Romola started as the glance was turned on her, but her immediate8 thought was that he had seen Tito. And as she felt the look of hatred9 grating on her, something like a hope arose that this man might be the criminal, and that her husband might not have been guilty towards him. If she could learn that now, by bringing Tito face to face with him, and have her mind set at rest!
‘If you will come with me,’ she said, ‘I can give you shelter and food until you are quite rested and strong. Will you come?’
‘Yes,’ said Baldassarre, ‘I shall be glad to get my strength. I want to get my strength,’ he repeated, as if he were muttering to himself, rather than speaking to her.
‘Come!’ she said, inviting10 him to walk by her side, and taking the way by the Arno towards the Ponte Rubaconte as the more private road.
‘I think you are not a Florentine,’ she said, presently, as they turned on to the bridge.
He looked round at her without speaking. His suspicious caution was more strongly upon him than usual, just now that the fog of confusion and oblivion was made denser11 by bodily feebleness. But she was looking at him too, and there was something in her gentle eyes which at last compelled him to answer her. But he answered cautiously —
‘No, I am no Florentine; I am a lonely man.’
She observed his reluctance12 to speak to her, and dared not question him further, lest he should desire to quit her. As she glanced at him from time to time, her mind was busy with thoughts which quenched13 the faint hope that there was nothing painful to be revealed about her husband. If this old man had been in the wrong, where was the cause for dread14 and secrecy15?
They walked on in silence till they reached the entrance into the Via de’ Bardi, and Romola noticed that he turned and looked at her with a sudden movement as if some shock had passed through him. A few moments after, she paused at the half-open door of the court and turned towards him.
‘Ah!’ he said, not waiting for her to speak, ‘you are his wife.’
‘Whose wife?’ said Romola.
It would have been impossible for Baldassarre to recall any name at that moment. The very force with which the image of Tito pressed upon him seemed to expel any verbal sign. He made no answer, but looked at her with strange fixedness16.
She opened the door wide and showed the court covered with straw, on which lay four or five sick people, while some little children crawled or sat on it at their ease — tiny pale creatures, biting straws and gurgling.
‘If you will come in,’ said Romola, tremulously, ‘I will find you a comfortable place, and bring you some more food.’
‘No, I will not come in,’ said Baldassarre. But he stood still, arrested by the burden of impressions under which his mind was too confused to choose a course.
‘Can I do nothing for you?’ said Romola. ‘Let me give you some money that you may buy food. It will be more plentiful17 soon.’
She had put her hand into her scarsella as she spoke, and held out her palm with several grossi in it. She purposely offered him more than she would have given any other man in the same circumstances. He looked at the coins a little while, and then said —
‘Yes, I will take them.’
She poured the coins into his palm, and he grasped them tightly.
‘Tell me,’ said Romola, almost beseechingly18. ‘What shall you —’
But Baldassarre had turned away from her, and was walking again towards the bridge. Passing from it, straight on up the Via del Fosso, he came upon the shop of Niccolo Caparra, and turned towards it without a pause, as if it had been the very object of his search. Niccolo was at that moment in procession with the armourers of Florence, and there was only one apprentice20 in the shop. But there were all sorts of weapons in abundance hanging there, and Baldassarre’s eyes discerned what he was more hungry for than for bread. Niccolo himself would probably have refused to sell anything that might serve as a weapon to this man with signs of the prison on him; but the apprentice, less observant and scrupulous21, took three grossi for a sharp hunting knife without any hesitation22. It was a conveniently small weapon, which Baldassarre could easily thrust within the breast of his tunic23, and he walked on, feeling stronger. That sharp edge might give deadliness to the thrust of an aged6 arm: at least it was a companion, it was a power in league with him, even if it failed. It would break against armour19, but was the armour sure to be always there? In those long months while vengeance24 had lain in prison, baseness had perhaps become forgetful and secure. The knife had been bought with the traitor’s own money. That was just. Before he took the money, he had felt what he should do with it — buy a weapon. Yes, and if possible, food too; food to nourish the arm that would grasp the weapon, food to nourish the body which was the temple of vengeance. When he had had enough bread, he should be able to think and act — to think first how he could hide himself, lest Tito should have him dragged away again.
With that idea of hiding in his mind, Baldassarre turned up the narrowest streets, bought himself some meat and bread, and sat down under the first loggia to eat. The bells that swung out louder and louder peals26 of joy, laying hold of him and making him vibrate along with all the air, seemed to him simply part of that strong world which was against him.
Romola had watched Baldassarre until he had disappeared round the turning into the Piazza de’ Mozzi, half feeling that his departure was a relief, half reproaching herself for not seeking with more decision to know the truth about him, for not assuring herself whether there were any guiltless misery27 in his lot which she was not helpless to relieve. Yet what could she have done if the truth had proved to be the burden of some painful secret about her husband, in addition to the anxieties that already weighed upon her? Surely a wife was permitted to desire ignorance of a husband’s wrong doing, since she alone must not protest and warn men against him. But that thought stirred too many intricate fibres of feeling to be pursued now in her weariness. It was a time to rejoice, since help had come to Florence; and she turned into the court to tell the good news to her patients on their straw beds.
She closed the door after her, lest the bells should drown her voice, and then throwing the black drapery from her head, that the women might see her better, she stood in the midst and told them that corn was coming, and that the bells were ringing for gladness at the news. They all sat up to listen, while the children trotted28 or crawled towards her, and pulled her black skirts, as if they were impatient at being all that long way off her face. She yielded to them, weary as she was, and sat down on the straw, while the little pale things peeped into her basket and pulled her hair down, and the feeble voices around her said, ‘The Holy Virgin29 be praised!’ ‘It was the procession!’ ‘The Mother of God has had pity on us!’
At last Romola rose from the heap of straw, too tired to try and smile any longer, saying as she turned up the stone steps —
‘I will come by-and-by, to bring you your dinner.’
‘Bless you, madonna! bless you!’ said the faint chorus, in much the same tone as that in which they had a few minutes before praised and thanked the unseen Madonna.
Romola cared a great deal for that music. She had no innate30 taste for tending the sick and clothing the ragged25, like some women to whom the details of such work are welcome in themselves, simply as an occupation. Her early training had kept her aloof31 from such womanly labours; and if she had not brought to them the inspiration of her deepest feelings, they would have been irksome to her. But they had come to be the one unshaken resting-place of her mind, the one narrow pathway on which the light fell clear. If the gulf32 between herself and Tito which only gathered a more perceptible wideness from her attempts to bridge it by submission33, brought a doubt whether, after all, the bond to which she had laboured to be true might not itself be false — if she came away from her confessor, Fra Salvestro, or from some contact with the disciples34 of Savonarola amongst whom she worshipped, with a sickening sense that these people were miserably35 narrow, and with an almost impetuous reaction towards her old contempt for their superstition36 — she found herself recovering a firm footing in her works of womanly sympathy. Whatever else made her doubt, the help she gave to her fellow-citizens made her sure that Fra Girolamo had been right to call her back. According to his unforgotten words, her place had not been empty: it had been filled with her love and her labour. Florence had had need of her, and the more her own sorrow pressed upon her, the more gladness she felt in the memories, stretching through the two long years, of hours and moments in which she had lightened the burden of life to others. All that ardour of her nature which could no longer spend itself in the woman’s tenderness for father and husband, had transformed itself into an enthusiasm of sympathy with the general life. She had ceased to think that her own lot could be happy — had ceased to think of happiness at all: the one end of her life seemed to her to be the diminishing of sorrow.
Her enthusiasm was continually stirred to fresh vigour37 by the influence of Savonarola. In spite of the wearisome visions and allegories from which she recoiled38 in disgust when they came as stale repetitions from other lips than his, her strong affinity39 for his passionate40 sympathy and the splendour of his aims had lost none of its power. His burning indignation against the abuses and oppression that made the daily story of the Church and of States had kindled41 the ready fire in her too. His special care for liberty and purity of government in Florence, with his constant reference of this immediate object to the wider end of a universal regeneration, had created in her a new consciousness of the great drama of human existence in which her life was a part; and through her daily helpful contact with the less fortunate of her fellow-citizens this new consciousness became something stronger than a vague sentiment; it grew into a more and more definite motive42 of self-denying practice. She thought little about dogmas, and shrank from reflecting closely on the Frate’s prophecies of the immediate scourge43 and closely-following regeneration. She had submitted her mind to his and had entered into communion with the Church, because in this way she had found an immediate satisfaction for moral needs which all the previous culture and experience of her life had left hungering. Fra Girolamo’s voice had waked in her mind a reason for living, apart from personal enjoyment44 and personal affection; but it was a reason that seemed to need feeding with greater forces than she possessed45 within herself, and her submissive use of all offices of the Church was simply a watching and waiting if by any means fresh strength might come. The pressing problem for Romola just then was not to settle questions of controversy46, but to keep alive that flame of unselfish emotion by which a life of sadness might still be a life of active love.
Her trust in Savonarola’s nature as greater than her own made a large part of the strength she had found. And the trust was not to be lightly shaken. It is not force of intellect which causes ready repulsion from the aberration47 and eccentricities48 of greatness, any more than it is force of vision that causes the eye to explore the warts49 on a face bright with human expression; it is simply the negation50 of high sensibilities. Romola was so deeply moved by the grand energies of Savonarola’s nature, that she found herself listening patiently to all dogmas and prophecies, when they came in the vehicle of his ardent51 faith and believing utterance52.
No soul is desolate53 as long as there is a human being for whom it can feel trust and reverence54. Romola’s trust in Savonarola was something like a rope suspended securely by her path, making her step elastic55 while she grasped it; if it were suddenly removed, no firmness of the ground she trod could save her from staggering, or perhaps from falling.
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1
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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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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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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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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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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14
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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fixedness
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| n.固定；稳定；稳固 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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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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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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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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41
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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42
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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43
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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44
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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45
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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46
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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47
aberration
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| n.离开正路，脱离常规，色差 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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49
warts
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| n.疣( wart的名词复数 )；肉赘；树瘤；缺点 | |
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50
negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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51
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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52
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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53
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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54
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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