They were a proud and energetic stock, these Bardi; conspicuous10 among those who clutched the sword in the earliest world-famous quarrels of Florentines with Florentines when the narrow streets were darkened with the high towers of the nobles, and when the old tutelar god Mars, as he saw; the gutters11 reddened with neighbours’ blood, might well have smiled at the centuries of lip-service paid to his rival the Baptist. But the Bardi hands were of the sort that not only clutch the sword-hilt with vigour12, but love the more delicate pleasure of fingering minted metal: they were matched, too, with true Florentine eyes, capable of discerning that power was to be won by other means than by rending13 and riving, and by the middle of the fourteenth century we find them risen from their original condition of popolania to be possessors, by purchase, of lands and strongholds, and the feudal14 dignity of Counts of Vernio, disturbing to the jealousy15 of their republican fellow-citizens. These lordly purchases are explained by our seeing the Bardi disastrously16 signalised only a few years later as standing17 in the very front of European commerce — the Christian18 Rothschilds of that time — undertaking19 to furnish specie for the wars of our Edward the Third, and having revenues ‘in kind’ made over to them, especially in wool, most precious of freights for Florentine galleys20. Their august debtor21 left them with an august deficit22, and alarmed Sicilian creditors23 made a too sudden demand for the payment of deposits, causing a ruinous shock to the credit of the Bardi and of associated houses, which was felt as a commercial calamity24 along all the coasts of the Mediterranean25. But, like more modern bankrupts, they did not, for all that, hide their heads in humiliation26; on the contrary, they seemed to have held them higher than ever, and to have been among the most arrogant27 of those grandees28, who under certain noteworthy circumstances, open to all who will read the honest pages of Giovanni Villani, drew upon themselves the exasperation30 of the armed people in 1343. The Bardi, who had made themselves fast in their street between the two bridges, kept these narrow inlets, like panthers at bay, against the oncoming gonfalons of the people, and were only made to give way by an assault from the hill behind them. Their houses by the river, to the number of twenty-two (palagi e case grandi), were sacked and burnt, and many among the chief of those who bore the Bardi name were driven from the city. But an old Florentine family was many-rooted, and we find the Bardi maintaining importance and rising again and again to the surface of Florentine affairs in a more or less creditable manner, implying an untold31 family history that would have included even more vicissitudes32 and contrasts of dignity and disgrace, of wealth and poverty, than are usually seen on the background of wide kinship. But the Bardi never resumed their proprietorship33 in the old street on the banks of the river, which in 1492 had long been associated with other names of mark, and especially with the Neri, who possessed35 a considerable range of houses on the side towards the hill.
In one of these Neri houses there lived, however, a descendant of the Bardi, and of that very branch which a century and a half before had become Counts of Vernio: a descendant who had inherited the old family pride and energy, the old love of pre-eminence, the old desire to leave a lasting37 track of his footsteps on the fast-whirling earth. But the family passions lived on in him under altered conditions: this descendant of the Bardi was not a man swift in street warfare38, or one who loved to play the signor, fortifying39 strongholds and asserting the right to hang vassals40, or a merchant and usurer of keen daring, who delighted in the generalship of wide commercial schemes: he was a man with a deep-veined hand cramped41 by much copying of manuscripts, who ate sparing dinners, and wore threadbare clothes, at first from choice and at last from necessity; who sat among his books and his marble fragments of the past, and saw them only by the light of those far-off younger days which still shone in his memory: he was a moneyless, blind old scholar — the Bardo de’ Bardi to whom Nello, the barber, had promised to introduce the young Greek, Tito Melema.
The house in which Bardo lived was situated43 on the side of the street nearest the hill, and was one of those large sombre masses of stone building pierced by comparatively small windows, and surmounted44 by what may be called a roofed terrace or loggia, of which there are many examples still to be seen in the venerable city. Grim doors, with conspicuous scrolled45 hinges, having high up on each side of them a small window defended by iron bars, opened on a groined entrance-court, empty of everything but a massive lamp-iron suspended from the centre of the groin. A smaller grim door on the left hand admitted to the stone staircase, and the rooms on the ground-floor. These last were used as a warehouse46 by the proprietor34; so was the first floor; and both were filled with precious stores, destined47 to be carried, some perhaps to the banks of the Scheldt, some to the shores of Africa, some to the isles48 of the Egean, or to the banks of the Euxine. Maso, the old serving-man, when he returned from the Mercato with the stock of cheap vegetables, had to make his slow way up to the second storey before he reached the door of his master, Bardo, through which we are about to enter only a few mornings after Nello’s conversation with the Greek.
We follow Maso across the antechamber to the door on the left hand, through which we pass as he opens it. He merely looks in and nods, while a clear young voice says, ‘Ah, you are come back, Maso. It is well. We have wanted nothing.’
The voice came from the farther end of a long, spacious50 room, surrounded with shelves, on which books and antiquities51 were arranged in scrupulous52 order. Here and there, on separate stands in front of the shelves, were placed a beautiful feminine torso; a headless statue, with an uplifted muscular arm wielding53 a bladeless sword; rounded, dimpled, infantine limbs severed54 from the trunk, inviting55 the lips to kiss the cold marble; some well-preserved Roman busts56; and two or three vases from Magna Grecia. A large table in the centre was covered with antique bronze lamps and small vessels58 in dark pottery59. The colour of these objects was chiefly pale or sombre: the vellum bindings, with their deep-ridged backs, gave little relief to the marble, livid with long burial; the once splendid patch of carpet at the farther end of the room had long been worn to dimness; the dark bronzes wanted sunlight upon them to bring out their tinge60 of green, and the sun was not yet high enough to send gleams of brightness through the narrow windows that looked on the Via de’ Bardi.
The only spot of bright colour in the room was made by the hair of a tall maiden61 of seventeen or eighteen, who was standing before a carved leggio, or reading-desk, such as is often seen in the choirs62 of Italian churches. The hair was of a reddish gold colour, enriched by an unbroken small ripple63, such as may be seen in the sunset clouds on grandest autumnal evenings. It was confined by a black fillet above her small ears, from which it rippled64 forward again, and made a natural veil for her neck above her square-cut gown of black rascia, or serge. Her eyes were bent65 on a large volume placed before her: one long white hand rested on the reading-desk, and the other clasped the back of her father’s chair.
The blind father sat with head uplifted and turned a little aside towards his daughter, as if he were looking at her. His delicate paleness, set off by the black velvet66 cap which surmounted his drooping67 white hair, made all the more perceptible the likeness68 between his aged69 features and those of the young maiden, whose cheeks were also without any tinge of the rose. There was the same refinement70 of brow and nostril71 in both, counterbalanced by a full though firm mouth and powerful chin, which gave an expression of proud tenacity72 and latent impetuousness: an expression carried out in the backward poise73 of the girl’s head, and the grand line of her neck and shoulders. It was a type of face of which one could not venture to say whether it would inspire love or only that unwilling74 admiration75 which is mixed with dread76: the question must be decided77 by the eyes, which often seem charged with a more direct message from the soul. But the eyes of the father had long been silent, and the eyes of the daughter were bent on the Latin pages of Politian’s ‘Miscellanea,’ from which she was reading aloud at the eightieth chapter, to the following effect:
‘There was a certain nymph of Thebes named Chariclo, ‘especially dear to Pallas; and this nymph was the mother of ‘Teiresias. But once when in the heat of the summer, Pallas, in ‘company with Chariclo, was bathing her disrobed limbs in the ‘Heliconian Hippocrene, it happened that Teiresias coming as a ‘hunter to quench78 his thirst at the same fountain, inadvertently ‘beheld79 Minerva unveiled, and immediately became blind. For it ‘is declared in the Saturnian laws, that he who beholds81 the gods ‘against their will, shall atone82 for it by a heavy penalty . . . When ‘Teiresias had fallen into this calamity, Pallas, moved by the ‘tears of Chariclo, endowed him with prophecy and length of ‘days, and even caused his prudence83 and wisdom to continue ‘after he had entered among the shades, so that an oracle84 spake ‘from his tomb: and she gave him a staff, wherewith, as by a ‘guide, he might walk without stumbling . . . And hence, Nonnus, ‘in the fifth book of the “Dionysiaca,” introduces Actaeon ‘exclaiming that he calls Teiresias happy, since, without dying, ‘and with the loss of his eyesight merely, he had beheld Minerva ‘unveiled and thus, though blind, could for evermore carry ‘her image in his soul.’
At this point in the reading, the daughter’s hand slipped from the back of the chair and met her father’s, which he had that moment uplifted; but she had not looked round, and was going on, though with a voice a little altered by some suppressed feeling, to read the Greek quotation85 from Nonnus, when the old man said —
‘Stay, Romola; reach me my own copy of Nonnus. It is a more correct copy than any in Poliziano’s hands, for I made emendations in it which have not yet been communicated to any man. I finished it in 1477, when my sight was fast failing me.’
Romola walked to the farther end of the room, with the queenly step which was the simple action of her tall, finely-wrought86 frame, without the slightest conscious adjustment of herself.
‘Is it in the right place, Romola?’ asked Bardo, who was perpetually seeking the assurance that the outward fact continued to correspond with the image which lived to the minutest detail in his mind.
‘Yes, father; at the west end of the room, on the third shelf from the bottom, behind the bust57 of Hadrian, above Apollonius Rhodius and Callimachus, and below Lucan and Silius Italicus.’
As Romola said this, a fine ear would have detected in her clear voice and distinct utterance87, a faint suggestion of weariness struggling with habitual88 patience. But as she approached her father and saw his arms stretched out a little with nervous excitement to seize the volume, her hazel eyes filled with pity; she hastened to lay the book on his lap, and kneeled down by him, looking up at him as if she believed that the love in her face must surely make its way through the dark obstruction89 that shut out everything else. At that moment the doubtful attractiveness of Romola’s face, in which pride and passion seemed to be quivering in the balance with native refinement and intelligence, was transfigured to the most lovable womanliness by mingled90 pity and affection: it was evident that the deepest fount of feeling within her had not yet wrought its way to the less changeful features, and only found its outlet91 through her eyes.
But the father, unconscious of that soft radiance, looked flushed and agitated92 as his hand explored the edges and back of the large book.
‘The vellum is yellowed in these thirteen years, Romola.’
‘Yes, father,’ said Romola, gently; ‘but your letters at the back are dark and plain still — fine Roman letters; and the Greek character,’ she continued, laying the book open on her father’s knee, ‘is more beautiful than that of any of your bought manuscripts.’
‘Assuredly, child,’ said Bardo, passing his finger across the page, as if he hoped to discriminate93 line and margin94. ‘What hired amanuensis can be equal to the scribe who loves the words that grow under his hand, and to whom an error or indistinctness in the text is more painful than a sudden darkness or obstacle across his path? And even these mechanical printers who threaten to make learning a base and vulgar thing — even they must depend on the manuscript over which we scholars have bent with that insight into the poet’s meaning which is closely akin6 to the mens divinior of the poet himself; unless they would flood the world with grammatical falsities and inexplicable95 anomalies that would turn the very fountain of Parnassus into a deluge96 of poisonous mud. But find the passage in the fifth book, to which Poliziano refers — I know it very well.’
Seating herself on a low stool, close to her father’s knee, Romola took the book on her lap and read the four verses containing the exclamation97 of Actaeon.
‘It is true, Romola,’ said Bardo, when she had finished; ‘it is a true conception of the poet; for what is that grosser, narrower light by which men behold80 merely the petty scene around them, compared with that far-stretching, lasting light which spreads over centuries of thought, and over the life of nations, and makes clear to us the minds of the immortals98 who have reaped the great harvest and left us to glean99 in their furrows100? For me, Romola, even when I could see, it was with the great dead that I lived; while the living often seemed to me mere49 spectres — shadows dispossessed of true feeling and intelligence; and unlike those Lamiae, to whom Poliziano, with that superficial ingenuity101 which I do not deny to him, compares our inquisitive102 Florentines, because they put on their eyes when they went abroad, and took them off when they got home again, I have returned from the converse103 of the streets as from a forgotten dream, and have sat down among my books, saying with Petrarca, the modern who is least unworthy to be named after the ancients, “Libri medullitus delectant, colloquuntur, consulunt, et viva quadam nobis atque arguta familiaritate junguntur.” ’
‘And in one thing you are happier than your favourite Petrarca, father,’ said Romola, affectionately humouring the old man’s disposition104 to dilate105 in this way; ‘for he used to look at his copy of Homer and think sadly that the Greek was a dead letter to him: so far, he had the inward blindness that you feel is worse than your outward blindness.’
‘True, child; for I carry within me the fruits of that fervid106 study which I gave to the Greek tongue under the teaching of the younger Crisolora, and Filelfo, and Argiropulo; though that great work in which I had desired to gather, as into a firm web, all the threads that my research had laboriously107 disentangled, and which would have been the vintage of my life, was cut off by the failure of my sight and my want of a fitting coadjutor. For the sustained zeal108 and unconquerable patience demanded from those who would tread the unbeaten paths of knowledge are still less reconcilable with the wandering, vagrant109 propensity110 of the feminine mind than with the feeble powers of the feminine body.’
‘Father,’ said Romola, with a sudden flush and in an injured tone, ‘I read anything you wish me to read; and I will look out any passages for you, and make whatever notes you want.’
Bardo shook his head, and smiled with a bitter sort of pity. ‘As well try to be a pentathlos and perform all the five feats111 of the palaestra with the limbs of a nymph. Have I forgotten thy fainting in the mere search for the references I needed to explain a single passage of Callimachus?’
‘But, father, it was the weight of the books, and Maso can help me; it was not want of attention and patience.’
Bardo shook his head again. ‘It is not mere bodily organs that I want: it is the sharp edge of a young mind to pierce the way for my somewhat blunted faculties112. For blindness acts like a dam, sending the streams of thought backward along the already-travelled channels and hindering the course onward113. If my son had not forsaken114 me, deluded115 by debasing fanatical dreams, worthy29 only of an energumen whose dwelling116 is among tombs, I might have gone on and seen my path broadening to the end of my life; for he was a youth of great promise . . . But it has closed in now,’ the old man continued, after a short pause; ‘it has closed in now; — all but the narrow track he has left me to tread — alone in my blindness.’
Romola started from her seat, and carried away the large volume to its place again, stung too acutely by her father’s last words to remain motionless as well as silent; and when she turned away from the shelf again, she remained standing at some distance from him, stretching her arms downwards117 and clasping her fingers tightly as she looked with a sad dreariness118 in her young face at the lifeless objects around her — the parchment backs, the unchanging mutilated marble, the bits of obsolete119 bronze and clay.
Bardo, though usually susceptible120 to Romola’s movements and eager to trace them, was now too entirely121 preoccupied122 by the pain of rankling123 memories to notice her departure from his side.
‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘with my son to aid me, I might have had my due share in the triumphs of this century: the names of the Bardi, father and son, might have been held reverently124 on the lips of scholars in the ages to come; not on account of frivolous125 verses or philosophical126 treatises127, which are superfluous128 and presumptuous129 attempts to imitate the inimitable, such as allure130 vain men like Panhormita, and from which even the admirable Poggio did not keep himself sufficiently131 free; but because we should have given a lamp whereby men might have studied the supreme132 productions of the past. For why is a young man like Poliziano (who was not yet born when I was already held worthy to maintain a discussion with Thomas of Sarzana) to have a glorious memory as a commentator133 on the Pandects — why is Ficino, whose Latin is an offence to me, and who wanders purblind134 among the superstitious135 fancies that marked the decline at once of art, literature, and philosophy, to descend36 to posterity136 as the very high priest of Platonism, while I, who am more than their equal, have not effected anything but scattered137 work, which will be appropriated by other men? Why? but because my son, whom I had brought up to replenish138 my ripe learning with young enterprise, left me and all liberal pursuits that he might lash139 himself and howl at midnight with besotted friars — that he might go wandering on pilgrimages befitting men who know of no past older than the missal and the crucifix? — left me when the night was already beginning to fall on me.’
In these last words the old man’s voice, which had risen high in indignant protest, fell into a tone of reproach so tremulous and plaintive140 that Romola, turning her eyes again towards the blind aged face, felt her heart swell141 with forgiving pity. She seated herself by her father again, and placed her hand on his knee — too proud to obtrude142 consolation143 in words that might seem like a vindication144 of her own value, yet wishing to comfort him by some sign of her presence.
‘Yes, Romola,’ said Bardo, automatically letting his left hand, with its massive prophylactic145 rings, fall a little too heavily on the delicate blue-veined back of the girl’s right, so that she bit her lip to prevent herself from starting. ‘If even Florence only is to remember me, it can but be on the same ground that it will remember Niccolo Niccoli — because I forsook146 the vulgar pursuit of wealth in commerce that I might devote myself to collecting the precious remains147 of ancient art and wisdom, and leave them, after the example of the munificent148 Romans, for an everlasting149 possession to my fellow-citizens. But why do I say Florence only? If Florence remembers me, will not the world remember me? . . . Yet,’ added Bardo, after a short pause, his voice falling again into a saddened key, ‘Lorenzo’s untimely death has raised a new diffficulty. I had his promise — I should have had his bond — that my collection should always bear my name and should never be sold, though the harpies might clutch everything else; but there is enough for them — there is more than enough — and for thee, too, Romola, there will be enough. Besides, thou wilt150 marry; Bernardo reproaches me that I do not seek a fitting parentado for thee, and we will delay no longer, we will think about it.’
‘No, no, father; what could you do? besides, it is useless: wait till some one seeks me,’ said Romola hastily.
‘Nay, my child, that is not the paternal151 duty. It was not so held by the ancients, and in this respect Florentines have not degenerated152 from their ancestral customs.’
‘But I will study diligently,’ said Romola, her eyes dilating155 with anxiety. ‘I will become as learned as Cassandra Fedele: I will try and be as useful to you as if I had been a boy, and then perhaps some great scholar will want to marry me, and will not mind about a dowry; and he will like to come and live with you, and he will be to you in place of my brother . . . and you will not be sorry that I was a daughter.’
There was a rising sob156 in Romola’s voice as she said the last words, which touched the fatherly fibre in Bardo. He stretched his hand upward a little in search of her golden hair, and as she placed her head under his hand, he gently stroked it, leaning towards her as if his eyes discerned some glimmer157 there.
‘Nay, Romola mia, I said not so; if I have pronounced an anathema158 on a degenerate153 and ungrateful son, I said not that I could wish thee other than the sweet daughter thou hast been to me. For what son could have tended me so gently in the frequent sickness I have had of late? And even in learning thou art not, according to thy measure, contemptible159. Something perhaps were to be wished in thy capacity of attention and memory, not incompatible160 even with the feminine mind. But as Calcondila bore testimony161 when he aided me to teach thee, thou hast a ready apprehension162, and even a wide-glancing intelligence. And thou hast a man’s nobility of soul: thou hast never fretted163 me with thy petty desires as thy mother did. It is true, I have been careful to keep thee aloof164 from the debasing influence of thy own sex, with their sparrow-like frivolity165 and their enslaving superstition166, except, indeed, from that of our cousin Brigida, who may well serve as a scarecrow and a warning. And though — since I agree with the divine Petrarca, when he declares, quoting the “Aulularia” of Plautus, who again was indebted for the truth to the supreme Greek intellect, “Optimam foeminam nullam esse, alia licet alia pejor sit” — I cannot boast that thou art entirely lifted out of that lower category to which Nature assigned thee, nor even that in erudition thou art on a par42 with the more learned women of this age; thou art, nevertheless — yes, Romola mia,’ said the old man, his pedantry167 again melting into tenderness, ‘thou art my sweet daughter, and thy voice is as the lower notes of the flute168, “dulcis, durabilis, clara, pura, secans aera et auribus sedens,” according to the choice words of Quintilian; and Bernardo tells me thou art fair, and thy hair is like the brightness of the morning, and indeed it seems to me that I discern some radiance from thee. Ah! I know how all else looks in this room, but thy form I only guess at. Thou art no longer the little woman six years old, that faded for me into darkness; thou art tall, and thy arm is but little below mine. Let us walk together.’
The old man rose, and Romola, soothed169 by these beams of tenderness, looked happy again as she drew his arm within hers, and placed in his right hand the stick which rested at the side of his chair. While Bardo had been sitting, he had seemed hardly more than sixty: his face, though pale, had that refined texture170 in which wrinkles and lines are never deep; but now that he began to walk he looked as old as he really was — rather more than seventy; for his tall spare frame had the student’s stoop of the shoulders, and he stepped with the undecided gait of the blind.
‘No, Romola,’ he said, pausing against the bust of Hadrian, and passing his stick from the right to the left that he might explore the familiar outline with a ‘seeing hand.’ ‘There will be nothing else to preserve my memory and carry down my name as a member of the great republic of letters — nothing but my library and my collection of antiquities. And they are choice,’ continued Bardo, pressing the bust and speaking in a tone of insistance. ‘The collections of Niccolo I know were larger; but take any collection which is the work of a single man — that of the great Boccaccio even — mine will surpass it. That of Poggio was contemptible compared with mine. It will be a great gift to unborn scholars. And there is nothing else. For even if I were to yield to the wish of Aldo Manuzio when he sets up his press at Venice, and give him the aid of my annotated171 manuscripts, I know well what would be the result: some other scholar’s name would stand on the title-page of the edition — some scholar who would have fed on my honey, and then declared in his preface that he had gathered it all himself fresh from Hymettus. Else, why have I refused the loan of many an annotated codex? why have I refused to make public any of my translations? why? but becausc scholarship is a system of licensed172 robbery, and your man in scarlet173 and turred robe who sits in judgment174 on thieves, is himself a thief of the thoughts and the fame that belong to his fellows. But against that robbery Bardo de’ Bardi shall struggle — though blind and forsaken, he shall struggle. I too have a right to be remembered — as great a right as Pontanus or Merula, whose names will be foremost on the lips of posterity, because they sought patronage175 and found it; because they had tongues that could flatter, and blood that was used to be nourished from the client’s basket. I have a right to be remembered.’
The old man’s voice had become at once loud and tremulous, and a pink flush overspread his proud, delicately-cut features, while the habitually176 raised attitude of his head gave the idea that behind the curtain of his blindness he saw some imaginary high tribunal to which he was appealing against the injustice177 of Fame.
Romola was moved with sympathetic indignation, for in her nature too there lay the same large claims, and the same spirit of struggle against their denial. She tried to calm her father by a still prouder word than his.
‘Nevertheless, father, it is a great gift to the gods to be born with a hatred178 and contempt of all injustice and meanness. Yours is a higher lot, never to have lied and truckled, than to have shared honours won by dishonour179. There is strength in scorn, as there was in the martial180 fury by which men became insensible to wounds.’
‘It is well said, Romola. It is a Promethean word thou hast uttered,’ answered Bardo, after a little interval181 in which he had begun to lean on his stick again, and to walk on. ‘And I indeed am not to be pierced by the shafts182 of Fortune. My armour183 is the aes triplex of a clear conscience, and a mind nourished by the precepts184 of philosophy. “For men,” says Epictetus, “are disturbed not by things themselves, but by their opinions or thoughts concerning those things.” And again, “whosoever will be free, let him not desire or dread that which it is in the power of others either to deny or inflict185: otherwis, he is a slave.” And of all such gifts as are dependent on the caprice of fortune or of men, I have long ago learned to say, with Horace — who, however, is too wavering in his philosophy, vacillating between the precepts of Zeno and the less worthy maxims186 of Epicurus, and attempting, as we say, “duabus sellis sedere” — concerning such accidents, I say, with the pregnant brevity of the poet —
“Sunt qui non habeant, est qui non curat habere.”
He is referring to gems187, and purple, and other insignia of wealth; but I may apply his words not less justly to the tributes men pay us with their lips and their pens, which are also matters of purchase, and often with base coin. Yes, “inanis” — hollow, empty — is the epithet188 justly bestowed189 on Fame.’
They made the tour of the room in silence after this; but Bardo’s lip-born maxims were as powerless over the passion which had been moving him, as if they had been written on parchment and hung round his neck in a sealed bag; and he presently broke forth190 again in a new tone of insistance.
‘Inanis?’ yes, if it is a lying fame; but not if it is the just meed of labour and a great purpose. I claim my right: it is not fair that the work of my brain and my hands should not be a monument to me — it is not just that my labour should bear the name of another man. It is but little to ask,’ the old man went on, bitterly, ‘that my name should be over the door — that men should own themselves debtors191 to the Bardi Library in Florence. They will speak coldly of me, perhaps: “a diligent154 collector and transcriber,” they will say, “and also of some critical ingenuity, but one who could hardly be conspicuous in an age so fruitful in illustrious scholars. Yet he merits our pity, for in the latter years of his life he was blind, and his only son, to whose education he had devoted192 his best years —” Nevertheless, my name will be remembered, and men will honour me: not with the breath of flattery, purchased by mean bribes193, but because I have laboured, and because my labours will remain. Debts! I know there are debts; and there is thy dowry, Romola, to be paid. But there must be enough — or, at least, there can lack but a small sum, such as the Signoria might well provide. And if Lorenzo had not died, all would have been secured and settled. But now . . . ’
At this moment Maso opened the door, and advancing to his master, announced that Nello, the barber, had desired him to say, that he was come with the Greek scholar whom he had asked leave to introduce.
‘It is well,’ said the old man. ‘Bring them in.’
Bardo, conscious that he looked more dependent when he was walking, liked always to be seated in the presence of strangers, and Romola, without needing to be told, conducted him to his chair. She was standing by him at her full height, in quiet majestic194 self-possession, when the visitors entered; and the most penetrating195 observer would hardly have divined that this proud pale face, at the slightest touch on the fibres of affection or pity, could become passionate196 with tenderness, or that this woman, who imposed a certain awe197 on those who approached her, was in a state of girlish simplicity198 and ignorance concerning the world outside her father’s books.
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piazza
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ascent
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unstable
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penetrated
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akin
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quaint
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facade
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softened
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conspicuous
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gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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12
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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13
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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14
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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15
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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16
disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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17
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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18
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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19
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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20
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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21
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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22
deficit
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| n.亏空，亏损；赤字，逆差 | |
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23
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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24
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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25
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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26
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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27
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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28
grandees
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| n.贵族，大公，显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
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29
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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30
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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31
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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32
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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33
proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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34
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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35
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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36
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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37
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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38
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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39
fortifying
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| 筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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40
vassals
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| n.奴仆( vassal的名词复数 )；（封建时代）诸侯；从属者；下属 | |
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41
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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42
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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43
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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44
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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45
scrolled
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| adj.具有涡卷装饰的v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的过去式和过去分词 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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46
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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47
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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48
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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49
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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50
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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51
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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52
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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53
wielding
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的现在分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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54
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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55
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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56
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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57
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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58
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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59
pottery
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| n.陶器，陶器场 | |
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60
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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61
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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62
choirs
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| n.教堂的唱诗班( choir的名词复数 )；唱诗队；公开表演的合唱团；（教堂）唱经楼 | |
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63
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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64
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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65
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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66
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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67
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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68
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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69
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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70
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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71
nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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72
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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73
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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74
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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75
admiration
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|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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76
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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77
decided
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|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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78
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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79
beheld
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|
| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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80
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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81
beholds
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|
| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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82
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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83
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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84
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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85
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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86
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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87
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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88
habitual
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|
| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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89
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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90
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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91
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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92
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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93
discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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94
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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95
inexplicable
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|
| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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96
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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97
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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98
immortals
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| 不朽的人物( immortal的名词复数 )； 永生不朽者 | |
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99
glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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100
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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101
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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102
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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103
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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104
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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105
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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106
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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107
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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108
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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109
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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110
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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111
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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112
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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113
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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114
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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115
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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117
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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118
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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119
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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120
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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121
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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122
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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123
rankling
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的现在分词 ) | |
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124
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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125
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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126
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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127
treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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128
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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129
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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130
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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131
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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132
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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133
commentator
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| n.注释者，解说者；实况广播评论员 | |
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134
purblind
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| adj.半盲的；愚笨的 | |
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135
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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136
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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137
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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138
replenish
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| vt.补充；(把…)装满；(再)填满 | |
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139
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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140
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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141
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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142
obtrude
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| v.闯入；侵入；打扰 | |
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143
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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144
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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145
prophylactic
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| adj.预防疾病的；n.预防疾病 | |
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146
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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147
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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148
munificent
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| adj.慷慨的，大方的 | |
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149
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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150
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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151
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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152
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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154
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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155
dilating
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| v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的现在分词 ) | |
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156
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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157
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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158
anathema
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| n.诅咒；被诅咒的人(物)，十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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159
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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160
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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161
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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162
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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163
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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166
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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167
pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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168
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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169
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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170
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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annotated
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| v.注解，注释( annotate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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173
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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174
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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175
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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177
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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178
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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179
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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180
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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181
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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182
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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183
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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184
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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185
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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186
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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187
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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188
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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189
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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190
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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191
debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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192
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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193
bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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194
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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195
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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196
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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197
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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198
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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