Romola ... Illustrated edition

Book I. Cdap

I. The Shipwrecked Stranger 9 II. A Breakfast for Love 22 III. The Barber's Shop .' 26 IV. First Impresstons 37 V. The Blind Scholar and his Daughter 40 VI. Dawning Hopes 54 VII. A Learned Squabble 69 Vin. A Face in the Crowd 75 IX. A Man's Ransom 87 X. Under the Plane-tree 94 XI. Tito's Dilemma 105 XII. The Prize is nearly Grasped 109 Xm. The Shadow of Nemesis 121 XTV. The Peasants' Fair 127 XV. The Dying Message 142 XVI. A Florentine Joke 150 XVH. Under the Loggia 163 XVIII. The Portrait 169 XIX. The Old Man's Hope 175 XX. The Day of the Betrothal CONTENTS. VI

Book II. Chap

pio,! XXI. Florence expects a Guest I89 XXII. The Prisoners 196 XXni. After-Thoughts 204 XXIV. Inside the Duomo 207 XXV. Outside the Duomo 213 XXVI. The Garment of Fear 217 XXVII. The Young Wife 222 XXVEH. The Painted Record 232 XXIX. A Moment of Triumph 237 XXX. The Avenger's Secret 244 XXXI. Fruit is Seed 253 XXXH. A Revelation 258 XXXIH. Baldassarre makes _ln Acquaintance 268 XXXIV. No Place for Repentance 276 XXXV. What Florence was Thinking of 287 XXXVI. Ariadne Discrowns Herself 291 XXXVH. The Tabernacle Unlocked 301 XXXVHI. The Black Marks become Magical 305 XXXIX. A Supper in the Rucellai Gardens 311 XL. An Arresting Voice 327 XLI. Coming Back 335

Book III. Xlh

Romola in her Place 339 XLIH. The Unseen Madonna 346 XLIV. The Visible Madonna 352 XLV. At the Barber's Shop 358 XL VI. By a Street Lamp CONTENTS. VU CHAP. Pi0E XLVn. Check 374 XL VIH. Counter-check 377 XLIX. The Pyramid of Vanities 383 L. Tessa Abroad and at Home 389 LI. Monna Brigida's Conversion 399 Ln. A Prophetess 404 LIII. On San Miniato 410 LIV. The Evening and the Morning 415 LV. Waiting '. 419 LVI. The other Wife 422 LVII. Why Tito was Safe 433 LVin. A Final Understanding 439 LIX. Pleading 445 LX. The Scaffold 453 LXI. Drifting Away 460 LXII. The Benediction 464 LXIII. Ripening Schemes 468 LXIV. The Prophet in his Cell 479 LXV. The Trial by Fire 487 LXVT. A Masque of the Furies 495 LXVII. Waiting by the River 499 LXVIII. Romola's Waking 505 LXLX. Homeward 5 1 4 LXX. Meeting Again 517 LXXI.

The Confession 522 LXXn. The Last Silence 528 Epilogue LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Will his Eyes Open? Frontispiece. The Dying Message to face page 142 The Visible Madonna „ 355 A Dangerous Colleague „ ROMOLA PROEM. More than three centuries and a half ago, in the mid springtime of 1492, we are sure that the angel of the dawn, as he travelled with broad slow wing from the Levant to the Pillars of Hercules, and from the summits of the Caucasus across all the snowy Alpine ridges to the dark nakedness of the Western isles, saw nearly the same outline of firm land and unstable sea — saw the same great mountain shadows on the same valleys as he has seen to-day — saw olive mounts, and pine forests, and the broad plains, green with young corn or rainfreshened grass — saw the domes and spires of cities rising by the river sides or mingled with the sedge-like masts on the many-curved sea-coast, in the same spots where they rise to-day.

And as the faint light of his course pierced into the dwellings of men, it fell, as now, on the rosy warmth of nestling children ; on the haggard waking of sorrow and sickness ; on the hasty uprising of the hard-handed labourer ; and on the late sleep of the night-student, who had been questioning the stars or the sages, or his own soul, for that hidden knowledge which would break through the barrier of man's brief life, and show its dark path, that seemed to bend no whither, to be an arc in an immeasurable circle of light and glory. The great river courses which have shaped the lives of men have hardly changed ; and those other streams, the life currents that ebb and flow in human hearts, pulsate to the same great needs, the same great loves and terrors. As our thought follows close in the slow wake of the dawn, we are impressed with the broad sameness of the human lot, which ROMOLA. never alters in the main headings of its history — hunger and labour, seed-time and harvest, love and death.

Even if, instead of following the dim daybreak, our imagination pauses on a certain historical spot, and awaits the fuller morning, we may see a world-famous city, which has hardly changed its outline since the days of Columbus, seeming to stand as an almost unviolated symbol, amidst the flux of human things, to remind us that we still resemble the men of the past more than we differ from them, as the great mechanical principles on which those domes and towera were raised must make a likeness in human building that will be broader and deeper than all possible change. And doubtless, if the spirit of a Florentine citizen, whose eyes were closed for the last time while Columbus was still waiting and arguing for the three poor vessels with which he was to set sail from the port of Palos, could return from the shades, and pause where our thought is pausing, he would believe that there must still be fellowship and understanding for him among the inheritors of his birth-place.

Let us suppose that such a Shade has been permitted to revisit the glimpses of the golden morning, and is standing once more on the famous hill of San Miniato, which overlooks Florence from the south. The Spirit is clothed in his habit as he lived : the folds of his well-lined black silk garment or lucco hang in grave Unbroken lines from neck to ankle ; his plain cloth cap, with its becchetto, or long hanging strip of drapery, to serve as a scarf in case of need, surmounts a penetrating face, not, perhaps, very handsome, but with a firm, well-cut mouth, kept distinctly human by a close-shaven lip and chin. It is a face charged with memories of a keen and various life passed below there on the banks of the gleaming river ; and as he looks at the scene before him, the sense of familiarity is so much stronger than the perception of change, that he thinks it might be possible to descend once more amongst the streets, and take up that busy life where he left it.

For it is not only the mountains and the westward-bending river that he recognizes ; not only the dark sides of Mount Morello opposite to him, and the long valley of the Amo that seems to stretch its gray low-tufted luxuriance to the far-off ridges of Carrara ; and the steep height of Fiesole, with its crown of monastic walls and cypresses ; and all the green and gray slopes sprinkled with villas which he can name as he looks at them. PROEM ■- He sees other familiar objects much closer to his daily walks. For though he misses the seventy or more towers that once surmounted the walls, and encircled the city as with a regal diadem, his eyes will not dwell on that blank; they are drawn irresistibly to the unique tower springing, like a tall flowerstem drawn towards the sun, from the square turreted mass of the Old Palace in the very heart of the city — the tower that looks none the worse for the four centuries that have passed since he used to walk under it.

The great dome, too, greatest in the world, which, in his early boyhood, had been only a daring thought in the mind of a small, quick-eyed man — there it raises its large curves still, eclipsing the hills. And the well-known bell-towers — Giotto's, with its distant hint of rich colour, and the graceful spired Badia, and the rest — he looked at them all from the shoulder of his nurse. "Surely," he thinks, "Florence can still ring her bells with the solemn hammer-sound that used to beat on the hearts of her citizens and strike out the fire there. And here, on the right, stands the long dark mass of Santa Croce, where we buried our famous dead, laying the laurel on their cold brows and fanning them with the breath of praise and of banners. But Santa Croce had no spire then : we Florentines were too full of great building projects to carry them all out in stone and marble ; we had our frescoes and ' our shrines to pay for, not to speak of rapacious condottieri, bribed royalty, and purchased territories, and our fa£ades and spires must needs wait.

But what architect can the Frati Minori * have employed to build that spire for them ? If it had been built in my day, Filippo Brunelleschi or Michelozzo would have devised something of another fashion than that — something worthy to crown the church of Amolfo." At this the Spirit, with a sigh, lets his eyes travel on to the city walls, and now he dwells on the change there with wonder at these modern times. Why have five out of the eleven convenient gates been closed ? And why, above all, should the towers have been levelled that were once a glory and defence ? Is the world become so peaceful, then, and do Florentines dwell iu such harmony, that there are no longer conspiracies to bring ambitious exiles home again with armed bands at their back ? These are difficult questions : it is easier and pleasanter to recognize the old than to account * The Franciscans. 1—2 ROMOLA. for the new.

And there flows Amo, with its bridges just where they used to be — the Ponte Vecchio, least like other bridges in the world, laden with the same quaint shops, where our Spirit remembers lingering a little, on his way perhaps to look at the progress of that great palace which Messer Luca Pitti had set a-building with huge stones got from the Hill of Bogoli* close behind, or perhaps to trans act a little business with the cloth-dressers in Oltramo. _ The exorbitant line of the Pitti roof is hidden from San Miniato ; but the yearning of the old Florentine is not to see Messer Luca's too ambitious palace which he built unto himself; it is to be down among those narrow streets and busy humming Piazze where he inherited the eager life of his fathers. Is not the anxious voting with black and white beans still going on down there ?

Who are the Priori in these months, eating soberly-regulated official dinners in the Palazzo Vecchio, with removes of tripe and boiled partridges, seasoned by practical jokes against the ill-fated butt among those potent signors? Are not the significant banners still hung from the windows — still distributed with decent pomp under Orcagua's Loggia every two months? Life had its zest for the old Florentine when he, too, trod the marble steps and shared in those dignities. His politics had an area as wide as his trade, which stretched from Syria to Britain, but they had also the passionate intensity, and the detailed practical interest, which could belong only to a narrow scene of corporate action ; only to the members of a com munity shut in close by the hills and by walls of six miles' circuit, where men knew each other as they passed in the street, set their eyes every day on the memorials of their commonwealth, and were conscious of having not only the right to vote, but the chance of being voted for.

He loved his honours and his gains, the business of his counting-house, of his guild, of the public council-chamber ; he loved his enmities too, and fingered the white bean which was to keep a hated name out of the borsa with more complacency than if it had been a golden florin. He loved to strengthen his family by a good alliance, and went home with a triumphant light in his eyes after concluding a satisfactory marriage for his son or daughter, under his favourite loggia in the evening cool ; he loved his game at chess under that same loggia, and * Now Boboli. TROEM. his biting jest, and even his coarse joke, as not beneath the dignity of a man eligible for the highest magistracy. He had gained an insight into all sorts of affairs at home and abroad : he had been of the " Ten " who managed the war department, of the "Eight" who attended to home discipline, of the Priori or Signori who were the heads of the executive govern ment ; he had even risen to the supreme office of Gonfaloniere ; he had made one in embassies to the Pope and to the Vene tians ; and he had been commissary to the hired army of the Republic, directing the inglorious bloodless battles in which no man died of brave breast wounds — virtuosi colpi — but only of casual falls and tramplings.

And in this way he had learned to distrust men without bitterness ; looking on life mainly as a game of skill, but not dead to traditions of heroism and clean-handed honour. For the human soul is hospitable, and will entertain conflicting sentiments and con tradictory opinions with much impartiality. It was his pride besides, that he was duly tinctured with the learning of his age, and judged not altogether with the vulgar, but in harmony with the ancients : he, too, in his prime, had been eager for the most correct manuscripts, and had paid many florins for antique vases and for disinterred busts of the ancient immortals — some, perhaps, truncis naribus, wanting as to the nose, but not the less authentic ; and in his old age he had made haste to look at the first sheets of that fine Homer which was among the early glories of the Florentine press.

But he had not, for all that, neglected to hang up a waxen image or double of himself under the protection of the Madonna Annunziata, or to do penance for his sins in large gifts to the shrines of saints whose lives had not been modelled on the study of the classics ; he had not even neglected making liberal bequests towards buildings for the Frati, against whom he had levelled many a jest. For the Unseen Powers were mighty. Who knew — who was sure — that there was any name given to them behind which there was no angry force to be appeased, no intercessory pity to be won? Were not gems medicinal, though they only pressed the finger ? Were not all things charged with occult virtues ? Lucretius might be right — he was an ancient and a great poet ; Luigi Pulci, too, who was suspected of not believ ing anything from the roof upward (dal tetto in su), had very much the air of being right over the supper-table, when the wine and riboboli were circulating fast, though he was only a ROMOLA. poet in the vulgar tongue.

There were even learned person ages who maintained that Aristotle, wisest of men (unless, indeed, Plato were wiser?), was a thoroughly irreligious philosopher ; and a liberal scholar must entertain all speculations. But the negatives might, after all, prove false ; nay, seemed manifestly false, as the circling hours swept past him, and turned round with graver faces. For had not the world become Christian ? Had he not been baptized in San Giovanni, where the dome is awful with the symbols of coming judgment, and where the altar bears a crucified Image disturbing to perfect complacency in oneself and the world? Our resuscitated Spirit was not a pagan philosopher, nor a philosophizing pagan poet, but a man of the fifteenth century, inheriting its strange web of belief and unbelief; of Epicurean levity and fetichistic dread ; of pedantic impossible ethics uttered by rote, and crude passions acted out with childish impulsiveness ; of inclination towards a self-indulgent paganism, and inevitable subjection to that human conscience which, in the unrest of a new growth, was filling the air with strange prophecies and presentiments.

He had smiled, perhaps, and shaken his head dubiously, as he heard simple folk talk of a Pope Angelico, who was to come by-and-by and bring in a new order of things, to purify the Church from simony, and the lives of the clergy from scandal — a state of affairs too different from what existed under Innocent the Eighth for a shrewd merchant and politician to regard the prospect as worthy of entering into his calcula tions. But he felt the evils of the time, nevertheless ; for he was a man of public spirit, and public spirit can never be wholly immoral, since its essence is care for a common good. That very Quaresima, or Lent, of 1492, in which he died, still in his erect old age, he had listened in San Lorenzo, not without a mixture of satisfaction, to the preaching of a Dominican Friar, named Girolamo Savonarola, who denounced with a rare boldness the worldliness and vicious habits of the clergy, and insisted on the duty of Christian men not to live for their own ease when wrong was triumphing in high places, and not to spend their wealth in outward pomp even in the churches, when their fellow-citizens were suffering from want and sickness.

The Frate carried his doctrine rather too far for elderly ears ; yet it was a memorable thing to see a preacher move his audience to such a pitch that the women even took off their ornaments, and delivered them up to be sold for the benefit of the needy. PROEM. 7 " He was a noteworthy man, that Prior of San Marco," thinks our Spirit; " somewhat arrogant and extreme, perhaps, especially in his denunciations of speedy vengeance. Ah, Iddio non paga il Sabato * — the wages of men's sins often linger in their payment, and I myself saw much established wickedness of long-standing prosperity. But a Frate Predicatore who wanted to move the people — how could he be moderate ? He might have been a little less defiant and curt, though, to Lorenzo de' Medici, whose family had been the very makers of San Marco : was that quarrel ever made up ?

And our Lorenzo himself, with the dim outward eyes and the subtle inward vision, did he get over that illness at Careggi ? It was but a sad, uneasy-looking face that he would carry out of the world which had given him so much, and there were strong suspicions that his handsome son would play the part of Rehoboam. How has it all turned out ? Which party is likely to be banished and have its houses sacked just now ? Is there any successor of the incomparable Lorenzo, to whom the great Turk is so gracious as to send over presents of rare animals, rare relics, rare manuscripts, or fugitive enemies, suited to the tastes of a Christian Magnifico who is at once lettered and devout — and also slightly vindictive ? And what famous scholar is dictating the Latin letters of the Republic — what fiery philosopher is lecturing on Dante in the Duomo, and going home to write bitter invectives against the father and mother of the bad critic who may have found fault with his classical spelling ?

Are our wiser heads leaning towards alliance with the Pope and the Regno,f or are they rather inclining their ears to the orators of France and of Milan ? " There is knowledge of these things to be had in the streets below, on the beloved marmi in front of the churches, and under the sheltering Loggie, where surely our citizens have still their gossip and debates, their bitter and merry jests as of old. For are not the well-remembered buildings all there ? The changes have not been so great in those uncounted years. I will go down and hear — I will tread the familiar pavement, and hear once again the speech of Flo rentines." Go not down, good Spirit ! for the changes are great, and the speech of Florentines would sound as a riddle iu your * " God does not pay on a Saturday." ■(■ The name given to Naples by way of distinction among the Italian States.

ROMOLA. ears. Or, if you go, mingle with no politicians on the marmi, or elsewhere ; ask no questions about trade in the Calimara ; confuse yourself with no inquiries into scholarship, official ov monastic. Only look at the sunlight and shadows on the grand walls that were built solidly, and have endured in their grandeur; look at the faces of the little children, making another sunlight amid the shadows of age ; look, if you will, into the churches, and hear the same chants, see the same images as of old — the images of willing anguish for a great end, of beneficent love and ascending glory ; see upturned living faces, and lips moving to the old prayers for help. These things have not changed. The sunlight and shadows bring their old beauty and waken the old heart-strains at morning, noon, and even-tide ; the little children are still the symbol of the eternal marriage between love and duty ; and men still yearn for the reign of peace and righteousness — still own that life to be the highest which is a conscious voluntary sacrifice. For the Pope Angelico is not come yet.

Book I Chapter

I. THE SHIPWRECKED STRANGER. The Loggia de' Cerchi stood in the heart of old Florence, within a labyrinth of narrow streets behind the Badia, now rarely threaded by the stranger, unless in a dubious search for a certain severely simple door-place, bearing this inscription : QUI NACQUE IL DIVINO POETA. To the ear of Dante, the same streets rang with the shout and clash of fierce battle between rival families ; but in the fifteenth century, they were only noisy with the unhistorical quarrels and broad jests of wool-carders in the cloth-producing quarters of San Martino and Garbo. Under this loggia, in the early morning of the 9th of April, 1492, two men had their eyes fixed on each other : one was stooping slightly, and looking downward with the scrutiny of curiosity ; the other, lying on the pavement, was looking upward with the startled gaze of a suddenly-awrakened dreamer.

The standing figure was the first to speak. He was a grey-haired, broad-shouldered man, of the type which, in Tuscan phrase, is moulded with the fist and polished with the pickaxe ; but the self-important gravity which had written itself out in the deep lines about his brow and mouth seemed intended to correct any contemptuous inferences from the hasty workmanship which Nature had bestowed on his exterior. He had deposited a large well-filled bag, made of skins, on the pavement, and before him hung a pedlar's basket, garnished partly with small woman's-ware, such as thread and pins, and partly with fragments of glass, which had probably been taken in exchange for those commodities. " Young man," he said, pointing to a ring on the finger of ROMOLA. the reclining figure, " when your chin has got a stiffer crop on it, you'll know better than to take your r/ap in street corners with a ring like that on your forefinger.

By the holy 'vangels ! if it had been anybody but me standing over you two minutes ago but Bratti Ferravecchi is not the man to steal. The cat couldn't eat her mouse if she didn't catch it alive, and Bratti couldn't relish gain if it had no taste of a bargain. Why, young man, one San Giovanni, three years ago, the Saint sent a dead body in my way — a blind beggar, with his cap well-lined with pieces — but, if you'll believe me, my stomach turned against the testoni I'd never bargained for, till it came into my head that San Giovanni owed me the pieces for what I spend yearly at the Festa ; besides, I buried the body and paid for a mass — and so I saw it was a fail bargain. But how comes a young man like you, with the face of Messer San Michele, to be sleeping on a stone bed with the wind for a curtain ?

" The deep guttural sounds of the speaker were scarcely intelligible to the newly-waked, bewildered listener, but he understood the action of pointing to his ring : he looked down at it, aud, with a half-automatic obedience to the warning, took it off and thrust it within his doublet, rising at the same time and stretching himself. " Your tunic and hose match ill with that jewel, young man," said Bratti, deliberately. " Anybody might say the saints had sent you a dead body ; but if you took the jewels, I hope you buried him — and you can afford a mass or two for him into the bargain." Something like a painful thrill appeared to dart through the frame of the listener, and arrest the careless stretching of his arms and chest. For an instant he turned on Bratti with a sharp frown ; but he immediately recovered an air of indifference, took off the red Levantine cap which hung like a great purse over his left ear, pushed back his long dark-brown curls, and glancing at his dress, said, smilingly, " You speak truth, friend : my garments are as weather stained as an old sail, and they are not old either, only, like an old sail, they have had a sprinkling of the sea as well as the rain.

The fact is, I'm a stranger in Florence, and when I came in foot-sore last night I preferred flinging myself in a comer of this hospitable porch to hunting any longer for a chance hostelry, which might turn out to be a nest of blood suckers of more sorts than one." " A stranger, in good sooth," said Bratti, " for the words come all melting out of your throat, so that a Christian and a Florentine can't tell a hook from a hanger. But you're not from Genoa ? More likely from Venice, by the cut of your clothes ? " " At this present moment," said tho stranger, smiling, " it is of less importance where I come from than where I can go to for a mouthful of breakfast. This city of yours turns a grim look on me just here : can you show me the way to a more lively quarter, where I can get a meal and a lodging ?"

" That I can," said Bratti, " and it is your good fortune, young man, that I have happened to be walking in from Rovezzano this morning, and turned out of my way to Mercato Vecchio to say an Ave at the Badia. That, I say, is your good fortune. But it remains to be seen what is my profit in the matter. Nothing for nothing, young man. If I show you the way to Mercato Vecchio, you'll swear by your patron saint to let me have the bidding for that stained suit of yours, when you set up a better — as doubtless you will." "Agreed, by San Niccolo," said the other, laughing. " But now let us set off to this said Mercato, for I feel the want of a better lining to this doublet of mine which you are coveting." " Coveting ? Nay," said Bratti, hearing his bag on his back and setting out. But he broke off in his reply, and burst out in loud, harsh tones, not unlike the creaking and grating of a cart-wheel : " Chi abbaratia — baratta — b'ratta — chi abba ratta cenci e vctri — b'ratta ferri vecchi ?

"* " It's worth but little," he said presently, relapsing into his conversational tone. " Hose and altogether, your clothes are worth but little. Still, if you've a mind to set yourself up with a lute worth more than any new one, or with a sword that's been worn by a Ridolfi, or with a paternoster of the best mode, I could let you have a great bargain, by making an allowance for the clothes ; for, simple as I stand here, I've got the best furnished shop in the Ferravecchi, and it's close by the Mercato. The Virgin be praised ! it's not a pumpkin I carry on my shoulders. But I don't stay caged in my shop all day : I've got a wife and a raven to stay at home and mind the stock. Chi abbaratta — baratta — b'ratta .' .... And now, young man, where do you come from, and what's your business in Florence ? ' ' * " Who wants to exchange rags, broken glass, or old iron ?

" ROMOLA, "I thought you liked nothing that came to you without a bargain," said the stranger. " You've offered me nothing yet in exchange for that information." " Well, well ; a Florentine doesn't mind bidding a fail price for news : it stays the stomach a little though he may win no hose by it. If I take you to the prettiest damsel in the Mercato to get a cup of milk — that will be a fair bargain." " Nay ; I can find her myself, if she be really in the Mercato ; for pretty heads are apt to look forth of doors and windows. No, no. Besides, a sharp trader, like you, ought to know that he who bids for nuts and news, may chance to find them hollow." "Ah! young man," said Bratti, with a sideway glance of some admiration, " you were not born of a Sunday — the salt shops were open when you came into the world.