Romola - Элиот Джордж "Мэри Энн Эванс" 19 стр.

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, Romola, I forbid thee to ask. My son is dead.

Bardos whole frame seemed vibrating 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 possible, 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, Titos quick mind had been combining ideas with lightning-like rapidity. Bardos son was not really dead, then, as he had supposed: he was a monk; he was come back: and Fra Lucayes! 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 thought. It was true that Bardos 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 Romolas name with that of the very Tito Melema whose description he had carried round his neck as an index. No! nothing but Fra Lucas death could remove all danger; but his death was highly probable, and after the momentary shock of the discovery, 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 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 moments pause. And Romola seated herself on a low stool and let her arm rest on her fathers 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 mehe 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 speak 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 nor Tito dared to speakhis voice was too tremulous, the poise of his feelings too doubtful. But he presently raised his hand and found Titos shoulder to rest it on, while he went on speaking, with an effort to be calmer.

But you have come to me, Titonot 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 Bernardo del Neros 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 Romolabe her husband? I think she will not deny me. She has said she loves me. I know I am not equal to her in birthin anything; but I am no longer a destitute stranger.

Is it true, my Romola? said Bardo, in a lower tone, an evident vibration passing through him and dissipating the saddened aspect of his features.

Yes, father, said Romola, firmly. I love TitoI wish to marry him, that we may both be your children and never part.

Titos hand met hers in a strong clasp for the first time, while she was speaking, but their eyes were fixed anxiously 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 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 than mine. And thou wilt be a noble wife. Bernardo thinks I shall hardly find a husband fitting 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 heroestender but strong, like thy voice, which has been to me instead of the light in the years 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 Neros eyes had retained their keen suspicion whenever 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 godfather will not oppose what my father firmly wills. And it is your will that I should marry Titois it not true, father? Nothing has ever come to me before that 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; but it was the condensed story of Romolas 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 fondly, 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 Titos entreaty 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 anything unbeseeming my name. I am poor, and held of little account by the wealthy of our familynay, I may consider myself a lonely manbut I must nevertheless remember that generous birth has its obligations. And I would not be reproached by my fellow-citizens for rash haste in bestowing my daughter. Bartolommeo Scala gave his Alessandra to the Greek Marullo, but Marullos lineage was well-known, and Scala himself is 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 Romolas heart was perfectly satisfied. Not so Titos. 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 hardly 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, brought a strong reaction of regret that he had not kept himself free from that first 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. Would the death of Fra Luca arrest it? He hoped it would.

No more could be said, and Romolas heart was perfectly satisfied. Not so Titos. 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 hardly 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, brought a strong reaction of regret that he had not kept himself free from that first 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. Would the death of Fra Luca arrest it? He hoped it would.

Chapter Thirteen.

The Shadow of Nemesis

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 Nellos shop, had found the barber stretched on the bench with his cap over his eyes; 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, Tito snatched up the lute, and bending over the barber, touched the strings lightly while he sang

Nello was as easily awaked as a bird. The cap was off his eyes in an instant, and he started up.

Ah, my Apollino! I am somewhat late 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 Titos 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 yours. Let me see the very needles eye of your desire, as the sublime poet says, that I may thread it.

That is but a tailors image of your sublime poets, said Tito, still letting his fingers fall in a light dropping way on the strings. But you have divined the reason of my affectionate impatience to see your eyes open. I want, you to give me an extra touch of your artnot 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; and a little of your most delicate orange-scent would not lie amiss, for I am bound 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 certain young Bernardo Dovizi of Bibbiena, whose wit is so rapid that I see no way of out-rivalling it save by the scent of orange-blossoms.

Nello had already seized and flourished 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 slip 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 honey 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 something 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 all, and not feel any difference.

I will not contradict your modesty there, if you will have it so; but you dont expect us clever Florentines to 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 taken care that it shall not be quite so great a lie as it might have been. And are you not a pattern of virtue in this wicked city? with your ears double-waxed against all siren invitations that would lure you from the Via de Bardi, and 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 Bardo was one of those scholars who lie overthrown in their learning, like cavaliers in heavy armour, and then get angry because they are over-riddenwhich pithy remark, it seems to me, was not a herb out of his own garden; for of all men, 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 longis it not true?

Perhaps, said Tito, smiling, unless 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.

Gnaffè, your modesty is in the right place there. Yet fate seems to have measured and chiselled you for the niche that was left empty by the old mans son, who, by the way, Cronaca was telling me, is now at San Marco. Did you know?

A slight electric shock passed through 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 Nello, with a shrug. I dont frequent that sanctuary, but he does. Ah, he added, taking the book from Titos hands, my poor Nencia da Barberino! It jars your scholarly feelings to see the pages dogs-eared. I was lulled to sleep by the well-rhymed charms of that rustic maidenprettier 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 Larganot go to look at the Fierucoloni stumping in to the Piazza della Nunziata this evening after sundown.