CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.
NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE.
Messer Naldo came again sooner than was expected: he came on the eveningof the twenty-eighth of November, only eleven days after his previousvisit, proving that he had not gone far beyond the mountains; and ascene which we have witnessed as it took place that evening in the Viade' Bardi may help to explain the impulse which turned his steps towardsthe hill of San Giorgio.
When Tito had first found this home for Tessa, on his return from Rome,more than a year and a half ago, he had acted, he persuaded himself,simply under the constraint imposed on him by his own kindliness afterthe unlucky incident which had made foolish little Tessa imagine him tobe her husband. It was true that the kindness was manifested towards apretty trusting thing whom it was impossible to be near without feelinginclined to caress and pet her; but it was not less true that Tito hadmovements of kindness towards her apart from any contemplated gain tohimself. Otherwise, charming as her prettiness and prattle were in alazy moment, he might have preferred to be free from her; for he was notin love with Tessa--he was in love for the first time in his life withan entirely different woman, whom he was not simply inclined to showercaresses on, but whose presence possessed him so that the simple sweepof her long tresses across his cheek seemed to vibrato through thehours. All the young ideal passion he had in him had been stirred byRomola, and his fibre was too fine, his intellect too bright, for him tobe tempted into the habits of a gross pleasure-seeker. But he had spuna web about himself and Tessa, which he felt incapable of breaking: inthe first moments after the mimic marriage he had been prompted to leaveher under an illusion by a distinct calculation of his own possibleneed, but since that critical moment it seemed to him that the web hadgone on spinning itself in spite of him, like a growth over which he hadno power. The elements of kindness and self-indulgence are hard todistinguish in a soft nature like Tito's; and the annoyance he had feltunder Tessa's pursuit of him on the day of his betrothal, the thoroughintention of revealing the truth to her with which he set out to fulfilhis promise of seeing her again, were a sufficiently strong argument tohim that in ultimately leaving Tessa under her illusion and providing ahome for her, he had been overcome by his own kindness. And in thesedays of his first devotion to Romola he needed a self-justifyingargument. He had learned to be glad that she was deceived about somethings. But every strong feeling makes to itself a conscience of itsown--has its own piety; just as much as the feeling of the son towardsthe mother, which will sometimes survive amid the worst fumes ofdepravation; and Tito could not yet be easy in committing a secretoffence against his wedded love.
But he was all the more careful in taking precautions to preserve thesecrecy of the offence. Monna Lisa, who, like many of her class, neverleft her habitation except to go to one or two particular shops, and toconfession once a year, knew nothing of his real name and whereabout:she only know that he paid her so as to make her very comfortable, andminded little about the rest, save that she got fond of Tessa, and foundpleasure in the cares for which she was paid. There was some mysterybehind, clearly, since Tessa was a contadina, and Messer Naldo was asignor; but, for aught Monna Lisa knew, he might be a real husband. ForTito had thoroughly frightened Tessa into silence about thecircumstances of their marriage, by telling her that if she broke thatsilence she would never see him again; and Monna Lisa's deafness, whichmade it impossible to say anything to her without some premeditation,had saved Tessa from any incautious revelation to her, such as had runoff her tongue in talking with Baldassarre. For a long while Tito'svisits were so rare, that it seemed likely enough he took journeysbetween them. They were prompted chiefly by the desire to see that allthings were going on well with Tessa; and though he always found hisvisit pleasanter than the prospect of it--always felt anew the charm ofthat pretty ignorant lovingness and trust--he had not yet any real needof it. But he was determined, if possible, to preserve the simplicityon which the charm depended; to keep Tessa a genuine contadina, and notplace the small field-flower among conditions that would rob it of itsgrace. He would have been shocked to see her in the dress of any otherrank than her own; the piquancy of her talk would be all gone, if thingsbegan to have new relations for her, if her world became wider, herpleasures less childish; and the squirrel-like enjoyment of nuts atdiscretion marked the standard of the luxuries he had provided for her.By this means, Tito saved Tessa's charm from being sullied; and he also,by a convenient coincidence, saved himself from aggravating expensesthat were already rather importunate to a man whose money was allrequired for his avowed habits of life.
This, in brief, had been the history of Tito's relation to Tessa up to avery recent date. It is true that once or twice before Bardo's death,the sense that there was Tessa up the hill, with whom it was possible topass an hour agreeably, had been an inducement to him to escape from alittle weariness of the old man, when, for lack of any positiveengagement, he might otherwise have borne the weariness patiently andshared Romola's burden. But the moment when he had first felt a realhunger for Tessa's ignorant lovingness and belief in _him_ had not cometill quite lately, and it was distinctly marked out by circumstances aslittle to be forgotten as the oncoming of a malady that has permanentlyvitiated the sight and hearing. It was the day when he had first seenBaldassarre, and had bought the armour. Returning across the bridgethat night, with the coat of mail in his hands, he had felt anunconquerable shrinking from an immediate encounter with Romola. She,too, knew little of the actual world; she, too, trusted him; but he hadan uneasy consciousness that behind her frank eyes there was a naturethat could judge him, and that any ill-founded trust of hers sprang notfrom pretty brute-like incapacity, but from a nobleness which mightprove an alarming touchstone. He wanted a little ease, a little reposefrom self-control, after the agitation and exertions of the day; hewanted to be where he could adjust his mind to the morrow, withoutcaring how he behaved at the present moment. And there was a sweetadoring creature within reach whose presence was as safe andunconstraining as that of her own kids,--who would believe any fable,and remain quite unimpressed by public opinion. And so on that evening,when Romola was waiting and listening for him, he turned his steps upthe hill.
No wonder, then, that the steps took the same course on this evening,eleven days later, when he had had to recoil under Romola's firstoutburst of scorn. He could not wish Tessa in his wife's place, orrefrain from wishing that his wife should be thoroughly reconciled tohim; for it was Romola, and not Tessa, that belonged to the world whereall the larger desires of a man who had ambition and effective facultiesmust necessarily lie. But he wanted a refuge from a standarddisagreeably rigorous, of which he could not make himself independentsimply by thinking it folly; and Tessa's little soul was that invitingrefuge.
It was not much more than eight o'clock when he went up the stone stepsto the door of Tessa's room. Usually she heard his entrance into thehouse, and ran to meet him, but not to-night; and when he opened thedoor he saw the reason. A single dim light was burning above the dyingfire, and showed Tessa in a kneeling attitude by the head of the bedwhere the baby lay. Her head had fallen aside on the pillow, and herbrown rosary, which usually hung above the pillow over the picture ofthe Madonna and the golden palm-branches, lay in the loose grasp of herright-hand. She had gone fast asleep over her beads. Tito steppedlightly across the little room, and sat down close to her. She hadprobably heard the opening of the door as part of her dream, for he hadnot been looking at her two moments before she opened her eyes. Sheopened them without any start, and remained quite motionless looking athim, as if the sense that he was there smiling at her shut out anyimpulse which could disturb that happy passiveness. But when he put hishand under her chin, and stooped to kiss her, she said--
"I dreamed it, and then I said it was dreaming--and then I awoke, and itwas true."
"Little sinner!" said Tito, pinching her chin, "you have not said halfyour prayers. I will punish you by not looking at your baby; it is
ugly."
Tessa did not like those words, even though Tito was smiling. She hadsome pouting distress in her face, as she said, bending anxiously overthe baby--
"Ah, it is not true! He is prettier than anything. You do not think heis ugly. You will look at him. He is even prettier than when you sawhim before--only he's asleep, and you can't see his eyes or his tongue,and I can't show you his hair--and it grows--isn't that wonderful? Lookat him! It's true his face is very much all alike when he's asleep,there is not so much to see as when he's awake. If you kiss him verygently, he won't wake: you want to kiss him, is it not true?"
He satisfied her by giving the small mummy a butterfly kiss, and thenputting his hand on her shoulder and turning her face towards him, said,"You like looking at the baby better than looking at your husband, youfalse one!"
She was still kneeling, and now rested her hands on his knee, looking upat him like one of Fra Lippo Lippi's round-cheeked adoring angels.
"No," she said, shaking her head; "I love you always best, only I wantyou to look at the bambino and love him; I used only to want you to loveme."
"And did you expect me to come again so soon?" said Tito, inclined tomake her prattle. He still felt the effects of the agitation he hadundergone--still felt like a man who has been violently jarred; and thiswas the easiest relief from silence and solitude.
"Ah, no," said Tessa, "I have counted the days--to-day I began at myright thumb again--since you put on the beautiful chain-coat, thatMesser San Michele gave you to take care of you on your journey. Andyou have got it on now," she said, peeping through the opening in thebreast of his tunic. "Perhaps it made you come back sooner."
"Perhaps it did, Tessa," he said. "But don't mind the coat now. Tellme what has happened since I was here. Did you see the tents in thePrato, and the soldiers and horsemen when they passed the bridges--didyou hear the drums and trumpets?"
"Yes, and I was rather frightened, because I thought the soldiers mightcome up here. And Monna Lisa was a little afraid too, for she said theymight carry our kids off; she said it was their business to do mischief.But the Holy Madonna took care of us, for we never saw one of them uphere. But something has happened, only I hardly dare tell you, and thatis what I was saying more Aves for."
"What do you mean, Tessa?" said Tito, rather anxiously. "Make haste andtell me."
"Yes, but will you let me sit on your knee? because then I think I shallnot be so frightened."
He took her on his knee, and put his arm round her, but looked grave: itseemed that something unpleasant must pursue him even here.
"At first I didn't mean to tell you," said Tessa, speaking almost in awhisper, as if that would mitigate the offence; "because we thought theold man would be gone away before you came again, and it would be as ifit had not been. But now he is there, and you are come, and I never didanything you told me not to do before. And I want to tell you, and thenyou will perhaps forgive me, for it is a long while before I go toconfession."
"Yes, tell me everything, my Tessa." He began to hope it was after alla trivial matter.
"Oh, you will be sorry for him: I'm afraid he cries about something whenI don't see him. But that was not the reason I went to him first; itwas because I wanted to talk to him and show him my baby, and he was astranger that lived nowhere, and I thought you wouldn't care so muchabout my talking to him. And I think he is not a bad old man, and hewanted to come and sleep on the straw next to the goats, and I madeMonna Lisa say, `Yes, he might,' and he's away all the day almost, butwhen he comes back I talk to him, and take him something to eat."
"Some beggar, I suppose. It was naughty of you, Tessa, and I am angrywith Monna Lisa. I must have him sent away."
"No, I think he is not a beggar, for he wanted to pay Monna Lisa, onlyshe asked him to do work for her instead. And he gets himself shaved,and his clothes are tidy: Monna Lisa says he is a decent man. Butsometimes I think he is not in his right mind: Lupo, at Peretola, wasnot in his right mind, and he looks a little like Lupo sometimes, as ifhe didn't know where he was."
"What sort of face has he?" said Tito, his heart beginning to beatstrangely. He was so haunted by the thought of Baldassarre, that it wasalready he whom he saw in imagination sitting on the straw not manyyards from him. "Fetch your stool, my Tessa, and sit on it."
"Shall you not forgive me?" she said, timidly, moving from his knee.
"Yes, I will not be angry--only sit down, and tell me what sort of oldman this is."
"I can't think how to tell you: he is not like my stepfather Nofri, oranybody. His face is yellow, and he has deep marks in it; and his hairis white, but there is none on the top of his head: and his eyebrows areblack, and he looks from under them at me, and says, `Poor thing!' tome, as if he thought I was beaten as I used to be; and that seems as ifhe couldn't be in his right mind, doesn't it? And I asked him his nameonce, but he couldn't tell it me: yet everybody has a name--is it nottrue? And he has a book now, and keeps looking at it ever so long, asif he were a Padre. But I think he is not saying prayers, for his lipsnever move;--ah, you are angry with me, or is it because you are sorryfor the old man?"
Tito's eyes were still fixed on Tessa; but he had ceased to see her, andwas only seeing the objects her words suggested. It was this absentglance which frightened her, and she could not help going to kneel athis side again. But he did not heed her, and she dared not touch him,or speak to him: she knelt, trembling and wondering; and this state ofmind suggesting her beads to her, she took them from the floor, andbegan to tell them again, her pretty lips moving silently, and her blueeyes wide with anxiety and struggling tears.
Tito was quite unconscious of her movements--unconscious of his ownattitude: he was in that wrapt state in which a man will grasp painfulroughness, and press and press it closer, and never feel it. A newpossibility had risen before him, which might dissolve at once thewretched conditions of fear and suppression that were marring his life.Destiny had brought within his reach an opportunity of retrieving thatmoment on the steps of the Duomo, when the Past had grasped him withliving quivering hands, and he had disowned it. A few steps, and hemight be face to face with his father, with no witness by; he might seekforgiveness and reconciliation; and there was money now, from the saleof the library, to enable them to leave Florence without disclosure, andgo into Southern Italy, where under the probable French rule, he hadalready laid a foundation for patronage. Romola need never know thewhole truth, for she could have no certain means of identifying thatprisoner in the Duomo with Baldassarre, or of learning what had takenplace on the steps, except from Baldassarre himself; and if his fatherforgave, he would also consent to bury, that offence.
But with this possibility of relief, by an easy spring, from presentevil, there rose the other possibility, that the fierce-hearted manmight refuse to be propitiated. Well--and if he did, things would onlybe as they had been before; for there would be _no witness by_. It wasnot repentance with a white sheet round it and taper in hand, confessingits hated sin in the eyes of men, that Tito was preparing for: it was arepentance that would make all things pleasant again, and keep all pastunpleasant things secret. And Tito's soft-heartedness, hisindisposition to feel himself in harsh relations with any creature, wasin strong activity towards his father, now his father was brought nearto him. It would be a state of ease that his nature could not butdesire, if the poisonous hatred in Baldassarre's glance could bereplaced by something of the old affection and complacency.
Tito longed to have his world once again completely cushioned withgoodwill, and longed for it the more eagerly because of what he had justsuffered from the collision with Romola. It was not difficult to him tosmile pleadingly on those whom he had injured, and offer to do them muchkindness: and no quickness of intellect could tell him exactly the tasteof that honey on the lips of the injured. The opportunity was there,and it raised an inclination which hemmed in the calculating activity ofhis thought. He started up, and stepped towards the door; but
Tessa'scry, as she dropped her beads, roused him from his absorption. Heturned and said--
"My Tessa, get me a lantern; and don't cry, little pigeon, I am notangry."
They went down the stairs, and Tessa was going to shout the need of thelantern in Monna Lisa's ear, when Tito, who had opened the door, said,"Stay, Tessa--no, I want no lantern: go upstairs again, and keep quiet,and say nothing to Monna Lisa."
In half a minute he stood before the closed door of the outhouse, wherethe moon was shining white on the old paintless wood.
In this last decisive moment, Tito felt a tremor upon him--a suddeninstinctive shrinking from a possible tiger-glance, a possibletiger-leap. Yet why should he, a young man, be afraid of an old one? ayoung man with armour on, of an old man without a weapon? It was but amoment's hesitation, and Tito laid his hand on the door. Was his fatherasleep? Was there nothing else but the door that screened him from thevoice and the glance which no magic could turn into ease?
Baldassarre was not asleep. There was a square opening high in the wallof the hovel, through which the moonbeams sent in a stream of palelight; and if Tito could have looked through the opening, he would haveseen his father seated on the straw, with something that shone like awhite star in his hand. Baldassarre was feeling the edge of hisponiard, taking refuge in that sensation from a hopeless blank ofthought that seemed to lie like a great gulf between his passion and itsaim.
He was in one of his most wretched moments of conscious helplessness: hehad been poring, while it was light, over the book that lay open besidehim; then he had been trying to recall the names of his jewels, and thesymbols engraved on them; and though at certain other times he hadrecovered some of those names and symbols, to-night they were all goneinto darkness. And this effort at inward seeing had seemed to end inutter paralysis of memory. He was reduced to a sort of madconsciousness that he was a solitary pulse of just rage in a worldfilled with defiant baseness. He had clutched and unsheathed hisdagger, and for a long while had been feeling its edge, his mindnarrowed to one image, and the dream of one sensation--the sensation ofplunging that dagger into a base heart, which he was unable to pierce inany other way.
Tito had his hand on the door and was pulling it: it dragged against theground as such old doors often do, and Baldassarre, startled out of hisdreamlike state, rose from his sitting posture in vague amazement, notknowing where he was. He had not yet risen to his feet, and was stillkneeling on one knee, when the door came wide open and he saw, darkagainst the moonlight, with the rays falling on one bright mass of curlsand one rounded olive cheek, the image of his reverie--not shadowy--close and real like water at the lips after the thirsty dream of it. Nothought could come athwart that eager thirst. In one moment, beforeTito could start back, the old man, with the preternatural force of ragein his limbs, had sprung forward, and the dagger had flashed out. Inthe next moment the dagger had snapped in two, and Baldassarre, underthe parrying force of Tito's arm, had fallen back on the straw,clutching the hilt with its bit of broken blade. The pointed end layshining against Tito's feet.
Tito had felt one great heart-leap of terror as he had staggered underthe weight of the thrust: he felt now the triumph of deliverance andsafety. His armour had been proved, and vengeance lay helpless beforehim. But the triumph raised no devilish impulse; on the contrary, thesight of his father close to him and unable to injure him, made theeffort at reconciliation easier. He was free from fear, but he had onlythe more unmixed and direct want to be free from the sense that he washated. After they had looked at each other a little while, Baldassarrelying motionless in despairing rage, Tito said in his soft tones, justas they had sounded before the last parting on the shores of Greece--
"_Padre mio_!" There was a pause after those words, but no movement orsound till he said--
"I came to ask your forgiveness!"
Again he paused, that the healing balm of those words might have time towork. But there was no sign of change in Baldassarre: he lay as he hadfallen, leaning on one arm: he was trembling, but it was from the shockthat had thrown him down.
"I was taken by surprise that morning. I wish now to be a son to youagain. I wish to make the rest of your life happy, that you may forgetwhat you have suffered."
He paused again. He had used the clearest and strongest words he couldthink of. It was useless to say more, until he had some sign thatBaldassarre understood him. Perhaps his mind was too distempered or tooimbecile even for that: perhaps the shock of his fall and hisdisappointed rage might have quite suspended the use of his faculties.
Presently Baldassarre began to move. He threw away the broken dagger,and slowly and gradually, still trembling, began to raise himself fromthe ground. Tito put out his hand to help him, and so strangely quickare men's souls that in this moment, when he began to feel his atonementwas accepted, he had a darting thought of the irksome efforts itentailed. Baldassarre clutched the hand that was held out, raisedhimself and clutched it still, going close up to Tito till their faceswere not a foot off each other. Then he began to speak, in a deeptrembling voice--
"I saved you--I nurtured you--I loved you. You forsook me--you robbedme--you denied me. What can you give me? You have made the worldbitterness to me; but there is one draught of sweetness left--_that youshall know agony_."
He let fall Tito's hand, and going backwards a little, first rested hisarm on a projecting stone in the wall, and then sank again in a sittingposture on the straw. The outleap of fury in the dagger-thrust hadevidently exhausted him.
Tito stood silent. If it had been a deep yearning-emotion which hadbrought him to ask his father's forgiveness, the denial of it might havecaused him a pang which would have excluded the rushing train of thoughtthat followed those decisive words. As it was, though the sentence ofunchangeable hatred grated on him and jarred him terribly, his mindglanced round with a self-preserving instinct to see how far those wordscould have the force of a substantial threat. When he had come down tospeak to Baldassarre, he had said to himself that if his effort atreconciliation failed, things would only be as they had been before.The first glance of his mind was backward to that thought again, but thefuture possibilities of danger that were conjured up along with itbrought the perception that things were _not_ as they had been before,and the perception came as a triumphant relief. There was not only thebroken dagger, there was the certainty, from what Tessa had told him,that Baldassarre's mind was broken too, and had no edge that could reachhim. Tito felt he had no choice now: he must defy Baldassarre as a mad,imbecile old man; and the chances were so strongly on his side thatthere was hardly room for fear. No; except the fear of having to domany unpleasant things in order to save himself from what was yet moreunpleasant. And one of those unpleasant things must be doneimmediately: it was very difficult.
"Do you mean to stay here?" he said.
"No," said Baldassarre, bitterly, "you mean to turn me out."
"Not so," said Tito; "I only ask."
"I tell you, you have turned me out. If it is your straw, you turned meoff it three years ago."
"Then you mean to leave this place?" said Tito, more anxious about thiscertainty than the ground of it.
"I have spoken," said Baldassarre.
Tito turned and re-entered the house. Monna Lisa was nodding; he wentup to Tessa, and found her crying by the side of her baby.
"Tessa," he said, sitting down and taking her head between his hands;"leave off crying, little goose, and listen to me."
He lifted her chin upward, that she might look at him, while he spokevery distinctly and emphatically.
"You must never speak to that old man again. He is a mad old man, andhe wants to kill me. Never speak to him or listen to him again."
Tessa's tears had ceased, and her lips were pale with fright.
"Is he gone away?" she whispered.
"He will go away. Remember what I have said to you."
"Yes; I will never speak to a stranger any more," said Tessa, w
ith asense of guilt.
He told her, to comfort her, that he would come again to-morrow; andthen went down to Monna Lisa to rebuke her severely for letting adangerous man come about the house.
Tito felt that these were odious tasks; they were very evil-tastedmorsels, but they were forced upon him. He heard Monna Lisa fasten thedoor behind him, and turned away, without looking towards the open doorof the hovel. He felt secure that Baldassarre would go, and he couldnot wait to see him go. Even _his_ young frame and elastic spirit wereshattered by the agitations that had been crowded into this singleevening.
Baldassarre was still sitting on the straw when the shadow of Titopassed by. Before him lay the fragments of the broken dagger; besidehim lay the open book, over which he had pored in vain. They lookedlike mocking symbols of his utter helplessness; and his body was stilltoo trembling for him to rise and walk away.
But the next morning, very early, when Tessa peeped anxiously throughthe hole in her shutter, the door of the hovel was open, and the strangeold man was gone.