 CHAPTER XXXIII BALDIZAR makes an acquaintance. When Baldazar was wandering about Florence in search of a spare outhouse where he might have the cheapest of sheltered beds, his steps had been attracted towards that sole portion of ground within the walls of the city which is not perfectly level, and where the spectator lifted above the roofs of the houses, conceived beyond the city to the protecting hills and far-stretching valley, otherwise shed out from his view except along the welcome opening made by the course of the Arno. Part of that ground has been already seen by us as the hill of Bogoli. At that time a great stone quarry, but the side towards which Baldazar directed his steps was the one that sloped down behind the Via de Bardi, and was most commonly called the Hill of San Giorgio. He had told him that Tito's dwelling was in the Via de Bardi, and after surveying that street he turned up the slope of the hill which he had observed as he was crossing the bridge. If he could find a sheltering outhouse on that hill he would be glad. He had now for some years been accustomed to live with the broad sky above him, and moreover the narrow passes of the streets with their strip of sky above and the unknown labyrinth around them seemed to intensify his sense of loneliness and feeble memory. The hill was sparsely inhabited and covered chiefly by gardens, but in one spot was a piece of rough ground jagged with great stones, which had never been cultivated since a landslip had ruined some houses there towards the end of the 13th century. Just above the edge of this broken ground stood a queer little square building, looking like a truncated tower roofed in with fluted tiles, and close by was a small outhouse, apparently built up against a piece of ruined stone wall. Under a large half-dead mulberry tree that was now sending its last fluttering leaves in at the open doorways, a shriveled, hearty old woman was untying a goat with two kids, and Baldazar could see that part of the oak building was occupied by livestock, but the door of the other part was open, and it was empty of everything but some tools and straw. It was just the sort of place he wanted. He spoke to the old woman, but it was not till he got close to her and showed it in her ear that he succeeded in making her understand his wantable lodging and his readiness to pay for it. At first he could get no answer beyond shakes of the head and the words, No, no lodging, uttered in a muffled tone of the deaf. But by did to persistence he made clear to her that he was a poor stranger from a long way overseas, and could not afford to go to hostelries, that he only wanted to lie on the straw in the outhouse, and would pay her a quatrino or two a week for that shelter. She still looked at him dubiously, shaking her head and talking low to herself, but presently, as if a new thought occurred to her, she fetched a hatchet from the house and, showing him a chump that lay half-covered with litter in a corner, asked him if he would chop that up for her. If he would, he might lie in the outhouse for one night. He agreed, and Mona Lisa stood with her arms of Kimbo to watch him, with a smile of gratified cunning, saying low to herself. It's lain there ever since my old man died. What then? I might as well have put a stone on the fire. He chops very well, though he does speak with a foreign tongue and looks odd. I couldn't have got it done cheaper, and if he only wants a bit of straw to lie on, I might make him do an errand or two up and down the hill. Who need no? A sin that's hidden's half-forgiven. Picado, Solado, Amizo, Perdonado. He's a stranger. He'll take no notice of her, and I'll tell her to keep her tongue still. The antecedent to these feminine pronouns had a pair of blue eyes, which at the moment was applied to a large round hole in the shutter of the upper window. The shutter was closed, not for any pinot reasons, but because only the opposite window had the luxury of glass in it. The weather was not warm, and a round hole four inches in diameter served all the purposes of observation. The hole was, unfortunately, a little too high, and obliged the small observer to stand at a low stool of a rickety character. But Tessa would have stood a long while in a much more inconvenient position for the sake of seeing a little variety in her life. She had been drawn to the opening at the first loud tones of the strange voice speaking to Mona Lisa, and darting gently across her room every now and then to peep at something. She continued to stand there until the wood had been chopped, and she saw Baltazar enter the out-house, as the desk was gathering, and seat himself on the straw. A great temptation had laid hold of Tessa's mind. She would go and take that old man part of her supper and talk to him a little. He was not deaf like Mona Lisa, and besides, she could say a great many things to him, that it was no use to show it at Mona Lisa, who knew them already. And he was a stranger. Strangers came from a long way off, and went away again, and lived nowhere in particular. But it was naughty, she knew, for obedience made the largest part in Tessa's idea of duty. But it would be something to confess to the Padre next Pasquois. And there was nothing else to confess, except going to sleep sometimes over her beads, and being a little cross with Mona Lisa because she was so deaf, for she had as much idleness as she liked now, and was never frightened into telling white lies. She turned away from her shutter with rather an excited expression in her childish face, which was as pretty and pouting as ever. Her garb was still that of a simple Contadena, but of a Contadena prepared for a festa. Her gown of dark green surge, with its red girdle, was very clean and neat. She had the string of red-glass beads round her neck, and her brown hair, rough from curliness, was duly knotted up and fastened with the silver pin. She had but one new ornament, and she was very proud of it, for it was a fine gold ring. Tessa sat on the low stool, nursing her knees for a minute or two, with her little soul poised in fluttering excitement on the edge of this pleasant transgression. It was quite irresistible. She had been commanded to make no acquaintances, and warned that if she did, all her new happy lot would vanish away and be like a hidden treasure that turned to lead as soon as it was brought to the daylight. And she had been so obedient that when she had to go to church, she had kept her face shaded by her hood, and had pursed up her lips quite tightly. It was true her obedience had been a little helped by her own dread, lest the alarming stepfather no fry. She turned up even in this quarter so far from the poor Del Prado, and beat her, at least, if he did not drag her back to work for him. But this old man was not an acquaintance. He was a poor stranger going to sleep in the out-house, and he probably knew nothing of stepfather no fry, and besides, if she took him some supper, he would like her and not want to tell anything about her. Mona Lisa would say she must not go and talk to him. Therefore Mona Lisa must not be consulted. It did not signify what she found out after it had been done. After was being prepared, she knew, a mountain of macaroni flavored with cheese, fragrant enough to tame any stranger. So she tripped downstairs with the mind full of deep designs, and first asking, with an innocent look, what that noise of talking had been, without waiting for an answer, knit her brow with the preemptory air, something like a kitten trying to be formidable, and sent the old woman upstairs, saying, she chose to eat her supper down below. In three minutes, Tessa withered lantern in one hand, and a wooden bowl of macaroni in the other, was kicking gently at the door of the outhouse, and Baldazar, roused from sad reverie, doubted in the first moment whether he were awake as he opened the door and saw the surprising little handmaid with delight in her wide eyes, breaking in on his dismal loneliness. I have brought you some supper, she said, lifting her mouth towards his ear and shouting as if he had been deaf like Mona Lisa, sit down and eat it while I stay with you. Surprise and distrust surmounted every other feeling in Baldazar, but though he had no smile or word of gratitude ready, there could not be any impulse to push away this visitant, and he sank down passively on his straw-gain, while Tessa placed herself close to him, put the wooden bowl on his lap, and set down the lantern in front of them, crossing her hands before her and nodding at the bowl with a significant smile as much as to say, yes, you may really eat it. For in the excitement of carrying out her deed, she had forgotten her previous thought that the stranger would not be deaf, and had fallen into her pitual alternative of dumb show and shouting. The invitation was not a disagreeable one, for he had been gnawing in remnant of dry bread, which had left plenty of appetite for anything warm and relishing. Tessa watched the disappearance of two or three mouthfuls without speaking, for she had thought his eyes rather fierce at first, but now she ventured to put her mouth to his ear again and cry, I like my supper, don't you? It was not a smile, but rather the milder look of a dog touched by kindness, but unable to smile. The Baldazar turned on this round blue-eyed thing that was carrying about him. Yes, he said, but I can hear well, I'm not deaf. It is true, I forgot, said Tessa, lifting her hands and clasping them. But Mona Lisa is deaf, and I live with her. She's a kind old woman, and I'm not frightened of her. And we live very well. We have plenty of nice things. I can have nuts if I like, and I'm not obliged to work now. I used to have to work, and I didn't like it. But I like feeding the mules, and I should like to see poor Gianetta the little mule again. We've only got a goat and two kids, and I used to talk to the goat a good deal, because there was nobody else but Mona Lisa. But now I've got something else. Can you guess what it is? She drew her head back and looked with a challenging smile at Baldazar, as if she had proposed a difficult riddle to him. No, said he, putting aside his bull and looking at her dreamily. It seemed as if this young, praddling thing were some memory come back out of his own youth. You like me to talk to you, don't you? said Tessa. But you must not tell anybody. Shall I fetch you a bit of cold sausage? He shook his head, but he looked so mild now that Tessa felt quite at her ease. Well then, I've got a little baby, such a pretty bambinetto, with little fingers and nails. Not old yet. It was born at the Natavita, Mona Lisa says. I was married one Natavita a long, long while ago, and nobody knew. Oh, Santa Madonna, I didn't mean to tell you that. Tessa set up her shoulders and bit her lip, looking at Baldazar as if this portrayal of secrets must have an exciting effect on him, too. But he seemed not to care much, and perhaps that was in the nature of strangers. Yes, she said, carrying on her thought aloud, you are a stranger. You don't live anywhere or know anybody, do you? No, said Baldazar, also thinking aloud rather than consciously answering, I only know one man. His name is not no fry, is it? Asked Tessa anxiously. No, said Baldazar, noticing her look of fear. Is that your husband's name? That mistaken supposition was very amusing to Tessa. She laughed and clapped her hands as she said, no indeed, but I must not tell you anything about my husband. You would never think what he is. No, not at all, like no fry. She laughed again at the delightful incongruity between the name of no fry, which was not separable from the idea of the cross-grain setfather and the idea of her husband. But I don't see him very often. She went on more gravely. And sometimes I play to the holy Madonna to send him oftener, and once she did. But I must go back to my bimbo now. I'll bring it to show you tomorrow. You would like to see it. Sometimes it cries and makes a face, but only when it's hungry. Mona Lisa says, you won't think it, but Mona Lisa had babies once, and they are all dead old men. My husband says she will never die now, because she's so well dried. I'm glad of that, for I'm fond of her. You would like to stay here tomorrow, shouldn't you? I should like to have this place to come and rest in. That's all, said Balthazar. I would pay for it and harm nobody. No, indeed, I think you are not a bad old man. But you look sorry about something. Tell me, is there anything you shall cry about when I leave you it by yourself? I used to cry once. No, child, I think I shall cry no more. That's right, and I'll bring you some breakfast and show you the bimbo. Good night. Tessa took up her bowl and lantern and closed the door behind her. The pretty loving apparition had been no more to Balthazar than a faint rainbow on the blackness to the man who was wrestling in deep waters. He hardly thought of her again till his dreamy waking past into the most vivid images of disturbed sleep. But Tessa thought much of him. She had no sooner entered the host than she told Mona Lisa what she had done, and insisted that the stranger should be allowed to come and rest in the out-house when he liked. The old woman, who had had her notions of making him a useful tenant, made a great show of reluctance, shook her head, and urged that Mesa Naldo would be angry if she let anyone come about the house. Tessa did not believe that Naldo had said nothing against strangers who lived nowhere, and this old man knew nobody except one person, who was not no fry. Well conceded Mona Lisa at last, if I let him stay for a while and carry things up the hill for me, thou must keep thy counsel and tell nobody. No, Tessa, I'll only tell the Bimbo. And then Mona Lisa went on, in her thick undertone, God may love us well enough not to let Mesa Naldo find out anything about it, for he never comes here but at dark, and as he was here two days ago it's likely he'll never come at all till the old man's gone away again. O me, Mona, said Tessa, clasping her hands, I wish Naldo had not to go such a long, long way sometimes before he comes back again. Ah, child, the world's big, they say. There are places behind the mountains, and if people go night and day, night and day, they get to roam and see the holy father. Tessa looked submissive in the presence of this mystery, and began to rock her baby, and sing syllables of vague loving meaning in tones that imitated at triple chime. The next morning she was unusually industrious in the prospect of more dialogue, and of the pleasure she should give the poor old stranger by showing him her baby. But before she could get ready to take Baldazar his breakfast, she found that Mona Lisa had been employing him as a drawer of water. She deferred her pattern-nosters and hurried down to insist that Baldazar should sit on his straw, so that she might come and sit by him again while he ate his breakfast. That attitude made the new companionship all the more delightful to Tessa, for she had been used to sitting on straw in old days along with her goats and mules. I will not let Mona Lisa give you too much work to do, she said, bringing him some steaming broth and soft bread. I don't like much work, and I dare say you don't. I like sitting in the sunshine and feeding things. Mona Lisa says, work is good, but she does it all herself, so I don't mind. She's not a cross-old woman. You'd needn't be afraid of her being cross. And now you eat that, and I'll go and fetch my baby and show it you. Presently she came back with a small mummy case in her arms. The mummy looked very lively, having unusually large dark eyes, though no more than the usual indication of a future nose. This is my baby, said Tessa, seating herself close to Baltazar. You didn't think it was so pretty, did you? It is like the little guess-oo, and I should think that Santa Madonna would be kinder to me now. Is it not true? But I have not much to ask for, because I have everything now. Only that I should see my husband oftener. You may hold the Bambino a little, if you like, but I think you must not kiss him, because you might hurt him. She spoke this prohibition in a tone of soothing excuse, and Baltazar could not refuse to hold the small package. Poor thing, he said, in a deep voice which had something strangely threatening in its apparent pity. It did not seem to him as if this guileless, loving little woman could reconcile him to the world at all, but rather that she was with him against the world and that she was a creature who would need to be avenged. Oh, don't you be sorry for me, she said. For though I don't see him often, he is more beautiful and good than anybody else in the world. I say prayers to him when he's away. You couldn't think what he is. She looked at Baltazar with a wide glance of mysterious meaning, taking the baby from him again, and almost wishing he would question her as if he wanted very much to know more. Yes, I could, said Baltazar, rather bitterly. No, I'm sure you never could, said Tessa earnestly. You thought he might be no fry, she added, with a triumph and air of conclusiveness, but never mind. You couldn't know. What is your name? He rubbed his hand over his knitted brow, then looked at her blankly, and said, ah, child, what is it? It was not that he did not often remember his name well enough, and if he had had presence of mind now to remember it, he would have chosen not to tell it. But a sudden question appealing to his memory had a paralyzing effect, and in that moment he was conscious of nothing but helplessness. Ignorant as Tessa was, the pity stirred in her by her blank look taught her to say, never mind, you are a stranger, it is no matter about you having a name. Goodbye now, because I want my breakfast. You will come here and rest when you like. Mona Lisa says you may, and don't you be unhappy, for we'll be good to you. Poor things, said Baltazar again. End of Chapter 33 of Ramallah. Mr. Naldo came again sooner than was expected. He came on the evening of the twenty-eighth of November, only eleven days after his previous visit, proving that he had not gone far beyond the mountains. And the scene which we have witnessed as it took place that evening in the Via de Bardi may help to explain the impulse which turned his steps towards the hill of San Giorgio. When Tito had first found his 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 after the unlucky incident which had made foolish little Tessa imagine him to be her husband. It was true that the kindness was manifested towards the pretty trusting thing, whom it was impossible to be near without feeling inclined to caress and pet her. But it was not less true that Tito had movements of kindness towards her apart from any contemplated gain to himself. Otherwise, charming as her prettiness and prattle were in a lazy moment, he might have preferred to be free from her, for he was not in love with Tessa. He was in love for the first time in his life with an entirely different woman, whom he was not simply inclined to shower caresses on, but whose presence possessed him so that the simple sweep of her long dresses across his cheeks seemed to vibrate through the hours. All the young, ideal passion he had in him had been stirred by Ramala, and his fiber was too fine, his intellect too bright for him to be tempted into the habits of a gross pleasure-seeker. But he had spun a web about himself in Tessa, which he felt incapable of breaking. In the first moments after the mimic marriage he had been prompted to leave her under an illusion by a distinct calculation of his own possible need, but since that critical moment it seemed to him that the web had gone on spinning itself in spite of him, like a growth over which he had no power. The elements of kindness and self-indulgent are hard to distinguish in a soft nature like Tito's, and the annoyance he had felt under Tessa's pursuit of him on the day of his betrothal, the thorough intention of revealing the truth to her with which he set out to fulfill his promise of seeing her again, were a sufficiently strong argument to him that, in ultimately leaving Tessa under her illusion and providing a home for her, he had been overcome by his own kindness. And in these days of his first devotion to Ramala he needed a self-justifying argument. He had learned to be glad that she was deceived about some things, but every strong feeling makes to itself a conscience of its own, has its own piety, just as much as the feeling of the son towards the mother, which will sometimes survive amid the worst fumes of deprivation, and Tito could not yet be easy in committing a secret offense against his wedded love. But he was all the more careful in taking precautions to preserve the secrecy of the offense. Mona Lisa, who, like many of her class, never left her habitation except to go to one or two particular shops and to confess once a year, knew nothing of his real name and whereabouts. She only know that he paid her so as to make her very comfortable and mind a little about the rest, save that she got fond of Tessa and found pleasure in the cares for which she was paid. There was some mystery behind clearly since Tessa was a contadena and Mesa Ronaldo was a sednore. But for how Mona Lisa knew he might be a real husband, her Tito had thoroughly frightened Tessa into silence about the circumstances of their marriage by telling her that if she broke that silence she would never see him again, and Mona Lisa's deafness, which made it impossible to say anything to her without some premeditation, had saved Tessa from any unconscious revelation to her, such as had run off her tongue in talking with Baltazar. For a long while Tito's visits were so rare that it seemed likely enough he took journeys between them. They were prompted chiefly by the desire to see that all things were going on well with Tessa, and though he always found his visit pleasanter than the prospect of it, always felt anew the charm of that pretty ignorant lovingness and trust he had not yet any real need of it, but he was determined, if possible, to preserve the simplicity on which the charm depended. To keep Tessa a genuine contadena and now place the small field flower among conditions that would rob it of its grace, he would have been shocked to see her in the dress of any other rank than her own. The bequancy of her talk would be all gone. All things began to have new relations for her. If her will became wider, her pleasures less childish, and the squirrel-like enjoyment of nuts at discretion 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 expenses that were already rather importunate to a man whose money was all required for his avowed habits of life. This, in brief, had been the history of Tito's relation to Tessa up to a very 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 to pass an hour agreeably, had been an inducement to him to escape from a little weariness of the old man, when, for lack of any positive engagement, he might otherwise have borne the weariness patiently and shared Rommel as burden. But the moment when he had first felt a real hunger for Tessa's ignorant lovingness and belief in him had not come till quite lately. And it was distinctly marked out by circumstances as little to be forgotten as the oncoming of a malady that has permanently mediated the sight and hearing. It was the day when he had first seen Baltazar and had bought the armor. Returning across the bridge that night, with the coat of mail in his hands, he had felt an unconquerable shrinking from an immediate encounter with Rommelah. She too knew little of the actual world. She too trusted him. But he had an uneasy consciousness that behind her frank eyes there was a nature that could judge him, and that any ill-founded trust of hers sprang not from pretty, brute-like incapacity, but from a nobleness which might prove an alarming touchstone. He wanted a little ease, a little repose, from self-control after the agitation and exertions of the day. He wanted to be where he could adjust his mind to the moral, without caring how he behaved at the present moment. And there was a sweet, adoring creature within reach whose presence was as safe and unconstraining as that of her own kids, who would believe any fable and remain quite unimpressed by public opinion. And so on that evening, when Rommelah was waiting and listening for him, he turned to steps up the hill. No wonder, then, that the steps took the same course on this evening, eleven days later, when he had to recoil under Rommelah's first outburst of scorn. He could not wish Tessa in his wife's place, or refrain from wishing that his wife should be thoroughly reconciled to him. For it was Rommelah and not Tessa that belonged to the world where all the larger desires of a man who had ambition and effective faculties must necessarily lie. But he wanted a refuge from a standard disagreeably rigorous, of which he could not make himself independent simply by thinking at folly, and Tessa's little soul was that inviting refuge. It was not much more than eight o'clock when he went up the stone steps to the door of Tessa's room. Usually she heard his entrance into the house and ran to meet him. But not to-night, and when he opened the door he saw the reason. The dim light was burning above the dying fire and showed Tessa in a kneeling attitude by the head of the bed where the baby lay. Her head had fallen aside on the pillow and a brown rosary, which usually hung above the pillow over the picture of the Madonna and the golden palm branches, lay in the loose grasp of a right hand. She had gone fast asleep over her beads. Tito stepped lightly across the little room and sat down close to her. She had probably heard the opening of the door as part of her dream, for he had not been looking at her two moments before she opened her eyes. She opened them without any start and remained quite motionless looking at him, as if the sense that he was there smiling at her shut out any impulse that could disturb that happy passiveness. But when he put his hand under her chin and stooped to kiss her, she said, I dreamed it, and then I saw it was dreaming, and then I awoke, and it was true. Little sinners said Tito pinching her chin, you have not said half your 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 had some poting distress in her face, as you said, bending anxiously over the baby. It is not true. He is prettier than anything. You do not think he is ugly. You will look at him. He is even prettier than when you saw him before. Only he is 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? Look at him. It is true. His face is very much all alike when he is asleep. There is not so much to see as when he is awake. But you kiss him very gently. He won't wake, and you want to kiss him. Is it not true? He satisfied her by giving the small mummy a butterfly kiss, and then putting his hand on her shoulder and turning her face towards him, said, You like looking at the baby better than looking at your husband, you false one? She was still kneeling, and now rested her hands on his knees, looking up at him like one of Frolipolipi's round cheek-deadoring angels. No, she said, shaking her head, I love you always best. Only I want you to look at the bebino and love him. I used only to want you to love me. And did you expect me to come again so soon, said Tito, and cried to make her prattle? He still felt the effects of the agitation he had undergone, still felt like a man who has been violently jarred, and this was the easiest relief from silence and solitude. I know, said Tessa, I accounted the days. Today I began my right thumb again, since you put on the beautiful chaincoat that Mesa or Sam Michelle gave you to take care of you on your journey. And you have got it on now, she said, peeping through the opening in the breast of his tunic. Perhaps it made you come back sooner. Perhaps it did, Tessa, he said. But don't mind the coat now. Tell me what has happened since I was here. Did you see the tents in the prattle, and the soldiers in horsemen when they passed the bridges? Did you hear the drums and trumpets? Yes, I was rather frightened, because I thought the soldiers might come up here. And Mona Lisa was a little afraid, too, for she said they might 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 up here. But something has happened, only I hardly dare tell you, and that is what I was saying more avace for. What do you mean, Tessa, said Tito rather anxiously, make haste and tell me? Yes, but will you let me sit on your knee? Because then I think I shall not be so frightened. He took her on his knee, and put his arm around her, but looked grave. It seemed that something unpleasant must pursue him, even here. At first I didn't mean to tell you, said Tessa, speaking almost in a whisper, as if that would mitigate the offense, because we thought the old man would be gone away before you came again, and it would be as if it had not been. But now he is there, and you are come, and I never did anything you told me not to do before. And I want to tell you, and then you will perhaps forgive me, for it is a long while before I go to confession. Yes, tell me everything, my Tessa. He began to hope it was after all a trivial matter. Oh, you will be sorry for him. I'm afraid he cries about something when I don't see him. But that was not the reason I went to him first. It was because I wanted to talk to him and show him my baby, and he was a stranger that lived nowhere, and I thought you wouldn't care so much about my talking to him. And I think he is not a bad old man, and he wanted to come and sleep on the straw next to the goats, and I made Mona Lisa say yes he might. And he's away all the day almost, but when 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 angry with Mona Lisa. I must have him sent away. No, I think he is not a beggar, for he wanted to pay Mona Lisa, only she asked him to do work for her instead, and he gets himself shaved and his clothes are tidy. Mona Lisa said he is a decent man, but sometimes I think he is not in his right mind. Lupo at Puritola was not in his right mind, and he looks a little like Lupo sometimes, as he didn't know where he was. What sort of face has he, said Tito, his heart beginning to beat strangely? He was so haunted by the thought of Baltazar that it was already he whom he saw in imagination sitting on the straw not many yards 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 old man this is. I can't think how to tell you. He is not like my stepfather, no fry, or anybody. His face is yellow, and he has deep marks in it, and his hair is white, but there is not on the top of his head, and his eyebrows are black, and he looks from under them at me and says poor thing to me, as if he thought I was beaten as I used to be. And that seems as if he couldn't be in his right mind, doesn't it? And I asked him his name once, but he couldn't tell it to me, yet everybody has a name. Is it not true? And he has a book now, and keeps looking at it ever so long, as if you were a padre. But I think he is not saying prayers, for his lips never move. You are angry with me? Or is it because you are sorry for the old man? Tito's eyes were still fixed on Tessa, but he had ceased to see her, and was only seeing the objects her words suggested. It was his absent glance which frightened her, and she could not help going to Neela to 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 of mind suggesting her beads to her. She took them from the floor, and began to tell them again, her pretty lips moving silently, and her blue eyes wide with anxiety and struggling tears. Tito was quite unconscious of her movements, unconscious of his own attitude. He was in that rapt state in which a man will grasp painful roughness and press and press it closer, and never feel it. A new possibility had risen before him, which might dissolve at once the wretched conditions of fear and suppression that were marrying his life. Destiny had brought within his reach an opportunity of retrieving that moment on the steps of the Duomo, when the past had grasped him with living, quivering hands, and he had disowned it. A few steps, and he might be face to face with his father. With no witness by, he might seek forgiveness and reconciliation, and there was money now, from the sale of the library, to enable them to leave Florence without disclosure and go into southern Italy, where, under the probable French rule, he had already laid a foundation for patronage. Ramala need never know the whole truth, for she could have no certain meanings of identifying that prisoner in the Duomo with bald desire, or of learning what had taken place on the steps except from bald desire himself, and if his father forgave, he would also consent to bury that offense. But with this possibility of relief, by an easy spring from the present evil, there rose the other possibility, that the fierce-hearted man might refuse to be propitiated. Well, and if he did, things would only be as they had been before, for there would be no witness by. It was not repentance with the white sheet rounded and a taper in hand, confessing his hatred in the eyes of men that Tito was preparing for. It was a repentance that would make all things pleasant again, and keep all past unpleasant things secret. And Tito's soft-heartedness, his indisposition to feel himself in harsh relations with any creature, was in strong activity towards his father. Now his father was brought near to him. It would be a state of ease that his nature could not but desire, if the poisonous hatred in bald desire's glance could be replaced by something of the old affection and complacency. Tito longed to have his world once again completely cushioned with good will, and longed for it the more eagerly because of what he had just suffered from the collision with Romula. It was not difficult to him to smile pleadingly on those whom he had injured, and offered to do them much kindness and no quickness of intellect could tell him exactly the taste of that honey on the lips of the injured. The opportunity was there, and it raised an inclination which hemmed in the calculating activity of his thought. He started up and stepped towards the door, but Tessa's cry as she dropped her beads roused him from his absorption. He turned and said, My Tessa, get me a lantern and don't cry, little pigeon. I am not angry. They went down the stairs, and Tessa was going to shout the need of the lantern in Mona Lisa's ears, 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 Mona Lisa. In half a minute he stood before the closed door of the outhouse where the moon was shining white on the old painless wood. In this last decisive moment Tito fell the tremor upon him, a sudden instinctive shrinking from a possible tiger glance, a possible tiger leap. But why should he, a young man, be afraid of an old one, a young man with armor on, of an old man without a weapon? It was but a moment's hesitation, and Tito laid his hand on the door. Was his father asleep? Was there nothing else but the door that screened him from the voice and the glance which no magic could turn into ease? Baldesir was not asleep. There was a square opening high in the wall of the hovel through which the moonbeam sent in a stream of pale light, and if Tito could have looked through the opening he would have seen his father seated on the straw with something that shone like a white star in his hand. Baldesir was feeling the edge of his panyard, taking refuge in that sensation from a hopeless blank of thought that seemed to lie like a great gulf between his passion and its aim. He was in one of his most wretched moments of conscious helplessness. He had been pouring, while it was light, over the book that lay beside him. Then he had been trying to recall the names of his jewels and the symbols engraved on them, and though at certain other times he had recovered some of those names and symbols, to-night they were all gone into darkness, and this effort at inward seeing has seemed to end in utter paralysis of memory. He was reduced to a sort of mad consciousness that he was a solitary pulse, or just rage in a world filled with defiant baseness. He had clutched and unsheathed his dagger, and for a long wall had been feeling its edge, his mind narrowed to one image and the dream of one sensation, the sensation of plunging that dagger into a base-heart which he was unable to pierce in any other way. Tito had his hand on the door and was pulling it. Dragged against the ground, as such old doors often do, and Baldzar, startled out of his dreamlike state, rose from his sitting posture, in vague amazement, not knowing where he was. He had not yet risen to his feet, and was still kneeling on one knee, when the door came wide open, and he saw, dark against the moonlight, with the rays falling on one bright mass of curls and 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. No thought could come at thwart that eager thirst, in one moment, before Tito could start back, the old man, with the preternatural force of rage in his limbs, had sprung forward, and the dagger had flashed out. In the next moment the dagger had snapped in two, and Baldzar, under the peering force of Tito's arm, had fallen back on the straw, clutching the hilt with its bit of broken blade, the pointed end lay shining against Tito's feet. Tito had felt one great heart leap of terror as he had staggered under the weight of the thrust. He felt now the triumph of deliverance and safety. His armor had been proved, and vengeance lay helpless before him. But the triumph raised no devilish impulse. On the contrary, the sign of his father, close to him and unable to injure him, made the effort at reconciliation easier. He was free from fear, but he had only the more unmixed and direct want to be free from the sense that he was hated. After they had looked at each other a little while, Baldzar lying motionless and despairing rage, Tito said in his soft tones, just as he had sounded before the last parting on the shores of Greece, Padre mio, there was a pause after those words, with no movement or sound till he said, I came to ask your forgiveness. Again he paused, at the healing balm of those words might have time to work, but there was no sign of change in Baldzar. He lay as he had fallen, leaning on one arm. He was trembling, but it was from the shock that had thrown him down. I was taken by surprise that morning. I wish now to be a son of you again. I wish to make the rest of your life happy that you may forget what you have suffered. He paused again. He had used the clearest and strongest words he could think of. It was useless to say more until he had some sign that Baldzar understood him. Perhaps his mind was too distempered or too imbecile, even for that. Perhaps a shock of his fall and his disappointed rage might have quite suspended the use of his faculties. Presently Baldzar began to move. He threw away the broken dagger and slowly and gradually, still trembling, began to raise himself from the ground. Tito put out his hand to help him, and so strangely quick are men's souls that in this moment when he began to feel his atonement was accepted he had a darting thought of the irksome efforts it entailed. Baldzar clutched the hand that was held out, raised himself, and clutched it still, going close up to Tito till their faces were not afoot off each other. Then he began to speak in a deep trembling voice. I saved you. I nurtured you. I loved you. You forsook me. You robbed me. You denied me. What can you give me? You have made the world bitterness to me. But there is one drought of sweetness left that you shall know agony. He let fall Tito's hand, and going backwards a little, first rested his arm on a projecting stone in the wall, and then sank again in a sitting posture on the straw. The out-leap of fury in the dagger-thrust had evidently exhausted him. Tito stood silent. If it had been a deep yearning emotion that it brought him to ask his father's forgiveness, the denial of it might have caused him a pang which would have excluded the rushing train of thought that followed those decisive words. As it was, though the sentence of unchangeable hatred graded on him and jarred him terribly, his mind glanced around with a self-preserving instinct to see how far those words could have the force of a substantial threat. When he had come down to speak to Baltazar, he had said to himself that if his effort at reconciliation failed, things would only be as they had been before. The first glance of his mind was backward to that thought again, but the future possibilities of danger that were conjured up along with it brought the perception that things were not as they had been before, and the perception came as a triumphant relief. It was not only the broken dagger there was a certainty from what Tessa had told him that Baltazar's mind was broken, too, and had no edge that could reach him. Tito felt he had no choice now. He must defy Baltazar as a mad imbecile old man, and the chances were so strongly on his side that there was hardly room for fear. No, except the fear of having to do many unpleasant things in order to save himself from what was yet more unpleasant. And one of those unpleasant things must be done immediately. It was very difficult. Do you mean to stay here, he said? No, said Baltazar bitterly. You mean to turn me out? Not so, said Tito, I only ask. I tell you, you have turned me out. If this is your straw, you turned me off it three years ago. Then you mean to leave this place, said Tito, more anxious about the certainty than the ground of it? I have spoken, said Baltazar. Tito turned and re-entered the house. Mona Lisa was nodding. He went up 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 spoke very distinctly and emphatically. He must never speak to that old man again. He is a mad old man, and he wants to kill me. Never speak to him, or listen to him again. Tessa's tears head 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, with a sense of guilt. He told her to comfort her, that he would come again tomorrow, and then went down to Mona Lisa to rebuke her severely for letting a dangerous man come about the house. Tito felt that these were odious tasks. They were very evil-tasted morsels, but they were forced upon him. He heard Mona Lisa fasten the door behind him and turned away, without looking towards the open door of the hobble. He felt secure that Baltazar would go, and he could not wait to see him go. Even his young frame and elastic spirit were shattered by the agitations that had been crowded into this single evening. Baltazar was still sitting on the straw when the shadow of Tito passed by. Before him lay the fragments of the broken dagger. Beside him lay the open book, over which he had poured in vain. They looked like mocking symbols of his utter helplessness, and his body was still too trembling for him to rise and walk away. But the next morning, very early, when Tessa peeped anxiously through the hole in her shutter, the door of the hobble was open, and the strange old man was gone. CHAPTER 35 What Florence was thinking of For several days Tito saw little of Ramola. He told her gently the next morning that it would be better for her to remove any small articles of her own from the library, as there would be agents coming to pack up the antiquities. Then, leaning to kiss her on the brow, he suggested that she keep in her own room where the little painted tabernacle was, and where she was then sitting, so that she might be away from the noise of strange footsteps, Ramola assented quietly and making no sign of emotion. The night had been one long waking to her, and in spite of her healthy frame, sensation had become adult continuous pain, as if she had been stunned and bruised. Tito divined that she felt ill, but he dared say no more. He only dared perceiving that her hand and brow were stone cold, to fetch the furred mantle and throw it lightly around her. And in every brief interval that he returned to her, the scene was nearly the same. He tried to perpetuate her by sonotrusive act or word of tenderness, and she seemed to have lost the power of speaking to him, or of looking at him. Patience, he said to himself, she will recover it and forgive it last. The tie to me must remain still the strongest. When the stricken person is slow to recover and look as if nothing has happened, the striker easily glides into the position of the aggrieved party. He feels no bruise himself, and is strongly conscious of his own amiable behavior since he inflicted the blow. But Tito was not naturally disposed to feel himself aggrieved. The constant bend of his mind was towards perpetuation, and he would have submitted much to the sake of feeling Ramola's hand resting on his head again, as it did the morning when he first shrank from looking at her. But he found it less difficult to wait patiently for the return of his home happiness, because his life out of doors was more and more interesting to him. A course of action, which is in its strictness a slowly prepared outgrowth of the entire character, is yet almost always traceable in a single impression as its point of apparent origin. And since that moment in the Piazza del Duomo, when Tito mounted on the bales had tasted a keen pleasure in the consciousness of his ability to tickle the ears of men with any phrases that pleased them, his imagination had glanced continually towards a sort of political activity which the troubled public life of Florence was likely enough to find occasion for. But that fresh dread of Beldessari, waked in the same moment, had lain like an immovable rocky obstruction across that path, and had urged him into the sale of the library, as a preparation for the possible necessity of leaving Florence, at the very time when he was beginning to feel that it had a new attraction for him. That dread was nearly removed now. He must wear his armor still. He must prepare himself for the possible demands on his coolness and ingenuity, but he did not feel obliged to take the inconvenient step of leaving Florence and seeking new fortunes. His father had refused the offered atonement, had forced him into defiance, and an old man in a strange place with his memory gone was weak enough to be defied. Tito's implicit desires were working themselves out now in very explicit thoughts. The freshness of young passion faded, life was taking more and more decidedly for him the aspect of a game in which there was an agreeable mingling of skill and chance, and the game that might be played in Florence promised to be rapid and exciting. It was a game of revolutionary and party struggle, sure to include plenty of that unavowed action in which brilliant ingenuity able to get rid of all inconvenience beliefs except that ginger is hot in the mouth, is apt to see the path of superior wisdom. No sooner were the French guests gone than Florence was as agitated as a colony of ants when an alarming shadow has been removed and the camp has to be repaired. How are we to raise money for the French king? How are we to manage war with these obstinate pison rebels? Above all, how are we to mend our plan of government so as to hit the best way of getting our magistrates chosen and our laws voted? Until those questions were well answered trade was in danger of standing still, and that large body of the working men who were not Canada's citizens and had not so much as a vote to serve as an anodyne to their stomachs were likely to get impatient, something must be done. And first the great bell was sounded to call the citizens to parliament to the piazza dei signori. When the crowd was wedged close and hemmed in by armed men that all outlets, and the signoria, gone falloniore, or ape priors for the time being, came out and stood by the stone line on the platform in front of the old palace, and proposed that twenty chief men of the city should have dictatorial duty given them by the force which they would for one year choose all magistrates and set the frame of government in order. And the people shouted their assent, and felt themselves the electors of the twenty. This kind of parliament was a very old Florentine fashion, by which the will of few was made to seem the choice of many. The shouting in the piazza was soon as an end, but not so the debating inside the palace. Was Florence to have a great council after the Venetian mode, where all the officers of government might be elected, and all the laws voted by a wide number of citizens of certain age and of ascertained qualifications without question of rank or party, or was it to be governed on a narrower or less popular scheme, in which the hereditary influence of good families would be less adulterated with the votes of shopkeepers? Doctors of law disputed day after day, and far on into the night. Messerg Sardarini alleged excellent reasons on the side of the popular scheme. Messerg Bespucci alleged reasons equally excellent on the side of a more aristocratic form. It was a question of boiled or roast, which had been pre-judged by the palates of the disputants, and the excellent argument might have been protracted a long while without any other result other than the deferring of cooking. The majority of the men inside the palace, having power already in their hands, agreed with Bespucci, and thought change should be moderate. The majority outside the palace, conscious of little power and many grievances, were less afraid of change. And there was a force outside the palace, which was gradually tending to give the vague desires of that majority the character of determinant will. That force was the preaching of Savrinolia, impelled partly by the spiritual necessity that was laid upon him to guide the people, and partly by the prompting of public men who could get no measures carried without his aid. He was rapidly passing in his daily sermons from the general to the special, from telling his hearers that they must postpone their private passions and interests to the public good, to telling them precisely what sort of government they must have in order to promote that good, from choose whatever is best to all, to choose the great council, and the great council is the will of God, to Savrinolia these were as good as identical propositions. The great council was the only practical plan for giving an expression to the public was large enough to counteract the vititing influence of party interests. It was the plan that would make an honest impartial public action at least possible. And the purer the government of Florence would become, the more secure from the designs of men who saw their own advantage in the moral debasement of their fellows, the nearer would the Florentine people approach the character of a pure community worthy to lead the way in the renovation of the church and the world. Manfra Gara Lamo's mind never stopped short of that sublimest end. The objects towards which he himself felt working had always the same moral magnificence. He had no private malice. He sought no petty gratification. Even in the last terrible days when ignomy, torture, and the fear of torture had laid bare every hidden weakness of his soul, he could say to his important judges, do not wonder if it seems to you that I have told but few things, for my purposes were few and great. CHAPTER XXXVI. It was more than three weeks before the contents of the library were all packed and carried away, and Ramola, instead of shutting her eyes and ears, had watched the process. The exhaustion consequent on violent emotion is apt to bring a dreamy disbelief in the reality of its cause, and in the evening, when the workmen were gone, Ramola took her hand lamp and walked slowly round amongst the confusion of straw and wooden cases, pausing at every vacant pedestal, every well-known object laid prostrate with the sort of bitter desire to assure herself that there was a sufficient reason why her love was gone and the world was barren for her. And still, as the evenings came, she went and went again, no longer to assure herself, but because this vivifying of pain and despair about her father's memory was the strongest life left to her affections. On the 23rd of December she knew that the last packages were going, she ran to the logia at the top of the house that she might not lose the last pang of seeing the slow wheels move across the bridge. It was a cloudy day, and nearing dusk, Arno ran dark and shivering. The hills were mournful, and Florence, with its griddling stone towers, had that silent tomb-like look which unbroken shadow gives to a city seen from above. Santa Crochet, where her father lay, was dark amidst the darkness, and slowly crawling over the bridge and slowly vanishing up the narrow street, was the white load like a cruel, despairing fate carrying away her father's lifelong hope to bury it in an unmarked grave. Ramola felt less that she was seeing this herself than that her father was conscious of it as he lay helpless under the imprisoning stones, where her hand could not reach his to tell him that he was not alone. She stood still, even after the load had disappeared, heedless of the cold and soothed by the gloom which seemed to cover her like a mourning garment and shut out the discord of joy, when suddenly the great bell in the palace tower rang out a mighty peal, not the hammer sound of alarm, but an agitated peal of triumph. One after another every other bell in every other tower seemed to catch the vibration and join the chorus, and as the chorus swelled and swelled till the air seemed made of sound, little flames, vibrating too as if the sound had caught fire, burst out between the torrents of the palace and on the girdling towers. At sudden clang that leaping light fell on Ramola like sharp wounds. They were the triumph of demons at the success of her husband's treachery and the desolation of her life. Little more than three weeks ago she had been intoxicated with the sound of those very bells and in the gladness of Florence. She had heard a prophecy of her own gladness, but now the general joy seemed cruel to her. She stood aloof from that common life, that Florence which was flinging out its loud exultation to stun the ears of sorrow and loneliness. She could never join hands with gladness again, but only with those whom it was in the hard nature of gladness to forget, and in her bitterness she felt that all rejoicing was mockery. Men shouted pagans with their souls full of heaviness and then looked in their neighbor's faces to see if there was really such a thing as joy. Ramola had lost her belief in the happiness she had once thirsted for. It was a hateful, smiling, soft-handed thing with a narrow selfish heart. She ran down from the loggia with her hands pressed against her ears and was hurrying across the antechamber when she was startled by unexpectedly meeting her husband who was coming to seek her. His step was elastic, and there was a radiance of satisfaction about him not quite usual. What! The noise was a little too much for you! He said, for Ramola as she startled at the sight of him had pressed her hands all the closer against her ears. He took her gently by the wrist and drew her arm within his, leading her into the saloon surrounded with the dancing nymphs and fawns. And then went on speaking. This is going quite mad at getting its great counsel, which is to put an end to all the evils under the sun, especially to the vice of merriment. You may well look stunned, my Ramola, and you are cold. You must not stay so late under the windy loggia without wrappings. I was coming to tell you that I am suddenly called to Rome about some learned business for Banando Rusella. I am going away immediately, for I am to join my party at Sangagio tonight. That we may start early in the morning. I need give you no trouble. I have had my packages made already. It will not be very long before I am back again. He knew he had nothing to expect from her but quiet endurance of what he said and did. He could not even venture to kiss her brow this evening, but just pressed her hand to his lips and left her. Tito felt that Ramola was a more unforgiving woman than he had imagined. Her love was not that sweet, clinging instinct, stronger than all judgments which, he began to see now, made her great charm of a wife. Still, this petrified coldness was better than a passionate, futile opposition. Her pride and capability of seeing where resistance was useless had the inconvenience. But when the door had closed on Tito, Ramola lost the look of cold immobility which came over her like an inevitable frost whenever he approached her. Inwardly she was very far from being in a state of quiet endurance, and the days that had passed since the scene which had divided her from Tito had been days of active planning and preparation for the fulfillment of a purpose. The first thing she did now was to call old Maso to her. Maso, she said in a decided tone, we take our journey tomorrow morning. We shall be able now to overtake that first convoy of cloth while they are waiting at San Piero. See about the two mules tonight and be ready to set off with them at break of day and wait for me at Res Piano. She meant to take Maso with her as far as Bologna, and then sent him back with letters to her godfather and Tito, telling them that she was gone and never meant to return. She had planned her departure so that its secrecy might be perfect, and her broken love and life be hidden away unscanned by vulgar eyes. Bernardo del Niro had been absent at his villa, willing to escape from political suspicions to his favorite occupation of attending to his land, and she had paid him the debt without a personal interview. He did not even know that the library was sold, and was left to conjecture that some sudden piece of good fortune had enabled Tito to raise this sum of money. Maso had been taken into her confidence only so far that he knew her intended journey was a secret, and to do just what she told him was the thing he cared for most in his withered wintery age. Ramola did not mean to go to bed that night. When she had fastened the door she took her taper to the carved and painted chest which contained her wedding-clothes. The white silk and gold lay there, the long white veil in the circlet of pearls. A great sob rose as she looked at them. They seemed the shroud of her dead happiness. In a tiny, gold loop of the circlet a sugar-plum had lodged, a pink hailstone from the shower of sweets. Tito had detected it first, and had said that it should always remain there. At certain moments, and this was one of them, Ramola was carried by a sudden wave of memory, back again into the time of perfect trust, and felt again the presence of the husband whom love made the world as fresh and wonderful to her as to a little child that sits in stillness among the sunny flowers, heard the gentle tones and saw the soft eyes without any lie in them, and breathed again that large freedom of the soul which comes from the faith that the being who is nearest to us is greater than ourselves. And in those brief moments the tears always rose, the woman's lovingness felt something akin to what the bereaved mother feels when the tiny fingers seemed to lie warm on her bosom, and yet are marble to her lips as she bends over the silent bed. But there was something else lying in the chest besides the wedding clothes. It was something dark, and course rolled up in a close bundle. She turned away her eyes from the white and gold to the dark bundle, and as her hands touched the surge her tears began to be checked. That coarse roughness recalled her fully to the present, from which love and the light were gone. She unfastened the thick white cord and spread the bundle out on the table. It was the gray surge dress of a sister belonging to the third order of St. Francis, living in the world but especially devoted to the deeds of piety, a personage whom the Florentines were accustomed to call a Pinsocella. Romola was going to put on this dress as a disguise, and she determined to put it on it once so that if she needed sleep before the morning she might wake up in perfect readiness to be gone. She put off her black garment, and as she thrust her soft white arms into the harsh sleeves of the surge mantel, and felt the hard girdle of rope hurt her fingers as she tied it. She courted those rude sensations. They were in keeping with her new scorn of that thing called pleasure which made men base that dextrous contrivance of selfish ease, that shrinking from endurance and strain, when others were bowing beneath burdens too heavy for them which now made one image with her husband. Then she gathered her long hair together, drew it away tight from her face, bound it in a great hard knot at the back of her head, and taking a square piece of black silk, tied it in the fashion of a kerchief close across her head and under her chin, and over that she drew the cowl. She lifted the candle to the mirror. Surely her disguise would be complete to anyone who had not lived very near to her. To herself she looked strangely like her brother Dino. The full oval of the cheek had only to be wasted, the eyes already sad, had only to become a little sunken. Was she getting more like him in anything else, only in this, that she understood now how men could be prompted to rush away forever from earthly delights, how they could be prompted to dwell on images of sorrow rather than of beauty and joy. But she did not linger at the mirror. She set about collecting and packing all the relics of her father and mother that were too large to be carried in her small travelling wallet. They were all to be put in the chest, along with her wedding clothes and the chest was to be committed to her godfather when she was safely gone. First she laid in the portraits, then one by one every little thing that had a sacred memory clinging to it was put into her wallet or into the chest. She paused. There was still something else to be stripped away from her, belonging to that past on which she was going to turn her back forever. She put her thumb and her forefinger to her betrothal ring, but they rested there without drawing it off. Ramola's mind had been rushing with an impetuous current toward this act for which she was preparing, the act of quitting a husband who had disappointed all her trust, the act of breaking an outward tie that no longer represented the inward bond of love. But that force of outward symbols by which our act of life is knit together, so as to make an inexorable external identity for us, not to be shaken by our wavering consciousness, gave a strange effect to this simple movement towards taking off her ring. A movement which was but a small sequence of her energetic resolution. It brought a vague but arresting sense that she was somehow violently rending her life in two. A pre-sentiment that the strong impulse which had seemed to exclude doubt and make her path clear might after all be blindness, and that there was something in human bonds which must prevent them from being broken with the breaking of illusions. If that beloved Tito who had placed the betrothal ring on her finger was not in any valid sense the same Tito whom she had seized to love, why should she return to him the sign of their union and not rather retain it as a memorial? And this act, which came as a palpable demonstration of her own and his identity, had a power unexplained to herself of shaking Ramola. It is the way with half the truth amidst which we live that it only haunts us and makes dull pulsations that are never born into sound, but there was a passionate voice speaking within her that presently nullified all such muffled murmurs. It cannot be. I cannot be subject to him. He is false. I shrink from him. I despise him. She snatched the ring from her finger and laid it on the table against the pin with which she meant to write. Again she felt that there could be no law for her but the law of her affections. That tenderness and keen fellow-feeling for the near and the loved, which are the main outgrowth of the affections, had made the religion of her life. They had made her patient in spite of natural impetuosity. They would have sufficed to make her heroic. But now all that strength was gone, or rather it was converted into the strength of repulsion. She had recalled from Tito, in proportion to the energy of that young belief and love which he had disappointed, of that lifelong devotion to her father against which he had committed an irredeemable offence, and it seemed as if all motive had slipped away from her except the indignation and scorn that made her tear herself asunder from him. She was not acting after any precedent, or obeying any adopted maxims. The grand severity of the stoical philosophy in which her father had taken care to instruct her was familiar enough to her ears and lips, and its lofty spirit had raised certain echoes within her. But she had never used it, never needed it as a rule of life. She had endured and foreborn because she loved. Maxim's which told her to feel less, and not to cling close, lest the outward course of great nature should jar her, had been as powerless on her tenderness as they had been on her father's yearning for just fame. She had appropriated no theories, she had simply felt strong in the strength of affection and life without that energy came to her as an entirely new problem. She was going to solve the problem in a way that seemed to her very simple. Her mind had never yet bowed to any obligation apart from personal love and reverence. She had no keen sense of any other human relations, and all she had to obey now was the instinct to sever herself from the man she loved no longer. Yet the unswervering resolution was accompanied with continually varying phases of anguish. And now that the act of preparation for her departure was almost finished, she lingered. She deferred writing the irrevocable words of parting from all her little world. The emotions of the past weeks seemed to rush in again with cruel hurry, and take possession even of her limbs. She was going to write, and her hand fell. Bitter tears came now with a delusion which had blighted her young years. Tears very different from the sob of remembered happiness with which she had looked at the circlet of pearls and the pink hailstone, and now she felt a tingling shame at the words of ignominy she had cast at Tito. Have you robbed someone else who was not dead? To have had such words rung from her, to have uttered them to her husband seemed a degradation of her whole life. Heart speech between those who have loved is hideous in the memory like the sight of greatness and beauty sunk into vice and rags. That heart-cutting comparison of the present with the past urged itself upon Ramola till it even transformed itself into wretched sensations. She seemed benumbed to everything, but inward throbbing, and began to feel the need of some hard contact. She drew her hands tight along the harsh knotted cord that hung from her waist. She started to her feet and seized the rough lid of the chest. There was nothing else to go in, no. She closed the lid, pressing her hand upon the rough carving and locked it. Then she remembered that she had still to complete her equipment as a Pinsocero. The large leather purse or scorzella, with a small coin in it, had to be hung on the cord and her waist. Her florins and small jewels, presents from her godfather and cousin Brigida, were safely fastened within her surge mantle, and on the other side must hang the rosary. It did not occur to Ramola as she hung that rosary by her side that something else besides the mere garb would perhaps be necessary to enable her to pass as a Pinsocero, and that her whole air and expression were as little as possible like those of a sister whose eyelids were used to be bent and whose lips were used to move in silent iteration. Her inexperience prevented her from picturing distant details, and it helped her proud courage in shutting out any foreboding of danger and insult. She did not know that any Florentine woman had ever done exactly what she was going to do. Unhappy wives often took refuge with their friends, or in the cloister she knew, but both those courses were impossible to her. She had invented a lot for herself to go to the most learned woman in the world, Cassandra Fedele, at Venice, and ask her how an instructed woman could support herself in a lonely life there. She was not daunted by the practical difficulties in the way or the dark uncertainty at the end. Her life could never be happy any more, but it must not could not be ignoble, and by a pathetic mixture of childish romance with her woman's trials, the philosophy which had nothing to do with this great decisive deed of hers, had its place in her imagination of the future, so far as she conceived her solitary, loveless life at all, she saw it animated by a proud, stoical heroism, and by an indistinct, but strong purpose of labour, that she might be wise enough to write something which would rescue her father's name from oblivion. After all, she was only a young girl, this poor remola, who had found herself at the end of her joys. There were other things yet to be done. There was a small key to a casket on the table, but now remola perceived that her taper was dying out, and she had forgotten to provide herself with any other light. In a few moments the room was in total darkness, feeling her way to the nearest chair she sat down to wait for the morning. Her purpose in seeking the key had called up certain memories which had come back upon her during the past week with the new vividness that remembered words always have for us when we have learned to give them a new meaning, since the shook of the revelation which had seemed to divide her forever from Tito. That last interview with Theno had never been for many hours together out of her mind, and it solicited her all the more because while its remembered images pressed upon her almost with the imperious force of sensations they raised struggling thoughts which resisted their influence. She could not prevent herself from hearing inwardly the dying prophetic voice saying again and again, the man whose face was a blank, loosed thy hand and departed, and as he went I could see his face, and it was the face of the great tempter, and thou, remola, just ring thy hands and seek for water, and there was none, and the plain was bare and stony again, and thou wasst alone in the midst of it, and then it seemed that the night fell, and I saw no more. She could not prevent herself from dwelling with a sort of agonized fascination on the wasted face, on the straining gaze at the crucifix, on the awe which had compelled her to kneel, on the last broken words and then the unbroken silence, on all the details of the death scene which had seemed like a sudden opening into a world apart from that of her lifelong knowledge. But her mind was roused to resistance of impressions that, from being obvious phantoms, seemed to be getting solid in the daylight, as a strong body struggles against fumes with the more violence when they began to be stifling, a strong soul struggles against fantasies with all the more alarmed energy when they threatened to govern in the place of thought. What had the words of that vision to do with her real sorrows, that fitting of certain words, was a mere chance. The rest was all vague, nay, those words themselves were vague. They were determined by nothing but her brother's memories and beliefs. He believed there was something fatal in pagan learning. He believed that celibacy was more holy than marriage. He remembered their home and all the objects in the library and of all these threads the vision was woven. What reasonable warrant could she have had for believing in such a vision and acting on it? None. True as the voice of Verbotan had proved, Ramola saw with unshakable conviction that to have renounced Tito in obedience to a warning like that would have been meager-hearted folly. Her trust had been delusive, but she would have chosen over again to have acted on it rather than be a creature led by phantoms and disjointed whispers in a world where there was the large music of reasonable speech and the warm grasp of living hands. But the persistent presence of these memories, linking themselves in her imagination with her actual lot, gave her a glimpse of understanding into the lives which had before lain utterly aloof from her sympathy. The lives of the men and women who were led by such inward images and voices. If they were only a little stronger in me, she said to herself, I would lose the sense of what that vision really was and take it for a prophetic light. I might in time get to be a seer of visions of myself like the Suvarum Adelena and Kamila Urusela and the rest. Ramola shuddered at the possibility, all the instruction, all the main influence of her life had gone to fortify her scorn of that sickly superstition which led men and women, with eyes too weak for the daylight, to sit in dark swamps and try to read human destiny by the chance flame of wondering vapors. And yet she was conscious of something deeper than that coincidence of words which made the parting contact with her dying brother live anew in her mind and gave a new sisterhood to the wasted face. If there were much more of such experience as his in the world, she would like to understand it, would even like to learn the thoughts of men who sank to ecstasy before the pictured agonies of Mordredon. There seemed to be something more than madness in that supreme fellowship with suffering. The springs were all dried up around her. She wondered what other waters there were at which men drank and found strength in the desert, and those moments in the Duomo when she had sobbed with a mysterious mangling of rapture and pain, while Fragerolamo offered himself a willing sacrifice for the people, came back to her as if they had been a transient taste of some such far-off fountain. But again she shrank from impressions that were alluring her within the sphere of visions and narrow fears which compelled men to outrage natural affections as Dino had done. This was the tangled web that Ramola had in her mind, as she sat weary in the darkness. No radiant angel came across the gloom with a clear message for her. In those times as now there were human beings who never saw angels or heard perfectly clear messages. Such truth as came to them was brought confusedly in the voices and deeds of men not at all like the serifs of unfailing wing and piercing vision. Men who believed falsities as well as truths and did the wrong as well as the right. The helping hands stretched out to them were the hands of men who stumbled and often saw dimly so that those beings unvisited by angels had no other choice than to grasp that stumbling guidance along the path of reliance and action which is the path of life or else to pause in loneliness and disbelief which is no path but the arrest of inaction and death. And so Ramola seeing no ray across the darkness and heavy with conflict that changed nothing sank at last to sleep. End of chapter 36. Chapter 37 of Ramola. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sergio Baldelli. Romola by George Elliot. Chapter 37. The Tabernacle Unlocked. Romola was waked by a tap at the door. The cold light of early morning was in the room and Maso was come for the traveling wallet. The old man could not help starting when she opened the door and showed him instead of the graceful outline he had been used to crowned with the brightness of her hair the thick folds of the gray mantle and the pale face shadowed by the dark carol. It is well Maso said Romola trying to speak in the calmest voice and make the old man easy. Here is the wallet quite ready. You will go on quietly and I shall not be far behind you. When you get out of the gates you may go more slowly for I shall perhaps join you before you get to Terespiano. She closed the door behind him and then put her hand on the key which she had taken from the casket the last thing in the night. It was the original key of the little painter the tabernacle. Tito had forgotten to drown it in the arno and it had lodged as such as small things well in the corner of the embroidered of Scalzella which he wore with the perpetunic. One day long after their marriage Romola had found it there and had put it by without using it but with a sense of a satisfaction that the key was within reach the cabinet on which the tabernacle stood had been moved to the side of the room close to one of the windows where the pale morning light fell upon it so as to make the painted forms discernible enough to Romola who knew them well the triumphant tobaccos with his clusters and his vine clad a spear clasping the crowned Ariadne the larves showering roses the wreath the vessel the canning-eyed dolphins and the rippled sea all encircled by a flowery border like a bower of paradise Romola looked at the familiar images with the new bitterness and the repulsion they seemed a more pitiable mockery than ever on this chill morning when she had awaked up to wonder in loneliness they had been no tomb of sorrow but a lying screen foolish Ariadne with her gaze of love as if that bright face with its highest and thine curls like tendrils among the vines held the deep secret of her life Ariadne is a wonderfully transformed thought Romola she would look estranged among the vines and the roses now she took up the mirror and looked at herself once more but the sight was so startling in this morning light that she laid it down again with a sense of shrinking almost as strong as that with the which she had turned from the joyous Ariadne the recognition of her own face with a call about it brought back the dread lest she should be drawn at last into fellowship with the summer wretched superstition into the company of the howling fanatics and weeping nuns who had been her contempt from childhood till now she thrust the key into the tabernacle Ariadne she opened it and took out the crucifix without looking at it then with the trembling fingers she passed a cord through the little ring hung the crucifix around her neck and hid it in the bosom of her mantle for Dino's sake she said to herself still there were the letters to be written which Amazo was to carry back from Bologna they were very brief the first said Tito my love for you is dead and therefore so far as I was yours I too am dead do not try to put in force any laws for the sake of fetching me back that would bring you no happiness the Romola you married can never return I need explain nothing to you after the words I uttered to you the last time we spoke long together if you suppose them to be words of a transient anger you will know now that they were the sign of an irreversible change I think you will fulfill my wish that my bridal chest should be sent to my godfather who gave it me it contains my wedding clothes and the portraits and other relics of my father and mother she folded the ring inside this letter and wrote Tito's name outside the next letter was to Bernardo del Nero dearest godfather if I could have been any good to your life by staying I would not have gone away to a distance but now I am gone do not ask the reason and if you love my father try to prevent anyone from seeking me I could not bear my life at Florence I cannot bear to tell anyone why help to cover my lot in silence I have asked that my bridal chest should be sent to you when you open it you will know the reason please to give all the things that were my mother's to my cousin Brigida and ask her to forgive me for not saying any words of parting to her farewell my second father the best thing I have in life is still to remember your goodness and be grateful to you Romola Romola put the letters along with the crucifix within the bosom of her mantle and then felt that everything was done she was ready now to depart no one was stirring the house and she went almost as quietly as a gray phantom down the stairs and into the silent street her heart was palpitating violently yet she enjoyed the sense of her firm tread on the broad flags of the swift movement which was like a chained up resolution set free at last the anxiety to carry out her act and the dread of any obstacle averted sorrow and as she reached the Ponte Rubaconte she felt less that Santa Croce was in her sight than that the yellow streak of mourning which parted the gray was getting broader and broader and that unless she hastened her steps she should have two encounter faces her simplest road was to go right on to the Borgo Pinti and then along by the walls to the Porta Sangallo from which she must leave the city and this road carried her by the piazza di Santa Croce 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 a curiosity and a recognition and that in different minds might be set speculating on her private sorrows made a romula shrink physically as from the imagination of a torture she felt degraded even by that act over her husband from which she was helplessly suffering but there was no sign that any eyes looked forth from windows to notice this tall gray sister with the firm step and proud attitude of the cowed head her road lay aloof from the stir of early traffic and when she reached the Porta Sangallo it was easy to pass while a dispute was going forward about the toll for panniers of eggs and the marked produce which were just entering out once past the houses of the Borgor 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 a soft hated lips warm upon her cheek no longer feel the breath of an odious mind stifling her own the bare winter morning the chill air were welcome in their severity the lifeless trees the somber hills were not haunted by the gods of beauty and joy whose worship she had forsaken forever but presently the light burst forth with the sudden strength and the shadows were thrown across the road it seemed that the sun was going to chase away the grayness the light is perhaps never felt more strongly as a divine presence stirring all those inarticulate sensibilities which are our deepest life then 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 Romulus feeling as if she found herself in the sudden presence of the impalpable golden glory of the long shadow over 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 mazo was not very far ahead over her but when she had passed the pietra and it was on rising ground she lifted up the hanging roof over her cowl and looked eagerly before her the cowl was dropped again immediately she had seen not mazo but two monks who were approaching within a few yards of her the edge of her cowl making a penthouse on her brow had shut out the objects above the level over 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 two encounter monks they might expect some pious passwords of which she knew nothing and as she walked along with the careful appearance of unconsciousness till she had seen the skirts of the black mantles passed by her the encounter had made her heart beat desegreably for romula had an uneasiness in her religious disguise a shame as this started the 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 a hill and seeing a great flat stone against a cypress that draws 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 over her cowl again when she had seated herself she discerned mazo 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 pose a little she was free and alone and of chapter 37 chapter 38 of romula this is a librivox recording all librivox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit librivox.org romula by george elliot chapter 38 the black marks become magical that journey of titos to Rome which had removed many difficulties from romula's departure had been resolved on quite suddenly but supper only the evening before Tito had set out towards that supper with agreeable expectations the needs were likely to be delicate the wine's choice the company distinguished for the place of entertainment was the silva or orto de ruccelli or as we should say the ruccelli gardens and the host Bernardo ruccelli was quite a typical florentine grandee even his family name has a significance which is a pretty symbolic properly understood it may bring before us a little icon popularly named orcelli or ruccelli 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 button heads well under certain circumstances 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 one for himself and his descendants much wealth and the pleasantly suggestive surname of oricellari or ruccellari which on Tuscan tongues spesely became a ruccelli 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 the Florentine upholstery and for these and other vultures he had been sent on embassies 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 the rare trees and had made it classic 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 orzonian muses might be confidently requested to tear their hair and the nature to desist from any second attempt to combine so many vultures with one set of viscera his invitation had been conveyed to Tito 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 Tito felt sure that some party purposes were to be furthered by the excellent flavors of stewardy fish and old Greek wine for Bernardo Ruccelli was not simply an influential personage he was one of the elect 20 who for three weeks had held the reins of Florence this assurance put Tito in the best spirits as he made his way to the Via de la Scala where the classic garden was to be found without it he might have had some uneasy speculation as to whether the high company he would have the honor of meeting was likely to be Daal as well as distinguished for he had a head experience of a various Daalus sappers even in the Ruccelli gardens and especially of the Daal philosophical 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 Tito 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 anyone caring to watch his passage from one of these lights to another might have observed that the tall and graceful personage with the mantle folded around him was followed constantly by a very different form thick set and elderly in a surge tunic and felt hat their conjunction might have been taken for mere chance since there were many passengers along the streets at this hour but when Tito stopped at the gate of the Ruccelli gardens the figure behind stopped too this portello 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 Tito turned in rapidly giving his name to the servant and a passing on between the evergreen bushes that shone like metal in the torchlight the follower turned into your name said the servant Baldassare Calvo was the immediate answer you are not a guest the guests have all passed I belong to Tito 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 a master Tito 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 pass the porter gave way at once Baldassare entered and heard the door closed and chained behind him as he too disappeared among the shining bushes those ready and firm answers argued a greater change in Baldassare since the last meeting face to face with the Tito when the dagger broke in two the change had declared itself in a startling way at the moment when the shadow of Tito passed in front of the havel as he departed homeward Baldassare was sitting in that state of after-tremor known to everyone who is liable to great outbursts of passion a state in which physical powerlessness is sometimes accompanied by an exceptional lucidity of thought as if that disengagement of excited passion had carried away a fire mist and left a clearness behind it he felt unable to rise and walk away just yet his limbs seemed to be numbed he was cold and his hands shook but in that bodily helplessness he sat surrounded not by the habitual dimness and vanishing shadows but by the clear images of the past he was living again in an unbroken course through that life which seemed a long preparation for the taste of a bitterness for some minutes he was too thoroughly absorbed by the images to reflect on the fact that he saw them and note the fact as a change but when that sudden clearness had traveled through the distance and came at last to rest on the scene just gone by he felt fully where he was he remembered Mona Lisa and the Tessa ah he then was the mysterious husband he who had another wife in the Via de Bardi it was time to pick up the broken dagger and go go and leave no trace of himself for to hide his feebleness seemed the thing most like power that was left to him he leaned to take up the fragments of the dagger then he turned towards the book which lay open at his side it was a final large manuscript a nod volume of a posanius the moonlight was upon it and he could see the large letters at the head of the page Messenica Capabetta in old days he had known a posanius familiarly yet an hour or two ago he had been looking hopelessly at that page and it had suggested no more meaning to him than if the letters had been black weather marks on a wall but at this moment they were once more the magic signs that conjure up a world that moonbeam falling on the letters had raised Messenia before him and its struggle against the Spartan oppression he snatched up the book but the light was too pale for him to read further by no matter he knew that chapter he read inwardly he saw the stoning of the traitor Aristocrates stoned by whole people who cast him out from their borders to lie unburied and set up a pillar with verses upon it telling how time had brought home justice to the unjust the words arose within him and stirred innumerable vibrations of memory he forgot that he was old he could almost have a shouted the light was come again mother of knowledge and joy in that exultation his limbs recovered at their strength he started up with his broken dagger and book and the went out under the broad moonlight it was a nipping frosty air but Baldassare could feel no chill he only felt the glow of a conscious power he walked about and opposed on all the open spots of that high ground and looked down on the domed and towered city sleeping darkly under its sleeping gardens the mountains on the pale gleam of the river on the valley vanishing towards the peaks of snow and felt himself master of them all that sense of mental empire which belongs to us all in moments of exceptional clearness was intensified for him by the long days and nights in which memory had been little more than the consciousness of something gone that city which had been a weary labyrinth was material that he could subdue to his purposes now his mind glanced through its affairs with a flashing conjecture he was once more a man who knew cities who's a sense of vision was instructed with a large experience and who felt the keen delight of holding all things in the grasp of language names images his mind rushed through its wealth without posing like one who enters on a great inheritance but at least all that rushing eagerness there was one end presiding in balasar's consciousness a dark deity in the innermost cell who only seemed forgotten while his hecatum was being prepared and when the first triumph in the certainty of recovered power had ahead its way his thoughts centered themselves untito that fair slippery viper could not escape him now thanks to struggling justice the heart that never quivered with a tenderness for another had its sensitive selfish fibers that could be reached by the sharp point of anguish the soul that barred to no right barred to the great lord of mortals pain he could search into every secret of a tito's life now he knew some of the secrets already and the failure of the broken dagger which seemed like frustration had been the beginning of achievement doubtless that sudden rage had shaken away the obstruction which stifled his soul twice before when his memory had partially returned it had been in consequence of a sudden excitation once when he had had to defend himself from an enraged dog once when he had been overtaken by the waves and had had to scramble up a rock to save himself yes but if this time as then the light were to die out and the dreary conscious blank come back again this time the light was stronger and steadier but what security was there that before the morrow the dark fog would not be around him again even the fear seemed like the beginning of a feebleness he thought with alarm that he might sink the faster for this excited vigil of his on the hill which was expanding his force and after seeking anxiously for a sheltered corner where he might lie down he nestled at the last against the heap of a warmer garden straw and so fell asleep when he opened his eyes again it was daylight the first moments were filled with the strange bewilderment he was a man with a double identity to which had he awaked to the life of dim-sighted sensibilities like the sadder airship of a sum of fallen greatness or to the life of recovered a power surely the lost for the events of the night all came back to him the recognition of the pager in posanius the crowding resurgence of the facts and names the sudden-wide prospect which had given him such a moment as that of the minute in the glorious amaze of a her morning waking on the mountaintop he took up the book again he read he remembered without a reading he saw a name and the images of deeds rose with it he saw the mention of a deed and he linked it with a name there were stories of inexperable crimes but stories also of a guilt that seemed successful there were sanctuaries for swift-footed miscreants baseness had its armor and the weapons of a justice sometimes broke against it watch them if baseness triumphed everywhere else if it could heep to itself all the goods of the world and even hold the the keys of hell it would never triumph over the hatred which it had itself awaked it could devise no torture that would seem greater than the torture of submitting to its smile baldasare felt the indestructible independent force of a supreme emotion which knows no terror and asks for no motive which is itself a never-burning motive consuming all other desire and now in this morning light when the assurance came again that the finer fibres of association were active still and that his recovered self had not departed all his gladness was but the hope of a vengeance from that time till the evening on which we have seen him enter the rucha-lai gardens he had been incessantly but cautiously inquiring into Tito's position and all his circumstances and there was a hardly a day on which he did not contrive to follow his movements but he wished not to arouse any alarm in Tito he wished to secure a moment when the hated favorite of a blind fortune was at the summit of a confident ease surrounded by chief men on whose favor he depended it was not any retributive payment or recognition of himself for his own behoof on which baldasare's whole soul was bent it was defined the sharpest edge of disgrace and a shame by which a selfish smiler could be pierced it was to send through his marrow the most sudden shock of dread he was content to lie hard and live astintedly he had spent the greater part of his remaining money in buying another poneyard his hunger and his thirst were after nothing exquisite but an exquisite vengeance he had avoided addressing himself to anyone whom he suspected of intimacy with Tito lest an alarm raised in Tito's mind should urge him either to flight or to some other counteracting measure which hard-pressed ingenuity might advise for this reason he had never entered Nello's shop which he observed that Tito frequented and he had turned side to avoid emitting Piero di Cosimo the possibility of a frustration gave added eagerness to his desire that the great opportunity he sought should not be deferred though desire was eager in him on other ground he trembled lest his memory should go again whether from the agitating presence of that fear or from some other causes he had twice felt a sort of a mental dizziness in which the inward sense or imagination seemed to be losing the distinct forms of things once he had attempted to enter the palazzo vecchio and make his way into a council chamber where Tito was and had a fate but now on this evening he felt that his occasion was calm. End of chapter 38