ROMOLA AND THE FLORENTINE BOY
Marmie said that it seemed to have been raining forever, and Rose and
Ruth both felt that she was far from exaggerating.
“But anyhow, spring’s coming,” Ruth added, when she and Rose were
discussing this interminable rain. “See, the snow down in the corner by
the fence has gone, and that was the last patch we could see from the
house. But Dad says the cellar’ll be flooded if it doesn’t let up soon.”
“Look at the perfect river that’s rushing down there behind the barn!
Suppose it doesn’t stop raining for weeks and weeks. I wonder if lakes
begin that way?”
“No, rain-lakes always soak away into the ground after it stops raining.
Real lakes soak up from way down deep. Some of them haven’t any bottom
at all.”
“Oh, Rose! Then they must go right through to China.”
“Yep, that’s what they do, I guess. Wouldn’t it be great to dive right
through and come up in China?”
“D’you s’pose the fairy could do that?”
“Of course. Fairies can do _anything_.”
“Now how do you know what fairies can or cannot do, young lady?” It was
the voice of Honeysqueak.
The girls whirled round from the window, through the panes of which they
had been observing the steady downpour for the last half hour, for the
voice came from behind them. But of course they saw nothing.
“You darling fairy! Did you get wet coming here?”
The fairy laughed. “Here you are one minute saying I can do anything,
and the next wondering whether I got wet because it’s rainy outside. Of
course I didn’t.”
“How can you help it?”
“The earliest lessons they give young fairies are in dodging raindrops.
Why, there is more room between raindrops if you know where to find it,
than there is between a rose and its fragrance.”
The girls laughed. “But that’s different,” they said.
“Maybe,” agreed the fairy. “Anyway, there’s no difficulty in keeping dry
out in the rain if you can see as far as your nose and jump as far as
your wing-spread.”
Neither Rose nor Ruth was quite sure she understood what the fairy
meant, but they thought they ought not to ask too many questions, so
they only said “Oh,” and wished they too had wings.
“If you aren’t too busy watching the rain to come with me,” continued
the fairy, “I’d like to take you to see a little friend of mine, called
Romola. She lives in Florence, and is rather a remarkable child.”
“I know who you mean,” said Ruth. “Marmie read us about her and Tito
last summer in the long evenings, and once Marmie was in Florence too,
and she says that some day when we’re big we shall go to Italy.”
“Well, I’m going to take you there now, only it’s a far-back Italy, for
you’ll remember that we must visit the fifteenth century as well as
Florence if we want to find Romola.”
“Yes. What fun that will be! How good you are to us, dear fairy. You’re
sure it doesn’t tire you to take us so far?”
The fairy laughed; and her laugh was as wonderful as sunlight on water.
“You forget that all I have to do is to take you through the Magic
Gate,” she explained. “So give me your hands and we’ll be off.”
Just as Rose was thinking that the fairy’s hand, in spite of being so
small, felt very firm and strong, and Ruth that it was softer than the
inside of a tulip-petal, the journey was over, and the girls opened
their eyes to find themselves standing before a sombre stone building
pierced with small windows, and none too many of these. A huge door
faced them, hung on large ornamental hinges, and just as they blinked in
the sudden astonishment of the scene, these doors swung slowly open,
showing a stone inner court. A young girl stood within the open doors.
Though she was younger than when Rose and Ruth had met her before, in
the book, there was no mistaking her, with her marvellous red-gold hair,
rippling like tiny waves flooded with the sunset, and falling far down
below her shoulders. Tall and slight, clad in a straight-hanging black
gown square at the throat, she looked pale and shining, almost as though
there were a light within her.
“Romola!” exclaimed both the girls together.
“Oh, this is good,” the girl answered, coming forward with a smile and
outstretched hands. “Will you come up first and see my father, and then
go with me on an errand I must do that will take me on the other bank of
the Arno?”
“That will be great,” said Rose. “How is your father, Romola?”
Romola shook her head sadly. “The blind are blind,” she replied. “But
come.”
[Illustration:
“FATHER, HERE ARE THE TWO FRIENDS I TOLD YOU OF,” SAID ROMOLA
]
They crossed the court and mounted several flights of stairs, and paused
at a door while Romola lifted the latch. Inside was a short passage
which brought them to a large room, lofty but dusky, crowded with
shelves full of huge books, with busts and statues and pictures, with
tables and great carved chairs and dim hangings. Seated near the one
narrow window was a man, whose long white hair was partially covered
with a black velvet cap, and who was wrapped in a dark, flowing garment
that reached to his feet. He looked like a picture the girls had once
found in a book, the portrait of some one called Dr. Faustus, though his
face was kinder, and his eyes were closed.
“Father, here are the two friends I told you of,” said Romola, as the
three young girls advanced.
“I give you welcome, my children,” returned the old man, gravely. “My
daughter is going to the other side of Florence with a manuscript of
mine that must be delivered into the hand of a scholar there, as she has
perhaps told you. Maso, my serving man, will accompany her, but I shall
be glad if you too will be of the party, for Florence is a city whose
streets are safer the more companions you have.”
The two girls were only too eager to be off into the excitement of the
streets from this somewhat sad and stern chamber dominated by the blind
old scholar, so they thanked Messer Bardo shyly, bade him good-bye, and
made their way out, while Romola bent over her father for an instant to
be sure that there was nothing he wanted.
Maso, a smiling old fellow, dressed in a sort of tunic, black, as were
most of the garments worn by the Florentines, and carrying in his hand a
stout stave, waited for his mistress and her guests at the street door.
“We will cross by the old bridge, Maso,” Romola told him. “And we must
waste no time, for these are troublesome times, and my father will not
be at ease until we are safe back once more.”
“What can happen to us?” asked Rose.
“One can never tell but that some street fight will break out—Florence
is filled with fierce men,” answered Romola, as they set out down the
narrow street that ran beside the river.
It was a perfect day, softly radiant, and all the city looked tawny and
ruddy, as though the sun of many centuries had soaked into the walls of
the houses. Here and there, from a high balcony, a splendid bit of
colour was given by a piece of silk or rich tapestry flung over the
railing. The crowd that jostled each other along the centre of the
street, for there were no sidewalks, seemed energetic and voluble. Now
and then a monk slipped past silently, dressed in a brown or black
habit, or more often in a white woollen tunic reaching to his feet over
which was thrown a black, full cloak. Now and then a couple of men on
horseback, or some one driving a donkey, shoved the foot passers by
aside, very rudely, Ruth and Rose thought.
“They might be more careful,” exclaimed Rose, in some wrath, when one
tall man on a fine black horse almost knocked her over before she could
flatten herself against the side of a house to get out of his way. He
heard her furious exclamation, and laughed.
Maso looked anxious, and Romola shook her head. “You mustn’t get in the
way of the Medici,” she remarked. “But here is the bridge, and the other
bank is not so crowded.”
“Who are the Medici?” Ruth wanted to know. “And was he one?”
“They are the rulers of Florence, and he was one of their house. See,
here comes a company of men-at-arms, and the great Duke himself. We are
in luck, Maso, to see so goodly a sight.”
Maso nodded, and Rose and Ruth agreed. For it was truly a fine company
that came trampling through the narrow street. There were some ten men
in the party, the leader riding a coal-black horse and his followers on
shining bays. This leader was a splendid object, clad in a sort of tunic
of chain mail, with a crested helmet on his head that left his dark and
beautiful face exposed, a face at once thoughtful, proud and fierce. A
jewelled sword hung at his side, and jewels flashed from his horse’s
trappings. He was laughing at something said by one of his train, yet
the laugh did not lighten his stern expression.
“Who is he?” whispered Rose, staring with all her eyes.
“Lorenzo the Magnificent,” returned Romola, “Duke of Florence. A goodly
sight, but a wicked man.”
At this moment the cavalcade stopped just beside the three girls, and
Lorenzo bent his eyes upon them.
“Here be three fair lilies,” he called. “What do you on the streets of
Florence without guardian?” he added, urging his horse close to the
girls, and giving them a smiling glance. They shrank back against the
wall, Rose feeling a sudden terror at the bold-eyed look, Ruth catching
her sister’s hand, half in excitement, half in fear, Romola answering
firmly:
“Nay, my lord the Duke, we are escorted by my father’s old servant here,
since my father, being blind, cannot himself guard us from insults.”
“Ho-ho,” cried the Duke, while his men exchanged amused glances. “Here
is a maid without fear in her heart, eh? Insults—who has insulted you?”
Romola made no reply, but child as she was her eyes met the Duke’s
bravely. Maso stepped forward timidly, whispering the girls to come
away.
The Duke made a gesture, and one of his men, crowding forward, shuffled
the old man out of the way, striking at him with his riding whip. The
rest encircled the girls, broadly smiling now, and exchanging smothered
comments. Lorenzo sate his steed in silence, staring down upon the
three. The two young Americans began to feel that the adventure was
serious, but this had the effect of making them angry. It was all very
well to be a duke, but there were limits.
Rose, stepping forward, straight and slim in her simple gown which
resembled the one worn by Romola, suddenly spoke up.
“You ought to be ashamed of stopping three little girls like this,” she
said, in a clear voice. “Just because you are a duke doesn’t give you a
right to interfere with us. Go on and let us alone, please.”
Lorenzo listened to her with an expression of dreamy amusement. His eyes
drooped, and he let the reins fall on his horse’s neck.
“So Lorenzo is chidden in the streets of Florence by babes,” he said at
last. “We must see more of these children,” and he turned to his men.
“Bring them to the palace,” he said.
Romola clutched the hands of her friends, stepping back as she did so.
“Let be, Lord Duke,” she exclaimed. “We are nothing but children—let us
go to our home.”
But the Duke, turning his horse, rode on, stately and silent. Three of
his men instantly snatched up the girls, and followed, surrounded by the
rest in such wise that they hid the captives pretty well from sight.
None of the girls made a sound. Rose and Ruth were too astounded by this
bold kidnapping to do more than gasp, and Romola, pale and dignified,
seemed frozen.
Through the gay streets they rode, and everywhere the crowd saluted,
bowing low. The clatter of the horses’ hoofs made a prodigious din, and
Rose and Ruth, even when they got back their breath after the first
shock of astonishment, felt that a scream would scarcely be heard, and
if heard it didn’t look as though anybody would pay attention.
They reached a square decorated with statues, and here Lorenzo rode out
alone into the centre, while a crowd, quickly growing in numbers,
pressed about him in a circle. Rose and her sister thought he meant to
make a speech, but what was their astonishment when he suddenly began to
sing. His voice was fine and resonant, and apparently his song amusing,
for shouts of laughter and approval greeted him at the conclusion of
each verse.
“He often sings songs of his own composition to the populace,” explained
Romola, and then she leaned nearer Rose.
The men who guarded the girls had placed them behind them on their
horses, and paid slight attention to them. As the interest in the Duke’s
performance increased, their captors, leaning forward, and shouting with
laughter, gave the youngsters a chance to escape which Romola was quick
to see.
“Try to slip off your horse, and tell Ruth to do the same when you see
me doing so,” she whispered. “They are all intent on the singing, and
once in the crowd we can easily escape.”
Rose nodded, and watching her chance, spoke to Ruth. The two kept their
eyes on Romola. The ring of men that had surrounded them was now broken,
and several spectators were looking curiously up at the girls.
Lorenzo had just finished a verse which brought a perfect storm of
applause, when Romola, with a movement cat-like and quick, slipped to
the ground. With thumping hearts the sisters followed. But Ruth, not so
tall as the others, slipped her hold and fell. The slight commotion
attracted the attention of her captor, who instantly gave a shout.
Ruth was up at once, and the three girls dashed into the crowd,
crouching low and slipping in and out like eels. The men, attempting to
run them down, were checked by the crowd, too jammed to give way.
Panting, the three reached a corner. Here a boy of sixteen or so leaned
against the wall, sombrely watching the thronged square with its
brilliant central figure.
“Help us,” panted Romola. “The Duke has threatened to take us to his
palace, we know not what will become of us. We managed to slip from the
horses in the confusion, but they are after us ... hear the shouts!”
“Quick!” said the boy, without an instant’s hesitation, and turning, he
ran down a narrow street for a hundred yards, beckoning the girls to
follow. At a sort of sunken gateway he stopped, drew a key from his
breast, turned it in the lock, and waved them within.
Safe inside, with the door shut behind them, the girls drew long,
sobbing breaths, for the struggle to get through the crowd had been
severe.
They were in a dusky sort of crypt, with vaulted passages leading away
in various directions.
“Come,” said the boy, and walked ahead of them a short way, then opened
another door, admitting them into a small octagonal chamber with benches
around the walls and a table in the centre. A huge crucifix hung on the
wall at one end, and a dusky painting faced it. A little light came
through a high, narrow window, while two tall candles flamed dimly
before the crucifix.
“You are safe here,” said the boy. “Presently, when the hue and cry has
died down, I will guide you back home. So the tyrant tried to steal
you?” His voice as he spoke trembled, and a look of hate shone in his
dark eyes.
“Yes,” said Romola. “These two friends of mine and I, with old Maso,
were bound for the other bank of the Arno when we encountered the
Magnificent. It amused him to accost us, and when we refused to be
frightened, he gave orders we should be taken to his castle. What might
have happened to us all I know not. In the meanwhile Maso must certainly
have returned to my father, who will be in despair—for which of us can
oppose the Medici?”
The boy, who wore a long red garment reaching to his heels, with a cross
hanging from a chain round his neck, made a fierce gesture.
“I am a son of Holy Church,” said he, “soon to be admitted to orders.
But I should be glad to run my blade through his black heart. The blood
of the murdered Pazzi is in my veins, and there is no Florentine but
knows how my House was destroyed by this upstart Medici—how my father
was dragged at a horse’s heels through the streets, hacked into pieces
and flung to the Arno.”
He told this dreadful tale quietly, without raising his voice, but the
tone of him made Ruth shiver, and Rose turn pale, while Romola’s eyes
flashed.
“This is no time to turn monk,” she cried. “Why are you not a soldier,
and consecrated to vengeance? Will the Church help you kill the tyrant?”
“What a lot of killing and fury there is here in Florence,” said Rose.
“I wonder how any of you escape.”
“The strong escape,” muttered the boy, fingering his cross. “But the
mighty will be brought low ... there is One even now, though men know
him not....” He stopped.
Quick, light footsteps were approaching the door opposite that by which
the boy had brought the girls into the chamber. It was thrown open, and
a man in monk’s garb stood on the threshold. He was of middling stature,
dark-skinned, with eyes of amazing brilliance under heavy, dark brows.
A look of astonishment spread over his face as his eyes fell on the
young girls.
“What is this?” he exclaimed, in a deep and musical voice. “How come
these maidens here, Francesco?”
In a few words Francesco told of the escape, and that he was waiting to
take the girls back to Romola’s house. The monk shook his head with a
denunciatory gesture.
“The time is coming when the word must be spoken,” he said. “You have
done well, Francesco, in rescuing these maids. The throng has dispersed,
and it will be safe—safe as it ever is,—to return. Come with me.”
He led them out of the room and up a spiral staircase, finally bringing
them out through a small door into the body of a church. The next moment
they stepped once more into the street, a short, twisted way that was
deserted by all except a begger or two.
“Go as swiftly as may be,” he told Francesco, “and keep to the meaner
streets. Bless you, my daughters,” he added, making the sign of the
cross, and fixing his strangely luminous eyes on the girls for a moment,
“peace be with you.”
He turned at the word and re-entered the church.
“Who is he?” asked Romola, looking after him.
“His name is Savonarola,” returned their boy friend. “He is a great man,
and some day the world will wonder at him. But we must hasten.”
“But the manuscript,” it was Rose who suddenly bethought herself of the
forgotten errand. “What about that?”
“That must wait,” Romola answered. “I must return to my father—he will
want to thank you,” she added, to the boy. “You risked a great danger if
we had all been overtaken, seeing what House you belong to.”
He smiled, shaking his head ... and with that the street, he, Romola,
and all faded. Rose and Ruth were back in their own home.