by George Eliot
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
THE SHADOW OF NEMESIS.
It was the lazy afternoon time on the seventh of September, more thantwo months after the day on which Romola and Tito had confessed theirlove to each other.
Tito, just descended into Nello's shop, had found the barber stretchedon the bench with his cap over his eyes; one leg was drawn up, and theother had slipped towards the ground, having apparently carried with ita manuscript volume of verse, which lay with its leaves crushed. In acorner sat Sandro, playing a game at _mora_ by himself, and watching theslow reply of his left fingers to the arithmetical demands of his rightwith solemn-eyed interest.
Treading with the gentlest step, Tito snatched up the lute, and bendingover the barber, touched the strings lightly while he sang--
"Quant' e bella giovinezza, Che si fugge tuttavia! Chi vuol esser lieto sia, Di doman non c'e certezza."
[Note 1.]
Nello was as easily awaked as a bird. The cap was off his eyes in aninstant, and he started up.
"Ah, my Apollino! I am somewhat late with my siesta on this hot day, itseems. That comes of not going to sleep in the natural way, but takinga potion of potent poesy. Hear you, how I am beginning to match mywords by the initial letter, like a Trovatore? That is one of my badsymptoms: I am sorely afraid that the good wine of my understanding isgoing to run off at the spigot of authorship, and I shall be left anempty cask with an odour of dregs, like many another incomparable geniusof my acquaintance. What is it, my Orpheus?" here Nello stretched outhis arms to their full length, and then brought them round till hishands grasped Tito's curls, and drew them out playfully. "What is ityou want of your well-tamed Nello? For I perceive a coaxing sound inthat soft strain of yours. Let me see the very needle's eye of yourdesire, as the sublime poet says, that I may thread it."
"That is but a tailor's image of your sublime poet's," said Tito, stillletting his fingers fall in a light dropping way on the strings. "Butyou have divined the reason of my affectionate impatience to see youreyes open. I want, you to give me an extra touch of your art--not on mychin, no; but on the zazzera, which is as tangled as your Florentinepolitics. You have an adroit way of inserting your comb, which flattersthe skin, and stirs the animal spirits agreeably in that region; and alittle of your most delicate orange-scent would not lie amiss, for I ambound to the Scala palace, and am to present myself in radiant company.The young cardinal Giovanni de' Medici is to be there, and he bringswith him a certain young Bernardo Dovizi of Bibbiena, whose wit is sorapid that I see no way of out-rivalling it save by the scent oforange-blossoms."
Nello had already seized and flourished his comb, and pushed Tito gentlybackward into the chair, wrapping the cloth round him.
"Never talk of rivalry, bel giovane mio: Bernardo Dovizi is a keenyoungster, who will never carry a net out to catch the wind; but he hassomething of the same sharp-muzzled look as his brother Ser Piero, theweasel that Piero de' Medici keeps at his beck to slip through smallholes for him. No! you distance all rivals, and may soon touch the skywith your forefinger. They tell me you have even carried enough honeywith you to sweeten the sour Messer Angelo; for he has pronounced youless of an ass than might have been expected, considering there is sucha good understanding between you and the Secretary."
"And between ourselves, Nello mio, that Messer Angelo has more geniusand erudition than I can find in all the other Florentine scholars puttogether. It may answer very well for them to cry me up now, whenPoliziano is beaten down with grief, or illness, or something else; Ican try a flight with such a sparrow-hawk as Pietro Crinito, but forPoliziano, he is a large-beaked eagle who would swallow me, feathers andall, and not feel any difference."
"I will not contradict your modesty there, if you will have it so; butyou don't expect us clever Florentines to keep saying the same thingsover again every day of our lives, as we must do if we always told thetruth. We cry down Dante, and we cry up Francesco Cei, just for thesake of variety; and if we cry you up as a new Poliziano, heaven hastaken care that it shall not be quite so great a lie as it might havebeen. And are you not a pattern of virtue in this wicked city? withyour ears double-waxed against all siren invitations that would lure youfrom the Via de' Bardi, and the great work which is to astonishposterity?"
"Posterity in good truth, whom it will probably astonish as the universedoes, 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 thosescholars who lie overthrown in their learning, like cavaliers in heavyarmour, and then get angry because they are over-ridden--which pithyremark, it seems to me, was not a herb out of his own garden; for of allmen, for feeding one with an empty spoon and gagging one with vainexpectation by long discourse, Messer Cristoforo is the pearl. Ecco!you are perfect now." Here Nello drew away the cloth. "Impossible toadd a grace more! But love is not always to be fed on learning, eh? Ishall have to dress the zazzera for the betrothal before long--is it nottrue?"
"Perhaps," said Tito, smiling, "unless Messer Bernardo should nextrecommend Bardo to require that I should yoke a lion and a wild boar tothe car of the Zecca before I can win my Alcestis. But I confess he isright in holding me unworthy of Romola; she is a Pleiad that may growdim by marrying any mortal."
"_Gnaffe_, your modesty is in the right place there. Yet fate seems tohave measured and chiselled you for the niche that was left empty by theold man's son, who, by the way, Cronaca was telling me, is now at SanMarco. 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 pickup 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 SanMarco?"
"Cronaca is my authority," said Nello, with a shrug. "I don't frequentthat sanctuary, but he does. Ah," he added, taking the book from Tito'shands, "my poor Nencia da Barberino! It jars your scholarly feelings tosee the pages dog's-eared. I was lulled to sleep by the well-rhymedcharms of that rustic maiden--`prettier than the turnip-flower,' `with acheek more savoury than cheese.' But to get such a well-scented notionof the contadina, one must lie on velvet cushions in the Via Larga--notgo to look at the Fierucoloni stumping in to the Piazza della Nunziatathis evening after sundown."
"And pray who are the Fierucoloni?" said Tito, indifferently, settlinghis cap.
"The contadine who came from the mountains of Pistoia, and theCasentino, and heaven knows where, to keep their vigil in the church ofthe Nunziata, and sell their yarn and dried mushrooms at the Fierucola[the little Fair], as we call it. They make a queer show, with theirpaper lanterns, howling their hymns to the Virgin on this eve of hernativity--if you had the leisure to see them. No?--well, I have hadenough of it myself, for there is wild work in the Piazza. One mayhappen to get a stone or two about one's ears or shins without askingfor it, and I was never fond of that pressing attention. Addio."
Tito carried a little uneasiness with him on his visit, which endedearlier than he had expected, the boy-cardinal Giovanni de' Medici,youngest of red-hatted fathers, who has since presented his broad darkcheek very conspicuously to posterity as Pope Leo the Tenth, having beendetained at his favourite pastime of the chase, and having failed toappear. It still wanted half an hour of sunset as he left the door ofthe Scala palace, with the intention of proceeding forthwith to the Viade' Bardi; but he had not gone far when, to his astonishment, he sawRomola advancing towards him along the Borgo Pinti.
She wore a thick black veil and black mantle, but it was impossible tomistake her figure and her walk; and by her side was a short stout form,which he recognised as that of Monna Brigida, in spite of the unusualplainness of her attire. Romola had not been bred up to devotionalobservances, and the occasions on which she took the air elsewhere thanunder the loggia on the roof of the house, were so
rare and so muchdwelt on beforehand, because of Bardo's dislike to be left without her,that Tito felt sure there must have been some sudden and urgent groundfor an absence of which he had heard nothing the day before. She sawhim through her veil and hastened her steps.
"Romola, has anything happened?" said Tito, turning to walk by her side.
She did not answer at the first moment, and Monna Brigida broke in.
"Ah, Messer Tito, you do well to turn round, for we are in haste. Andis it not a misfortune?--we are obliged to go round by the walls andturn up the Via del Maglio, because of the Fair; for the contadinecoming in block up the way by the Nunziata, which would have taken us toSan Marco in half the time."
Tito's heart gave a great bound, and began to beat violently.
"Romola," he said, in a lower tone, "are you going to San Marco?"
They were now out of the Borgo Pinti and were under the city walls,where they had wide gardens on their left-hand, and all was quiet.Romola put aside her veil for the sake of breathing the air, and hecould see the subdued agitation in her face.
"Yes, Tito mio," she said, looking directly at him with sad eyes. "Forthe first time I am doing something unknown to my father. It comfortsme that I have met you, for at least I can tell _you_. But if you aregoing to him, it will be well for you not to say that you met me. Hethinks I am only gone to my cousin, because she sent for me. I left mygodfather with him: _he_ knows where I am going, and why. You rememberthat evening when my brother's name was mentioned and my father spoke ofhim to you?"
"Yes," said Tito, in a low tone. There was a strange complication inhis mental state. His heart sank at the probability that a great changewas coming over his prospects, while at the same time his thoughts weredarting over a hundred details of the course he would take when thechange had come; and yet he returned Romola's gaze with a hungry sensethat it might be the last time she would ever bend it on him with fullunquestioning confidence.
"The _cugina_ had heard that he was come back, and the evening before--the evening of San Giovanni--as I afterwards found, he had been seen byour good Maso near the door of our house; but when Maso went to inquireat San Marco, Dino, that is, my brother--he was christened Bernardino,after our godfather, but now he calls himself Fra Luca--had been takento the monastery at Fiesole, because he was ill. But this morning amessage came to Maso, saying that he was come back to San Marco, andMaso went to him there. He is very ill, and he has adjured me to go andsee him. I cannot refuse it, though I hold him guilty; I still rememberhow I loved him when I was a little girl, before I knew that he wouldforsake my father. And perhaps he has some word of penitence to send byme. It cost me a struggle to act in opposition to my father's feeling,which I have always held to be just. I am almost sure you will think Ihave chosen rightly, Tito, because I have noticed that your nature isless rigid than mine, and nothing makes you angry: it would cost, youless to be forgiving; though, if you had seen your father forsaken byone to whom he had given his chief love--by one in whom he had plantedhis labour and his hopes--forsaken when his need was becoming greatest--even you, Tito, would find it hard to forgive."
What could he say? He was not equal to the hypocrisy of telling Romolathat such offences ought not to be pardoned; and he had not the courageto utter any words of dissuasion.
"You are right, my Romola; you are always right, except in thinking toowell of me."
There was really some genuineness in those last words, and Tito lookedvery beautiful as he uttered them, with an unusual pallor in his face,and a slight quivering of his lip. Romola, interpreting all thingslargely, like a mind prepossessed with high beliefs, had a tearfulbrightness in her eyes as she looked at him, touched with keen joy thathe felt so strongly whatever she felt. But without pausing in her walk,she said--
"And now, Tito, I wish you to leave me, for the _cugina_ and I shall beless noticed if we enter the piazza alone."
"Yes, it were better you should leave us," said Monna Brigida; "for tosay the truth, Messer Tito, all eyes follow you, and let Romola muffleherself as she will, every one wants to see what there is under herveil, for she has that way of walking like a procession. Not that Ifind fault with her for it, only it doesn't suit my steps. And, indeed,I would rather not have us seen going to San Marco, and that's why I amdressed as if I were one of the Piagnoni themselves, and as old as Sant'Anna; for if it had been anybody but poor Dino, who ought to be forgivenif he's dying, for what's the use of having a grudge against deadpeople?--make them feel while they live, say I--"
No one made a scruple of interrupting Monna Brigida, and Tito, havingjust raised Romola's hand to his lips, and said, "I understand, I obeyyou," now turned away, lifting his cap--a sign of reverence rarely madeat that time by native Florentines, and which excited Bernardo delNero's contempt for Tito as a fawning Greek, while to Romola, who lovedhomage, it gave him an exceptional grace.
He was half glad of the dismissal, half disposed to cling to Romola tothe last moment in which she would love him without suspicion. For itseemed to him certain that this brother would before all things want toknow, and that Romola would before all things confide to him, what washer father's position and her own after the years which must havebrought so much change. She would tell him that she was soon to bepublicly betrothed to a young scholar, who was to fill up the place leftvacant long ago by a wandering son. He foresaw the impulse that wouldprompt Romola to dwell on that prospect, and what would follow on themention of the future husband's name. Fra Luca would tell all he knewand conjectured, and Tito saw no possible falsity by which he could nowward off the worst consequences of his former dissimulation. It was allover with his prospects in Florence. There was Messer Bernardo delNero, who would be delighted at seeing confirmed the wisdom of hisadvice about deferring the betrothal until Tito's character and positionhad been established by a longer residence; and the history of the youngGreek professor, whose benefactor was in slavery, would be the talkunder every loggia. For the first time in his life he felt too feveredand agitated to trust his power of self-command; he gave up his intendedvisit to Bardo, and walked up and down under the walls until the yellowlight in the west had quite faded, when, without any distinct purpose,he took the first turning, which happened to be the Via San Sebastiano,leading him directly towards the Piazza dell' Annunziata.
He was at one of those lawless moments which come to us all if we haveno guide but desire, and if the pathway where desire leads us seemssuddenly closed; he was ready to follow any beckoning that offered himan immediate purpose.
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Note 1.
"Beauteous is life in blossom! And it fleeteth--fleeteth ever; Whoso would be joyful--let him! There's no surety for the morrow."
_Carnival Song by Lorenzo de' Medici_.
