Part 12 (1/2)

He had just stooped to reach his ma.n.u.script, which had rolled down, and Bardo's jealous ear was alive to the slight movement.

t.i.to might have been excused for shrugging his shoulders at the prospect before him, but he was not naturally impatient; moreover, he had been bred up in that laborious erudition, at once minute and copious, which was the chief intellectual task of the age; and with Romola near, he was floated along by waves of agreeable sensation that made everything seem easy.

”a.s.suredly,” he said; ”you wish to enlarge your comments on certain pa.s.sages we have cited.”

”Not only so; I wish to introduce an occasional _excursus_, where we have noticed an author to whom I have given special study; for I may die too soon to achieve any separate work. And this is not a time for scholarly integrity and well-sifted learning to lie idle, when it is not only rash ignorance that we have to fear, but when there are men like Calderino, who, as Poliziano has well shown, have recourse to impudent falsities of citation to serve the ends of their vanity and secure a triumph to their own mistakes. Wherefore, my t.i.to, I think it not well that we should let slip the occasion that lies under our hands. And now we will turn back to the point where we have cited the pa.s.sage from Thucydides, and I wish you, by way of preliminary, to go with me through all my notes on the Latin translation made by Lorenzo Valla, for which the incomparable Pope Nicholas the Fifth--with whose personal notice I was honoured while I was yet young, and when he was still Thomas of Sarzana--paid him (I say not unduly) the sum of five hundred gold scudi.

But inasmuch as Valla, though otherwise of dubious fame, is held in high honour for his severe scholars.h.i.+p, whence the epigrammatist has jocosely said of him that since he went among the shades, Pluto himself has not dared to speak in the ancient languages, it is the more needful that his name should not be as a stamp warranting false wares; and therefore I would introduce an _excursus_ on Thucydides, wherein my castigations of Valla's text may find a fitting place. My Romola, thou wilt reach the needful volumes--thou knowest them--on the fifth shelf of the cabinet.”

t.i.to rose at the same moment with Romola, saying, ”I will reach them, if you will point them out,” and followed her hastily into the adjoining small room, where the walls were also covered with ranges of books in perfect order.

”There they are,” said Romola, pointing upward; ”every book is just where it was when my father ceased to see them.”

t.i.to stood by her without hastening to reach the books. They had never been in this room together before.

”I hope,” she continued, turning her eyes full on t.i.to, with a look of grave confidence--”I hope he will not weary you; this work makes him so happy.”

”And me too, Romola--if you will only let me say, I love you--if you will only think me worth loving a little.”

His speech was the softest murmur, and the dark beautiful face, nearer to hers than it had ever been before, was looking at her with beseeching tenderness.

”I do love you,” murmured Romola; she looked at him with the same simple majesty as ever, but her voice had never in her life before sunk to that murmur. It seemed to them both that they were looking at each other a long while before her lips moved again; yet it was but a moment till she said, ”I know _now_ what it is to be happy.”

The faces just met, and the dark curls mingled for an instant with the rippling gold. Quick as lightning after that, t.i.to set his foot on a projecting ledge of the book-shelves and reached down the needful volumes. They were both contented to be silent and separate, for that first blissful experience of mutual consciousness was all the more exquisite for being unperturbed by immediate sensation.

It had all been as rapid as the irreversible mingling of waters, for even the eager and jealous Bardo had not become impatient.

”You have the volumes, my Romola?” the old man said, as they came near him again. ”And now you will get your pen ready; for, as t.i.to marks off the scholia we determine on extracting, it will be well for you to copy them without delay--numbering them carefully, mind, to correspond with the numbers in the text which he will write.”

Romola always had some task which gave her a share in this joint work.

t.i.to took his stand at the leggio, where he both wrote and read, and she placed herself at a table just in front of him, where she was ready to give into her father's hands anything that he might happen to want, or relieve him of a volume that he had done with. They had always been in that position since the work began, yet on this day it seemed new; it was so different now for them to be opposite each other; so different for t.i.to to take a book from her, as she lifted it from her father's knee. Yet there was no finesse to secure an additional look or touch.

Each woman creates in her own likeness the love-tokens that are offered to her; and Romola's deep calm happiness encompa.s.sed t.i.to like the rich but quiet evening light which dissipates all unrest.

They had been two hours at their work, and were just desisting because of the fading light, when the door opened and there entered a figure strangely incongruous with the current of their thoughts and with the suggestions of every object around them. It was the figure of a short stout black-eyed woman, about fifty, wearing a black velvet berretta, or close cap, embroidered with pearls, under which surprisingly ma.s.sive black braids surmounted the little bulging forehead, and fell in rich plaited curves over the ears, while an equally surprising carmine tint on the upper region of the fat cheeks contrasted with the surrounding sallowness. Three rows of pearls and a lower necklace of gold reposed on the horizontal cus.h.i.+on of her neck; the embroidered border of her trailing black velvet gown and her embroidered long-drooping sleeves of rose-coloured damask, were slightly faded, but they conveyed to the initiated eye the satisfactory a.s.surance that they were the splendid result of six months' labour by a skilled workman; and the rose-coloured petticoat, with its dimmed white fringe and seed-pearl arabesques, was duly exhibited in order to suggest a similar pleasing reflection. A handsome coral rosary hung from one side of an inferential belt, which emerged into certainty with a large clasp of silver wrought in niello; and, on the other side, where the belt again became inferential, hung a sca.r.s.ella, or large purse, of crimson velvet, st.i.tched with pearls. Her little fat right-hand, which looked as if it had been made of paste, and had risen out of shape under partial baking, held a small book of devotions, also splendid with velvet, pearls, and silver.

The figure was already too familiar to t.i.to to be startling, for Monna Brigida was a frequent visitor at Bardo's, being excepted from the sentence of banishment pa.s.sed on feminine triviality, on the ground of her cousins.h.i.+p to his dead wife and her early care for Romola, who now looked round at her with an affectionate smile, and rose to draw the leather seat to a due distance from her father's chair, that the coming gush of talk might not be too near his ear.

”_La cugina_?” said Bardo, interrogatively, detecting the short steps and the sweeping drapery.

”Yes, it is your cousin,” said Monna Brigida, in an alert voice, raising her fingers smilingly at t.i.to, and then lifting up her face to be kissed by Romola. ”Always the troublesome cousin breaking in on your wisdom,”

she went on, seating herself and beginning to fan herself with the white veil hanging over her arm. ”Well, well; if I didn't bring you some news of the world now and then, I do believe you'd forget there was anything in life but these mouldy ancients, who want sprinkling with holy water if all I hear about them is true. Not but what the world is bad enough nowadays, for the scandals that turn up under one's nose at every corner--_I_ don't want to hear and see such things, but one can't go about with one's head in a bag; and it was only yesterday--well, well, you needn't burst out at me, Bardo, I'm not going to tell anything; if I'm not as wise as the three kings, I know how many legs go into one boot. But, nevertheless, Florence is a wicked city--is it not true, Messer t.i.to? for you go into the world. Not but what one must sin a little--Messer Domeneddio expects that of us, else what are the blessed sacraments for? And what I say is, we've got to reverence the saints, and not to set ourselves up as if we could be like them, else life would be unbearable; as it will be if things go on after this new fas.h.i.+on.

For what do you think? I've been at the wedding to-day--Dianora Acciajoli's with the young Albizzi that there has been so much talk of-- and everybody wondered at its being to-day instead of yesterday; but, _cieli_! such a wedding as it was might have been put off till the next Quaresima for a penance. For there was the bride looking like a white nun--not so much as a pearl about her--and the bridegroom as solemn as San Giuseppe. It's true! And half the people invited were _Piagnoni_-- they call them _Piagnoni_ [funeral mourners: properly, paid mourners]

now, these new saints of Fra Girolamo's making. And to think of two families like the Albizzi and the Acciajoli taking up such notions, when they could afford to wear the best! Well, well, they invited me--but they could do no other, seeing my husband was Luca Antonio's uncle by the mother's side--and a pretty time I had of it while we waited under the canopy in front of the house, before they let us in. I couldn't stand in my clothes, it seemed, without giving offence; for there was Monna Berta, who has had worse secrets in her time than any I could tell of myself, looking askance at me from under her hood like a _pinzochera_, [a Sister of the Third Order of Saint Francis: an uncloistered nun] and telling me to read the Frate's book about widows, from which she had found great guidance. Holy Madonna! it seems as if widows had nothing to do now but to buy their coffins, and think it a thousand years till they get into them, instead of enjoying themselves a little when they've got their hands free for the first time. And what do you think was the music we had, to make our dinner lively? A long discourse from Fra Domenico of San Marco, about the doctrines of their blessed Fra Girolamo--the three doctrines we are all to get by heart; and he kept marking them off on his fingers till he made my flesh creep: and the first is, Florence, or the Church--I don't know which, for first he said one and then the other--shall be scourged; but if he means the pestilence, the Signory ought to put a stop to such preaching, for it's enough to raise the swelling under one's arms with fright: but then, after that, he says Florence is to be regenerated; but what will be the good of that when we're all dead of the plague, or something else? And then, the third thing, and what he said oftenest, is, that it's all to be in our days: and he marked that off on his thumb, till he made me tremble like the very jelly before me. They had jellies, to be sure, with the arms of the Albizzi and the Acciajoli raised on them in all colours; they've not turned the world quite upside down yet. But all their talk is, that we are to go back to the old ways: for up starts Francesco Valori, that I've danced with in the Via Larga when he was a bachelor and as fond of the Medici as anybody, and he makes a speech about the old times, before the Florentines had left off crying 'Popolo'

and begun to cry 'Palle'--as if that had anything to do with a wedding!--and how we ought to keep to the rules the Signory laid down heaven knows when, that we were not to wear this and that, and not to eat this and that--and how our manners were corrupted and we read bad books; though he can't say that of _me_--”

”Stop, cousin!” said Bardo, in his imperious tone, for he had a remark to make, and only desperate measures could arrest the rattling lengthiness of Monna Brigida's discourse. But now she gave a little start, pursed up her mouth, and looked at him with round eyes.

”Francesco Valori is not altogether wrong,” Bardo went on. ”Bernardo, indeed, rates him not highly, and is rather of opinion that he christens private grudges by the name of public zeal; though I must admit that my good Bernardo is too slow of belief in that unalloyed patriotism which was found in all its l.u.s.tre amongst the ancients. But it is true, t.i.to, that our manners have degenerated somewhat from that n.o.ble frugality which, as has been well seen in the public acts of our citizens, is the parent of true magnificence. For men, as I hear, will now spend on the transient show of a Giostra sums which would suffice to found a library, and confer a lasting possession on mankind. Still, I conceive, it remains true of us Florentines that we have more of that magnanimous sobriety which abhors a trivial lavishness that it may be grandly open-handed on grand occasions, than can be found in any other city of Italy; for I understand that the Neapolitan and Milanese courtiers laugh at the scarcity of our plate, and think scorn of our great families for borrowing from each other that furniture of the table at their entertainments. But in the vain laughter of folly wisdom hears half its applause.”

”Laughter, indeed!” burst forth Monna Brigida again, the moment, Bardo paused. ”If anybody wanted to hear laughter at the wedding to-day they were disappointed, for when young Niccolo Macchiavelli tried to make a joke, and told stories out of Franco Sacchetti's book, how it was no use for the Signoria to make rules for us women, because we were cleverer than all the painters, and architects, and doctors of logic in the world, for we could make black look white, and yellow look pink, and crooked look straight, and, if anything was forbidden, we could find a new name for it--Holy Virgin! the Piagnoni looked more dismal than before, and somebody said Sacchetti's book was wicked. Well, I don't read it--they can't accuse _me_ of reading anything. Save me from going to a wedding again, if that's to be the fas.h.i.+on; for all of us who were not Piagnoni were as comfortable as wet chickens. I was never caught in a worse trap but once before, and that was when I went to hear their precious Frate last Quaresima in San Lorenzo. Perhaps I never told you about it, Messer t.i.to?--it almost freezes my blood when I think of it.