At one end of the room was an archway opening into a narrow inner room, hardly more than a recess1, where the light fell from above on a small altar covered with fair white linen2. Over the altar was a picture, discernible at the distance where the little party sat only as the small full-length portrait of a Dominican Brother. For it was shaded from the light above by overhanging branches and wreaths of flowers, and the fresh tapers3 below it were unlit. But it seemed that the decoration of the altar and its recess was not complete. For part of the floor was strewn with a confusion of flowers and green boughs5, and among them sat a delicate blue-eyed girl of thirteen, tossing her long light-brown hair out of her eyes, as she made selections for the wreaths she was weaving, or looked up at her mother’s work in the same kind, and told her how to do it with a little air of instruction.
For that mother was not very clever at weaving flowers or at any other work. Tessa’s fingers had not become more adroit6 with the years — only very much fatter. She got on slowly and turned her head about a good deal, and asked Ninna’s opinion with much deference7; for Tessa never ceased to be astonished at the wisdom of her children. She still wore her contadina gown: it was only broader than the old one; and there was the silver pin in her rough curly brown hair, and round her neck the memorable8 necklace, with a red cord under it, that ended mysteriously in her bosom9. Her rounded face wore even a more perfect look of childish content than in her younger days: everybody was so good in the world, Tessa thought; even Monna Brigida never found fault with her now, and did little else than sleep, which was an amiable10 practice in everybody, and one that Tessa liked for herself.
Monna Brigida was asleep at this moment, in a straight-backed arm-chair, a couple of yards off. Her hair, parting backward under her black hood11, had that soft whiteness which is not like snow or anything else, but is simply the lovely whiteness of aged12 hair. Her chin had sunk on her bosom, and her hands rested on the elbow of her chair. She had not been weaving flowers or doing anything else: she had only been looking on as usual, and as usual had fallen asleep.
The other two figures were seated farther off, at the wide doorway13 that opened on to the loggia. Lillo sat on the ground with his back against the angle of the door-post, and his long legs stretched out, while he held a large book open on his knee, and occasionally made a dash with his hand at an inquisitive14 fly, with an air of interest stronger than that excited by the finely-printed copy of Petrarch which he kept open at one place, as if he were learning something by heart.
Romola sat nearly opposite Lillo, but she was not observing him. Her hands were crossed on her lap and her eyes were fixed15 absently on the distant mountains: she was evidently unconscious of anything around her. An eager life had left its marks upon her: the finely-moulded cheek had sunk a little, the golden crown was less massive; but there was a placidity16 in Romola’s face which had never belonged to it in youth. It is but once that we can know our worst sorrows and Romola had known them while life was new.
Absorbed in this way, she was not at first aware that Lillo had ceased to look at his book, and was watching her with a slightly impatient air, which meant that he wanted to talk to her, but was not quite sure whether she would like that entertainment just now. But persevering17 looks make themselves felt at last. Romola did presently turn away her eyes from the distance and met Lillo’s impatient dark gaze with a brighter and brighter smile. He shuffled18 along the floor, still keeping the book on his lap, till he got close to her and lodged19 his chin on her knee.
‘What is it, Lillo?’ said Romola, pulling his hair back from his brow. Lillo was a handsome lad, but his features were turning out to be more massive and less regular than his father’s. The blood of the Tuscan peasant was in his veins20.
‘Mamma Romola, what am I to be?’ he said, well contented21 that there was a prospect22 of talking till it would be too late to con4 ‘Spirito gentil’ any longer.
‘What should you like to be, Lillo? You might be a scholar. My father was a scholar, you know, and taught me a great deal. That is the reason why I can teach you.’
‘Yes,’ said Lillo, rather hesitatingly. ‘But he is old and blind in the picture. Did he get a great deal of glory?’
‘Not much, Lillo. The world was not always very kind to him, and he saw meaner men than himself put into higher places, because they could flatter and say what was false. And then his dear son thought it right to leave him and become a monk23; and after that, my father, being blind and lonely, felt unable to do the things that would have made his learning of greater use to men, so that he might still have lived in his works after he was in his grave.’
‘I should not like that sort of life,’ said Lillo. ‘I should like to be something that would make me a great man, and very happy besides — something that would not hinder me from having a good deal of pleasure.’
‘That is not easy, my Lillo. It is only a poor sort of happiness that could ever come by caring very much about our own narrow pleasures. We can only have the highest happiness, such as goes along with being a great man, by having wide thoughts, and much feeling for the rest of the world as well as ourselves; and this sort of happiness often brings so much pain with it, that we can only tell it from pain by its being what we would choose before everything else, because our souls see it is good. There are so many things wrong and difficult in the world, that no man can be great — he can hardly keep himself from wickedness — unless he gives up thinking much about pleasure or rewards, and gets strength to endure what is hard and painful. My father had the greatness that belongs to integrity; he chose poverty and obscurity rather than falsehood. And there was Fra Girolamo — you know why I keep to-morrow sacred: he had the greatness which belongs to a life spent in struggling against powerful wrong, and in trying to raise men to the highest deeds they are capable of. And so, my Lillo, if you mean to act nobly and seek to know the best things God has put within reach of men, you must learn to fix your mind on that end, and not on what will happen to you because of it. And remember, if you were to choose something lower, and make it the rule of your life to seek your own pleasure and escape from what is disagreeable, calamity24 might come just the same; and it would be calamity falling on a base mind, which is the one form of sorrow that has no balm in it, and that may well make a man say, — “It would have been better for me if I had never been born.” I will tell you something, Lillo.’
Romola paused for a moment. She had taken Lillo’s cheeks between her hands, and his young eyes were meeting hers.
‘There was a man to whom I was very near, so that I could see a great deal of his life, who made almost every one fond of him, for he was young, and clever, and beautiful, and his manners to all were gentle and kind. I believe, when I first knew him, he never thought of anything cruel or base. But because he tried to slip away from everything that was unpleasant, and cared for nothing else so much as his own safety, he came at last to commit some of the basest deeds — such as make men infamous25. He denied his father, and left him to misery26; he betrayed every trust that was reposed27 in him, that he might keep himself safe and get rich and prosperous. Yet calamity overtook him.’
Again Romola paused. Her voice was unsteady, and Lillo was looking up at her with awed28 wonder.
‘Another time, my Lillo — I will tell you another time. See, there are our old Piero di Cosimo and Nello coming up the Borgo Pinti, bringing us their flowers. Let us go and wave our hands to them, that they may know we see them.’
‘How queer old Piero is!’ said Lillo, as they stood at the corner of the loggia, watching the advancing figures. ‘He abuses you for dressing29 the altar, and thinking so much of Fra Girolamo, and yet he brings you the flowers.’
‘Never mind,’ said Romola. ‘There are many good people who did not love Fra Girolamo. Perhaps I should never have learned to love him if he had not helped me when I was in great need.’
The End
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1
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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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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3
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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4
con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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7
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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8
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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9
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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10
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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11
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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12
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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13
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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14
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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15
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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16
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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17
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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18
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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19
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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20
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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21
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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22
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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23
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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24
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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25
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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26
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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27
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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