He had been equally cautious at the hospital, only telling, in answer to the questions of the brethren there, that he had been made a prisoner by the French on his way from Genoa. But his age, and the indications in his speech and manner that he was of a different class from the ordinary mendicants and poor travellers who were entertained in the hospital, had induced the monks13 to offer him extra charity: a coarse woollen tunic14 to protect him from the cold, a pair of peasant’s shoes, and a few danari, smallest of Florentine coins, to help him on his way. He had gone on the road to Arezzo early in the morning; but he had paused at the first little town, and had used a couple of his danari to get himself shaved, and to have his circle of hair clipped short, in his former fashion. The barber there had a little hand-mirror of bright steel: it was a long while, it was years, since Baldassarre had looked at himself, and now, as his eyes fell on that hand-mirror, a new thought shot through his mind. ‘Was he so changed that Tito really did not know him?’ The thought was such a sudden arrest of impetuous currents, that it was a painful shock to him; his hand shook like a leaf, as he put away the barber’s arm and asked for the mirror. He wished to see himself before he was shaved. The barber, noticing his tremulousness, held the mirror for him.
No, he was not so changed as that. He himself had known the wrinkles as they had been three years ago; they were only deeper now: there was the same rough, clumsy skin, making little superficial bosses on the brow, like so many cipher-marks; the skin was only yellower, only looked more like a lifeless rind. That shaggy white beard — it was no disguise to eyes that had looked closely at him for sixteen years — to eyes that ought to have searched for him with the expectation of finding him changed, as men search for the beloved among the bodies cast up by the waters. There was something different in his glance, but it was a difference that should only have made the recognition of him the more startling; for is not a known voice all the more thrilling when it is heard as a cry? But the doubt was folly15: he had felt that Tito knew him. He put out his hand and pushed the mirror away. The strong currents were rushing on again, and the energies of hatred16 and vengeance were active once more.
He went back on the way towards Florence again, but he did not wish to enter the city till dusk; so he turned aside from the highroad, and sat down by a little pool shadowed on one side by alder-bushes still sprinkled with yellow leaves. It was a calm November day, and he no sooner saw the pool than he thought its still surface might be a mirror for him. He wanted to contemplate18 himself slowly, as he had not dared to do in the presence of the barber. He sat down on the edge of the pool, and bent19 forward to look earnestly at the image of himself.
Was there something wandering and imbecile in his face — something like what he felt in his mind?
Not now; not when he was examining himself with a look of eager inquiry20: on the contrary, there was an intense purpose in his eyes. But at other times? Yes, it must be so: in the long hours when he had the vague aching of an unremembered past within him — when he seemed to sit in dark loneliness, visited by whispers which died out mockingly as he strained his ear after them, and by forms that seemed to approach him and float away as he thrust out his hand to grasp them — in those hours, doubtless, there must be continual frustration21 and amazement22 in his glance. And more horrible still, when the thick cloud parted for a moment, and, as he sprang forward with hope, rolled together again, and left him helpless as before; doubtless, there was then a blank confusion in his face, as of a man suddenly smitten23 with blindness.
Could he prove anything? Could he even begin to allege24 anything, with the confidence that the links of thought would not break away? Would any believe that he had ever had a mind filled with rare knowledge, busy with close thoughts, ready with various speech? It had all slipped away from him — that laboriously-gathered store. Was it utterly25 and for ever gone from him, like the waters from an urn17 lost in the wide ocean? Or, was it still within him, imprisoned26 by some obstruction27 that might one day break asunder28?
It might be so; he tried to keep his grasp on that hope. For, since the day when he had first walked feebly from his couch of straw, and had felt a new darkness within him under the sunlight, his mind had undergone changes, partly gradual and persistent29, partly sudden and fleeting30. As he had recovered his strength of body, he had recovered his self-command and the energy of his will; he had recovered the memory of all that part of his life which was closely enwrought with his emotions; and he had felt more and more constantly and painfully the uneasy sense of lost knowledge. But more than that — once or twice, when he had been strongly excited, he had seemed momentarily to be in entire possession of his past self, as old men doze31 for an instant and get back the consciousness of their youth: he seemed again to see Greek pages and understand them, again to feel his mind moving unbenumbed among familiar ideas. It had been but a flash, and the darkness closing in again seemed the more horrible; but might not the same thing happen again for longer periods? If it would only come and stay long enough for him to achieve a revenge — devise an exquisite32 suffering, such as a mere33 right arm could never inflict34!
He raised himself from his stooping attitude, and, folding his arms, attempted to concentrate all his mental force on the plan he must immediately pursue. He had to wait for knowledge and opportunity, and while he waited he must have the means of living without beggary. What he dreaded37 of all things now was, that any one should think him a foolish, helpless old man. No one must know that half his memory was gone: the lost strength might come again; and if it were only for a little while, that might be enough.
He knew how to begin to get the information he wanted about Tito. He had repeated the words ‘Bratti Ferravecchi’ so constantly after they had been uttered to him, that they never slipped from him for long together. A man at Genoa, on whose finger he had seen Tito’s ring, had told him that he bought that ring at Florence, of a young Greek, well dressed, and with a handsome dark face, in the shop of a rigattiere called Bratti Ferravecchi, in the street also called Ferravecchi. This discovery had caused a violent agitation38 in Baldassarre. Until then he had clung with all the tenacity39 of his fervent40 nature to his faith in Tito, and had not for a moment believed himself to be wilfully41 forsaken42. At first he had said, ‘My bit of parchment has never reached him; that is why I am still toiling43 at Antioch. But he is searching; he knows where I was lost: he will trace me out, and find me at last.’ Then, when he was taken to Corinth, he induced his owners, by the assurance that he should be sought out and ransomed44, to provide securely against the failure of any inquiries46 that might be made about him at Antioch; and at Corinth he thought joyfully47, ‘Here, at last, he must find me. Here he is sure to touch, whichever way he goes.’ But before another year had passed, the illness had come from which he had risen with body and mind so shattered that he was worse than worthless to his owners, except for the sake of the ransom45 that did not come. Then, as he sat helpless in the morning sunlight, he began to think, ‘Tito has been drowned, or they have made him a prisoner too. I shall see him no more. He set out after me, but misfortune overtook him. I shall see his face no more.’ Sitting in his new feebleness and despair, supporting his head between his hands, with blank eyes and lips that moved uncertainly, he looked so much like a hopelessly imbecile old man, that his owners were contented48 to be rid of him, and allowed a Genoese merchant, who had compassion49 on him as an Italian, to take him on board his galley50. In a voyage of many months in the Archipelago and along the seaboard of Asia Minor51, Baldassarre had recovered his bodily strength, but on landing at Genoa, he had so weary a sense of his desolateness52 that he almost wished he had died of that illness at Corinth. There was just one possibility that hindered the wish from being decided53: it was that Tito might not be dead, but living in a state of imprisonment54 or destitution55; and if he lived, there was still a hope for Baldassarre — faint, perhaps, and likely to be long deferred56, but still a hope, that he might find his child, his cherished son again; might yet again clasp hands and meet face to face with the one being who remembered him as he had been before his mind was broken.
In this state of feeling he had chanced to meet the stranger who wore Tito’s onyx ring, and though Baldassarre would have been unable to describe the ring beforehand, the sight of it stirred the dormant57 fibres, and he recognised it. That Tito nearly a year after his father had been parted from him should have been living in apparent prosperity at Florence, selling the gem58 which he ought not to have sold till the last extremity59, was a fact that Baldassarre shrank from trying to account for: he was glad to be stunned60 and bewildered by it, rather than to have any distinct thought; he tried to feel nothing but joy that he should behold61 Tito again. Perhaps Tito had thought that his father was dead; somehow the mystery would be explained. ‘But at least I shall meet eyes that will remember me. I am not alone in the world.’
And now again Baldassarre said, ‘I am not alone in the world; I shall never be alone, for my revenge is with me.’
It was as the instrument of that revenge, as something merely external and subservient62 to his true life, that he bent down again to examine himself with hard curiosity — not, he thought, because he had any care for a withered63, forsaken old man, whom nobody loved, whose soul was like a deserted64 home, where the ashes were cold upon the hearth65, and the walls were bare of all but the marks of what had been. It is in the nature of all human passion, the lowest as well as the highest, that there is a point where it ceases to be properly egoistic, and is like a fire kindled66 within our being to which everything else in us is mere fuel.
He looked at the pale black-browed image in the water till he identified it with that self from which his revenge seemed to be a thing apart; and he felt as if the image too heard the silent language of his thought.
‘I was a loving fool — I worshipped a woman once, and believed she could care for me; and then I took a helpless child and fostered him; and I watched him as he grew, to see if he would care for me only a little — care for me over and above the good he got from me. I would have torn open my breast to warm him with my life-blood if I could only have seen him care a little for the pain of my wound. I have laboured, I have suained to crush out of this hard life one drop of unselfish love. Fool! men love their own delights; there is no delight to be had in me. And yet I watched till I believed I saw what I watched for. When he was a child he lifted soft eyes towards me, and held my hand willingly: I thought, this boy will surely love me a little: because I give my life to him and strive that he shall know no sorrow, he will care a little when I am thirsty — the drop he lays on my parched67 lips will be a joy to him . . . Curses on him! I wish I may see him lie with those red lips white and dry as ashes, and when he looks for pity I wish he may see my face rejoicing in his pain. It is all a lie — this world is a lie — there is no goodness but in hate. Fool! not one drop of love came with all your striving: life has not given you one drop. But there are deep draughts68 in this world for hatred and revenge. I have memory left for that, and there is strength in my arm — there is strength in my will — and if I can do nothing but kill him —’
But Baldassarre’s mind rejected the thought of that brief punishment. His whole soul had been thrilled into immediate36 unreasoning belief in that eternity69 of vengeance where he, an undying hate, might clutch for ever an undying traitor, and hear that fair smiling hardness cry and moan with anguish70. But the primary need and hope was to see a slow revenge under the same sky and on the same earth where he himself had been forsaken and had fainted with despair. And as soon as he tried to concentrate his mind on the means of attaining71 his end, the sense of his weakness pressed upon him like a frosty ache. This despised body, which was to be the instrument of a sublime72 vengeance. must be nourished and decently clad. If he had to wait he must labour, and his labour must be of a humble73 sort, for he had no skill. He wondered whether the sight of written characters would so stimulate74 his faculties that he might venture to try and find work as a copyist: that might win him some credence75 for his past scholarship. But no! he dared trust neither hand nor brain. He must be content to do the work that was most like that of a beast of burden: in this mercantile city many porters must be wanted, and he could at least carry weights. Thanks to the justice that suuggled in this confused world in behalf of vengeance, his limbs had got back some of their old sturdiness. He was stripped of all else that men would give coin for.
But the new urgency of this habitual76 thought brought a new suggestion. There was something hanging by a cord round his bare neck; something apparently77 so paltry78 that the piety79 of Turks and Frenchmen had spared it — a tiny parchment bag blackened with age. It had hung round his neck as a precious charm when he was a boy, and he had kept it carefully on his breast, not believing that it contained anything but a tiny scroll80 of parchment rolled up hard. He might long ago have thrown it away as a relic81 of his dead mother’s superstition82; but he had thought of it as a relic of her love, and had kept it. It was part of the piety associated with such brevi, that they should never be opened, and at any previous moment in his life Baldassarre would have said that no sort of thirst would prevail upon him to open this little bag for the chance of finding that it contained, not parchment, but an engraved83 amulet84 which would be worth money. But now a thirst had come like that which makes men open their own veins85 to satisfy it, and the thought of the possible amulet no sooner crossed Baldassarre’s mind than with nervous fingers he snatched the breve from his neck. It all rushed through his mind — the long years he had worn it, the far-off sunny balcony at Naples looking towards the blue waters, where he had leaned against his mother’s knee; but it made no moment of hesitation86: all piety now was transmuted87 into a just revenge. He bit and tore till the doubles of parchment were laid open, and then — it was a sight that made him pant — there was an amulet. It was very small, but it was as blue as those far-off waters; it was an engraved sapphire88, which must be worth some gold ducats. Baldassarre no sooner saw those possible ducats than he saw some of them exchanged for a poniard. He did not want to use the poniard yet, but he longed to possess it. If he could grasp its handle and try its edge, that blank in his mind — that past which fell away continually — would not make him feel so cruelly helpless: the sharp steel that despised talents and eluded89 strength would be at his side, as the unfailing friend of feeble justice. There was a sparkling triumph under Baldassarre’s black eyebrows90 as he replaced the little sapphire inside the bits of parchment and wound the string tightly round them.
It was nearly dusk now, and he rose to walk back towards Florence. With his danari to buy him some bread, he felt rich: he could lie out in the open air, as he found plenty more doing in all corners of Florence. And in the next few days he had sold his sapphire, had added to his clothing, had bought a bright dagger91, and had still a pair of gold florins left. But he meant to hoard92 that treasure carefully: his lodging93 was an outhouse with a heap of straw in it, in a thinly inhabited part of Oltrarno, and he thought of looking about for work as a porter.
He had bought his dagger at Bratti’s. Paying his meditated94 visit there one evening at dusk, he had found that singular rag-merchant just returned from one of his rounds, emptying out his basketful of broken glass and old iron amongst his handsome show of miscellaneous second-hand95 goods. As Baldassarre entered the shop, he looked towards the smart pieces of apparel, the musical instruments, and weapons, which were displayed in the broadest light of the window, his eye at once singled out a dagger hanging up high against a red scarf. By buying the dagger he could not only satisfy a strong desire, he could open his original errand in a more indirect manner than by speaking of the onyx ring. In the course of bargaining for the weapon, he let drop, with cautious carelessness, that he came from Genoa, and had been directed to Bratti’s shop by an acquaintance in that city who had bought a very valuable ring here. Had the respectable trader any more such rings?
Whereupon Bratti had much to say as to the unlikelihood of such rings being within reach of many people, with much vaunting of his own rare connections, due to his known wisdom and honesty. It might be true that he was a pedlar — he chose to be a pedlar; though he was rich enough to kick his heels in his shop all day. But those who thought they had said all there was to be said about Bratti when they had called him a pedlar, were a good deal further off the truth than the other side of Pisa. How was it that he could put that ring in a stranger’s way? It was, because he had a very particular knowledge of a handsome young signor, who did not look quite so fine a feathered bird when Bratti first set eyes on him as he did at the present time. And by a question or two Baldassarre extracted, without any trouble, such a rough and rambling96 account of Tito’s life as the pedlar could give, since the time when he had found him sleeping under the Loggia de’Cerchi. It never occurred to Bratti that the decent man (who was rather deaf, apparently, asking him to say many things twice over) had any curiosity about Tito; the curiosity was doubtless about himself, as a truly remarkable pedlar.
And Baldassarre left Bratti’s shop, not only with the dagger at his side, but also with a general knowledge of Tito’s conduct and position — of his early sale of the jewels, his immediate quiet settlement of himself at Florence, his marriage, and his great prosperity.
‘What story had he told about his previous life — about his father?’
It would be difficult for Baldassarre to discover the answer to that question. Meanwhile, he wanted to learn all he could about Florence. But he found, to his acute distress97, that of the new details he learned he could only retain a few, and those only by continual repetition; and he began to be afraid of listening to any new discourse98, lest it should obliterate99 what he was already striving to remember.
The day he was discerned by Tito in the Piazza del Duomo, he had the fresh anguish of this consciousness in his mind, and Tito’s ready speech fell upon him like the mockery of a glib100, defying demon101.
As he went home to his heap of straw, and passed by the booksellers’ shops in the Via del Garbo, he paused to look at the volumes spread open. Could he by long gazing at one of those books lay hold of the slippery threads of memory? Could he, by striving, get a firm grasp somewhere, and lift himself above these waters that flowed over him?
He was tempted35, and bought the cheapest Greek book he could see. He carried it home and sat on his heap of straw, looking at the characters by the light of the small window; but no inward light arose on them. Soon the evening darkness came; but it made little difference to Baldassarre. His strained eyes seemed still to see the white pages with the unintelligible102 black marks upon them.
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1
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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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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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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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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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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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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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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allege
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| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
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utterly
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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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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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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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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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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ransomed
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| 付赎金救人，赎金( ransom的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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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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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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desolateness
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| 孤独 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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amulet
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| n.护身符 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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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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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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102
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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