Romola

by George Eliot

  CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN.

  WAITING BY THE RIVER.

  About the time when the two Compagnacci went on their errand, there wasanother man who, on the opposite side of the Arno, was also going outinto the chill grey twilight. His errand, apparently, could have norelation to theirs; he was making his way to the brink of the river at aspot which, though within the city walls, was overlooked by nodwellings, and which only seemed the more shrouded and lonely for thewarehouses and granaries which at some little distance backward turnedtheir shoulders to the river. There was a sloping width of long grassand rushes made all the more dank by broad gutters which here and thereemptied themselves into the Arno.

  The gutters and the loneliness were the attraction that drew this man tocome and sit down among the grass, and bend over the waters that ranswiftly in the channelled slope at his side. For he had once had alarge piece of bread brought to him by one of those friendly runlets,and more than once a raw carrot and apple-parings. It was worth whileto wait for such chances in a place where there was no one to see, andoften in his restless wakefulness he came to watch here before daybreak;it might save him for one day the need of that silent begging whichconsisted in sitting on a church-step by the wayside out beyond thePorta San Frediano.

  For Baldassarre hated begging so much that he would perhaps have chosento die rather than make even that silent appeal, but for one reason thatmade him desire to live. It was no longer a hope; it was only thatpossibility which clings to every idea that has taken completepossession of the mind: the sort of possibility that makes a woman watchon a headland for the ship which held something dear, though all herneighbours are certain that the ship was a wreck long years ago. Afterhe had come out of the convent hospital, where the monks of San Miniatohad taken care of him as long as he was helpless; after he had watchedin vain for the Wife who was to help him, and had begun to think thatshe was dead of the pestilence that seemed to fill all the space sincethe night he parted from her, he had been unable to conceive any way inwhich sacred vengeance could satisfy itself through his arm. His knifewas gone, and he was too feeble in body to win another by work, toofeeble in mind, even if he had had the knife, to contrive that it shouldserve its one purpose. He was a shattered, bewildered, lonely old man;yet he desired to live: _he_ waited for something of which he had nodistinct vision--something dim, formless--that startled him, and madestrong pulsations within him, like that unknown thing which we look forwhen we start from sleep, though no voice or touch has waked us.Baldassarre desired to live; and therefore he crept out in the greylight, and seated himself in the long grass, and watched the waters thathad a faint promise in them.

  Meanwhile the Compagnacci were busy at their work. The formidable bandsof armed men, left to do their will with very little interference froman embarrassed if not conniving Signoria, had parted into two masses,but both were soon making their way by different roads towards the Arno.The smaller mass was making for the Ponte Rubaconte, the larger for thePonte Vecchio; but in both the same words had passed from mouth to mouthas a signal, and almost every man of the multitude knew that he wasgoing to the Via de' Bardi to sack a house there. If he knew no otherreason, could he demand a better?

  The armed Compagnacci knew something more, for a brief word of commandflies quickly, and the leaders of the two streams of rabble had aperfect understanding that they would meet before a certain house alittle towards the eastern end of the Via de' Bardi, where the masterwould 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 notbeen in bed that night. For Tito's anxiety to quit Florence had beenstimulated by the events of the previous day: investigations wouldfollow in which appeals might be made to him delaying his departure: andin all delay he had an uneasy sense that there was danger. Falsehoodhad prospered and waxed strong; but it had nourished the twin life,Fear. He no longer wore his armour, he was no longer afraid ofBaldassarre; 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 wasout of this fierce, turbid Florence; and now he was ready to go. Masowas to deliver up his house to the new tenant; his horses and mules wereawaiting him in San Gallo; Tessa and the children had been lodged forthe night in the Borgo outside the gate, and would be dressed inreadiness to mount the mules and join him. He descended the stone stepsinto the courtyard, he passed through the great doorway, not the sameTito, but nearly as brilliant as on the day when he had first enteredthat house and made the mistake of falling in love with Romola. Themistake was remedied now: the old life was cast off, and was soon to befar behind him.

  He turned with rapid steps towards the Piazza dei Mozzi, intending topass over the Ponte Rubaconte; but as he went along certain sounds cameupon his ears that made him turn round and walk yet more quickly in theopposite direction. Was the mob coming into Oltrarno? It was avexation, for he would have preferred the more private road. He mustnow go by the Ponte Vecchio; and unpleasant sensations made him draw hismantle close round him, and walk at his utmost speed. There was no oneto see him in that grey twilight. But before he reached the end of theVia de' Bardi, like sounds fell on his ear again, and this time theywere much louder and nearer. Could he have been deceived before? Themob must be coming over the Ponte Vecchio. Again he turned, from animpulse of fear that was stronger than reflection; but it was only to beassured that the mob was actually entering the street from the oppositeend. He chose not to go back to his house: after all they would notattack _him_. Still, he had some valuables about him; and all thingsexcept reason and order are possible with a mob. But necessity does thework of courage. He went on towards the Ponte Vecchio, the rush and thetrampling and the confused voices getting so loud before him that he hadceased to hear them behind.

  For he had reached the end of the street, and the crowd pouring from thebridge met him at the turning and hemmed in his way. He had not time towonder at a sudden shout before he felt himself surrounded, not, in thefirst instance, by an unarmed rabble, but by armed Compagnacci; the nextsensation was that his cap fell off, and that he was thrust violentlyforward amongst the rabble, along the narrow passage of the bridge.Then he distinguished the shouts, "Piagnone! Medicean! Piagnone!Throw him over the bridge!"

  His mantle was being torn off him with strong pulls that would havethrottled him if the fibula had not given way. Then his scarsella wassnatched at; but all the while he was being hustled and dragged; and thesnatch failed--his scarsella still hung at his side. Shouting, yelling,half motiveless execration rang stunningly in his ears, spreading evenamongst those who had not yet seen him, and only knew there was a man tobe reviled. Tito's horrible dread was that he should be struck down ortrampled on before he reached the open arches that surmount the centreof the bridge. There was one hope for him, that they might throw himover before they had wounded him or beaten the strength out of him; andhis whole soul was absorbed in that one hope and its obverse terror.

  Yes--they _were_ at the arches. In that moment Tito, with bloodlessface and eyes dilated, had one of the self-preserving inspirations thatcome in extremity. With a sudden desperate effort he mastered the claspof his belt, and flung belt and scarsella forward towards a yard ofclear space against the parapet, crying in a ringing voice--

  "There are diamonds! there is gold!"

  In the instant the hold on him was relaxed, and there was a rush towardsthe scarsella. He threw himself on the parapet with a desperate leap,and the next moment plunged--plunged with a great plash into the darkriver far below.

  It was his chance of salvation; and it was a good chance. His life hadbeen saved once before by his fine swimming, and as he rose to thesurface again after his long dive he had a sense of deliverance. Hestruck out with all the energy of his strong prime, and the currenthelped him. If he could only swim beyond the Ponte alla Carrara hemight land in a remote part of the city, and even yet reach San Gallo.Life was still before him. And th
e idiot mob, shouting and bellowing onthe bridge there, would think he was drowned.

  They did think so. Peering over the parapet along the dark stream, theycould not see afar off the moving blackness of the floating hair, andthe velvet tunic-sleeves.

  It was only from the other way that a pale olive face could be seenlooking white above the dark water: a face not easy even for theindifferent to forget, with its square forehead, the long low arch ofthe eyebrows, and the long lustrous agate-like eyes. Onward the facewent on the dark current, with inflated quivering nostrils, with theblue veins distended on the temples. One bridge was passed--the bridgeof Santa Trinita. Should he risk landing now rather than trust to hisstrength? No. He heard, or fancied he heard, yells and cries pursuinghim. Terror pressed him most from the side of his fellow-men: he wasless afraid of indefinite chances, and he swam on, panting andstraining. He was not so fresh as he would have been if he had passedthe night in sleep.

  Yet the next bridge--the last bridge--was passed. He was conscious ofit; but in the tumult of his blood, he could only feel vaguely that hewas safe and might land. But where? The current was having its waywith him: he hardly knew where he was: exhaustion was bringing on thedreamy state that precedes unconsciousness.

  But now there were eyes that discerned him--aged eyes, strong for thedistance. Baldassarre, looking up blankly from the search in the runletthat brought him nothing, had seen a white object coming along thebroader stream. Could that be any fortunate chance for _him_? Helooked and looked till the object gathered form: then he leaned forwardwith a start as he sat among the rank green stems, and his eyes seemedto be filled with a new light. Yet he only watched--motionless.Something was being brought to him.

  The next instant a man's body was cast violently on the grass two yardsfrom him, and he started forward like a panther, clutching the velvettunic as he fell forward on the body and flashed a look in the man'sface.

  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 lifecame back into them. Baldassarre did not feel feeble in that moment.He knew just what he could do. He got his large fingers within the neckof the tunic and held them there, kneeling on one knee beside the bodyand watching the face. There was a fierce hope in his heart, but it wasmixed with trembling. In his eyes there was only fierceness: all theslow-burning remnant of life within him seemed to have leaped intoflame.

  Rigid--rigid still. Those eyes with the half-fallen lids were lockedagainst vengeance. _Could_ it be that he was dead? There was nothingto measure the time: it seemed long enough for hope to freeze intodespair.

  Surely at last the eyelids were quivering: the eyes were no longerrigid, There was a vibrating light in them: 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 hadbrought him into the presence of his injured father. It might bedeath--and death might mean this chill gloom with the face of thehideous past hanging over him for ever.

  But now Baldassarre's only dread was, lest the young limbs should escapehim. He pressed his knuckles against the round throat, and knelt uponthe chest with all the force of his aged frame. Let death come now!

  Again he kept his watch on the face. And when the eyes were rigidagain, he dared not trust them. He would never lose his hold till someone came and found them. Justice would send some witness, and then he,Baldassarre, would declare that he had killed this traitor, to whom hehad once been a father. They would perhaps believe him now, and then hewould be content with the struggle of justice on earth--then he woulddesire to die with his hold on this body, and follow the traitor to hellthat he might clutch him there.

  And so he knelt, and so he pressed his knuckles against the roundthroat, without trusting to the seeming death, till the light got strongand he could kneel no longer. Then he sat on the body, still clutchingthe neck of the tunic. But the hours went on, and no witness came. Noeyes descried afar off the two human bodies among the tall grass by theriverside. Florence was busy with greater affairs, and the preparationof a deeper tragedy.

  Not long after those two bodies were lying in the grass, Savonarola wasbeing tortured, and crying out in his agony, "I will confess!"

  It was not until the sun was westward that a waggon drawn by a mild greyox came to the edge of the grassy margin, and as the man who led it wasleaning to gather up the round stones that lay heaped in readiness to becarried away, he detected some startling object in the grass. The agedman had fallen forward, and his dead clutch was on the garment of theother. It was not possible to separate them: nay, it was better to putthem into the waggon and carry them as they were into the great Piazza,that notice might be given to the Eight.

  As the waggon entered the frequented streets there was a growing crowdescorting it with its strange burden. No one knew the bodies for a longwhile, for the aged face had fallen forward, half hiding the younger.But before they had been moved out of sight, they had been recognised.

  "I know that old man," Piero di Cosimo had testified. "I painted hislikeness once. He is the prisoner who clutched Melema on the steps ofthe 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. Ithought he had died in prison. But there is no knowing the truth now."

  Who shall put his finger on the work of justice, and say, "It is there"?Justice is like the Kingdom of God--it is not without us as a fact, itis within us as a great yearning.