Romola

by George Eliot

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

  UNDER THE LOGGIA.

  The loggia at the top of Bardo's house rose above the buildings on eachside of it, and formed a gallery round quadrangular walls. On the sidetowards the street the roof was supported by columns; but on theremaining sides, by a wall pierced with arched openings, so that at theback, looking over a crowd of irregular, poorly-built dwellings towardsthe hill of Bogoli, Romola could at all times have a walk sheltered fromobservation. Near one of those arched openings, close to the door bywhich he had entered the loggia, Tito awaited her, with a sickeningsense of the sunlight that slanted before him and mingled itself withthe ruin of his hopes. He had never for a moment relied on Romola'spassion for him as likely to be too strong for the repulsion created bythe discovery of his secret; he had not the presumptuous vanity whichmight have hindered him from feeling that her love had the same rootwith her belief in him. But as he imagined her coming towards him inher radiant beauty, made so loveably mortal by her soft hazel eyes, hefell into wishing that she had been something lower, if it were onlythat she might let him clasp her and kiss her before they parted. Hehad had no real caress from her--nothing but now and then a long glance,a kiss, a pressure of the hand; and he had so often longed that theyshould be alone together. They were going to be alone now; but he sawher standing inexorably aloof from him. His heart gave a great throb ashe saw the door move: Romola was there. It was all like a flash oflightning: he felt, rather than saw, the glory about her head, thetearful appealing eyes; he felt, rather than heard, the cry of love withwhich she said, "Tito!"

  And in the same moment she was in his arms, and sobbing with her faceagainst his.

  How poor Romola had yearned through the watches of the night to see thatbright face! The new image of death; the strange bewildering doubtinfused into her by the story of a life removed from her understandingand sympathy; the haunting vision, which she seemed not only to hearuttered by the low gasping voice, but to live through, as if it had beenher own dream, had made her more conscious than ever that it was Titowho had first brought the warm stream of hope and gladness into herlife, and who had first turned away the keen edge of pain in theremembrance of her brother. She would tell Tito everything; there wasno one else to whom she could tell it. She had been restraining herselfin the presence of her father all the morning; but now, thatlong-pent-up sob might come forth. Proud and self-controlled to all theworld beside, Romola was as simple and unreserved as a child in her lovefor Tito. She had been quite contented with the days when they had onlylooked at each other; but now, when she felt the need of clinging tohim, there was no thought that hindered her.

  "My Romola! my goddess!" Tito murmured with passionate fondness, as heclasped her gently, and kissed the thick golden ripples on her neck. Hewas in paradise: disgrace, shame, parting--there was no fear of them anylonger. This happiness was too strong to be marred by the sense thatRomola was deceived in him; nay, he could only rejoice in her delusion;for, after all, concealment had been wisdom. The only thing he couldregret was his needless dread; if, indeed, the dread had not been worthsuffering for the sake of this sudden rapture.

  The sob had satisfied itself, and Romola raised her head. Neither ofthem spoke; they stood looking at each other's faces with that sweetwonder which belongs to young love--she with her long white hands on thedark-brown curls, and he with his dark fingers bathed in the streaminggold. Each was so beautiful to the other; each was experiencing thatundisturbed mutual consciousness for the first time. The cold pressureof a new sadness on Romola's heart made her linger the more in thatsilent soothing sense of nearness and love; and Tito could not even seekto press his lips to hers, because that would be change.

  "Tito," she said at last, "it has been altogether painful, but I musttell you everything. Your strength will help me to resist theimpressions that will not be shaken off by reason."

  "I know, Romola--I know he is dead," said Tito; and the long lustrouseyes told nothing of the many wishes that would have brought about thatdeath long ago if there had been such potency in mere wishes. Romolaonly read her own pure thoughts in their dark depths, as we read lettersin happy dreams.

  "So changed, Tito! It pierced me to think that it was Dino. And sostrangely hard: not a word to my father; nothing but a vision that hewanted to tell me. And yet it was so piteous--the struggling breath,and the eyes that seemed to look towards the crucifix, and yet not tosee it. I shall never forget it; it seems as if it would come betweenme and everything I shall look at."

  Romola's heart swelled again, so that she was forced to break off. Butthe need she felt to disburden her mind to Tito urged her to repress therising anguish. When she began to speak again, her thoughts hadtravelled a little.

  "It was strange, Tito. The vision was about our marriage, and yet heknew nothing of you."

  "What was it, my Romola? Sit down and tell me," said Tito, leading herto the bench that stood near. A fear had come across him lest thevision should somehow or other relate to Baldassarre; and this suddenchange of feeling prompted him to seek a change of position.

  Romola told him all that had passed, from her entrance into San Marco,hardly leaving out one of her brother's words, which had burntthemselves into her memory as they were spoken. But when she was at theend of the vision, she paused; the rest came too vividly before her tobe uttered, and she sat looking at the distance, almost unconscious forthe moment that Tito was near her. _His_ mind was at ease now; thatvague vision had passed over him like white mist, and left no mark. Buthe was silent, expecting her to speak again.

  "I took it," she went on, as if Tito had been reading her thoughts; "Itook the crucifix; it is down below in my bedroom."

  "And now, my Romola," said Tito, entreatingly, "you will banish theseghastly thoughts. The vision was an ordinary monkish vision, bred offasting and fanatical ideas. It surely has no weight with you."

  "No, Tito; no. But poor Dino, _he_ believed it was a divine message.It is strange," she went on meditatively, "this life of men possessedwith fervid beliefs that seem like madness to their fellow-beings. Dinowas not a vulgar fanatic; and that Fra Girolamo--his very voice seems tohave penetrated me with a sense that there is some truth in what movesthem: some truth of which I know nothing."

  "It was only because your feelings were highly wrought, my Romola. Yourbrother's state of mind was no more than a form of that theosophy whichhas been the common disease of excitable dreamy minds in all ages; thesame ideas that your father's old antagonist, Marsilio Ficino, poresover in the New Platonists; only your brother's passionate nature drovehim to act out what other men write and talk about. And for FraGirolamo, he is simply a narrow-minded monk, with a gift of preachingand infusing terror into the multitude. Any words or any voice wouldhave shaken you at that moment. When your mind has had a little repose,you will judge of such things as you have always done before."

  "Not about poor Dino," said Romola. "I was angry with him; my heartseemed to close against him while he was speaking; but since then I havethought less of what was in my own mind and more of what was in his.Oh, Tito! it was very piteous to see his young life coming to an end inthat way. That yearning look at the crucifix when he was gasping forbreath--I can never forget it. Last night I looked at the crucifix along while, and tried to see that it would help him, until at last itseemed to me by the lamplight as if the suffering face shed pity."

  "My Romola, promise me to resist such thoughts; they are fit for sicklynuns, not for my golden-tressed Aurora, who looks made to scatter allsuch twilight fantasies. Try not to think of them now; we shall notlong be alone together."

  The last words were uttered in a tone of tender beseeching, and heturned her face towards him with a gentle touch of his right-hand.

  Romola had had her eyes fixed absently on the arched opening, but shehad not seen the distant hill; she had all the while been in the chapterhouse, looking at the pale images of sorrow and death.

  Tito's touch and
beseeching voice recalled her; and now in the warmsunlight she saw that rich dark beauty which seemed to gather round itall images of joy--purple vines festooned between the elms, the strongcorn perfecting itself under the vibrating heat, bright winged creatureshurrying and resting among the flowers, round limbs beating the earth ingladness with cymbals held aloft, light melodies chanted to thethrilling rhythm of strings--all objects and all sounds that tell ofNature revelling in her force. Strange, bewildering transition fromthose pale images of sorrow and death to this bright youthfulness, as ofa sun-god who knew nothing of night! What thought could reconcile thatworn anguish in her brother's face--that straining after somethinginvisible--with this satisfied strength and beauty, and make itintelligible that they belonged to the same world? Or was there neverany reconciling of them, but only a blind worship of clashing deities,first in mad joy and then in wailing? Romola for the first time feltthis questioning need like a sudden uneasy dizziness and want ofsomething to grasp; it was an experience hardly longer than a sigh, forthe eager theorising of ages is compressed, as in a seed, in themomentary want of a single mind. But there was no answer to meet theneed, and it vanished before the returning rush of young sympathy withthe glad loving beauty that beamed upon her in new radiance, like thedawn after we have looked away from it to the grey west.

  "Your mind lingers apart from our love, my Romola," Tito said, with asoft reproachful murmur. "It seems a forgotten thing to you."

  She looked at the beseeching eyes in silence, till the sadness allmelted out of her own.

  "My joy!" she said, in her full clear voice.

  "Do you really care for me enough, then, to banish those chill fancies,or shall you always be suspecting me as the Great Tempter?" said Tito,with his bright smile.

  "How should I not care for you more than for everything else?Everything I had felt before in all my life--about my father, and aboutmy loneliness--was a preparation to love you. You would laugh at me,Tito, if you knew what sort of man I used to think I should marry--somescholar with deep lines in his face, like Alamanno Rinuccini, and withrather grey hair, who would agree with my father in taking the side ofthe Aristotelians, and be willing to live with him. I used to thinkabout the love I read of in the poets, but I never dreamed that anythinglike that could happen to me here in Florence in our old library. Andthen _you_ came, Tito, and were so much to my father, and I began tobelieve that life could be happy for me too."

  "My goddess! is there any woman like you?" said Tito, with a mixture offondness and wondering admiration at the blended majesty and simplicityin her.

  "But, dearest," he went on, rather timidly, "if you minded more aboutour marriage, you would persuade your father and Messer Bernardo not tothink of any more delays. But you seem not to mind about it."

  "Yes, Tito, I will, I do mind. But I am sure my godfather will urgemore delay now, because of Dino's death. He has never agreed with myfather about disowning Dino, and you know he has always said that weought to wait until you have been at least a year in Florence. Do notthink hardly of my godfather. I know he is prejudiced and narrow, butyet he is very noble. He has often said that it is folly in my fatherto want to keep his library apart, that it may bear his name; yet hewould try to get my father's wish carried out. That seems to me verygreat and noble--that power of respecting a feeling which he does notshare or understand."

  "I have no rancour against Messer Bernardo for thinking you too preciousfor me, my Romola," said Tito: and that was true. "But your father,then, knows of his son's death?"

  "Yes, I told him--I could not help it. I told him where I had been, andthat I had seen Dino die; but nothing else; and he has commanded me notto speak of it again. But he has been very silent this morning, and hashad those restless movements which always go to my heart; they look asif he were trying to get outside the prison of his blindness. Let us goto him now. I had persuaded him to try to sleep, because he sleptlittle in the night. Your voice will soothe him, Tito: it always does."

  "And not one kiss? I have not had one," said Tito, in his gentlereproachful tone, which gave him an air of dependence very charming in acreature with those rare gifts that seem to excuse presumption.

  The sweet pink blush spread itself with the quickness of light overRomola's face and neck as she bent towards him. It seemed impossiblethat their kisses could ever become common things.

  "Let us walk once round the loggia," said Romola, "before we go down."

  "There is something grim and grave to me always about Florence," saidTito, as they paused in the front of the house, where they could seeover the opposite roofs to the other side of the river, "and even in itsmerriment there is something shrill and hard--biting rather than gay. Iwish we lived in Southern Italy, where thought is broken, not byweariness, but by delicious languors such as never seem to come over the`ingenia acerrima Florentina.' I should like to see you under thatsouthern sun, lying among the flowers, subdued into mere enjoyment,while I bent over you and touched the lute and sang to you some littleunconscious strain that seemed all one with the light and the warmth.You have never known that happiness of the nymphs, my Romola."

  "No; but I have dreamed of it often since you came. I am very thirstyfor a deep draught of joy--for a life all bright like you. But we willnot think of it now, Tito; it seems to me as if there would always bepale sad faces among the flowers, and eyes that look in vain. Let usgo."