Romola

by George Eliot

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

  THE GARMENT OF FEAR.

  At six o'clock that evening most people in Florence were glad theentrance of the new Charlemagne was fairly over. Doubtless when theroll of drums, the blast of trumpets, and the tramp of horses along thePisan road began to mingle with the pealing of the excited bells, it wasa grand moment for those who were stationed on turreted roofs, and couldsee the long-winding terrible pomp on the background of the green hillsand valley. There was no sunshine to light up the splendour of banners,and spears, and plumes, and silken surcoats, but there was no thickcloud of dust to hide it, and as the picked troops advanced into closeview, they could be seen all the more distinctly for the absence ofdancing glitter. Tall and tough Scotch archers, Swiss halberdiersfierce and ponderous, nimble Gascons ready to wheel and climb, cavalryin which each man looked like a knight-errant with his indomitable spearand charger--it was satisfactory to be assured that they would injurenobody but the enemies of God! With that confidence at heart it was aless dubious pleasure to look at the array of strength and splendour innobles and knights, and youthful pages of choice lineage--at the bossedand jewelled sword-hilts, at the satin scarfs embroidered with strangesymbolical devices of pious or gallant meaning, at the gold chains andjewelled aigrettes, at the gorgeous horse-trappings and brocadedmantles, and at the transcendent canopy carried by select youths abovethe head of the Most Christian King. To sum up with an old diarist,whose spelling and diction halted a little behind the wonders of thisroyal visit,--"_fu gran magnificenza_."

  But for the Signoria, who had been waiting on their platform against thegates, and had to march out at the right moment, with their orator infront of them, to meet the mighty guest, the grandeur of the scene hadbeen somewhat screened by unpleasant sensations. If Messer Luca Corsinicould have had a brief Latin welcome depending from his mouth in legiblecharacters, it would have been less confusing when the rain came on, andcreated an impatience in men and horses that broke off the delivery ofhis well-studied periods, and reduced the representatives of thescholarly city to offer a makeshift welcome in impromptu French. Butthat sudden confusion had created a great opportunity for Tito. As oneof the secretaries he was among the officials who were stationed behindthe Signoria, and with whom these highest dignities were promiscuouslythrown when pressed upon by the horses.

  "Somebody step forward and say a few words in French," said Soderini.But no one of high importance chose to risk a second failure. "You,Francesco Gaddi--you can speak." But Gaddi, distrusting his ownpromptness, hung back, and pushing Tito, said, "You, Melema."

  Tito stepped forward in an instant, and, with the air of profounddeference that came as naturally to him as walking, said the few needfulwords in the name of the Signoria; then gave way gracefully, and let theking pass on. His presence of mind, which had failed him in theterrible crisis of the morning, had been a ready instrument this time.It was an excellent livery servant that never forsook him when dangerwas not visible. But when he was complimented on his opportune service,he laughed it off as a thing of no moment, and to those who had notwitnessed it, let Gaddi have the credit of the improvised welcome. Nowonder Tito was popular: the touchstone by which men try us is mostoften their own vanity.

  Other things besides the oratorical welcome had turned out rather worsethan had been expected. If everything had happened according toingenious preconceptions, the Florentine procession of clergy and laitywould not have found their way choked up and been obliged to take amakeshift course through the back streets, so as to meet the king at theCathedral only. Also, if the young monarch under the canopy, seated onhis charger with his lance upon his thigh, had looked more like aCharlemagne and less like a hastily modelled grotesque, the imaginationof his admirers would have been much assisted. It might have beenwished that the scourge of Italian wickedness and "Champion of thehonour of women" had had a less miserable leg, and only the normal sumof toes; that his mouth had been of a less reptilian width of slit, hisnose and head of a less exorbitant outline. But the thin leg rested oncloth of gold and pearls, and the face was only an interruption of a fewsquare inches in the midst of black velvet and gold, and the blaze ofrubies, and the brilliant tints of the embroidered and bepearledcanopy,--"_fu gran magnificenza_."

  And the people had cried _Francia, Francia_! with an enthusiasmproportioned to the splendour of the canopy which they had torn topieces as their spoil, according to immemorial custom; royal lips hadduly kissed the altar; and after all mischances the royal person andretinue were lodged in the Palace of the Via Larga, the rest of thenobles and gentry were dispersed among the great houses of Florence, andthe terrible soldiery were encamped in the Prato and other openquarters. The business of the day was ended.

  But the streets still presented a surprising aspect, such as Florentineshad not seen before under the November stars. Instead of a gloomunbroken except by a lamp burning feebly here and there before a saintlyimage at the street-corners, or by a stream of redder light from an opendoorway, there were lamps suspended at the windows of all houses, sothat men could walk along no less securely and commodiously than byday,--_fu gran magnificenza_.

  Along those illuminated streets Tito Melema was walking at about eighto'clock in the evening, on his way homeward. He had been exertinghimself throughout the day under the pressure of hidden anxieties, andhad at last made his escape unnoticed from the midst of after-suppergaiety. Once at leisure thoroughly to face and consider hiscircumstances, he hoped that he could so adjust himself to them and toall probabilities as to get rid of his childish fear. If he had onlynot been wanting in the presence of mind necessary to recogniseBaldassarre under that surprise!--it would have been happier for him onall accounts; for he still winced under the sense that he wasdeliberately inflicting suffering on his father: he would very much havepreferred that Baldassarre should be prosperous and happy. But he hadleft himself no second path now: there could be no conflict any longer:the only thing he had to do was to take care of himself.

  While these thoughts were in his mind he was advancing from the Piazzadi Santa Croce along the Via dei Benci, and as he neared the angleturning into the Borgo Santa Croce his ear was struck by a music whichwas not that of evening revelry, but of vigorous labour--the music ofthe anvil. Tito gave a slight start and quickened his pace, for thesounds had suggested a welcome thought. He knew that they came from theworkshop of Niccolo Caparra, famous resort of all Florentines who caredfor curious and beautiful iron-work.

  "What makes the giant at work so late?" thought Tito. "But so much thebetter for me. I can do that little bit of business to-night instead ofto-morrow morning."

  Preoccupied as he was, he could not help pausing a moment in admirationas he came in front of the workshop. The wide doorway, standing at thetruncated angle of a great block or "isle" of houses, was surmounted bya loggia roofed with fluted tiles, and supported by stone columns withroughly carved capitals. Against the red light framed in by the outlineof the fluted tiles and columns stood in black relief the grand figureof Niccolo, with his huge arms in rhythmic rise and fall, first hidingand then disclosing the profile of his firm mouth and powerful brow.Two slighter ebony figures, one at the anvil, the other at the bellows,served to set off his superior massiveness.

  Tito darkened the doorway with a very different outline, standing insilence, since it was useless to speak until Niccolo should deign topause and notice him. That was not until the smith had beaten the headof 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 theshop that the object of which he was in search had not disappeared.

  Niccolo gave an unceremonious but good-humoured nod as he turned fromthe anvil and rested his hammer on his hip.

  "What is it, Messer Tito? Business?"

  "Assuredly, Niccolo; else I should not have ventured to interrupt youwhen you are working out of hours, since I take that as a sign that yourwork is pressing."

  "
I've been at the same work all day--making axes and spear-heads. Andevery 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 hissoldiers?' and I've answered, `No: I don't want to see their faces--Iwant to see their backs.'"

  "Are you making arms for the citizens, then, Niccolo, that they may havesomething better than rusty scythes and spits in case of an uproar?"

  "We shall see. Arms are good, and Florence is likely to want them. TheFrate tells us we shall get Pisa again, and I hold with the Frate; but Ishould be glad to know how the promise is to be fulfilled, if we don'tget plenty of good weapons forged? The Frate sees a long way beforehim; that I believe. But he doesn't see birds caught with winking atthem, as some of our people try to make out. He sees sense, and notnonsense. 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 uphere the other day. I want to buy it for a certain personage who needsa protection of that sort under his doublet."

  "Let him come and buy it himself, then," said Niccolo, bluntly. "I'mrather nice about what I sell, and whom I sell to. I like to know who'smy customer."

  "I know your scruples, Niccolo. But that is only defensive armour: itcan hurt nobody."

  "True: but it may make the man who wears it feel himself all the saferif he should want to hurt somebody. No, no; it's not my own work; butit's fine work of Maso of Brescia; I should be loth for it to cover theheart of a scoundrel. I must know who is to wear it."

  "Well, then, to be plain with you, Niccolo mio, I want it myself," saidTito, knowing it was useless to try persuasion. "The fact is, I amlikely to have a journey to take--and you know what journeying is inthese 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. "Buthave you the money to pay for the coat? For you've passed my shop oftenenough to know my sign: you've seen the burning account-books. I trustnobody. The price is twenty florins, and that's because it'ssecond-hand. You're not likely to have so much money with you. Let itbe till to-morrow."

  "I happen to have the money," said Tito, who had been winning at playthe day before, and had not emptied his purse. "I'll carry the armourhome with me."

  Niccolo reached down the finely-wrought coat, which fell together intolittle 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 fearabout with one."

  Niccolo's words had an unpleasant intensity of meaning for Tito. But hesmiled and said--

  "Ah, Niccolo, we scholars are all cowards. Handling the pen doesn'tthicken the arm as your hammer-wielding does. Addio!"

  He folded the armour under his mantle, and hastened across the PonteRubaconte.