CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.
A SUPPER IN THE RUCELLAI GARDENS.
On entering the handsome pavilion, Tito's quick glance soon discerned inthe selection of the guests the confirmation of his conjecture that theobject of the gathering was political, though, perhaps, nothing moredistinct than that strengthening of party which comes fromgood-fellowship. Good dishes and good wine were at that time believedto heighten the consciousness of political preferences, and in theinspired ease of after-supper talk it was supposed that peopleascertained their own opinions with a clearness quite inaccessible touninvited stomachs. The Florentines were a sober and frugal people; butwherever men have gathered wealth, Madonna della Gozzoviglia and SanBuonvino have had their worshippers; and the Rucellai were among the fewFlorentine families who kept a great table and lived splendidly. It wasnot probable that on this evening there would be any attempt to applyhigh philosophic theories; and there could be no objection to the bustof Plato looking on, or even to the modest presence of the cardinalvirtues in fresco on the walls.
That bust of Plato had been long used to look down on conviviality of amore transcendental sort, for it had been brought from Lorenzo's villaafter his death, when the meetings of the Platonic Academy had beentransferred to these gardens. Especially on every thirteenth ofNovember, reputed anniversary of Plato's death, it had looked down fromunder laurel leaves on a picked company of scholars and philosophers,who met to eat and drink with moderation, and to discuss and admire,perhaps with less moderation, the doctrines of the great master:--onPico della Mirandola, once a Quixotic young genius with long curls,astonished at his own powers and astonishing Rome with heterodox theses;afterwards a more humble student with a consuming passion for inwardperfection, having come to find the universe more astonishing than hisown cleverness:--on innocent, laborious Marsilio Ficino, picked outyoung to be reared as a Platonic philosopher, and fed on Platonism inall its stages till his mind was perhaps a little pulpy from that tooexclusive diet:--on Angelo Poliziano, chief literary genius of that age,a born poet, and a scholar without dulness, whose phrases had blood inthem and are alive still:--or, further back, on Leon Battista Alberti, areverend senior when those three were young, and of a much grander typethan they, a robust, universal mind, at once practical and theoretic,artist, man of science, inventor, poet:--and on many more valiantworkers whose names are not registered where every day we turn the leafto read them, but whose labours make a part, though an unrecognisedpart, of our inheritance, like the ploughing and sowing of pastgenerations.
Bernardo Rucellai was a man to hold a distinguished place in thatAcademy even before he became its host and patron. He was still in theprime of life, not more than four and forty, with a somewhat haughty,cautiously dignified presence; conscious of an amazingly pure Latinity,but, says Erasmus, not to be caught speaking Latin--no word of Latin tobe sheared off him by the sharpest of Teutons. He welcomed Tito withmore marked favour than usual and gave him a place between LorenzoTornabuoni and Giannozzo Pucci, both of them accomplished young membersof the Medicean party.
Of course the talk was the lightest in the world while the brass bowlfilled with scented water was passing round, that the company might washtheir hands, and rings flashed on white fingers under the wax-lights,and there was the pleasant fragrance of fresh white damask newly comefrom France. The tone of remark was a very common one in those times.Some one asked what Dante's pattern old Florentine would think if thelife could come into him again under his leathern belt and bone clasp,and he could see silver forks on the table? And it was agreed on allhands that the habits of posterity would be very surprising toancestors, if ancestors could only know them.
And while the silver forks were just dallying with the appetisingdelicacies that introduced the more serious business of the supper--suchas morsels of liver, cooked to that exquisite point that they would meltin the mouth--there was time to admire the designs on the enamelledsilver centres of the brass service, and to say something, as usual,about the silver dish for confetti, a masterpiece of Antonio Pollajuolo,whom patronising Popes had seduced from his native Florence to moregorgeous Rome.
"Ah, I remember," said Niccolo Ridolfi, a middle-aged man, with thatnegligent ease of manner which, seeming to claim nothing, is reallybased on the lifelong consciousness of commanding rank--"I remember ourAntonio getting bitter about his chiselling and enamelling of thesemetal things, and taking in a fury to painting, because, said he, `theartist who puts his work into gold and silver, puts his brains into themelting-pot.'"
"And that is not unlikely to be a true foreboding of Antonio's," saidGiannozzo Pucci. "If this pretty war with Pisa goes on, and the revoltonly spreads a little to our other towns, it is not only our silverdishes that are likely to go; I doubt whether Antonio's silver saintsround the altar of San Giovanni will not some day vanish from the eyesof the faithful to be worshipped more devoutly in the form of coin."
"The Frate is preparing us for that already," said Tornabuoni. "He istelling the people that God will not have silver crucifixes and starvingstomachs; and that the church is best adorned with the gems of holinessand the fine gold of brotherly love."
"A very useful doctrine of war-finance, as many a Condottiere hasfound," said Bernardo Rucellai, drily. "But politics come on after theconfetti, Lorenzo, when we can drink wine enough to wash them down; theyare too solid to be taken with roast and boiled."
"Yes, indeed," said Niccolo Ridolfi. "Our Luigi Pulci would have saidthis delicate boiled kid must be eaten with an impartial mind. Iremember one day at Careggi, when Luigi was in his rattling vein, he wasmaintaining that nothing perverted the palate like opinion. `Opinion,'said he, `corrupts the saliva--that's why men took to pepper.Scepticism is the only philosophy that doesn't bring a taste in themouth.' `Nay,' says poor Lorenzo de' Medici, `you must be out there,Luigi. Here is this untainted sceptic, Matteo Franco, who wants hottersauce than any of us.' `Because he has a strong opinion of himself,'flashes out Luigi, which is the original egg of all other opinion. _He_a sceptic? He believes in the immortality of his own verses. He issuch a logician as that preaching friar who described the pavement ofthe bottomless pit. Poor Luigi! his mind was like sharpest steel thatcan touch nothing without cutting."
"And yet a very gentle-hearted creature," said Giannozzo Pucci. "Itseemed to me his talk was a mere blowing of soap-bubbles. Whatdithyrambs he went into about eating and drinking! and yet he was astemperate as a butterfly."
The light talk and the solid eatables were not soon at an end, for afterthe roast and boiled meats came the indispensable capon and game, and,crowning glory of a well-spread table, a peacock cooked according to thereceipt of Apicius for cooking partridges, namely, with the feathers on,but not plucked afterwards, as that great authority ordered concerninghis partridges; on the contrary, so disposed on the dish that it mightlook as much as possible like a live peacock taking its unboiled repose.Great was the skill required in that confidential servant who was theofficial carver, respectfully to turn the classical though insipid birdon its back, and expose the plucked breast from which he was to dispensea delicate slice to each of the honourable company, unless any oneshould be of so independent a mind as to decline that expensivetoughness and prefer the vulgar digestibility of capon.
Hardly any one was so bold. Tito quoted Horace and dispersed his slicein small particles over his plate; Bernardo Rucellai made a learnedobservation about the ancient price of peacocks' eggs, but did notpretend to eat his slice; and Niccolo Ridolfi held a mouthful on hisfork while he told a favourite story of Luigi Pulci's, about a man ofSiena, who, wanting to give a splendid entertainment at moderateexpense, bought a wild goose, cut off its beak and webbed feet, andboiled it in its feathers, to pass for a pea-hen.
In fact, very little peacock was eaten; but there was the satisfactionof sitting at a table where peacock was served up in a remarkablemanner, and of knowing that such caprices were not within reach of anybut those who supped with the very wealthiest men
. And it would havebeen rashness to speak slightingly of peacock's flesh, or any othervenerable institution, at a time when Fra Girolamo was teaching thedisturbing doctrine that it was not the duty of the rich to be luxuriousfor the sake of the poor.
Meanwhile, in the chill obscurity that surrounded this centre of warmth,and light, and savoury odours, the lonely disowned man was walking ingradually narrowing circuits. He paused among the trees, and looked inat the windows, which made brilliant pictures against the gloom. Hecould hear the laughter; he could see Tito gesticulating with carelessgrace, and hear his voice, now alone, now mingling in the merryconfusion of interlacing speeches. Baldassarre's mind was highlystrung. He was preparing himself for the moment when he could win hisentrance into this brilliant company; and he had a savage satisfactionin the sight of Tito's easy gaiety, which seemed to be preparing theunconscious victim for more effective torture.
But the men seated among the branching tapers and the flashing cupscould know nothing of the pale fierce face that watched them fromwithout. The light can be a curtain as well as the darkness.
And the talk went on with more eagerness as it became less disconnectedand trivial. The sense of citizenship was just then strongly forcedeven on the most indifferent minds. What the overmastering Fra Girolamowas saying and prompting was really uppermost in the thoughts of everyone at table; and before the stewed fish was removed, and while thefavourite sweets were yet to come, his name rose to the surface of theconversation, and, in spite of Rucellai's previous prohibition, the talkagain became political. At first, while the servants remained present,it was mere gossip: what had been done in the Palazzo on the first day'svoting for the Great Council; how hot-tempered and domineering FrancescoValori was, as if he were to have everything his own way by right of hisaustere virtue, and how it was clear to everybody who heard Soderini'sspeeches in favour of the Great Council and also heard the Frate'ssermons, that they were both kneaded in the same trough.
"My opinion is," said Niccolo Ridolfi, "that the Frate has a longer headfor public matters than Soderini or any Piagnone among them: you maydepend on it that Soderini is his mouthpiece more than he isSoderini's."
"No, Niccolo; there I differ from you," said Bernardo Ruccellai: "theFrate has an acute mind, and readily sees what will serve his own ends;but it is not likely that Pagolantonio Soderini, who has had longexperience of affairs, and has specially studied the Venetian Council,should be much indebted to a monk for ideas on that subject. No, no;Soderini loads the cannon; though, I grant you, Fra Girolamo brings thepowder and lights the match. He is master of the people, and the peopleare getting master of us. Ecco!"
"Well," said Lorenzo Tornabuoni, presently, when the room was clear ofservants, and nothing but wine was passing round, "whether Soderini isindebted or not, _we_ are indebted to the Frate for the general amnestywhich has gone along with the scheme of the Council. We might have donewithout the fear of God and the reform of morals being passed by amajority of black beans; but that excellent proposition, that ourMedicean heads should be allowed to remain comfortably on our shoulders,and that we should not be obliged to hand over our property in fines,has my warm approval, and it is my belief that nothing but the Frate'spredominance could have procured that for us. And you may rely on itthat Fra Girolamo is as firm as a rock on that point of promoting peace.I have had an interview with him."
There was a murmur of surprise and curiosity at the farther end of thetable; but Bernardo Rucellai simply nodded, as if he knew whatTornabuoni had to say, and wished him to go on.
"Yes," proceeded Tornabuoni, "I have been favoured with an interview inthe Frate's own cell, which, let me tell you, is not a common favour;for I have reason to believe that even Francesco Valori very seldom seeshim in private. However, I think he saw me the more willingly because Iwas not a ready-made follower, but had to be converted. And, for mypart, I see clearly enough that the only safe and wise policy for usMediceans to pursue is to throw our strength into the scale of theFrate's party. We are not strong enough to make head on our own behalf;and if the Frate and the popular party were upset, every one who hearsme knows perfectly well what other party would be uppermost just now:Nerli, Alberti, Pazzi, and the rest--_Arrabbiati_, as somebodychristened them the other day--who, instead of giving us an amnesty,would be inclined to fly at our throats like mad dogs, and not besatisfied till they had banished half of us."
There were strong interjections of assent to this last sentence ofTornabuoni's, as he paused and looked round a moment.
"A wise dissimulation," he went on, "is the only course for moderaterational men in times of violent party feeling. I need hardly tell thiscompany what are my real political attachments: I am not the only manhere who has strong personal ties to the banished family; but, apartfrom any such ties, I agree with my more experienced friends, who areallowing me to speak for them in their presence, that the only lastingand peaceful state of things for Florence is the predominance of somesingle family interest. This theory of the Frate's, that we are to havea popular government, in which every man is to strive only for thegeneral good, and know no party names, is a theory that may do for someisle of Cristoforo Colombo's finding, but will never do for our fine oldquarrelsome Florence. A change must come before long, and with patienceand caution we have every chance of determining the change in ourfavour. Meanwhile, the best thing we can do will be to keep the Frate'sflag flying, for if any other were to be hoisted just now it would be ablack flag for us."
"It's true," said Niccolo Ridolfi, in a curt decisive way. "What yousay is true, Lorenzo. For my own part, I am too old for anybody tobelieve that I've changed my feathers. And there are certain of us--ourold Bernardo del Nero for one--whom you would never persuade to borrowanother man's shield. But we can lie still, like sleepy old dogs; andit's clear enough that barking would be of no use just now. As for thispsalm-singing party, who vote for nothing but the glory of God, and wantto make believe we can all love each other, and talk as if vice could beswept out with a besom by the Magnificent Eight, their day will not be along one. After all the talk of scholars, there are but two sorts ofgovernment: one where men show their teeth at each other, and one wheremen show their tongues and lick the feet of the strongest. They'll gettheir Great Council finally voted to-morrow--that's certain enough--andthey'll think they've found out a new plan of government; but as sure asthere's a human skin under every lucco in the Council, their new planwill end like every other, in snarling or in licking. That's my view ofthings as a plain man. Not that I consider it becoming in men of familyand following, who have got others depending on their constancy and ontheir sticking to their colours, to go a-hunting with a fine net tocatch reasons in the air, like doctors of law. I say frankly that, asthe head of my family, I shall be true to my old alliances; and I havenever yet seen any chalk-mark on political reasons to tell me which istrue and which is false. My friend Bernardo Rucellai here is a man ofreasons, I know, and I have no objection to anybody's finding fine-spunreasons for me, so that they don't interfere with my actions as a man offamily who has faith to keep with his connections."
"If that is an appeal to me, Niccolo," said Bernardo Rucellai, with aformal dignity, in amusing contrast with Ridolfi's curt and pithy ease,"I may take this opportunity of saying, that while my wishes are partlydetermined by long-standing personal relations, I cannot enter into anypositive schemes with persons over whose actions I have no control. Imyself might be content with a restoration of the old order of things;but with modifications--with important modifications. And the one pointon which I wish to declare my concurrence with Lorenzo Tornabuoni is,that the best policy to be pursued by our friends is, to throw theweight of their interest into the scale of the popular party. Formyself, I condescend to no dissimulation; nor do I at present see theparty or the scheme that commands my full assent. In all alike there iscrudity and confusion of ideas, and of all the twenty men who are mycolleagues in the present crisis, there is not one with whom I do
notfind myself in wide disagreement."
Niccolo Ridolfi shrugged his shoulders, and left it to some one else totake up the ball. As the wine went round the talk became more and morefrank and lively, and the desire of several at once to be the chiefspeaker, as usual caused the company to break up into small knots of twoand three.
It was a result which had been foreseen by Lorenzo Tornabuoni andGiannozzo Pucci, and they were among the first to turn aside from thehighroad of general talk and enter into a special conversation withTito, who sat between them; gradually pushing away their seats, andturning their backs on the table and wine.
"In truth, Melema," Tornabuoni was saying at this stage, laying onehose-clad leg across the knee of the other, and caressing his ankle, "Iknow of no man in Florence who can serve our party better than you. Yousee what most of our friends are: men who can no more hide theirprejudices than a dog can hide the natural tone of his bark, or eke menwhose political ties are so notorious, that they must always be objectsof suspicion. Giannozzo here, and I, I flatter myself, are able toovercome that suspicion; we have that power of concealment and finesse,without which a rational cultivated man, instead of having anyprerogative, is really at a disadvantage compared with a wild bull or asavage. But, except yourself, I know of no one else on whom we couldrely for the necessary discretion."
"Yes," said Giannozzo Pucci, laying his hand on Tito's shoulder, "thefact is, Tito mio, you can help us better than if you were Ulysseshimself, for I am convinced that Ulysses often made himselfdisagreeable. To manage men one ought to have a sharp mind in a velvetsheath. And there is not a soul in Florence who could undertake abusiness like this journey to Rome, for example, with the same safetythat you can. There is your scholarship, which may always be a pretextfor such journeys; and what is better, there is your talent, which itwould be harder to match than your scholarship. Niccolo Macchiavellimight have done for us if he had been on our side, but hardly so well.He is too much bitten with notions, and has not your power offascination. All the worse for him. He has lost a great chance inlife, and you have got it."
"Yes," said Tornabuoni, lowering his voice in a significant manner, "youhave only to play your game well, Melema, and the future belongs to you.For the Medici, you may rely upon it, will keep a foot in Rome as wellas in Florence, and the time may not be far-off when they will be ableto make a finer career for their adherents even than they did in olddays. Why shouldn't you take orders some day? There's a cardinal's hatat the end of that road, and you would not be the first Greek who hasworn that ornament."
Tito laughed gaily. He was too acute not to measure Tornabuoni'sexaggerated flattery, but still the flattery had a pleasant flavour.
"My joints are not so stiff yet," he said, "that I can't be induced torun without such a high prize as that. I think the income of an abbeyor two held `in commendam,' without the trouble of getting my headshaved, would satisfy me at present."
"I was not joking," said Tornabuoni, with grave suavity; "I think ascholar would always be the better off for taking orders. But we'lltalk of that another time. One of the objects to be first borne inmind, is that you should win the confidence of the men who hang aboutSan Marco; that is what Giannozzo and I shall do, but you may carry itfarther than we can, because you are less observed. In that way you canget a thorough knowledge of their doings, and you will make a broaderscreen for your agency on our side. Nothing of course can be donebefore you start for Rome, because this bit of business between Pierode' Medici and the French nobles must be effected at once. I mean whenyou come back, of course; I need say no more. I believe you could makeyourself the pet votary of San Marco, if you liked; but you are wiseenough to know that effective dissimulation is never immoderate."
"If it were not that an adhesion to the popular side is necessary toyour safety as an agent of our party, Tito mio," said Giannozzo Pucci,who was more fraternal and less patronising in his manner thanTornabuoni, "I could have wished your skill to have been employed inanother way, for which it is still better fitted. But now we must lookout for some other man among us who will manage to get into theconfidence of our sworn enemies, the Arrabbiati; we need to know theirmovements more than those of the Frate's party, who are strong enough toplay above-board. Still, it would have been a difficult thing for you,from your known relations with the Medici a little while back, and thatsort of kinship your wife has with Bernardo del Nero. We must find aman who has no distinguished connections, and who has not yet taken anyside."
Tito was pushing his hair backward automatically, as his manner was, andlooking straight at Pucci with a scarcely perceptible smile on his lip.
"No need to look out for any one else," he said, promptly. "I canmanage the whole business with perfect ease. I will engage to makemyself the special confidant of that thick-headed Dolfo Spini, and knowhis projects before he knows them himself."
Tito seldom spoke so confidently of his own powers, but he was in astate of exaltation at the sudden opening of a new path before him,where fortune seemed to have hung higher prizes than any he had thoughtof hitherto. Hitherto he had seen success only in the form of favour;it now flashed on him in the shape of power--of such power as ispossible to talent without traditional ties, and without beliefs. Eachparty that thought of him as a tool might become dependent on him. Hisposition as an alien, his indifference to the ideas or prejudices of themen amongst whom he moved, were suddenly transformed into advantages; hebecame newly conscious of his own adroitness in the presence of a gamethat he was called on to play. And all the motives which might havemade Tito shrink from the triple deceit that came before him as atempting game, had been slowly strangled in him by the successivefalsities of his life.
Our lives make a moral tradition for our individual selves, as the lifeof mankind at large makes a moral tradition for the race; and to haveonce acted nobly seems a reason why we should always be noble. But Titowas feeling the effect of an opposite tradition: he had won no memoriesof self-conquest and perfect faithfulness from which he could have asense of falling.
The triple colloquy went on with growing spirit till it was interruptedby a call from the table. Probably the movement came from the listenersin the party, who were afraid lest the talkers should tire themselves.At all events it was agreed that there had been enough of gravity, andRucellai had just ordered new flasks of Montepulciano.
"How many minstrels are there among us?" he said, when there had been ageneral rallying round the table. "Melema, I think you are the chief:Matteo will give you the lute."
"Ah, yes!" said Giannozzo Pucci, "lead the last chorus from Poliziano's`Orfeo,' that you have found such an excellent measure for, and we willall fall in:--
"`Ciascum segua, o Bacco, te: Bacco, Bacco, evoe, evoe!'"
The servant put the lute into Tito's hands, and then said something inan undertone to his master. A little subdued questioning and answeringwent on between them, while Tito touched the lute in a preluding way tothe strain of the chorus, and there was a confusion of speech andmusical humming all round the table. Bernardo Rucellai had said, "Waita moment, Melema;" but the words had been unheard by Tito, who wasleaning towards Pucci, and singing low to him the phrases of theMaenad-chorus. He noticed nothing until the buzz round the tablesuddenly ceased, and the notes of his own voice, with its soft low-tonedtriumph, "Evoe, evoe!" fell in startling isolation.
It was a strange moment. Baldassarre had moved round the table till hewas opposite Tito, and as the hum ceased there might be seen for aninstant Baldassarre's fierce dark eyes bent on Tito's bright smilingunconsciousness, while the low notes of triumph dropped from his lipsinto the silence.
Tito looked up with a slight start, and his lips turned pale, but heseemed hardly more moved than Giannozzo Pucci, who had looked up at thesame moment--or even than several others round the table; for thatsallow deep-lined face with the hatred in its eyes seemed a terribleapparition across the wax-lit ease and gaiety. And Tito quicklyrecovered some self-command.
"A mad old man--he looks like it--he _is_mad!" was the instantaneous thought that brought some courage with it;for he could conjecture no inward change in Baldassarre since they hadmet before. He just let his eyes fall and laid the lute on the tablewith apparent ease; but his fingers pinched the neck of the lute hardwhile he governed his head and his glance sufficiently to look with anair of quiet appeal towards Bernardo Rucellai, who said at once--
"Good man, what is your business? What is the important declarationthat you have to make?"
"Messer Bernardo Rucellai, I wish you and your honourable friends toknow in what sort of company you are sitting. There is a traitor amongyou."
There was a general movement of alarm. Every one present, except Tito,thought of political danger and not of private injury.
Baldassarre began to speak as if he were thoroughly assured of what hehad to say; but, in spite of his long preparation for this moment, therewas the tremor of overmastering excitement in his voice. His passionshook him. He went on, but he did not say what he had meant to say. Ashe fixed his eyes on Tito again the passionate words were like blows--they defied premeditation.
"There is a man among you who is a scoundrel, a liar, a robber. I was afather to him. I took him from beggary when he was a child. I rearedhim, I cherished him, I taught him, I made him a scholar. My head haslain hard that his might have a pillow. And he left me in slavery; hesold the gems that were mine, and when I came again, he denied me."
The last words had been uttered with almost convulsed agitation, andBaldassarre paused, trembling. All glances were turned on Tito, who wasnow looking straight at Baldassarre. It was a moment of desperationthat annihilated all feeling in him, except the determination to riskanything for the chance of escape. And he gathered confidence from theagitation by which Baldassarre was evidently shaken. He had ceased topinch the neck of the lute, and had thrust his thumbs into his belt,while his lips had begun to assume a slight curl. He had never yet donean act of murderous cruelty even to the smallest animal that could uttera cry, but at that moment he would have been capable of treading thebreath from a smiling child for the sake of his own safety.
"What does this mean, Melema?" said Bernardo Rucellai, in a tone ofcautious surprise. He, as well as the rest of the company, feltrelieved that the tenor of the accusation was not political.
"Messer Bernardo," said Tito, "I believe this man is mad. I did notrecognise him the first time he encountered me in Florence, but I knownow that he is the servant who years ago accompanied me and my adoptivefather to Greece, and was dismissed on account of misdemeanours. Hisname is Jacopo di Nola. Even at that time I believe his mind wasunhinged, for, without any reason, he had conceived a strange hatredtowards me; and now I am convinced that he is labouring under a maniawhich causes him to mistake his identity. He has already attempted mylife since he has been in Florence; and I am in constant danger fromhim. But he is an object of pity rather than of indignation. It is toocertain that my father is dead. You have only my word for it; but Imust leave it to your judgment how far it is probable that a man ofintellect and learning would have been lurking about in dark corners forthe last month with the purpose of assassinating me; or how far it isprobable that, if this man were my second father, I could have anymotive for denying him. That story about my being rescued from beggaryis the vision of a diseased brain. But it will be a satisfaction to meat least if you will demand from him proofs of his identity, lest anymalignant person should choose to make this mad impeachment a reproachto me."
Tito had felt more and more confidence as he went on; the lie was not sodifficult when it was once begun; and as the words fell easily from hislips, they gave him a sense of power such as men feel when they havebegun a muscular feat successfully. In this way he acquired boldnessenough to end with a challenge for proofs.
Baldassarre, while he had been walking in the gardens and afterwardswaiting in an outer room of the pavilion with the servants, had beenmaking anew the digest of the evidence he would bring to prove hisidentity and Tito's baseness, recalling the description and history ofhis gems, and assuring himself by rapid mental glances that he couldattest his learning and his travels. It might be partly owing to thisnervous strain that the new shock of rage he felt as Tito's lie fell onhis ears brought a strange bodily effect with it: a cold stream seemedto rush over him, and the last words of the speech seemed to be drownedby ringing chimes. Thought gave way to a dizzy horror, as if the earthwere slipping away from under him. Every one in the room was looking athim as Tito ended, and saw that the eyes which had had such fierceintensity only a few minutes before had now a vague fear in them. Heclutched the back of a seat, and was silent.
Hardly any evidence could have been more in favour of Tito's assertion.
"Surely I have seen this man before, somewhere," said Tornabuoni.
"Certainly you have," said Tito, readily, in a low tone. "He is theescaped prisoner who clutched me on the steps of the Duomo. I did notrecognise him then; he looks now more as he used to do, except that hehas a more unmistakable air of mad imbecility."
"I cast no doubt on your word, Melema," said Bernardo Rucellai, withcautious gravity, "but you are right to desire some positive test of thefact." Then turning to Baldassarre, he said, "If you are the person youclaim to be, you can doubtless give some description of the gems whichwere your property. I myself was the purchaser of more than one gemfrom Messer Tito--the chief rings, I believe, in his collection. One ofthem is a fine sard, engraved with a subject from Homer. If, as youallege, you are a scholar, and the rightful owner of that ring, you candoubtless turn to the noted passage in Homer from which that subject istaken. Do you accept this test, Melema? or have you anything to allegeagainst its validity? The Jacopo you speak of, was he a scholar?"
It was a fearful crisis for Tito. If he said "Yes," his quick mind toldhim that he would shake the credibility of his story: if he said "No,"he risked everything on the uncertain extent of Baldassarre'simbecility. But there was no noticeable pause before he said, "No. Iaccept the test."
There was a dead silence while Rucellai moved towards the recess wherethe books were, and came back with the fine Florentine Homer in hishand. Baldassarre, when he was addressed, had turned his head towardsthe speaker, and Rucellai believed that he had understood him. But hechose to repeat what he had said, that there might be no mistake as tothe test.
"The ring I possess," he said, "is a fine sard, engraved with a subjectfrom Homer. There was no other at all resembling it in Messer Tito'scollection. Will you turn to the passage in Homer from which thatsubject is taken? Seat yourself here," he added, laying the book on thetable, and pointing to his own seat while he stood beside it.
Baldassarre had so far recovered from the first confused horror producedby the sensation of rushing coldness and chiming din in the ears as tobe partly aware of what was said to him: he was aware that something wasbeing demanded from him to prove his identity, but he formed no distinctidea of the details. The sight of the book recalled the habituallonging and faint hope that he could read and understand, and he movedtowards the chair immediately.
The book was open before him, and he bent his head a little towards it,while everybody watched him eagerly. He turned no leaf. His eyeswandered over the pages that lay before him, and then fixed on them astraining gaze. This lasted for two or three minutes in dead silence.Then he lifted his hands to each side of his head, and said, in a lowtone of despair, "Lost, lost!"
There was something so piteous in the wandering look and the low cry,that while they confirmed the belief in his madness they raisedcompassion. Nay, so distinct sometimes is the working of a doubleconsciousness within us, that Tito himself, while he triumphed in theapparent verification of his lie, wished that he had never made the lienecessary to himself--wished he had recognised his father on the steps--wished he had gone to seek him--wished everything had been different.But he had borrowed from the terrible usurer Falsehood, and the loan hadmo
unted and mounted with the years, till he belonged to the usurer, bodyand soul.
The compassion excited in all the witnesses was not without its dangerto Tito; for conjecture is constantly guided by feeling, and more thanone person suddenly conceived that this man might have been a scholarand have lost his faculties. On the other hand, they had not present totheir minds the motives which could have led Tito to the denial of hisbenefactor, and having no ill-will towards him, it would have beendifficult to them to believe that he had been uttering the basest oflies. And the originally common type of Baldassarre's person, coarsenedby years of hardship, told as a confirmation of Tito's lie. IfBaldassarre, to begin with, could have uttered precisely the words hehad premeditated, there might have been something in the form of hisaccusation which would have given it the stamp not only of trueexperience but of mental refinement. But there had been no suchtestimony in his impulsive agitated words: and there seemed the veryopposite testimony in the rugged face and the coarse hands that trembledbeside it, standing out in strong contrast in the midst of thatvelvet-clad, fair-handed company.
His next movement, while he was being watched in silence, told againsthim too. He took his hands from his head, and felt for something underhis tunic. Every one guessed what that movement meant--guessed thatthere was a weapon at his side. Glances were interchanged; and BernardoRucellai said, in a quiet tone, touching Baldassarre's shoulder--
"My friend, this is an important business of yours. You shall have alljustice. Follow me into a private room."
Baldassarre was still in that half-stunned state in which he wassusceptible to any prompting, in the same way as an insect that forms noconception of what the prompting leads to. He rose from his seat, andfollowed Rucellai out of the room.
In two or three minutes Rucellai came back again, and said--
"He is safe under lock and key. Piero Pitti, you are one of theMagnificent Eight, what do you think of our sending Matteo to the palacefor a couple of sbirri, who may escort him to the Stinche? [The largestprison in Florence.] If there is any danger in him, as I think thereis, he will be safe there; and we can inquire about him to-morrow."
Pitti assented, and the order was given.
"He is certainly an ill-looking fellow," said Tornabuoni. "And you sayhe has attempted your life already, Melema?"
And the talk turned on the various forms of madness, and the fiercenessof the southern blood. If the seeds of conjecture unfavourable to Titohad been planted in the mind of any one present, they were hardly strongenough to grow without the aid of much daylight and ill-will. Thecommon-looking, wild-eyed old man, clad in serge, might have won beliefwithout very strong evidence, if he had accused a man who was envied anddisliked. As it was, the only congruous and probable view of the caseseemed to be the one that sent the unpleasant accuser safely out ofsight, and left the pleasant serviceable Tito just where he was before.
The subject gradually floated away, and gave place to others, till aheavy tramp, and something like the struggling of a man who was beingdragged away, were heard outside. The sounds soon died out, and theinterruption seemed to make the last hour's conviviality more resoluteand vigorous. Every one was willing to forget a disagreeable incident.
Tito's heart was palpitating, and the wine tasted no better to him thanif it had been blood.
To-night he had paid a heavier price than ever to make himself safe. Hedid not like the price, and yet it was inevitable that he should be gladof the purchase.
And after all he led the chorus. He was in a state of excitement inwhich oppressive sensations, and the wretched consciousness of somethinghateful but irrevocable, were mingled with a feeling of triumph whichseemed to assert itself as the feeling that would subsist and be masterof the morrow.
And it _was_ master. For on the morrow, as we saw, when he was about tostart on his mission to Rome, he had the air of a man well satisfiedwith the world.