
of
eyes that venerated and knees that knelt, instead of a great work on its wa=
y to
accomplishment, and in its prosperity stamping the agent as a chosen
instrument, there came the hooting and the spitting and the curses of the
crowd; and then the hard faces of enemies made judges; and then the horrible
torture, and with the torture the irrepressible cry, 'It is true what you w=
ould
have me say: let me go: do not torture me again: yes, yes, I am guilty. O G=
od!
Thy stroke has reached me!'
As Romola thought of the anguish t=
hat
must have followed the confession - whether, in the subsequent solitude of =
the
prison, conscience retracted or confirmed the self-taxing words - that angu=
ish
seemed to be pressing on her own heart and urging the slow bitter tears. Ev=
ery
vulgar self-ignorant person in Florence was glibly pronouncing on this man's
demerits, while he was knowing a depth of sorrow which can only be known to=
the
soul that has loved and sought the most perfect thing, and beholds itself
fallen.
She had not then seen - what she s=
aw
afterwards - the evidence of the Frate's mental state after he had had thus=
to
lay his mouth in the dust. As the days went by, the reports of new unpublis=
hed
examinations, eliciting no change of confessions, ceased; Savonarola was le=
ft
alone in his prison and allowed pen and ink for a while, that, if he liked,=
he
might use his poor bruised and strained right arm to write with. He wrote; =
but
what he wrote was no vindication of his innocence, no protest against the
proceedings used towards him: it was a continued colloquy with that divine
purity with which he sought complete reunion; it was the outpouring of
self-abasement; it was one long cry for inward renovation. No lingering ech=
oes
of the old vehement self-assertion, 'Look at my work, for it is good, and t=
hose
who set their faces against it are the children of the devil! ' The voice of
Sadness tells him, 'God placed thee in the midst of the people even as if t=
hou
hadst been one of the excellent. In this way thou hast taught others, and h=
ast
failed to learn thyself. Thou hast cured others and thou thyself hast been
still diseased. Thy heart was lifted up at the beauty of thy own deeds, and
through this thou hast lost thy wisdom and art become, and shalt be to all
eternity, nothing . . . After so many benefits with which God has honoured
thee, thou art fallen into the depths of the sea; and after so many gifts
bestowed on thee, thou, by thy pride and vainglory, hast scandalised all the
world.' And when Hope speaks and argues that the divine love has not forsak=
en
him, it says nothing now of a great work to be done, but only says, 'Thou a=
rt
not forsaken, else why is thy heart bowed in penitence? That too is a gift.=
'
There is no jot of worthy evidence
that from the time of his imprisonment to the supreme moment, Savonarola
thought or spoke of himself as a martyr. The idea of martyrdom had been to =
him
a passion dividing the dream of the future with the triumph of beholding his
work achieved. And now, in place of both, had come a resignation which he
called by no glorifying name.
But therefore he may the more fitl= y be called a martyr by his fellow-men to all time. For power rose against him n= ot because of his sins, but because of his greatness - not because he sought to deceive the world, but because he sought to make it noble. And through that greatness of his he endured a double agony: not only the reviling, and the torture, and the death-throe, but the agony of sinking from the vision of glorious achievement into that deep shadow where he could only say, 'I coun= t as nothing: darkness encompasses me: yet the light I saw was the true light.'<= o:p>
Romola had seemed to hear, as if t=
hey
had been a cry, the words repeated to her by many lips - the words uttered =
by
Savonarola when he took leave of those brethren of San Marco who had come to
witness his signature of the confession: 'Pray for me, for God has withdrawn
from me the spirit of prophecy.'
Those words had shaken her with new
doubts as to the mode in which he looked back at the past in moments of
complete self-possession. And the doubts were strengthened by more piteous
things still, which soon reached her ears.
The nineteenth of May had come, an=
d by
that day's sunshine there had entered into Florence the two Papal Commissar=
ies,
charged with the completion of Savonarola's trial. They entered amid the
acclamations of the people, calling for the death of the Frate. For now the
popular cry was, 'It is the Frate's deception that has brought on all our
misfortunes; let him be burned, and all things right will be done, and our
evils will cease.'
The next day it is well certified =
that
there was fresh and fresh torture of the shattered sensitive frame; and now=
, at
the first sight of the horrible implements, Savonarola. in convulsed agitat=
ion,
fell on his knees, and in brief passionate words retracted his confession,
declared that he had spoken falsely in denying his prophetic gift, and that=
if
he suffered, he would suffer for the truth - 'The things that I have spoken=
, I
had them from God.'
But not the less the torture was l=
aid
upon him, and when he was under it he was asked why he had uttered those
retracting words. Men were not demons in those days, and yet nothing but
confessions of guilt were held a reason for release from torture. The answer
came: 'I said it that I might seem good; tear me no more, I will tell you t=
he
truth.'
There were Florentine assessors at
this new trial, and those words of twofold retractation had soon spread. Th=
ey
filled Romola with dismayed uncertainty.
'But' - it 'dashed across her - 't=
here
will come a moment when he may speak. When there is no dread hanging over h=
im
but the dread of falsehood, when they have brought him into the presence of
death, when he is lifted above the people, and looks on them for the last t=
ime,
they cannot hinder him from speaking a last decisive word. I will be there.=
'
Three days after, on the 23d of May
l498, there was again a long narrow platform stretching across the great
piazza, from the Palazzo Veccbio towards the Tetto de' Pisani. But there wa=
s no
grove of fuel as before: instead of that, there was one great heap of fuel
placed on the circular area which made the termination of the long narrow
platform. And above this heap of fuel rose a gibbet with three halters on i=
t; a
gibbet which, having two arms, still looked so much like a cross as to make
some beholders uncomfortable, though one arm had been truncated to avoid the
resemblance.
On the marble terrace of the Palaz=
zo
were three tribunals; one near the door for the Bishop, who was to perform =
the
ceremony of degradation on Fra Girolamo and the two brethren who were to su=
ffer
as his followers and accomplices; another for the Papal Commissaries, who w=
ere
to pronounce them heretics and schismatics, and deliver them over to the
secular arm; and a third, close to Marzocco, at the corner of the terrace w=
here
the platform began, for the Gonfaloniere, and the Eight who were to pronoun=
ce
the sentence of death.
Again the Piazza was thronged with
expectant faces: again there was to be a great fire kindled. In the majorit=
y of
the crowd that pressed around the gibbet the expectation was that of feroci=
ous
hatred, or of mere hard curiosity to behold a barbarous sight. But there we=
re
still many spectators on the wide pavement, on the roofs, and at the window=
s,
who, in the midst of their bitter grief and their own endurance of insult as
hypocritical Piagnoni, were not without a lingering hope, even at this elev=
enth
hour, that God would interpose, by some sign, to manifest their beloved pro=
phet
as His servant. And there were yet more who looked forward with trembling
eagerness, as Romola did, to that final moment when Savonarola might say, 'O
people, I was innocent of deceit.'
Romola was at a window on the north
side of the Piazza. far away from the marble terrace where the tribunals st=
ood;
and near her, also looking on in painful doubt concerning the man who had w=
on
his early reverence, was a young Florentine of two-and-twenty, named Jacopo
Nardi, afterwards to deserve honour as one of the very few who, feeling Fra
Girolamo's eminence, have written about him with the simple desire to be
veracious. He had said to Romola, with respectful gentleness, when he saw t=
he
struggle in her between her shuddering horror of the scene and her yearning=
to
witness what might happen in the last moment -
'Madonna, there is no need for you=
to
look at these cruel things. I will tell you when he comes out of the Palazz=
o.
Trust to me; I know what you would see.'
Romola covered her face, but the
hootings that seemed to make the hideous scene still visible could not be s=
hut
out. At last her arm was touched, and she heard the words, 'He comes.' She
looked towards the Palace, and could see Savonarola led out in his Dominican
garb; could see him standing before the Bishop, and being stripped of the b=
lack
mantle, the white scapulary and long white tunic, till he stood in a close
woollen under-tunic, that told of no sacred office, no rank. He had been
degraded, and cut off from the Church Militant.'
The baser part of the multitude
delight in degradations, apart from any hatred; it is the satire they best
understand. There was a fresh hoot of triumph as the three degraded brethren
passed on to the tribunal of the Papal Commissaries, who were to pronounce =
them
schismatics and heretics. Did not the prophet look like a schismatic and
heretic now? It is easy to believe in the damnable state of a man who stands
stripped and degraded.
Then the third tribunal was passed=
-
that of the Florentine officials who were to pronounce sentence, and amongs=
t whom,
even at her distance, Romola could discern the odious figure of Dolfo Spini,
indued in the grave black lucco, as one of the Eight.
Then the three figures, in their c=
lose
white raiment, trod their way along the platform, amidst yells and grating
tones of insult.
'Cover your eyes, Madonna,' said
Jacopo Nardi; 'Fra Girolamo will be the last.'
It was not long before she had to
uncover them again. Savonarola was there. He was not far off her now. He had
mounted the steps; she could see him look round on the multitude.
But in the same moment expectation
died, and she only saw what he was seeing - torches waving to kindle the fu=
el
beneath his dead body, faces glaring with a yet worse light; she only heard
what he was hearing - gross jests, taunts, and curses.
The moment was past. Her face was
covered again, and she only knew that Savonarola's voice had passed into
eternal silence.
On the evening of the 2d of May 15=
09,
five persons, of whose history we have known something, were seated in a ha=
ndsome
upper room opening on to a loggia which, at its right-hand corner, looked a=
ll
along the Borgo Pinti, and over the city gate towards Fiesole, and the sole=
mn
heights beyond it.
At one end of the room was an arch=
way
opening into a narrow inner room, hardly more than a recess, where the light
fell from above on a small altar covered with fair white linen. Over the al=
tar
was a picture, discernible at the distance where the little party sat only =
as
the small full-length portrait of a Dominican Brother. For it was shaded fr=
om
the light above by overhanging branches and wreaths of flowers, and the fre=
sh
tapers below it were unlit. But it seemed that the decoration of the altar =
and
its recess was not complete. For part of the floor was strewn with a confus=
ion
of flowers and green boughs, and among them sat a delicate blue-eyed girl of
thirteen, tossing her long light-brown hair out of her eyes, as she made
selections for the wreaths she was weaving, or looked up at her mother's wo=
rk
in the same kind, and told her how to do it with a little air of instructio=
n.
For that mother was not very cleve=
r at
weaving flowers or at any other work. Tessa's fingers had not become more
adroit with the years - only very much fatter. She got on slowly and turned=
her
head about a good deal, and asked Ninna's opinion with much deference; for
Tessa never ceased to be astonished at the wisdom of her children. She still
wore her contadina gown: it was only broader than the old one; and there was
the silver pin in her rough curly brown hair, and round her neck the memora=
ble
necklace, with a red cord under it, that ended mysteriously in her bosom. H=
er
rounded face wore even a more perfect look of childish content than in her
younger days: everybody was so good in the world, Tessa thought; even Monna
Brigida never found fault with her now, and did little else than sleep, whi=
ch
was an amiable practice in everybody, and one that Tessa liked for herself.=
Monna Brigida was asleep at this
moment, in a straight-backed arm-chair, a couple of yards off. Her hair,
parting backward under her black hood, had that soft whiteness which is not
like snow or anything else, but is simply the lovely whiteness of aged hair.
Her chin had sunk on her bosom, and her hands rested on the elbow of her ch=
air.
She had not been weaving flowers or doing anything else: she had only been
looking on as usual, and as usual had fallen asleep.
The other two figures were seated
farther off, at the wide doorway that opened on to the loggia. Lillo sat on=
the
ground with his back against the angle of the door-post, and his long legs
stretched out, while he held a large book open on his knee, and occasionally
made a dash with his hand at an inquisitive fly, with an air of interest
stronger than that excited by the finely-printed copy of Petrarch which he =
kept
open at one place, as if he were learning something by heart.
Romola sat nearly opposite Lillo, =
but
she was not observing him. Her hands were crossed on her lap and her eyes w=
ere
fixed absently on the distant mountains: she was evidently unconscious of
anything around her. An eager life had left its marks upon her: the
finely-moulded cheek had sunk a little, the golden crown was less massive; =
but
there was a placidity in Romola's face which had never belonged to it in yo=
uth.
It is but once that we can know our worst sorrows and Romola had known them
while life was new.
Absorbed in this way, she was not =
at
first aware that Lillo had ceased to look at his book, and was watching her
with a slightly impatient air, which meant that he wanted to talk to her, b=
ut
was not quite sure whether she would like that entertainment just now. But
persevering looks make themselves felt at last. Romola did presently turn a=
way
her eyes from the distance and met Lillo's impatient dark gaze with a brigh=
ter
and brighter smile. He shuffled along the floor, still keeping the book on =
his
lap, till he got close to her and lodged his chin on her knee.
'What is it, Lillo?' said Romola,
pulling his hair back from his brow. Lillo was a handsome lad, but his feat=
ures
were turning out to be more massive and less regular than his father's. The
blood of the Tuscan peasant was in his veins.
'Mamma Romola, what am I to be?' he
said, well contented that there was a prospect of talking till it would be =
too
late to con 'Spirito gentil' any longer.
'What should you like to be, Lillo?
You might be a scholar. My father was a scholar, you know, and taught me a
great deal. That is the reason why I can teach you.'
'Yes,' said Lillo, rather
hesitatingly. 'But he is old and blind in the picture. Did he get a great d=
eal
of glory?'
'Not much, Lillo. The world was not
always very kind to him, and he saw meaner men than himself put into higher
places, because they could flatter and say what was false. And then his dear
son thought it right to leave him and become a monk; and after that, my fat=
her,
being blind and lonely, felt unable to do the things that would have made h=
is
learning of greater use to men, so that he might still have lived in his wo=
rks
after he was in his grave.'
'I should not like that sort of li=
fe,'
said Lillo. 'I should like to be something that would make me a great man, =
and
very happy besides - something that would not hinder me from having a good =
deal
of pleasure.'
'That is not easy, my Lillo. It is
only a poor sort of happiness that could ever come by caring very much about
our own narrow pleasures. We can only have the highest happiness, such as g=
oes
along with being a great man, by having wide thoughts, and much feeling for=
the
rest of the world as well as ourselves; and this sort of happiness often br=
ings
so much pain with it, that we can only tell it from pain by its being what =
we
would choose before everything else, because our souls see it is good. There
are so many things wrong and difficult in the world, that no man can be gre=
at -
he can hardly keep himself from wickedness - unless he gives up thinking mu=
ch
about pleasure or rewards, and gets strength to endure what is hard and
painful. My father had the greatness that belongs to integrity; he chose po=
verty
and obscurity rather than falsehood. And there was Fra Girolamo - you know =
why
I keep to-morrow sacred: he had the greatness which belongs to a life spent=
in
struggling against powerful wrong, and in trying to raise men to the highest
deeds they are capable of. And so, my Lillo, if you mean to act nobly and s=
eek
to know the best things God has put within reach of men, you must learn to =
fix
your mind on that end, and not on what will happen to you because of it. And
remember, if you were to choose something lower, and make it the rule of yo=
ur
life to seek your own pleasure and escape from what is disagreeable, calami=
ty
might come just the same; and it would be calamity falling on a base mind,
which is the one form of sorrow that has no balm in it, and that may well m=
ake
a man say, - ‘It would have been better for me if I had never been bo=
rn.’
I will tell you something, Lillo.'
Romola paused for a moment. She had
taken Lillo's cheeks between her hands, and his young eyes were meeting her=
s.
'There was a man to whom I was very
near, so that I could see a great deal of his life, who made almost every o=
ne
fond of him, for he was young, and clever, and beautiful, and his manners to
all were gentle and kind. I believe, when I first knew him, he never though=
t of
anything cruel or base. But because he tried to slip away from everything t=
hat
was unpleasant, and cared for nothing else so much as his own safety, he ca=
me
at last to commit some of the basest deeds - such as make men infamous. He
denied his father, and left him to misery; he betrayed every trust that was
reposed in him, that he might keep himself safe and get rich and prosperous.
Yet calamity overtook him.'
Again Romola paused. Her voice was
unsteady, and Lillo was looking up at her with awed wonder.
'Another time, my Lillo - I will t=
ell
you another time. See, there are our old Piero di Cosimo and Nello coming up
the Borgo Pinti, bringing us their flowers. Let us go and wave our hands to
them, that they may know we see them.'
'How queer old Piero is!' said Lil=
lo,
as they stood at the corner of the loggia, watching the advancing figures. =
'He
abuses you for dressing the altar, and thinking so much of Fra Girolamo, and
yet he brings you the flowers.'
'Never mind,' said Romola. 'There =
are
many good people who did not love Fra Girolamo. Perhaps I should never have
learned to love him if he had not helped me when I was in great need.'
The End