But the passing wish about pretty Tessa was almost immediately eclipsed by the recurrent recollection of that friar whose face had some irrecoverable association for him. Why should a sickly fanatic10, worn with fasting, have looked at him in particular, and where in all his travels could he remember encountering that face before? Folly11! such vague memories hang about the mind like cobwebs, with tickling12 importunity13 — best to sweep them away at a dash: and Tito had pleasanter occupation for his thoughts. By the time he was turning out of the Corso degli Adimari into a side-street he was caring only that the sun was high, and that the procession had kept him longer than he had intended from his visit to that room in the Via de’ Bardi, where his coming, he knew, was anxiously awaited. He felt the scene of his entrance beforehand: the joy beaming diffusedly in the blind face like the light in a semi-transparent lamp: the transient pink flush on Romola’s face and neck, which subtracted nothing from her majesty14, but only gave it the exquisite15 charm of womanly sensitiveness, heightened still more by what seemed the paradoxical boy-like frankness of her look and smile. They were the best comrades in the world during the hours they passed together round the blind man’s chair: she was constantly appealing to Tito, and he was informing her, yet he felt himself strangely in subjection to Romola with that simplicity16 of hers: he felt for the first time, without defining it to himself, that loving awe17 in the presence of noble womanhood, which is perhaps something like the worship paid of old to a great nature-goddess, who was not all-knowing, but whose life and power were something deeper and more primordial18 than knowledge. They had never been alone together, and he could frame to himself no probable image of love-scenes between them: he could only fancy and wish wildly — what he knew was impossible — that Romola would some day tell him that she loved him. One day in Greece, as he was leaning over a wall in the sunshine, a little black-eyed peasant girl, who had rested her waterpot on the wall, crept gradually nearer and nearer to him, and at last shyly asked him to kiss her, putting up her round olive cheek very innocently. Tito was used to love that came in this unsought fashion. But Romola’s love would never come in that way: would it ever come at all? — and yet it was that topmost apple on which he had set his mind. He was in his fresh youth — not passionate19, but impressible: it was as inevitable20 that he should feel lovingly towards Romola as that the white irises21 should be reflected in the clear sunlit stream; but he had no coxcombry22, and he had an intimate sense that Romola was something very much above him. Many men have felt the same before a large-eyed, simple child.
Nevertheless, Tito had had the rapid success which would have made some men presuming, or would have warranted him in thinking that there would be no great presumption23 in entertaining an agreeable confidence that he might one day be the husband of Romola — nay24, that her father himself was not without a vision of such a future for him. His first auspicious25 interview with Bartolommeo Scala had proved the commencement of a growing favour on the secretary’s part, and had led to an issue which would have been enough to make Tito decide on Florence as the place in which to establish himself, even if it had held no other magnet. Politian was professor of Greek as well as Latin at Florence, professorial chairs being maintained there, although the university had been removed to Pisa; but for a long time Demetrio Calcondila, one of the most eminent26 and respectable among the emigrant27 Greeks, had also held a Greek chair, simultaneously28 with the too predominant Italian. Calcondila was now gone to Milan, and there was no counterpoise or rival to Politian such as was desired for him by the friends who wished him to be taught a little propriety29 and humility30. Scala was far from being the only friend of this class, and he found several who, if they were not among those thirsty admirers of mediocrity that were glad to be refreshed with his verses in hot weather, were yet quite willing to join him in doing that moral service to Politian. It was finally agreed that Tito should be supported in a Greek chair, as Demetrio Calcondila had been by Lorenzo himself, who, being at the same time the affectionate patron of Politian, had shown by precedent31 that there was nothing invidious in such a measure, but only a zeal32 for true learning and for the instruction of the Florentine youth.
Tito was thus sailing under the fairest breeze, and besides convincing fair judges that his talents squared with his good fortune, he wore that fortune so easily and unpretentiously that no one had yet been offended by it. He was not unlikely to get into the best Florentine society: society where there was much more plate than the circle of enamelled silver in the centre of the brass33 dishes, and where it was not forbidden by the Signory to wear the richest brocade. For where could a handsome young scholar not be welcome when he could touch the lute34 and troll a gay song? That bright face, that easy smile, that liquid voice, seemed to give life a holiday aspect; just as a strain of gay music and the hoisting35 of colours make the workworn and the sad rather ashamed of showing themselves. Here was a professor likely to render the Greek classics amiable36 to the sons of great houses.
And that was not the whole of Tito’s good fortune; for he had sold all his jewels, except the ring he did not choose to part with, and he was master of full five hundred gold florins.
Yet the moment when he first had this sum in his possession was the crisis of the first serious struggle his facile, good-humoured nature had known. An importunate37 thought, of which he had till now refused to see more than the shadow as it dogged his footsteps, at last rushed upon him and grasped him: he was obliged to pause and decide whether he would surrender and obey, or whether he would give the refusal that must carry irrevocable consequences. It was in the room above Nello’s shop, which Tito had now hired as a lodging38, that the elder Cennini handed him the last quota39 of the sum on behalf of Bernardo Rucellai, the purchaser of the two most valuable gems40.
‘Ecco, giovane mio!’ said the respectable printer and goldsmith, ‘you have now a pretty little fortune; and if you will take my advice, you will let me place your florins in a safe quarter, where they may increase and multiply, instead of slipping through your fingers for banquets and other follies41 which are rife42 among our Florentine youth. And it has been too much the fashion of scholars, especially when, like our Pietro Crinito, they think their scholarship needs to be scented43 and broidered, to squander44 with one hand till they have been fain to beg with the other. I have brought you the money, and you are free to make a wise choice or an unwise: I shall see on which side the balance dips. We Florentines hold no man a member of an Art till he has shown his skill and been matriculated: and no man is matriculated to the art of life till he has been well tempted45. If you make up your mind to put your florins out to usury46, you can let me know to-morrow. A scholar may marry, and should have something in readiness for the morgen-cap. Addio.’
As Cennini closed the door behind him, Tito turned round with the smile dying out of his face, and fixed47 his eyes on the table where the florins lay. He made no other movement, but stood with his thumbs in his belt, looking down, in that transfixed state which accompanies the concentration of consciousness on some inward image.
‘A man’s ransom48!’ — who was it that had said five hundred florins was more than a man’s ransom? If now, under this mid-day sun, on some hot coast far away, a man somewhat stricken in years — a man not without high thoughts and with the most passionate heart — a man who long years ago had rescued a little boy from a life of beggary, filth49, and cruel wrong, had reared him tenderly, and been to him as a father — if that man were now under this summer sun toiling50 as a slave, hewing51 wood and drawing water, perhaps being smitten52 and buffeted53 because he was not deft54 and active? If he were saying to himself, ‘Tito will find me: he had but to carry our manuscripts and gems to Venice; he will have raised money, and will never rest till he finds me out’? If that were certain, could he, Tito, see the price of the gems lying before him, and say, ‘I will stay at Florence, where I am fanned by soft airs of promised love and prosperity: I will not risk myself for his sake’? No, surely not, if it were certain. But nothing could be farther from certainty. The galley55 had been taken by a Turkish vessel56 on its way to Delos: that was known by the report of the companion galley, which had escaped. But there had been resistance, and probable bloodshed; a man had been seen falling overboard: who were the survivors57, and what had befallen them amongst all the multitude of possibilities? Had not he, Tito, suffered shipwreck58, and narrowly escaped drowning? He had good cause for feeling the omnipresence of casualties that threatened all projects with futility59. The rumour60 that there were pirates who had a settlement in Delos was not to be depended on, or might be nothing to the purpose. What, probably enough, would be the result if he were to quit Florence and go to Venice; get authoritative61 letters — yes, he knew that might be done — and set out for the Archipelago? Why, that he should be himself seized, and spend all his florins on preliminaries, and be again a destitute62 wanderer — with no more gems to sell.
Tito had a clearer vision of that result than of the possible moment when he might find his father again, and carry him deliverance. It would surely be an unfairness that he, in his full ripe youth, to whom life had hitherto had some of the stint63 and subjection of a school, should turn his back on promised love and distinction, and perhaps never be visited by that promise again. ‘And yet,’ he said to himself, ‘if I were certain that Baldassarre Calvo was alive, and that I could free him, by whatever exertions64 or perils65, I would go now — now I have the money: it was useless to debate the matter before. I would go now to Bardo and Bartolommeo Scala, and tell them the whole truth.’ Tito did not say to himself so distinctly that if those two men had known the whole truth he was aware there would have been no alternative for him but to go in search of his benefactor66, who, if alive, was the rightful owner of the gems, and whom he had always equivocally spoken of as ‘lost;’ he did not say to himself — what he was not ignorant of — that Greeks of distinction had made sacrifices, taken voyages again and again, and sought help from crowned and mitred heads for the sake of freeing relatives from slavery to the Turks. Public opinion did not regard this as exceptional virtue67.
This was his first real colloquy68 with himself: he had gone on following the impulses of the moment, and one of those impulses had been to conceal half the fact; he had never considered this part of his conduct long enough to face the consciousness of his motives69 for the concealment. What was the use of telling the whole? It was true, the thought had crossed his mind several times since he had quitted Nauplia that, after all, it was a great relief to be quit of Baldassarre, and he would have liked to know who it was that had fallen overboard. But such thoughts spring inevitably70 out of a relation that is irksome. Baldassarre was exacting71, and had got stranger as he got older: he was constantly scrutinising Tito’s mind to see whether it answered to his own exaggerated expectations: and age — the age of a thick-set, heavy-browed, bald man beyond sixty, whose intensity72 and eagerness in the grasp of ideas have long taken the character of monotony and repetition, may be looked at from many points of view without being found attractive. Such a man, stranded73 among new acquaintances, unless he had the philosopher’s stone, would hardly find rank, youth, and beauty at his feet. The feelings that gather fervour from novelty will be of little help towards making the world a home for dimmed and faded human beings; and if there is any love of which they are not widowed, it must be the love that is rooted in memories and distils74 perpetually the sweet balms of fidelity75 and forbearing tenderness.
But surely such memories were not absent from Tito’s mind? Far in the backward vista76 of his remembered life, when he was only seven years old, Baldassarre had rescued him from blows, had taken him to a home that seemed like opened paradise, where there was sweet food and soothing77 caresses78, all had on Baldassarre’s knee; and from that time till the hour they had parted, Tito had been the one centre of Baldassarre’s fatherly cares.
And he had been docile79, pliable80, quick of apprehension81, ready to acquire: a very bright lovely boy, a youth of even splendid grace, who seemed quite without vices82, as if that beautiful form represented a vitality83 so exquisitely84 poised85 and balanced that it could know no uneasy desires, no unrest — a radiant presence for a lonely man to have won for himself. If he were silent when his father expected some response, still he did not look moody86; if he declined some labour — why, he flung himself down with such a charming, half-smiling, half-pleading air, that the pleasure of looking at him made amends87 to one who had watched his growth with a sense of claim and possession: the curves of Tito’s mouth had ineffable88 good humour in them. And then, the quick talent to which everything came readily, from philosophical89 systems to the rhymes of a street ballad90 caught up at a hearing! Would any one have said that Tito had not made a rich return to his benefactor, or that his gratitude91 and affection would fail on any great demand?
He did not admit that his gratitude had failed; but it was not certain that Baldassarre was in slavery, not certain that he was living.
‘Do I not owe something to myself?’ said Tito, inwardly, with a slight movement of his shoulders, the first he had made since he had turned to look down at the florins. ‘Before I quit everything, and incur92 again all the risks of which I am even now weary, I must at least have a reasonable hope. Am I to spend my life in a wandering search? I believe he is dead. Cennini was right about my florins: I will place them in his hands to-morrow.’
When, the next morning, Tito put this determination into act he had chosen his colour in the game, and had given an inevitable bent93 to his wishes. He had made it impossible that he should not from henceforth desire it to be the truth that his father was dead; impossible that he should not be tempted to baseness rather than that the precise facts of his conduct should not remain for ever concealed94.
Under every guilty secret there is hidden a brood of guilty wishes, whose unwholesome infecting life is cherished by the darkness. The contaminating effect of deeds often lies less in the commission than in the consequent adjustment of our desires — the enlistment95 of our self-interest on the side of falsity; as, on the other hand, the purifying influence of public confession96 springs from the fact, that by it the hope in lies is for ever swept away, and the soul recovers the noble attitude of simplicity.
Besides, in this first distinct colloquy with himself the ideas which had previously97 been scattered98 and interrupted had now concentrated themselves — the little rills of selfishness had united and made a channel, so that they could never again meet with the same resistance. Hitherto Tito had left in vague indecision the question whether, with the means in his power, he would not return, and ascertain99 his father’s fate: he had now made a definite excuse to himself for not taking that course; he had avowed101 to himself a choice which he would have been ashamed to avow100 to others, and which would have made him ashamed in the resurgent presence of his father. But the inward shame, the reflex of that outward law which the great heart of mankind makes for every individual man, a reflex which will exist even in the absence of the sympathetic impulses that need no law, but rush to the deed of fidelity and pity as inevitably as the brute102 mother shields her young from the attack of the hereditary103 enemy — that inward shame was showing its blushes in Tito’s determined104 assertion to himself that his father was dead, or that at least search was hopeless.
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1
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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4
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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primordial
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| adj.原始的；最初的 | |
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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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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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irises
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| n.虹( iris的名词复数 )；虹膜；虹彩；鸢尾（花） | |
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coxcombry
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| n.（男子的）虚浮，浮夸，爱打扮 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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emigrant
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| adj.移居的，移民的；n.移居外国的人，移民 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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hoisting
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| 起重，提升 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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quota
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| n.（生产、进出口等的）配额，（移民的）限额 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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42
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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45
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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46
usury
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| n.高利贷 | |
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47
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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49
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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50
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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51
hewing
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的现在分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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52
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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53
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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54
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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55
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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56
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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57
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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64
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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68
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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distils
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| v.蒸馏( distil的第三人称单数 )；从…提取精华 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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enlistment
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| n.应征入伍，获得，取得 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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