CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
THE YOUNG WIFE.
While Tito was hastening across the bridge with the new-bought armourunder his mantle, Romola was pacing up and down the old library,thinking of him and longing for his return.
It was but a few fair faces that had not looked forth from windows thatday to see the entrance of the French king and his nobles. One of thefew was Romola's. She had been present at no festivities since herfather had died--died quite suddenly in his chair, three months before.
"Is not Tito coming to write?" he had said, when the bell had long agosounded the usual hour in the evening. He had not asked before, fromdread of a negative; but Romola had seen by his listening face andrestless movements that nothing else was in his mind.
"No, father, he had to go to a supper at the cardinal's: you know he iswanted so much by every one," she answered, in a tone of gentle excuse.
"Ah! then perhaps he will bring some positive word about the library;the cardinal promised last week," said Bardo, apparently pacified bythis hope.
He was silent a little while; then, suddenly flushing, he said--
"I must go on without him, Romola. Get the pen. He has brought me nonew text to comment on; but I must say what I want to say about the NewPlatonists. I shall die and nothing will have been done. Make haste,my Romola."
"I am ready, father," she said, the next minute, holding the pen in herhand.
But there was silence. Romola took no note of this for a little while,accustomed to pauses in dictation; and when at last she looked roundinquiringly, there was no change of attitude.
"I am quite ready, father!"
Still Bardo was silent, and his silence was never again broken.
Romola looked back on that hour with some indignation against herself,because even with the first outburst of her sorrow there had mingled theirrepressible thought, "Perhaps my life with Tito will be more perfectnow."
For the dream of a triple life with an undivided sum of happiness hadnot been quite fulfilled. The rainbow-tinted shower of sweets, to havebeen perfectly typical, should have had some invisible seeds ofbitterness mingled with them; the crowned Ariadne, under the snowingroses, had felt more and more the presence of unexpected thorns. It wasnot Tito's fault, Romola had continually assured herself. He was stillall gentleness to her, and to her father also. But it was in the natureof things--she saw it clearly now--it was in the nature of things thatno one but herself could go on month after month, and year after year,fulfilling patiently all her father's monotonous exacting demands. Evenshe, whose sympathy with her father had made all the passion andreligion of her young years, had not always been patient, had beeninwardly very rebellious. It was true that before their marriage, andeven for some time after, Tito had seemed more unwearying than herself;but then, of course, the effort had the ease of novelty. We assume aload with confident readiness, and up to a certain point the growingirksomeness of pressure is tolerable; but at last the desire for reliefcan no longer be resisted. Romola said to herself that she had beenvery foolish and ignorant in her girlish time: she was wiser now, andwould make no unfair demands on the man to whom she had given her bestwoman's love and worship. The breath of sadness that still cleaved toher lot while she saw her father month after month sink from elationinto new disappointment as Tito gave him less and less of his time, andmade bland excuses for not continuing his own share of the joint work--that sadness was no fault of Tito's, she said, but rather of theirinevitable destiny. If he stayed less and less with her, why, that wasbecause they could hardly ever be alone. His caresses were no lesstender: if she pleaded timidly on any one evening that he should staywith her father instead of going to another engagement which was notperemptory, he excused himself with such charming gaiety, he seemed tolinger about her with such fond playfulness before he could quit her,that she could only feel a little heartache in the midst of her love,and then go to her father and try to soften his vexation anddisappointment. But all the while inwardly her imagination was busytrying to see how Tito could be as good as she had thought he was, andyet find it impossible to sacrifice those pleasures of society whichwere necessarily more vivid to a bright creature like him than to thecommon run of men. She herself would have liked more gaiety, moreadmiration: it was true, she gave it up willingly for her father'ssake--she would have given up much more than that for the sake even of aslight wish on Tito's part. It was clear that their natures differedwidely; but perhaps it was no more than the inherent difference betweenman and woman, that made her affections more absorbing. If there wereany other difference she tried to persuade herself that the inferioritywas on her side. Tito was really kinder than she was, better tempered,less proud and resentful; he had no angry retorts, he met all complaintswith perfect sweetness; he only escaped as quietly as he could fromthings that were unpleasant.
It belongs to every large nature, when it is not under the immediatepower of some strong unquestioning emotion, to suspect itself, and doubtthe truth of its own impressions, conscious of possibilities beyond itsown horizon. And Romola was urged to doubt herself the more by thenecessity of interpreting her disappointment in her life with Tito so asto satisfy at once her love and her pride. Disappointment? Yes, therewas no other milder word that would tell the truth. Perhaps all womenhad to suffer the disappointment of ignorant hopes, if she only knewtheir experience. Still, there had been something peculiar in her lot:her relation to her father had claimed unusual sacrifices from herhusband. Tito had once thought that his love would make thosesacrifices easy; his love had not been great enough for that. She wasnot justified in resenting a self-delusion. No! resentment must notrise: all endurance seemed easy to Romola rather than a state of mind inwhich she would admit to herself that Tito acted unworthily. If she hadfelt a new heartache in the solitary hours with her father through thelast months of his life, it had been by no inexcusable fault of herhusband's; and now--it was a hope that would make its presence felt evenin the first moments when her father's place was empty--there was nolonger any importunate claim to divide her from Tito; their young liveswould flow in one current, and their true marriage would begin.
But the sense of something like guilt towards her father in a hope thatgrew out of his death, gave all the more force to the anxiety with whichshe dwelt on the means of fulfilling his supreme wish. That pietytowards his memory was all the atonement she could make now for athought that seemed akin to joy at his loss. The laborious simple life,pure from vulgar corrupting ambitions, embittered by the frustration ofthe dearest hopes, imprisoned at last in total darkness--a longseed-time without a harvest--was at an end now, and all that remained ofit besides the tablet in Sante Croce and the unfinished commentary onTito's text, was the collection of manuscripts and antiquities, thefruit of half a century's toil and frugality. The fulfilment of herfather's lifelong ambition about this library was a sacramentalobligation for Romola.
The precious relic was safe from creditors, for when the deficit towardstheir payment had been ascertained, Bernardo del Nero, though he was farfrom being among the wealthiest Florentines, had advanced the necessarysum of about a thousand florins--a large sum in those days--accepting alien on the collection as a security.
"The State will repay me," he had said to Romola, making light of theservice, which had really cost him some inconvenience. "If the cardinalfinds a building, as he seems to say he will, our Signoria may consentto do the rest. I have no children, I can afford the risk."
But within the last ten days all hopes in the Medici had come to an end:and the famous Medicean collections in the Via Larga were themselves indanger of dispersion. French agents had already begun to see that suchvery fine antique gems as Lorenzo had collected belonged by right to thefirst nation in Europe; and the Florentine State, which had gotpossession of the Medicean library, was likely to be glad of a customerfor it. With a war to recover Pisa hanging over it, and with thecertainty of having to pay large subsidies to the French king, the
Statewas likely to prefer money to manuscripts.
To Romola these grave political changes had gathered their chiefinterest from their bearing on the fulfilment of her father's wish. Shehad been brought up in learned seclusion from the interests of actuallife, and had been accustomed to think of heroic deeds and greatprinciples as something antithetic to the vulgar present, of the Pnyxand the Forum as something more worthy of attention than the councils ofliving Florentine men. And now the expulsion of the Medici meant littlemore for her than the extinction of her best hope about her father'slibrary. The times, she knew, were unpleasant for friends of theMedici, like her godfather and Tito: superstitious shopkeepers and thestupid rabble were full of suspicions; but her new keen interest inpublic events, in the outbreak of war, in the issue of the French king'svisit, in the changes that were likely to happen in the State, waskindled solely by the sense of love and duty to her father's memory.All Romola's ardour had been concentrated in her affections. Her sharein her father's learned pursuits had been for her little more than atoil which was borne for his sake; and Tito's airy brilliant faculty hadno attraction for her that was not merged in the deeper sympathies thatbelong to young love and trust. Romola had had contact with no mindthat could stir the larger possibilities of her nature; they lay foldedand crushed like embryonic wings, making no element in her consciousnessbeyond an occasional vague uneasiness.
But this new personal interest of hers in public affairs had made hercare at last to understand precisely what influence Fra Girolamo'spreaching was likely to have on the turn of events. Changes in the formof the State were talked of, and all she could learn from Tito, whosesecretaryship and serviceable talents carried him into the heart ofpublic business, made her only the more eager to fill out her lonely dayby going to hear for herself what it was that was just now leading allFlorence by the ears. This morning, for the first time, she had been tohear one of the Advent sermons in the Duomo. When Tito had left her,she had formed a sudden resolution, and after visiting the spot whereher father was buried in Santa Croce, had walked on to the Duomo. Thememory of that last scene with Dino was still vivid within her whenevershe recalled it, but it had receded behind the experience and anxietiesof her married life. The new sensibilities and questions which it hadhalf awakened in her were quieted again by that subjection to herhusband's mind which is felt by every wife who loves her husband withpassionate devotedness and full reliance. She remembered the effect ofFra Girolamo's voice and presence on her as a ground for expecting thathis sermon might move her in spite of his being a narrow-minded monk.But the sermon did no more than slightly deepen her previous impression,that this fanatical preacher of tribulations was after all a man towardswhom it might be possible for her to feel personal regard and reverence.The denunciations and exhortations simply arrested her attention. Shefelt no terror, no pangs of conscience: it was the roll of distantthunder, that seemed grand, but could not shake her. But when she heardSavonarola invoke martyrdom, she sobbed with the rest: she felt herselfpenetrated with a new sensation--a strange sympathy with something apartfrom all the definable interests of her life. It was not altogetherunlike the thrill which had accompanied certain rare heroic touches inhistory and poetry; but the resemblance was as that between the memoryof music, and the sense of being possessed by actual vibratingharmonies.
But that transient emotion, strong as it was, seemed to lie quiteoutside the inner chamber and sanctuary of her life. She was notthinking of Fra Girolamo now; she was listening anxiously for the stepof her husband. During these three months of their double solitude shehad thought of each day as an epoch in which their union might begin tobe more perfect. She was conscious of being sometimes a little too sador too urgent about what concerned her father's memory--a little toocritical or coldly silent when Tito narrated the things that were saidand done in the world he frequented--a little too hasty in suggestingthat by living quite simply as her father had done, they might becomerich enough to pay Bernardo del Nero, and reduce the difficulties aboutthe library. It was not possible that Tito could feel so strongly onthis last point as she did, and it was asking a great deal from him togive up luxuries for which he really laboured. The next time Tito camehome she would be careful to suppress all those promptings that seemedto isolate her from him. Romola was labouring, as a loving woman must,to subdue her nature to her husband's. The great need of her heartcompelled her to strangle, with desperate resolution, every risingimpulse of suspicion, pride, and resentment; she felt equal to anyself-infliction that would save her from ceasing to love. That wouldhave been like the hideous nightmare in which the world had seemed tobreak away all round her, and leave her feet overhanging the darkness.Romola had never distinctly imagined such a future for herself; she wasonly beginning to feel the presence of effort in that clinging trustwhich had once been mere repose.
She waited and listened long, for Tito had not come straight home afterleaving Niccolo Caparra, and it was more than two hours after the timewhen he was crossing the Ponte Rubaconte that Romola heard the greatdoor of the court turning on its hinges, and hastened to the head of thestone steps. There was a lamp hanging over the stairs, and they couldsee each other distinctly as he ascended. The eighteen months hadproduced a more definable change in Romola's face than in Tito's; theexpression was more subdued, less cold, and more beseeching, and, as thepink flush overspread her face now, in her joy that the long waiting wasat an end, she was much lovelier than on the day when Tito had firstseen her. On that day, any on-looker would have said that Romola'snature was made to command, and Tito's to bend; yet now Romola's mouthwas quivering a little, and there was some timidity in her glance.
He made an effort to smile, as she said--
"My Tito, you are tired; it has been a fatiguing day: is it not true?"
Maso was there, and no more was said until they had crossed theante-chamber and closed the door of the library behind them. The woodwas burning brightly on the great dogs; that was one welcome for Tito,late as he was, and Romola's gentle voice was another.
He just turned and kissed her when she took off his mantle; then he wenttowards a high-backed chair placed for him near the fire, threw himselfinto it, and flung away his cap, saying, not peevishly, but in afatigued tone of remonstrance, as he gave a slight shudder--
"Romola, I wish you would give up sitting in this library. Surely ourown rooms are pleasanter in this chill weather."
Romola felt hurt. She had never seen Tito so indifferent in his manner;he was usually full of lively solicitous attention. And she had thoughtso much of his return to her after the long day's absence! He must bevery weary.
"I wonder you have forgotten, Tito," she answered, looking at himanxiously, as if she wanted to read an excuse for him in the signs ofbodily fatigue. "You know I am making the catalogue on the new planthat my father wished for; you have not time to help me, so I must workat it closely."
Tito, instead of meeting Romola's glance, closed his eyes and rubbed hishands over his face and hair. He felt he was behaving unlike himself,but he would make amends to-morrow. The terrible resurrection of secretfears, which, if Romola had known them, would have alienated her fromhim for ever, caused him to feel an alienation already begun betweenthem--caused him to feel a certain repulsion towards a woman from whosemind he was in danger. The feeling had taken hold of him unawares, andhe was vexed with himself for behaving in this new cold way to her. Hecould not suddenly command any affectionate looks or words; he couldonly exert himself to say what might serve as an excuse.
"I am not well, Romola; you must not be surprised if I am peevish."
"Ah, you have had so much to tire you to-day," said Romola, kneelingdown close to him, and laying her arm on his chest while she put hishair back caressingly.
Suddenly she drew her arm away with a start, and a gaze of alarmedinquiry.
"What have you got under your tunic, Tito? Something as hard as iron."
"It _is_ iron--it is chain-armour," he sa
id at once. He was preparedfor the surprise and the question, and he spoke quietly, as of somethingthat he was not hurried to explain.
"There was some unexpected danger to-day, then?" said Romola, in a toneof conjecture. "You had it lent to you for the procession?"
"No; it is my own. I shall be obliged to wear it constantly, for sometime."
"What is it that threatens you, my Tito?" said Romola, lookingterrified, and clinging to him again.
"Every one is threatened in these times, who is not a rabid enemy of theMedici. Don't look distressed, my Romola--this armour will make me safeagainst covert attacks."
Tito put his hand on her neck and smiled. This little dialogue aboutthe armour had broken through the new crust, and made a channel for thesweet habit of kindness.
"But my godfather, then," said Romola; "is not he, too, in danger? Andhe takes no precautions--ought he not? since he must surely be in moredanger than you, who have so little influence compared with him."
"It is just because I am less important that I am in more danger," saidTito, readily. "I am suspected constantly of being an envoy. And menlike Messer Bernardo are protected by their position and their extensivefamily connections, which spread among all parties, while I am a Greekthat nobody would avenge."
"But, Tito, is it a fear of some particular person, or only a vaguesense of danger, that has made you think of wearing this?" Romola wasunable to repel the idea of a degrading fear in Tito, which mingleditself with her anxiety.
"I have had special threats," said Tito, "but I must beg you to besilent on the subject, my Romola. I shall consider that you have brokenmy confidence, if you mention it to your godfather."
"Assuredly I will not mention it," said Romola, blushing, "if you wishit to be a secret. But, dearest Tito," she added, after a moment'spause, in a tone of loving anxiety, "it will make you very wretched."
"What will make me wretched?" he said, with a scarcely perceptiblemovement across his face, as from some darting sensation.
"This fear--this heavy armour. I can't help shuddering as I feel itunder my arm. I could fancy it a story of enchantment--that somemalignant fiend had changed your sensitive human skin into a hard shell.It seems so unlike my bright, light-hearted Tito!"
"Then you would rather have your husband exposed to danger, when heleaves you?" said Tito, smiling. "If you don't mind my being poniardedor shot, why need I mind? I will give up the armour--shall I?"
"No, Tito, no. I am fanciful. Do not heed what I have said. But suchcrimes are surely not common in Florence? I have always heard my fatherand godfather say so. Have they become frequent lately?"
"It is not unlikely they will become frequent, with the bitter hatredsthat are being bred continually."
Romola was silent a few moments. She shrank from insisting further onthe subject of the armour. She tried to shake it off.
"Tell me what has happened to-day," she said, in a cheerful tone. "Hasall gone off well?"
"Excellently well. First of all, the rain came and put an end to LucaCorsini's oration, which nobody wanted to hear, and a ready-tonguedpersonage--some say it was Gaddi, some say it was Melema, but really itwas done so quickly no one knows who it was--had the honour of givingthe Cristianissimo the briefest possible welcome in bad French."
"Tito, it was you, I know," said Romola, smiling brightly, and kissinghim. "How is it you never care about claiming anything? And afterthat?"
"Oh! after that, there was a shower of armour and jewels, and trappings,such as you saw at the last Florentine _giostra_, only a great deal moreof them. There was strutting, and prancing, and confusion, andscrambling, and the people shouted, and the Cristianissimo smiled fromear to ear. And after that there was a great deal of flattery, andeating, and play. I was at Tornabuoni's. I will tell you about itto-morrow."
"Yes, dearest, never mind now. But is there any more hope that thingswill end peaceably for Florence, that the Republic will not get intofresh troubles?"
Tito gave a shrug. "Florence will have no peace but what it pays wellfor; that is clear."
Romola's face saddened, but she checked herself, and said, cheerfully,"You would not guess where I went to-day, Tito. I went to the Duomo, tohear Fra Girolamo."
Tito looked startled; he had immediately thought of Baldassarre'sentrance into the Duomo; but Romola gave his look another meaning.
"You are surprised, are you not? It was a sudden thought. I want toknow all about the public affairs now, and I determined to hear formyself what the Frate promised the people about this French invasion."
"Well, and what did you think of the prophet?"
"He certainly has a very mysterious power, that man. A great deal ofhis sermon was what I expected; but once I was strangely moved--I sobbedwith the rest."
"Take care, Romola," said Tito, playfully, feeling relieved that she hadsaid nothing about Baldassarre; "you have a touch of fanaticism in you.I shall have you seeing visions, like your brother."
"No; it was the same with every one else. He carried them all with him;unless it were that gross Dolfo Spini, whom I saw there making grimaces.There was even a wretched-looking man, with a rope round his neck--anescaped prisoner, I should think, who had run in for shelter--a verywild-eyed old man: I saw him with great tears rolling down his cheeks,as he looked and listened quite eagerly."
There was a slight pause before Tito spoke.
"I saw the man," he said,--"the prisoner. I was outside the Duomo withLorenzo Tornabuoni when he ran in. He had escaped from a Frenchsoldier. Did you see him when you came out?"
"No, he went out with our good old Piero di Cosimo. I saw Piero come inand cut off his rope, and take him out of the church. But you wantrest, Tito? You feel ill?"
"Yes," said Tito, rising. The horrible sense that he must live incontinual dread of what Baldassarre had said or done pressed upon himlike a cold weight.