CHAPTER TWENTY.
THE DAY OF THE BETROTHAL.
It was the last week of the Carnival, and the streets of Florence wereat their fullest and noisiest: there were the masqued processions,chanting songs, indispensable now they had once been introduced byLorenzo the Magnificent; there was the favourite rigoletto, or rounddance, footed "in piazza" under the blue frosty sky; there werepractical jokes of all sorts, from throwing comfits to throwing stones--especially stones. For the boys and striplings, always a strong elementin Florentine crowds, became at the height of Carnival-time as loud andunmanageable as tree-crickets, and it was their immemorial privilege tobar the way with poles to all passengers, until a tribute had been paidtowards furnishing those lovers of strong sensations with suppers andbonfires: to conclude with the standing entertainment of stone-throwing,which was not entirely monotonous, since the consequent maiming wasvarious, and it was not always a single person who was killed. So thatthe pleasures of the Carnival were of a checkered kind, and if a painterwere called upon to represent them truly, he would have to make apicture in which there would be so much grossness and barbarity that itmust be turned with its face to the wall, except when it was taken downfor the grave historical purpose of justifying a reforming zeal which,in ignorance of the facts, might be unfairly condemned for itsnarrowness. Still there was much of that more innocent picturesquemerriment which is never wanting among a people with quick animalspirits and sensitive organs: there was not the heavy sottishness whichbelongs to the thicker northern blood, nor the stealthy fierceness whichin the more southern regions of the peninsula makes the brawl lead tothe dagger-thrust.
It was the high morning, but the merry spirits of the Carnival werestill inclined to lounge and recapitulate the last night's jests, whenTito Melema was walking at a brisk pace on the way to the Via de' Bardi.Young Bernardo Dovizi, who now looks at us out of Raphael's portrait asthe keen-eyed Cardinal da Bibbiena, was with him; and, as they went,they held animated talk about some subject that had evidently norelation to the sights and sounds through which they were pushing theirway along the Por' Santa Maria. Nevertheless, as they discussed,smiled, and gesticulated, they both, from time to time, cast quickglances around them, and at the turning towards the Lung' Arno, leadingto the Ponte Rubaconte, Tito had become aware, in one of these rapidsurveys, that there was some one not far off him by whom he very muchdesired not to be recognised at that moment. His time and thoughts werethoroughly preoccupied, for he was looking forward to a unique occasionin his life: he was preparing for his betrothal, which was to take placeon the evening of this very day. The ceremony had been resolved uponrather suddenly; for although preparations towards the marriage had beengoing forward for some time--chiefly in the application of Tito'sflorins to the fitting up of rooms in Bardo's dwelling, which, thelibrary excepted, had always been scantily furnished--it had beenintended to defer both the betrothal and the marriage until afterEaster, when Tito's year of probation, insisted on by Bernardo del Nero,would have been complete. But when an express proposition had come,that Tito should follow the Cardinal Giovanni to Rome to help BernardoDovizi with his superior knowledge of Greek in arranging a library, andthere was no possibility of declining what lay so plainly on the road toadvancement, he had become urgent in his entreaties that the betrothalmight take place before his departure: there would be the less delaybefore the marriage on his return, and it would be less painful to partif he and Romola were outwardly as well as inwardly pledged to eachother--if he had a claim which defied Messer Bernardo or any one else tonullify it. For the betrothal, at which rings were exchanged and mutualcontracts were signed, made more than half the legality of marriage, tobe completed on a separate occasion by the nuptial benediction.Romola's feeling had met Tito's in this wish, and the consent of theelders had been won.
And now Tito was hastening, amidst arrangements for his departure thenext day, to snatch a morning visit to Romola, to say and hear any lastwords that were needful to be said before their meeting for thebetrothal in the evening. It was not a time when any recognition couldbe pleasant that was at all likely to detain him; still less arecognition by Tessa. And it was unmistakably Tessa whom he had caughtsight of moving along, with a timid and forlorn look, towards that veryturn of the Lung' Arno which he was just rounding. As he continued histalk with the young Dovizi, he had an uncomfortable undercurrent ofconsciousness which told him that Tessa had seen him and would certainlyfollow him: there was no escaping her along this direct road by theArno, and over the Ponte Rubaconte. But she would not dare to speak tohim or approach him while he was not alone, and he would continue tokeep Dovizi with him till they reached Bardo's door. He quickened hispace, and took up new threads of talk; but all the while the sense thatTessa was behind him, though he had no physical evidence of the fact,grew stronger and stronger; it was very irritating--perhaps all the moreso because a certain tenderness and pity for the poor little thing madethe determination to escape without any visible notice of her, a notaltogether agreeable resource. Yet Tito persevered and carried hiscompanion to the door, cleverly managing his "addio" without turning hisface in a direction where it was possible for him to see an importunatepair of blue eyes; and as he went up the stone steps, he tried to getrid of unpleasant thoughts by saying to himself that after all Tessamight not have seen him, or, if she had, might not have followed him.
But--perhaps because that possibility could not be relied on strongly--when the visit was over, he came out of the doorway with a quick stepand an air of unconsciousness as to anything that might be on hisright-hand or his left. Our eyes are so constructed, however, that theytake in a wide angle without asking any leave of our will; and Tito knewthat there was a little figure in a white hood standing near thedoorway--knew it quite well, before he felt a hand laid on his arm. Itwas a real grasp, and not a light, timid touch; for poor Tessa, seeinghis rapid step, had started forward with a desperate effort. But whenhe stopped and turned towards her, her face wore a frightened look, asif she dreaded the effect of her boldness.
"Tessa!" said Tito, with more sharpness in his voice than she had everheard in it before. "Why are you here? You must not follow me--youmust not stand about door-places waiting for me."
Her blue eyes widened with tears, and she said nothing. Tito was afraidof something worse than ridicule, if he were seen in the Via de' Bardiwith a girlish contadina looking pathetically at him. It was a streetof high silent-looking dwellings, not of traffic; but Bernardo del Nero,or some one almost as dangerous, might come up at any moment. Even ifit had not been the day of his betrothal, the incident would have beenawkward and annoying. Yet it would be brutal--it was impossible--todrive Tessa away with harsh words. That accursed folly of his with the_cerretano_--that it should have lain buried in a quiet way for months,and now start up before him as this unseasonable crop of vexation! Hecould not speak harshly, but he spoke hurriedly.
"Tessa, I cannot--must not talk to you here. I will go on to the bridgeand wait for you there. Follow me slowly."
He turned and walked fast to the Ponte Rubaconte, and there leanedagainst the wall of one of the quaint little houses that rise at evendistances on the bridge, looking towards the way by which Tessa wouldcome. It would have softened a much harder heart than Tito's to see thelittle thing advancing with her round face much paled and saddened sincehe had parted from it at the door of the "Nunziata." Happily it was theleast frequented of the bridges, and there were scarcely any passengerson it at this moment. He lost no time in speaking as soon as she camenear him.
"Now, Tessa, I have very little time. You must not cry. Why did youfollow me this morning? You must not do so again."
"I thought," said Tessa, speaking in a whisper, and struggling against asob that _would_ rise immediately at this new voice of Tito's--"Ithought you wouldn't be so long before you came to take care of meagain. And the _patrigno_ beats me, and I can't bear it any longer.And always when I come for a holiday I walk about to find you,
and Ican't. Oh, please don't send me away from you again! It has been solong, and I cry so now, because you never come to me. I can't help it,for the days are so long, and I don't mind about the goats and kids, oranything--and I can't--"
The sobs came fast now, and the great tears. Tito felt that he couldnot do otherwise than comfort her. Send her away--yes; that he _must_do, at once. But it was all the more impossible to tell her anythingthat would leave her in a state of hopeless grief. He saw new troublein the background, but the difficulty of the moment was too pressing forhim to weigh distant consequences.
"Tessa, my little one," he said, in his old caressing tones, "you mustnot cry. Bear with the cross _patrigno_ a little longer. I will comeback to you. But I'm going now to Rome--a long, long way off. I shallcome back in a few weeks, and then I promise you to come and see you.Promise me to be good and wait for me."
It was the well-remembered voice again, and the mere sound was halfenough to soothe Tessa. She looked up at him with trusting eyes, thatstill glittered with tears, sobbing all the while, in spite of herutmost efforts to obey him. Again he said, in a gentle voice--
"Promise me, my Tessa."
"Yes," she whispered. "But you won't be long?"
"No, not long. But I must _go now_. And remember what I told you,Tessa. Nobody must know that you ever see me, else you will lose me forever. And now, when I have left you, go straight home, and never followme again. Wait till I come to you. Good-bye, my little Tessa: I _will_come."
There was no help for it; he must turn and leave her without lookingbehind him to see how she bore it, for he had no time to spare. When hedid look round he was in the Via de' Benci, where there was no seeingwhat was happening on the bridge; but Tessa was too trusting andobedient not to do just what he had told her.
Yes, the difficulty was at an end for that day; yet this return of Tessato him, at a moment when it was impossible for him to put an end to alldifficulty with her by undeceiving her, was an unpleasant incident tocarry in his memory. But Tito's mind was just now thoroughly penetratedwith a hopeful first love, associated with all happy prospectsflattering to his ambition; and that future necessity of grieving Tessacould be scarcely more to him than the far-off cry of some littlesuffering animal buried in the thicket, to a merry cavalcade in thesunny plain. When, for the second time that day, Tito was hasteningacross the Ponte Rubaconte, the thought of Tessa caused no perceptiblediminution of his happiness. He was well muffled in his mantle, less,perhaps, to protect him from the cold than from the additional noticethat would have been drawn upon him by his dainty apparel. He leaped upthe stone steps by two at a time, and said hurriedly to Maso, who methim--
"Where is the damigella?"
"In the library; she is quite ready, and Monna Brigida and MesserBernardo are already there with Ser Braccio, but none of the rest of thecompany."
"Ask her to give me a few minutes alone; I will await her in the_salotto_."
Tito entered a room which had been fitted up in the utmost contrast withthe half-pallid, half-sombre tints of the library. The walls werebrightly frescoed with "caprices" of nymphs and loves sporting under theblue among flowers and birds. The only furniture besides the redleather seats and the central table were two tall white vases, and ayoung faun playing the flute, modelled by a promising youth namedMichelangelo Buonarotti. It was a room that gave a sense of being inthe sunny open air.
Tito kept his mantle round him, and looked towards the door. It was notlong before Romola entered, all white and gold, more than ever like atall lily. Her white silk garment was bound by a golden girdle, whichfell with large tassels; and above that was the rippling gold of herhair, surmounted by the white mist of her long veil, which was fastenedon her brow by a band of pearls, the gift of Bernardo del Nero, and wasnow parted off her face so that it all floated backward.
"Regina mia!" said Tito, as he took her hand and kissed it, stillkeeping his mantle round him. He could not help going backward to lookat her again, while she stood in calm delight, with that exquisiteself-consciousness which rises under the gaze of admiring love.
"Romola, will you show me the next room now?" said Tito, checkinghimself with the remembrance that the time might be short. "You said Ishould see it when you had arranged everything."
Without speaking, she led the way into a long narrow room, paintedbrightly like the other, but only with birds and flowers. The furniturein it was all old; there were old faded objects for feminine use orornament, arranged in an open cabinet between the two narrow windows;above the cabinet was the portrait of Romola's mother; and below this,on the top of the cabinet, stood the crucifix which Romola had broughtfrom San Marco.
"I have brought something under my mantle," said Tito, smiling; andthrowing off the large loose garment, he showed the little tabernaclewhich had been painted by Piero di Cosimo. The painter had carried outTito's intention charmingly, and so far had atoned for his long delay."Do you know what this is for, my Romola?" added Tito, taking her by thehand, and leading her towards the cabinet. "It is a little shrine,which is to hide away from you for ever that remembrancer of sadness.You have done with sadness now; and we will bury all images of it--burythem in a tomb of joy. See!"
A slight quiver passed across Romola's face as Tito took hold of thecrucifix. But she had no wish to prevent his purpose; on the contrary,she herself wished to subdue certain importunate memories andquestionings which still flitted like unexplained shadows across herhappier thought.
He opened the triptych and placed the crucifix within the central space;then closing it again, taking out the key, and setting the littletabernacle in the spot where the crucifix had stood, said--
"Now, Romola, look and see if you are satisfied with the portraits oldPiero has made of us. Is it not a dainty device? and the credit ofchoosing it is mine."
"Ah! it is you--it is perfect!" said Romola, looking with moist joyfuleyes at the miniature Bacchus, with his purple clusters. "And I amAriadne, and you are crowning me! Yes, it is true, Tito; you havecrowned my poor life."
They held each other's hands while she spoke, and both looked at theirimaged selves. But the reality was far more beautiful; she alllily-white and golden, and he with his dark glowing beauty above thepurple red-bordered tunic.
"And it was our good strange Piero who painted it?" said Romola. "Didyou put it into his head to paint me as Antigone, that he might have mylikeness for this?"
"No, it was he who made my getting leave for him to paint you and yourfather, a condition of his doing this for me."
"Ah! I see now what it was you gave up your precious ring for. Iperceived you had some cunning plan to give me pleasure."
Tito did not blench. Romola's little illusions about himself had longceased to cause him anything but satisfaction. He only smiled andsaid--
"I might have spared my ring; Piero will accept no money from me; hethinks himself paid by painting you. And now, while I am away, you willlook every day at those pretty symbols of our life together--the ship onthe calm sea, and the ivy that never withers, and those Loves that haveleft off wounding us and shower soft petals that are like our kisses;and the leopards and tigers, they are the troubles of your life that areall quelled now; and the strange sea-monsters, with their merry eyes--let us see--they are the dull passages in the heavy books, which havebegun to be amusing since we have sat by each other."
"Tito mio!" said Romola, in a half-laughing voice of love; "but you willgive me the key?" she added, holding out her hand for it.
"Not at all!" said Tito, with playful decision, opening his scarsellaand dropping in the little key. "I shall drown it in the Arno."
"But if I ever wanted to look at the crucifix again?"
"Ah! for that very reason it is hidden--hidden by these images of youthand joy."
He pressed a light kiss on her brow, and she said no more, ready tosubmit, like all strong souls, when she felt no valid reason forresistance.
And then they j
oined the waiting company, which made a dignified littleprocession as it passed along the Ponte Rubaconte towards Santa Croce.Slowly it passed, for Bardo, unaccustomed for years to leave his ownhouse, walked with a more timid step than usual; and that slow pacesuited well with the gouty dignity of Messer Bartolommeo Scala, whograced the occasion by his presence, along with his daughter Alessandra.It was customary to have very long troops of kindred and friends at the_sposalizio_, or betrothal, and it had even been found necessary in timepast to limit the number by law to no more than _four hundred_--twohundred on each side; for since the guests were all feasted after thisinitial ceremony, as well as after the _nozze_, or marriage, the veryfirst stage of matrimony had become a ruinous expense, as that scholarlyBenedict, Leonardo Bruno, complained in his own case. But Bardo, who inhis poverty had kept himself proudly free from any appearance ofclaiming the advantages attached to a powerful family name, would haveno invitations given on the strength of mere friendship; and the modestprocession of twenty that followed the _sposi_ were, with three or fourexceptions, friends of Bardo's and Tito's selected on personal grounds.
Bernardo del Nero walked as a vanguard before Bardo, who was led on theright by Tito, while Romola held her father's other hand. Bardo hadhimself been married at Santa Croce, and had insisted on Romola's beingbetrothed and married there, rather than in the little church of SantaLucia close by their house, because he had a complete mental vision ofthe grand church where he hoped that a burial might be granted him amongthe Florentines who had deserved well. Happily the way was short anddirect, and lay aloof from the loudest riot of the Carnival, if onlythey could return before any dances or shows began in the great piazzaof Santa Croce. The west was red as they passed the bridge, and shed amellow light on the pretty procession, which had a touch of solemnity inthe presence of the blind father. But when the ceremony was over, andTito and Romola came out on to the broad steps of the church, with thegolden links of destiny on their fingers, the evening had deepened intostruggling starlight, and the servants had their torches lit.
While they came out, a strange dreary chant, as of a _Miserere_, mettheir ears, and they saw that at the extreme end of the piazza thereseemed to be a stream of people impelled by something approaching fromthe Borgo de' Greci.
"It is one of their masqued processions, I suppose," said Tito, who wasnow alone with Romola, while Bernardo took charge of Bardo.
And as he spoke there came slowly into view, at a height far above theheads of the onlookers, a huge and ghastly image of Winged Time with hisscythe and hour-glass, surrounded by his winged children, the Hours. Hewas mounted on a high car completely covered with black, and thebullocks that drew the car were also covered with black, their hornsalone standing out white above the gloom; so that in the sombre shadowof the houses it seemed to those at a distance as if Time and hischildren were apparitions floating through the air. And behind themcame what looked like a troop of the sheeted dead gliding aboveblackness. And as they glided slowly, they chanted in a wailing strain.
A cold horror seized on Romola, for at the first moment it seemed as ifher brother's vision, which could never be effaced from her mind, wasbeing half fulfilled. She clung to Tito, who, divining what was in herthoughts, said--
"What dismal fooling sometimes pleases your Florentines! Doubtless thisis an invention of Piero di Cosimo, who loves such grim merriment."
"Tito, I wish it had not happened. It will deepen the images of thatvision which I would fain be rid of."
"Nay, Romola, you will look only at the images of our happiness now. Ihave locked all sadness away from you."
"But it is still there--it is only hidden," said Romola, in a low tone,hardly conscious that she spoke.
"See, they are all gone now!" said Tito. "You will forget this ghastlymummery when we are in the light, and can see each other's eyes. MyAriadne must never look backward now--only forward to Easter, when shewill triumph with her Care-dispeller."
PART TWO.