Romola Read online

  CHAPTER NINE.

  A MAN'S RANSOM.

  Tito was soon down among the crowd, and, notwithstanding his indifferentreply to Nello's question about his chance acquaintance, he was notwithout a passing wish, as he made his way round the piazza to the Corsodegli Adimari, that he might encounter the pair of blue eyes which hadlooked up towards him from under the square bit of white linen draperythat formed the ordinary hood of the contadina at festa time. He wasperfectly well aware that that face was Tessa's; but he had not chosento say so. What had Nello to do with the matter? Tito had an innatelove of reticence--let us say a talent for it--which acted as otherimpulses do, without any conscious motive, and, like all people to whomconcealment is easy, he would now and then conceal something which hadas little the nature of a secret as the fact that he had seen a flightof crows.

  But the passing wish about pretty Tessa was almost immediately eclipsedby the recurrent recollection of that friar whose face had someirrecoverable association for him. Why should a sickly fanatic, wornwith fasting, have looked at _him_ in particular, and where in all histravels could he remember encountering that face before? Folly! suchvague memories hang about the mind like cobwebs, with ticklingimportunity--best to sweep them away at a dash: and Tito had pleasanteroccupation for his thoughts. By the time he was turning out of theCorso degli Adimari into a side-street he was caring only that the sunwas high, and that the procession had kept him longer than he hadintended from his visit to that room in the Via de' Bardi, where hiscoming, he knew, was anxiously awaited. He felt the scene of hisentrance beforehand: the joy beaming diffusedly in the blind face likethe light in a semi-transparent lamp; the transient pink flush onRomola's face and neck, which subtracted nothing from her majesty, butonly gave it the exquisite charm of womanly sensitiveness, heightenedstill more by what seemed the paradoxical boy-like frankness of her lookand smile. They were the best comrades in the world during the hoursthey passed together round the blind man's chair: she was constantlyappealing to Tito, and he was informing her, yet he felt himselfstrangely in subjection to Romola with that simplicity of hers: he feltfor the first time, without defining it to himself, that loving awe inthe presence of noble womanhood, which is perhaps something like theworship paid of old to a great nature-goddess, who was not all-knowing,but whose life and power were something deeper and more primordial thanknowledge. They had never been alone together, and he could frame tohimself no probable image of love-scenes between them: he could onlyfancy and wish wildly--what he knew was impossible--that Romola wouldsome day tell him that she loved him. One day in Greece, as he wasleaning over a wall in the sunshine, a little black-eyed peasant girl,who had rested her water-pot on the wall, crept gradually nearer andnearer to him, and at last shyly asked him to kiss her, putting up herround olive cheek very innocently. Tito was used to love that came inthis 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 whichhe had set his mind. He was in his fresh youth--not passionate, butimpressible: it was as inevitable that he should feel lovingly towardsRomola as that the white irises should be reflected in the clear sunlitstream; but he had no coxcombry, and he had an intimate sense thatRomola was something very much above him. Many men have felt the samebefore a large-eyed, simple child.

  Nevertheless, Tito had had the rapid success which would have made somemen presuming, or would have warranted him in thinking that there wouldbe no great presumption in entertaining an agreeable confidence that hemight one day be the husband of Romola--nay, that her father himself wasnot without a vision of such a future for him. His first auspiciousinterview with Bartolommeo Scala had proved the commencement of agrowing favour on the secretary's part, and had led to an issue whichwould have been enough to make Tito decide on Florence as the place inwhich to establish himself, even if it had held no other magnet.Politian was professor of Greek as well as Latin at Florence,professorial chairs being maintained there, although the university hadbeen removed to Pisa; but for a long time Demetrio Calcondila, one ofthe most eminent and respectable among the emigrant Greeks, had alsoheld a Greek chair, simultaneously with the too predominant Italian.Calcondila was now gone to Milan, and there was no counterpoise or rivalto Politian such as was desired for him by the friends who wished him tobe taught a little propriety and humility. Scala was far from being theonly friend of this class, and he found several who, if they were notamong those thirsty admirers of mediocrity that were glad to berefreshed with his verses in hot weather, were yet quite willing to joinhim in doing that moral service to Politian. It was finally agreed thatTito should be supported in a Greek chair, as Demetrio Calcondila hadbeen by Lorenzo himself, who, being at the same time the affectionatepatron of Politian, had shown by precedent that there was nothinginvidious in such a measure, but only a zeal for true learning and forthe instruction of the Florentine youth.

  Tito was thus sailing under the fairest breeze, and besides convincingfair judges that his talents squared with his good fortune, he wore thatfortune so easily and unpretentiously that no one had yet been offendedby it. He was not unlikely to get into the best Florentine society:society where there was much more plate than the circle of enamelledsilver in the centre of the brass dishes, and where it was not forbiddenby the Signory to wear the richest brocade. For where could a handsomeyoung scholar not be welcome when he could touch the lute and troll agay song? That bright face, that easy smile, that liquid voice, seemedto give life a holiday aspect; just as a strain of gay music and thehoisting of colours make the work-worn and the sad rather ashamed ofshowing themselves. Here was a professor likely to render the Greekclassics amiable to the sons of great houses.

  And that was not the whole of Tito's good fortune; for he had sold allhis jewels, except the ring he did not choose to part with, and he wasmaster of full five hundred gold florins.

  Yet the moment when he first had this sum in his possession was thecrisis of the first serious struggle his facile, good-humoured naturehad known. An importunate thought, of which he had till now refused tosee more than the shadow as it dogged his footsteps, at last rushed uponhim and grasped him: he was obliged to pause and decide whether he wouldsurrender and obey, or whether he would give the refusal that must carryirrevocable consequences. It was in the room above Nello's shop, whichTito had now hired as a lodging, that the elder Cennini handed him thelast quota of the sum on behalf of Bernardo Rucellai, the purchaser ofthe two most valuable gems.

  "_Ecco, giovane mio_!" said the respectable printer and goldsmith, "youhave now a pretty little fortune; and if you will take my advice, youwill let me place your florins in a safe quarter, where they mayincrease and multiply, instead of slipping through your fingers forbanquets and other follies which are rife among our Florentine youth.And it has been too much the fashion of scholars, especially when, likeour Pietro Crinito, they think their scholarship needs to be scented andbroidered, to squander with one hand till they have been fain to begwith the other. I have brought you the money, and you are free to makea 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 hisskill and been matriculated; and no man is matriculated to the art oflife till he has been well tempted. If you make up your mind to putyour florins out to usury, you can let me know to-morrow. A scholar maymarry, and should have something in readiness for the _morgen-cap.Addio_." [Note 1.]

  As Cennini closed the door behind him, Tito turned round with the smiledying out of his face, and fixed his eyes on the table where the florinslay. He made no other movement, but stood with his thumbs in his belt,looking down, in that transfixed state which accompanies theconcentration of consciousness on some inward image.

  "A man's ransom!"--who was it that had said five hundred florins wasmore than a man's ransom? If now, under this mid-day sun, on some hotcoast far away, a man somewhat stricken in years--a man not without highthoughts and with the most passionate heart--a man
who long years agohad 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 drawingwater, perhaps being smitten and buffeted because he was not deft andactive? If he were saying to himself, "Tito will find me: he had but tocarry our manuscripts and gems to Venice; he will have raised money, andwill never rest 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 stayat Florence, where I am fanned by soft airs of promised love andprosperity; I will not risk myself for his sake"? No, surely not, _ifit were certain_. But nothing could be farther from certainty. Thegalley had been taken by a Turkish vessel on its way to Delos: _that_was known by the report of the companion galley, which had escaped. Butthere had been resistance, and probable bloodshed; a man had been seenfalling overboard: who were the survivors, and what had befallen themamongst all the multitude of possibilities? Had not he, Tito, sufferedshipwreck, and narrowly escaped drowning? He had good cause for feelingthe omnipresence of casualties that threatened all projects withfutility. The rumour that there were pirates who had a settlement inDelos was not to be depended on, or might be nothing to the purpose.What, probably enough, would be the result if he were to quit Florenceand go to Venice; get authoritative letters--yes, he knew that might bedone--and set out for the Archipelago? Why, that he should be himselfseized, and spend all his florins on preliminaries, and be again adestitute wanderer--with no more gems to sell.

  Tito had a clearer vision of that result than of the possible momentwhen he might find his father again, and carry him deliverance. Itwould surely be an unfairness that he, in his full ripe youth, to whomlife had hitherto had some of the stint and subjection of a school,should turn his back on promised love and distinction, and perhaps neverbe visited by that promise again. "And yet," he said to himself, "if Iwere certain that Baldassarre Calvo was alive, and that I could freehim, by whatever exertions or perils, I would go now--now I have themoney: it was useless to debate the matter before. I would go now toBardo and Bartolommeo Scala, and tell them the whole truth." Tito didnot say to himself so distinctly that if those two men had known thewhole truth he was aware there would have been no alternative for himbut to go in search of his benefactor, who, if alive, was the rightfulowner 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--thatGreeks of distinction had made sacrifices, taken voyages again andagain, and sought help from crowned and mitred heads for the sake offreeing relatives from slavery to the Turks. Public opinion did notregard this as exceptional virtue.

  This was his first real colloquy with himself: he had gone on followingthe impulses of the moment, and one of those impulses had been toconceal half the fact; he had never considered this part of his conductlong enough to face the consciousness of his motives for theconcealment. What was the use of telling the whole? It was true, thethought had crossed his mind several times since he had quitted Naupliathat, after all, it was a great relief to be quit of Baldassarre, and hewould have liked to know _who_ it was that had fallen overboard. Butsuch thoughts spring inevitably out of a relation that is irksome.Baldassarre was exacting, and had got stranger as he got older: he wasconstantly scrutinising Tito's mind to see whether it answered to hisown exaggerated expectations; and age--the age of a thickset,heavy-browed, bald man beyond sixty, whose intensity and eagerness inthe grasp of ideas have long taken the character of monotony andrepetition, may be looked at from many points of view without beingfound attractive. Such a man, stranded among new acquaintances, unlesshe had the philosopher's stone, would hardly find rank, youth, andbeauty at his feet. The feelings that gather fervour from novelty willbe of little help towards making the world a home for dimmed and fadedhuman beings; and if there is any love of which they are not widowed, itmust be the love that is rooted in memories and distils perpetually thesweet balms of fidelity and forbearing tenderness.

  But surely such memories were not absent from Tito's mind? Far in thebackward vista of his remembered life, when he was only seven years old,Baldassarre had rescued him from blows, had taken him to a home thatseemed like opened paradise, where there was sweet food and soothingcaresses, all had on Baldassarre's knee; and from that time till thehour they had parted, Tito had been the one centre of Baldassarre'sfatherly cares.

  And he had been docile, pliable, quick of apprehension, ready toacquire: a very bright lovely boy, a youth of even splendid grace, whoseemed quite without vices, as if that beautiful form represented avitality so exquisitely poised and balanced that it could know no uneasydesires, no unrest--a radiant presence for a lonely man to have won forhimself. If he were silent when his father expected some response,still he did not look moody; if he declined some labour--why, he flunghimself down with such a charming, half-smiling, half-pleading air, thatthe pleasure of looking at him made amends to one who had watched hisgrowth with a sense of claim and possession: the curves of Tito's mouthhad ineffable good-humour in them. And then, the quick talent to whicheverything came readily, from philosophical systems to the rhymes of astreet ballad caught up at a hearing! Would any one have said that Titohad not made a rich return to his benefactor, or that his gratitude andaffection 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 certain that he was living.

  "Do I not owe something to myself?" said Tito, inwardly, with a slightmovement of his shoulders, the first he had made since he had turned tolook down at the florins. "Before I quit everything, and incur againall the risks of which I am even now weary, I must at least have areasonable hope. Am I to spend my life in a wandering search? _Ibelieve he is dead_. Cennini was right about my florins: I will placethem in his hands to-morrow."

  When, the next morning, Tito put this determination into act he hadchosen his colour in the game, and had given an inevitable bent to hiswishes. He had made it impossible that he should not from henceforthdesire it to be the truth that his father was dead; impossible that heshould not be tempted to baseness rather than that the precise facts ofhis conduct should not remain for ever concealed.

  Under every guilty secret there is hidden a brood of guilty wishes,whose unwholesome infecting life is cherished by the darkness. Thecontaminating effect of deeds often lies less in the commission than inthe consequent adjustment of our desires--the enlistment of ourself-interest on the side of falsity; as, on the other hand, thepurifying influence of public confession springs from the fact, that byit the hope in lies is for ever swept away, and the soul recovers thenoble attitude of simplicity.

  Besides, in this first distinct colloquy with himself the ideas whichhad previously been scattered and interrupted had now concentratedthemselves; the little rills of selfishness had united and made achannel, so that they could never again meet with the same resistance.Hitherto Tito had left in vague indecision the question whether, withthe means in his power, he would not return, and ascertain his father'sfate; he had now made a definite excuse to himself for not taking thatcourse; he had avowed to himself a choice which he would have beenashamed to avow to others, and which would have made him ashamed in theresurgent presence of his father. But the inward shame, the reflex ofthat outward law which the great heart of mankind makes for everyindividual man, a reflex which will exist even in the absence of thesympathetic impulses that need no law, but rush to the deed of fidelityand pity as inevitably as the brute mother shields her young from theattack of the hereditary enemy--that inward shame was showing itsblushes in Tito's determined assertion to himself that his father wasdead, or that at least search was hopeless.

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  Note 1. A sum given by the bridegroom to the bride the day after themarriage. _Morgengabe_.