by George Eliot
CHAPTER TWELVE.
THE PRIZE IS NEARLY GRASPED.
Tito walked along with a light step, for the immediate fear hadvanished; the usual joyousness of his disposition reassumed itspredominance, and he was going to see Romola. Yet Romola's life seemedan image of that loving, pitying devotedness, that patient endurance ofirksome tasks, from which he had shrunk and excused himself. But he wasnot out of love with goodness, or prepared to plunge into vice: he wasin his fresh youth, with soft pulses for all charm and loveliness; hehad still a healthy appetite for ordinary human joys, and the poisoncould only work by degrees. He had sold himself to evil, but at presentlife seemed so nearly the same to him that he was not conscious of thebond. He meant all things to go on as they had done before, both withinand without him: he meant to win golden opinions by meritoriousexertion, by ingenious learning, by amiable compliance: he was not goingto do anything that would throw him out of harmony with the beings hecared for. And he cared supremely for Romola; he wished to have her forhis beautiful and loving wife. There might be a wealthier alliancewithin the ultimate reach of successful accomplishments like his, butthere was no woman in all Florence like Romola. When she was near him,and looked at him with her sincere hazel eyes, he was subdued by adelicious influence as strong and inevitable as those musical vibrationswhich take possession of us with a rhythmic empire that no sooner ceasesthan we desire it to begin again.
As he trod the stone stairs, when he was still outside the door, with noone but Maso near him, the influence seemed to have begun its work bythe 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 blindface, since that first interview more than two months ago. "You havebrought fresh manuscript, doubtless; but since we were talking lastnight I have had new ideas: we must take a wider scope--we must go backupon our footsteps."
Tito, paying his homage to Romola as he advanced, went, as his customwas, straight to Bardo's chair, and put his hand in the palm that washeld to receive it, placing himself on the cross-legged leather seatwith 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 young limbs, you know, and canwalk back up the hill without any difficulty."
He did not look at Romola as he said this, but he knew quite well thather eyes were fixed on him with delight.
"That is well said, my son." Bardo had already addressed Tito in thisway once or twice of late. "And I perceive with gladness that you donot shrink from labour, without which, the poet has wisely said, lifehas given nothing to mortals. It is too often the `palma sine pulvere,'the prize of glory without the dust of the race, that attracts youngambition. But what says the Greek? `In the morning of life, work; inthe mid-day, give counsel; in the evening, pray.' It is true, I mightbe thought to have reached that helpless evening; but not so, while Ihave counsel within me which is yet unspoken. For my mind, as I haveoften said, was shut up as by a dam; the plenteous waters lay dark andmotionless; but you, my Tito, have opened a duct for them, and they rushforward with a force that surprises myself. And now, what I want is,that we should go over our preliminary ground again, with a wider schemeof comment and illustration: otherwise I may lose opportunities which Inow see retrospectively, and which may never occur again. You mark whatI am saying, Tito?"
He had just stooped to reach his manuscript, which had rolled down, andBardo's jealous ear was alive to the slight movement.
Tito might have been excused for shrugging his shoulders at the prospectbefore him, but he was not naturally impatient; moreover, he had beenbred up in that laborious erudition, at once minute and copious, whichwas the chief intellectual task of the age; and with Romola near, he wasfloated along by waves of agreeable sensation that made everything seemeasy.
"Assuredly," he said; "you wish to enlarge your comments on certainpassages we have cited."
"Not only so; I wish to introduce an occasional _excursus_, where wehave noticed an author to whom I have given special study; for I may dietoo soon to achieve any separate work. And this is not a time forscholarly integrity and well-sifted learning to lie idle, when it is notonly rash ignorance that we have to fear, but when there are men likeCalderino, who, as Poliziano has well shown, have recourse to impudentfalsities of citation to serve the ends of their vanity and secure atriumph to their own mistakes. Wherefore, my Tito, I think it not wellthat we should let slip the occasion that lies under our hands. And nowwe will turn back to the point where we have cited the passage fromThucydides, and I wish you, by way of preliminary, to go with me throughall my notes on the Latin translation made by Lorenzo Valla, for whichthe incomparable Pope Nicholas the Fifth--with whose personal notice Iwas honoured while I was yet young, and when he was still Thomas ofSarzana--paid him (I say not unduly) the sum of five hundred gold scudi.But inasmuch as Valla, though otherwise of dubious fame, is held inhigh honour for his severe scholarship, whence the epigrammatist hasjocosely said of him that since he went among the shades, Pluto himselfhas not dared to speak in the ancient languages, it is the more needfulthat his name should not be as a stamp warranting false wares; andtherefore I would introduce an _excursus_ on Thucydides, wherein mycastigations of Valla's text may find a fitting place. My Romola, thouwilt reach the needful volumes--thou knowest them--on the fifth shelf ofthe cabinet."
Tito rose at the same moment with Romola, saying, "I will reach them, ifyou will point them out," and followed her hastily into the adjoiningsmall room, where the walls were also covered with ranges of books inperfect order.
"There they are," said Romola, pointing upward; "every book is justwhere it was when my father ceased to see them."
Tito stood by her without hastening to reach the books. They had neverbeen in this room together before.
"I hope," she continued, turning her eyes full on Tito, with a look ofgrave confidence--"I hope he will not weary you; this work makes him sohappy."
"And me too, Romola--if you will only let me say, I love you--if youwill only think me worth loving a little."
His speech was the softest murmur, and the dark beautiful face, nearerto hers than it had ever been before, was looking at her with beseechingtenderness.
"I do love you," murmured Romola; she looked at him with the same simplemajesty as ever, but her voice had never in her life before sunk to thatmurmur. It seemed to them both that they were looking at each other along while before her lips moved again; yet it was but a moment till shesaid, "I know _now_ what it is to be happy."
The faces just met, and the dark curls mingled for an instant with therippling gold. Quick as lightning after that, Tito set his foot on aprojecting ledge of the book-shelves and reached down the needfulvolumes. They were both contented to be silent and separate, for thatfirst blissful experience of mutual consciousness was all the moreexquisite for being unperturbed by immediate sensation.
It had all been as rapid as the irreversible mingling of waters, foreven the eager and jealous Bardo had not become impatient.
"You have the volumes, my Romola?" the old man said, as they came nearhim again. "And now you will get your pen ready; for, as Tito marks offthe scholia we determine on extracting, it will be well for you to copythem without delay--numbering them carefully, mind, to correspond withthe 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 sheplaced herself at a table just in front of him, where she was ready togive into her father's hands anything that he might happen to want, orrelieve him of a volume that he had done with. They had always been inthat position since the work began, yet on this day it seemed new; itwas so different now for them to be opposite each other; so differentfor Tito to take a book from her, as she lifted it from her father'sknee. Yet there was no finesse to secure an additiona
l look or touch.Each woman creates in her own likeness the love-tokens that are offeredto her; and Romola's deep calm happiness encompassed Tito like the richbut quiet evening light which dissipates all unrest.
They had been two hours at their work, and were just desisting becauseof the fading light, when the door opened and there entered a figurestrangely incongruous with the current of their thoughts and with thesuggestions of every object around them. It was the figure of a shortstout black-eyed woman, about fifty, wearing a black velvet berretta, orclose cap, embroidered with pearls, under which surprisingly massiveblack braids surmounted the little bulging forehead, and fell in richplaited curves over the ears, while an equally surprising carmine tinton the upper region of the fat cheeks contrasted with the surroundingsallowness. Three rows of pearls and a lower necklace of gold reposedon the horizontal cushion of her neck; the embroidered border of hertrailing black velvet gown and her embroidered long-drooping sleeves ofrose-coloured damask, were slightly faded, but they conveyed to theinitiated eye the satisfactory assurance that they were the splendidresult of six months' labour by a skilled workman; and the rose-colouredpetticoat, with its dimmed white fringe and seed-pearl arabesques, wasduly exhibited in order to suggest a similar pleasing reflection. Ahandsome coral rosary hung from one side of an inferential belt, whichemerged into certainty with a large clasp of silver wrought in niello;and, on the other side, where the belt again became inferential, hung ascarsella, or large purse, of crimson velvet, stitched with pearls. Herlittle fat right-hand, which looked as if it had been made of paste, andhad risen out of shape under partial baking, held a small book ofdevotions, also splendid with velvet, pearls, and silver.
The figure was already too familiar to Tito to be startling, for MonnaBrigida was a frequent visitor at Bardo's, being excepted from thesentence of banishment passed on feminine triviality, on the ground ofher cousinship to his dead wife and her early care for Romola, who nowlooked round at her with an affectionate smile, and rose to draw theleather seat to a due distance from her father's chair, that the cominggush of talk might not be too near his ear.
"_La cugina_?" said Bardo, interrogatively, detecting the short stepsand the sweeping drapery.
"Yes, it is your cousin," said Monna Brigida, in an alert voice, raisingher fingers smilingly at Tito, and then lifting up her face to be kissedby Romola. "Always the troublesome cousin breaking in on your wisdom,"she went on, seating herself and beginning to fan herself with the whiteveil hanging over her arm. "Well, well; if I didn't bring you some newsof the world now and then, I do believe you'd forget there was anythingin life but these mouldy ancients, who want sprinkling with holy waterif all I hear about them is true. Not but what the world is bad enoughnowadays, for the scandals that turn up under one's nose at everycorner--_I_ don't want to hear and see such things, but one can't goabout with one's head 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; ifI'm not as wise as the three kings, I know how many legs go into oneboot. 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 alittle--Messer Domeneddio expects that of us, else what are the blessedsacraments for? And what I say is, we've got to reverence the saints,and not to set ourselves up as if we could be like them, else life wouldbe 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--DianoraAcciajoli's with the young 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 might have been put off till the nextQuaresima for a penance. For there was the bride looking like a whitenun--not so much as a pearl about her--and the bridegroom as solemn asSan Giuseppe. It's true! And half the people invited were _Piagnoni_--they call them _Piagnoni_ [funeral mourners: properly, paid mourners]now, these new saints of Fra Girolamo's making. And to think of twofamilies like the Albizzi and the Acciajoli taking up such notions, whenthey could afford to wear the best! Well, well, they invited me--butthey could do no other, seeing my husband was Luca Antonio's uncle bythe mother's side--and a pretty time I had of it while we waited underthe canopy in front of the house, before they let us in. I couldn'tstand in my clothes, it seemed, without giving offence; for there wasMonna Berta, who has had worse secrets in her time than any I could tellof myself, looking askance at me from under her hood like a_pinzochera_, [a Sister of the Third Order of Saint Francis: anuncloistered nun] and telling me to read the Frate's book about widows,from which she had found great guidance. Holy Madonna! it seems as ifwidows had nothing to do now but to buy their coffins, and think it athousand years till they get into them, instead of enjoying themselves alittle when they've got their hands free for the first time. And whatdo you think was the music we had, to make our dinner lively? A longdiscourse from Fra Domenico of San Marco, about the doctrines of theirblessed 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 firsthe said one and then the other--shall be scourged; but if he means thepestilence, the Signory ought to put a stop to such preaching, for it'senough 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 thegood of that when we're all dead of the plague, or something else? Andthen, the third thing, and what he said oftenest, is, that it's all tobe in our days: and he marked that off on his thumb, till he made metremble like the very jelly before me. They had jellies, to be sure,with the arms of the Albizzi and the Acciajoli raised on them in allcolours; they've not turned the world quite upside down yet. But alltheir talk is, that we are to go back to the old ways: for up startsFrancesco Valori, that I've danced with in the Via Larga when he was abachelor and as fond of the Medici as anybody, and he makes a speechabout the old times, before the Florentines had left off crying `Popolo'and begun to cry `Palle'--as if that had anything to do with awedding!--and how we ought to keep to the rules the Signory laid downheaven knows when, that we were not to wear this and that, and not toeat this and that--and how our manners were corrupted and we read badbooks; though he can't say that of _me_--"
"Stop, cousin!" said Bardo, in his imperious tone, for he had a remarkto make, and only desperate measures could arrest the rattlinglengthiness of Monna Brigida's discourse. But now she gave a littlestart, 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 rather of opinion that he christensprivate grudges by the name of public zeal; though I must admit that mygood Bernardo is too slow of belief in that unalloyed patriotism whichwas found in all its lustre amongst the ancients. But it is true, Tito,that our manners have degenerated somewhat from that noble frugalitywhich, as has been well seen in the public acts of our citizens, is theparent of true magnificence. For men, as I hear, will now spend on thetransient show of a Giostra sums which would suffice to found a library,and confer a lasting possession on mankind. Still, I conceive, itremains true of us Florentines that we have more of that magnanimoussobriety which abhors a trivial lavishness that it may be grandlyopen-handed on grand occasions, than can be found in any other city ofItaly; for I understand that the Neapolitan and Milanese courtiers laughat the scarcity of our plate, and think scorn of our great families forborrowing from each other that furniture of the table at theirentertainments. But in the vain laughter of folly wisdom hears half itsapplause."
"Laughter, indeed!" burst forth Monna Brigida again, the moment, Bardopaused. "If anybody wanted to hear laughter at the wedding to-day theywere disappointed, for when young Niccolo Macchiavelli tried to make ajoke, and told stories out of Franco Sacchetti's book, how it was no usefor the Signoria to make rules for us women, because we were clevererthan all the painters, and architects, and doctors of logic in theworld, for we co
uld make black look white, and yellow look pink, andcrooked look straight, and, if anything was forbidden, we could find anew name for it--Holy Virgin! the Piagnoni looked more dismal thanbefore, and somebody said Sacchetti's book was wicked. Well, I don'tread it--they can't accuse _me_ of reading anything. Save me from goingto a wedding again, if that's to be the fashion; for all of us who werenot Piagnoni were as comfortable as wet chickens. I was never caught ina worse trap but once before, and that was when I went to hear theirprecious Frate last Quaresima in San Lorenzo. Perhaps I never told youabout it, Messer Tito?--it almost freezes my blood when I think of it.How he rated us poor women! and the men, too, to tell the truth, but Ididn't mind that so much. He called us cows, and lumps of flesh, andwantons, and mischief-makers--and I could just bear that, for there wereplenty others more fleshy and spiteful than I was, though every now andthen his voice shook the very bench under me like a trumpet; but then hecame to the false hair, and, O misericordia! he made a picture--I see itnow--of a young woman lying a pale corpse, and us light-minded widows--of course he meant me as well as the rest, for I had my plaits on, forif one is getting old, one doesn't want to look as ugly as the Befana,[Note 1]--us widows rushing up to the corpse, like bare-pated vulturesas we were, and cutting off its young dead hair to deck our old headswith. Oh, the dreams I had after that! And then he cried, and wrunghis hands at us, and I cried too. And to go home, and to take off myjewels, this very clasp, and everything, and to make them into a packet,_fu tutt'uno_; and I was within a hair of sending them to the Good Menof Saint Martin to give to the poor, but, by heaven's mercy, I bethoughtme of going first to my confessor, Fra Cristoforo, at Santa Croce, andhe told me how it was all the work of the devil, this preaching andprophesying of their Fra Girolamo, and the Dominicans were trying toturn the world upside down, and I was never to go and hear him again,else I must do penance for it; for the great preachers Fra Mariano andFra Menico had shown how Fra Girolamo preached lies--and that was true,for I heard them both in the Duomo--and how the Pope's dream of SanFrancesco propping up the Church with his arms was being fulfilledstill, and the Dominicans were beginning to pull it down. Well andgood: I went away _con Dio_, and made myself easy. I am not going to befrightened by a Frate Predicatore again. And all I say is, I wish ithadn't been the Dominicans that poor Dino joined years ago, for then Ishould have been glad when I heard them say he was come back--"
"Silenzio!" said Bardo, in a loud agitated voice, while Romola halfstarted from her chair, clasped her hands, and looked round at Tito, asif now she might appeal to him. Monna Brigida gave a little scream, andbit her lip.
"Donna!" said Bardo, again, "hear once more my will. Bring no reportsabout that name to this house; and thou, Romola, I forbid thee to ask.My son is dead."
Bardo's whole frame seemed vibrating with passion, and no one dared tobreak silence again. Monna Brigida lifted her shoulders and her handsin mute dismay; then she rose as quietly as possible, gave manysignificant nods to Tito and Romola, motioning to them that they werenot to move, and stole out of the room like a culpable fat spaniel whohas barked unseasonably.
Meanwhile, Tito's quick mind had been combining ideas withlightning-like rapidity. Bardo's son was not really dead, then, as hehad supposed: he was a monk; he was "come back:" and Fra Luca--yes! itwas the likeness to Bardo and Romola that had made the face seemhalf-known to him. If he were only dead at Fiesole at that moment!This importunate selfish wish inevitably thrust itself before everyother thought. It was true that Bardo's rigid will was a sufficientsafeguard against any intercourse between Romola and her brother; but_not_ against the betrayal of what he knew to others, especially whenthe subject was suggested by the coupling of Romola's name with that ofthe very Tito Melema whose description he had carried round his neck asan index. No! nothing but Fra Luca's death could remove all danger; buthis death was highly probable, and after the momentary shock of thediscovery, Tito let his mind fall back in repose on that confident 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, and shall we go on?"
"No, my Romola, we will work no more to-night. Tito, come and sit by mehere."
Tito moved from the reading-desk, and seated himself on the other sideof Bardo, close to his left elbow.
"Come nearer to me, figliuola mia," said Bardo again, after a moment'spause. And Romola seated herself on a low stool and let her arm rest onher father's right knee, that he might lay his hand on her hair, as hewas fond of doing.
"Tito, I never told you that I had once a son," said Bardo, forgettingwhat 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 hisfeelings in spite of pride. "But he left me--he is dead to me. I havedisowned him for ever. He was a ready scholar as you are, but morefervid and impatient, and yet sometimes rapt and self-absorbed, like aflame fed by some fitful source; showing a disposition from the veryfirst to turn away his eyes from the clear lights of reason andphilosophy, and to prostrate himself under the influences of a dimmysticism which eludes all rules of human duty as it eludes allargument. And so it ended. We will speak no more of him: he is dead tome. I wish his face could be blotted from that world of memory in whichthe distant seems to grow clearer and the near to fade."
Bardo paused, but neither Romola nor Tito dared to speak--his voice wastoo tremulous, the poise of his feelings too doubtful. But he presentlyraised his hand and found Tito's shoulder to rest it on, while he wenton speaking, with an effort to be calmer.
"But _you_ have come to me, Tito--not quite too late. I will lose notime in vain regret. When you are working by my side I seem to havefound a son again."
The old man, preoccupied with the governing interest of his life, wasonly thinking of the much-meditated book which had quite thrust into thebackground the suggestion, raised by Bernardo del Nero's warning, of apossible marriage between Tito and Romola. But Tito could not allow themoment to pass unused.
"Will you let me be always and altogether your son? Will you let metake care of Romola--be her husband? I think she will not deny me. Shehas said she loves me. I know I am not equal to her in birth--inanything; but I am no longer a destitute stranger."
"Is it true, my Romola?" said Bardo, in a lower tone, an evidentvibration passing through him and dissipating the saddened aspect of hisfeatures.
"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 clasp for the first time, while she wasspeaking, but their eyes were fixed anxiously on her father.
"Why should it not be?" said Bardo, as if arguing against any oppositionto his assent, rather than assenting. "It would be a happiness to me;and thou, too, Romola, wouldst be the happier for it."
He stroked her long hair gently and bent towards her.
"Ah, I have been apt to forget that thou needest some other love thanmine. And thou wilt be a noble wife. Bernardo thinks I shall hardlyfind a husband fitting for thee. And he is perhaps right. For thou artnot like the herd of thy sex: thou art such a woman as the immortalpoets had a vision of when they sang the lives of the heroes--tender butstrong, like thy voice, which has been to me instead of the light in theyears of my blindness... And so thou lovest him?"
He sat upright again for a minute, and then said, in the same tone asbefore, "Why should it not be? I will think of it; I will talk withBernardo."
Tito felt a disagreeable chill at this answer, for Bernardo del Nero'seyes had retained their keen suspicion whenever they looked at him, andthe uneasy remembrance of Fra Luca converted all uncertainty into fear.
"Speak for me, Romola," he said, pleadingly. "Messer Bernardo is sureto be against me."
"No, Tito," said Romola, "my godfather will not oppose what my fatherfirmly wills. And it is your will that I should marry Tito--is it nottrue, fa
ther? Nothing has ever come to me before that I have wished forstrongly: I did not think it possible that I could care so much foranything that could happen to myself."
It was a brief and simple plea; but it was the condensed story ofRomola's self-repressing colourless young life, which had thrown all itspassion into sympathy with aged sorrows, aged ambition, aged pride andindignation. It had never occurred to Romola that she should not speakas directly and emphatically of her love for Tito as of any othersubject.
"Romola mia!" said her father fondly, pausing on the words, "it is truethou hast never urged on me any wishes of thy own. And I have no willto resist thine; rather, my heart met Tito's entreaty at its very firstutterance. Nevertheless, I must talk with Bernardo about the measuresneedful to be observed. For we must not act in haste, or do anythingunbeseeming my name. I am poor, and held of little account by thewealthy of our family--nay, I may consider myself a lonely man--but Imust nevertheless remember that generous birth has its obligations. AndI would not be reproached by my fellow-citizens for rash haste inbestowing my daughter. Bartolommeo Scala gave his Alessandra to theGreek Marullo, but Marullo's lineage was well-known, and Scala himselfis of no extraction. I know Bernardo will hold that 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. Notso Tito's. If the subtle mixture of good and evil prepares sufferingfor human truth and purity, there is also suffering prepared for thewrong-doer by the same mingled conditions. As Tito kissed Romola ontheir parting that evening, the very strength of the thrill that movedhis whole being at the sense that this woman, whose beauty it was hardlypossible to think of as anything but the necessary consequence of hernoble nature, loved him with all the tenderness that spoke in her cleareyes, brought a strong reaction of regret that he had not kept himselffree from that first deceit which had dragged him into the danger ofbeing disgraced before her. There was a spring of bitterness minglingwith that fountain of sweets. Would the death of Fra Luca arrest it?He hoped it would.
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Note 1. The name given to the grotesque black-faced figures, supposedto represent the Magi, carried about or placed in the windows on TwelfthNight: a corruption of Epifania.