Part 36 (1/2)
Her simplest road was to go right on to the Borgo Pinti, and then along by the walls to the _Porta_, San Gallo, from which she must leave the city, and this road carried her by the Piazza di Santa Croco. But she walked as steadily and rapidly as ever through the piazza, not trusting herself to look towards the church. The thought that any eyes might be turned on her with a look of curiosity and recognition, and that indifferent minds might be set speculating on her private sorrows, made Romola shrink physically as from the imagination of torture. She felt degraded even by that act of her husband from which she was helplessly suffering. But there was no sign that any eyes looked forth from windows to notice this tall grey sister, with the firm step, and proud att.i.tude of the cowled head. Her road lay aloof from the stir of early traffic, and when she reached the Porta San Gallo, it was easy to pa.s.s while a dispute was going forward about the toll for panniers of eggs and market produce which were just entering.
Out! Once past the houses of the Borgo, she would be beyond the last fringe of Florence, the sky would be broad above her, and she would have entered on her new life--a life of loneliness and endurance, but of freedom. She had been strong enough to snap asunder the bonds she had accepted in blind faith: whatever befell her, she would no more feel the breath of soft hated lips warm upon her cheek, no longer feel the breath of an odious mind stifling her own. The bare wintry morning, the chill air, were welcome in their severity: the leafless trees, the sombre hills, were not haunted by the G.o.ds of beauty and joy, whose wors.h.i.+p she had forsaken for ever.
But presently the light burst forth with sudden strength, and shadows were thrown across the road. It seemed that the sun was going to chase away the greyness. The light is perhaps never felt more strongly as a divine presence stirring all those inarticulate sensibilities which are our deepest life, than in these moments when it instantaneously awakens the shadows. A certain awe which inevitably accompanied this most momentous act of her life became a more conscious element in Romola's feeling as she found herself in the sudden presence of the impalpable golden glory and the long shadow of herself that was not to be escaped.
Hitherto she had met no one but an occasional contadino with mules, and the many turnings of the road on the level prevented her from seeing that Maso was not very far ahead of her. But when she had pa.s.sed Pietra and was on rising ground, she lifted up the hanging roof of her cowl and looked eagerly before her.
The cowl was dropped again immediately. She had seen, not Maso, but-- two monks, who were approaching within a few yards of her. The edge of her cowl making a pent-house on her brow had shut out the objects above the level of her eyes, and for the last few moments she had been looking at nothing but the brightness on the path and at her own shadow, tall and shrouded like a dread spectre.
She wished now that she had not looked up. Her disguise made her especially dislike to encounter monks: they might expect some pious pa.s.swords of which she knew nothing, and she walked along with a careful appearance of unconsciousness till she had seen the skirts of the black mantles pa.s.s by her. The encounter had made her heart beat disagreeably, for Romola had an uneasiness in her religious disguise, a shame at this studied concealment, which was made more distinct by a special effort to appear unconscious under actual glances.
But the black skirts would be gone the faster because they were going down-hill; and seeing a great flat stone against a cypress that rose from a projecting green bank, she yielded to the desire which the slight shock had given her, to sit down and rest.
She turned her back on Florence, not meaning to look at it till the monks were quite out of sight, and raising the edge of her cowl again when she had seated herself, she discerned Maso and the mules at a distance where it was not hopeless for her to overtake them, as the old man would probably linger in expectation of her.
Meanwhile she might pause a little. She was free and alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.
THE BLACK MARKS BECOME MAGICAL.
That journey of t.i.to's to Rome, which had removed many difficulties from Romola's departure, had been resolved on quite suddenly, at a supper, only the evening before.
t.i.to had set out towards that supper with agreeable expectations. The meats were likely to be delicate, the wines choice, the company distinguished; for the place of entertainment was the Selva or Orto de'
Rucellai, or, as we should say, the Rucellai Gardens; and the host, Bernardo Rucellai, was quite a typical Florentine grandee. Even his family name has a significance which is prettily symbolic: properly understood, it may bring before us a little lichen, popularly named _orcella_ or _roccella_, which grows on the rocks of Greek isles and in the Canaries; and having drunk a great deal of light into its little stems and b.u.t.ton-heads, will, under certain circ.u.mstances, give it out again as a reddish purple dye, very grateful to the eyes of men. By bringing the excellent secret of this dye, called _oricello_, from the Levant to Florence, a certain merchant, who lived nearly a hundred years before our Bernardo's time, won for himself and his descendants much wealth, and the pleasantly-suggestive surname of Oricellari, or Roccellari, which on Tuscan tongues speedily became Rucellai.
And our Bernardo, who stands out more prominently than the rest on this purple background, had added all sorts of distinction to the family name: he had married the sister of Lorenzo de' Medici, and had had the most splendid wedding in the memory of Florentine upholstery; and for these and other virtues he had been sent on emba.s.sies to France and Venice, and had been chosen Gonfaloniere; he had not only built himself a fine palace, but had finished putting the black and white marble facade to the church of Santa Maria Novella; he had planted a garden with rare trees, and had made it cla.s.sic ground by receiving within it the meetings of the Platonic Academy, orphaned by the death of Lorenzo; he had written an excellent, learned book, of a new topographical sort, about ancient Rome; he had collected antiquities; he had a pure Latinity. The simplest account of him, one sees, reads like a laudatory epitaph, at the end of which the Greek and Ausonian Muses might be confidently requested to tear their hair, and Nature to desist from any second attempt to combine so many virtues with one set of viscera.
His invitation had been conveyed to t.i.to through Lorenzo Tornabuoni, with an emphasis which would have suggested that the object of the gathering was political, even if the public questions of the time had been less absorbing. As it was, t.i.to felt sure that some party purposes were to be furthered by the excellent flavours of stewed fish and old Greek wine; for Bernardo Rucellai was not simply an influential personage, he was one of the elect Twenty who for three weeks had held the reins of Florence. This a.s.surance put t.i.to in the best spirits as he made his way to the Via della Scala, where the cla.s.sic garden was to be found: without it, he might have had some uneasy speculation as to whether the high company he would have the honour of meeting was likely to be dull as well as distinguished; for he had had experience of various dull suppers even in the Rucellai gardens, and especially of the dull philosophic sort, wherein he had not only been called upon to accept an entire scheme of the universe (which would have been easy to him), but to listen to an exposition of the same, from the origin of things to their complete ripeness in the tractate of the philosopher then speaking.
It was a dark evening, and it was only when t.i.to crossed the occasional light of a lamp suspended before an image of the Virgin, that the outline of his figure was discernible enough for recognition. At such moments any one caring to watch his pa.s.sage from one of these lights to another might have observed that the tall and graceful personage with the mantle folded round him was followed constantly by a very different form, thickset and elderly, in a serge tunic and felt hat. The conjunction might have been taken for mere chance, since there were many pa.s.sengers along the streets at this hour. But when t.i.to stopped at the gate of the Rucellai gardens, the figure behind stopped too. The _sportello_, or smaller door of the gate, was already being held open by the servant, who, in the distraction of attending to some question, had not yet closed it since the last arrival, and t.i.to turned in rapidly, giving his name to the servant, and pa.s.sing on between the evergreen bushes that shone like metal in the torchlight. The follower turned in too.
”Your name?” said the servant.
”Balda.s.sarre Calvo,” was the immediate answer.
”You are not a guest; the guests have all pa.s.sed.”
”I belong to t.i.to Melema, who has just gone in. I am to wait in the gardens.”
The servant hesitated. ”I had orders to admit only guests. Are you a servant of Messer t.i.to?”
”No, friend, I am not a servant; I am a scholar.”
There are men to whom you need only say, ”I am a buffalo,” in a certain tone of quiet confidence, and they will let you pa.s.s. The porter gave way at once, Balda.s.sarre entered, and heard the door closed and chained behind him, as he too disappeared among the s.h.i.+ning bushes.
Those ready and firm answers argued a great change in Balda.s.sarre since the last meeting face to face with t.i.to, when the dagger broke in two.
The change had declared itself in a startling way.