A Supper in the Rucellai Gardens.
On entering the handsome pavilion, Tito’s quick glance soon discerned
in the selection of the guests the confirmation of his conjecture that
the object of the gathering was political, though, perhaps, nothing
more distinct than that strengthening of party which comes from
good-fellowship. Good dishes and good wine were at that time believed
to heighten the consciousness of political preferences, and in the
inspired ease of after-supper talk it was supposed that people
ascertained their own opinions with a clearness quite inaccessible to
uninvited stomachs. The Florentines were a sober and frugal people; but
wherever men have gathered wealth, Madonna della Gozzoviglia and San
Buonvino have had their worshippers; and the Rucellai were among the
few Florentine families who kept a great table and lived splendidly. It
was not probable that on this evening there would be any attempt to
apply high philosophic theories; and there could be no objection to the
bust of Plato looking on, or even to the modest presence of the
cardinal virtues in fresco on the walls.
That bust of Plato had been long used to look down on conviviality of a
more transcendental sort, for it had been brought from Lorenzo’s villa
after his death, when the meetings of the Platonic Academy had been
transferred to these gardens. Especially on every thirteenth of
November, reputed anniversary of Plato’s death, it had looked down from
under laurel leaves on a picked company of scholars and philosophers,
who met to eat and drink with moderation, and to discuss and admire,
perhaps with less moderation, the doctrines of the great master:—on
Pico della Mirandola, once a Quixotic young genius with long curls,
astonished at his own powers and astonishing Rome with heterodox
theses; afterwards a more humble student with a consuming passion for
inward perfection, having come to find the universe more astonishing
than his own cleverness:—on innocent, laborious Marsilio Ficino, picked
out young to be reared as a Platonic philosopher, and fed on Platonism
in all its stages till his mind was perhaps a little pulpy from that
too exclusive diet:—on Angelo Poliziano, chief literary genius of that
age, a born poet, and a scholar without dulness, whose phrases had
blood in them and are alive still:—or, further back, on Leon Battista
Alberti, a reverend senior when those three were young, and of a much
grander type than they, a robust, universal mind, at once practical and
theoretic, artist, man of science, inventor, poet:—and on many more
valiant workers whose names are not registered where every day we turn
the leaf to read them, but whose labours make a part, though an
unrecognised part, of our inheritance, like the ploughing and sowing of
past generations.
Bernardo Rucellai was a man to hold a distinguished place in that
Academy even before he became its host and patron. He was still in the
prime of life, not more than four and forty, with a somewhat haughty,
cautiously dignified presence; conscious of an amazingly pure Latinity,
but, says Erasmus, not to be caught speaking Latin—no word of Latin to
be sheared off him by the sharpest of Teutons. He welcomed Tito with
more marked favour than usual and gave him a place between Lorenzo
Tornabuoni and Giannozzo Pucci, both of them accomplished young members
of the Medicean party.
Of course the talk was the lightest in the world while the brass bowl
filled with scented water was passing round, that the company might
wash their hands, and rings flashed on white fingers under the
wax-lights, and there was the pleasant fragrance of fresh white damask
newly come from France. The tone of remark was a very common one in
those times. Some one asked what Dante’s pattern old Florentine would
think if the life could come into him again under his leathern belt and
bone clasp, and he could see silver forks on the table? And it was
agreed on all hands that the habits of posterity would be very
surprising to ancestors, if ancestors could only know them.
And while the silver forks were just dallying with the appetising
delicacies that introduced the more serious business of the supper—such
as morsels of liver, cooked to that exquisite point that they would
melt in the mouth—there was time to admire the designs on the enamelled
silver centres of the brass service, and to say something, as usual,
about the silver dish for confetti, a masterpiece of Antonio
Pollajuolo, whom patronising Popes had seduced from his native Florence
to more gorgeous Rome.
“Ah, I remember,” said Niccolò Ridolfi, a middle-aged man, with that
negligent ease of manner which, seeming to claim nothing, is really
based on the lifelong consciousness of commanding rank—“I remember our
Antonio getting bitter about his chiselling and enamelling of these
metal things, and taking in a fury to painting, because, said he, ‘the
artist who puts his work into gold and silver, puts his brains into the
melting-pot.’”
“And that is not unlikely to be a true foreboding of Antonio’s,” said
Giannozzo Pucci. “If this pretty war with Pisa goes on, and the revolt
only spreads a little to our other towns, it is not only our silver
dishes that are likely to go; I doubt whether Antonio’s silver saints
round the altar of San Giovanni will not some day vanish from the eyes
of the faithful to be worshipped more devoutly in the form of coin.”
“The Frate is preparing us for that already,” said Tornabuoni. “He is
telling the people that God will not have silver crucifixes and
starving stomachs; and that the church is best adorned with the gems of
holiness and the fine gold of brotherly love.”
“A very useful doctrine of war-finance, as many a Condottiere has
found,” said Bernardo Rucellai, drily. “But politics come on after the
confetti, Lorenzo, when we can drink wine enough to wash them down;
they are too solid to be taken with roast and boiled.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Niccolò Ridolfi. “Our Luigi Pulci would have said
this delicate boiled kid must be eaten with an impartial mind. I
remember one day at Careggi, when Luigi was in his rattling vein, he
was maintaining that nothing perverted the palate like opinion.
‘Opinion,’ said he, ‘corrupts the saliva—that’s why men took to pepper.
Scepticism is the only philosophy that doesn’t bring a taste in the
mouth.’ ‘Nay,’ says poor Lorenzo de’ Medici, ‘you must be out there,
Luigi. Here is this untainted sceptic, Matteo Franco, who wants hotter
sauce than any of us.’ ‘Because he has a strong opinion of himself,’
flashes out Luigi, which is the original egg of all other opinion. _He_
a sceptic? He believes in the immortality of his own verses. He is such
a logician as that preaching friar who described the pavement of the
bottomless pit. Poor Luigi! his mind was like sharpest steel that can
touch nothing without cutting.”
“And yet a very gentle-hearted creature,” said Giannozzo Pucci. “It
seemed to me his talk was a mere blowing of soap-bubbles. What
dithyrambs he went into about eating and drinking! and yet he was as
temperate as a butterfly.”
The light talk and the solid eatables were not soon at an end, for
after the roast and boiled meats came the indispensable capon and game,
and, crowning glory of a well-spread table, a peacock cooked according
to the receipt of Apicius for cooking partridges, namely, with the
feathers on, but not plucked afterwards, as that great authority
ordered concerning his partridges; on the contrary, so disposed on the
dish that it might look as much as possible like a live peacock taking
its unboiled repose. Great was the skill required in that confidential
servant who was the official carver, respectfully to turn the classical
though insipid bird on its back, and expose the plucked breast from
which he was to dispense a delicate slice to each of the honourable
company, unless any one should be of so independent a mind as to
decline that expensive toughness and prefer the vulgar digestibility of
capon.
Hardly any one was so bold. Tito quoted Horace and dispersed his slice
in small particles over his plate; Bernardo Rucellai made a learned
observation about the ancient price of peacocks’ eggs, but did not
pretend to eat his slice; and Niccolò Ridolfi held a mouthful on his
fork while he told a favourite story of Luigi Pulci’s, about a man of
Siena, who, wanting to give a splendid entertainment at moderate
expense, bought a wild goose, cut off its beak and webbed feet, and
boiled it in its feathers, to pass for a pea-hen.
In fact, very little peacock was eaten; but there was the satisfaction
of sitting at a table where peacock was served up in a remarkable
manner, and of knowing that such caprices were not within reach of any
but those who supped with the very wealthiest men. And it would have
been rashness to speak slightingly of peacock’s flesh, or any other
venerable institution, at a time when Fra Girolamo was teaching the
disturbing doctrine that it was not the duty of the rich to be
luxurious for the sake of the poor.
Meanwhile, in the chill obscurity that surrounded this centre of
warmth, and light, and savoury odours, the lonely disowned man was
walking in gradually narrowing circuits. He paused among the trees, and
looked in at the windows, which made brilliant pictures against the
gloom. He could hear the laughter; he could see Tito gesticulating with
careless grace, and hear his voice, now alone, now mingling in the
merry confusion of interlacing speeches. Baldassarre’s mind was highly
strung. He was preparing himself for the moment when he could win his
entrance into this brilliant company; and he had a savage satisfaction
in the sight of Tito’s easy gaiety, which seemed to be preparing the
unconscious victim for more effective torture.
But the men seated among the branching tapers and the flashing cups
could know nothing of the pale fierce face that watched them from
without. The light can be a curtain as well as the darkness.
And the talk went on with more eagerness as it became less disconnected
and trivial. The sense of citizenship was just then strongly forced
even on the most indifferent minds. What the overmastering Fra Girolamo
was saying and prompting was really uppermost in the thoughts of every
one at table; and before the stewed fish was removed, and while the
favourite sweets were yet to come, his name rose to the surface of the
conversation, and, in spite of Rucellai’s previous prohibition, the
talk again became political. At first, while the servants remained
present, it was mere gossip: what had been done in the Palazzo on the
first day’s voting for the Great Council; how hot-tempered and
domineering Francesco Valori was, as if he were to have everything his
own way by right of his austere virtue, and how it was clear to
everybody who heard Soderini’s speeches in favour of the Great Council
and also heard the Frate’s sermons, that they were both kneaded in the
same trough.
“My opinion is,” said Niccolò Ridolfi, “that the Frate has a longer
head for public matters than Soderini or any Piagnone among them: you
may depend on it that Soderini is his mouthpiece more than he is
Soderini’s.”
“No, Niccolò; there I differ from you,” said Bernardo Ruccellai: “the
Frate has an acute mind, and readily sees what will serve his own ends;
but it is not likely that Pagolantonio Soderini, who has had long
experience of affairs, and has specially studied the Venetian Council,
should be much indebted to a monk for ideas on that subject. No, no;
Soderini loads the cannon; though, I grant you, Fra Girolamo brings the
powder and lights the match. He is master of the people, and the people
are getting master of us. Ecco!”
“Well,” said Lorenzo Tornabuoni, presently, when the room was clear of
servants, and nothing but wine was passing round, “whether Soderini is
indebted or not, _we_ are indebted to the Frate for the general amnesty
which has gone along with the scheme of the Council. We might have done
without the fear of God and the reform of morals being passed by a
majority of black beans; but that excellent proposition, that our
Medicean heads should be allowed to remain comfortably on our
shoulders, and that we should not be obliged to hand over our property
in fines, has my warm approval, and it is my belief that nothing but
the Frate’s predominance could have procured that for us. And you may
rely on it that Fra Girolamo is as firm as a rock on that point of
promoting peace. I have had an interview with him.”
There was a murmur of surprise and curiosity at the farther end of the
table; but Bernardo Rucellai simply nodded, as if he knew what
Tornabuoni had to say, and wished him to go on.
“Yes,” proceeded Tornabuoni, “I have been favoured with an interview in
the Frate’s own cell, which, let me tell you, is not a common favour;
for I have reason to believe that even Francesco Valori very seldom
sees him in private. However, I think he saw me the more willingly
because I was not a ready-made follower, but had to be converted. And,
for my part, I see clearly enough that the only safe and wise policy
for us Mediceans to pursue is to throw our strength into the scale of
the Frate’s party. We are not strong enough to make head on our own
behalf; and if the Frate and the popular party were upset, every one
who hears me knows perfectly well what other party would be uppermost
just now: Nerli, Alberti, Pazzi, and the rest—_Arrabbiati_, as somebody
christened them the other day—who, instead of giving us an amnesty,
would be inclined to fly at our throats like mad dogs, and not be
satisfied till they had banished half of us.”
There were strong interjections of assent to this last sentence of
Tornabuoni’s, as he paused and looked round a moment.
“A wise dissimulation,” he went on, “is the only course for moderate
rational men in times of violent party feeling. I need hardly tell this
company what are my real political attachments: I am not the only man
here who has strong personal ties to the banished family; but, apart
from any such ties, I agree with my more experienced friends, who are
allowing me to speak for them in their presence, that the only lasting
and peaceful state of things for Florence is the predominance of some
single family interest. This theory of the Frate’s, that we are to have
a popular government, in which every man is to strive only for the
general good, and know no party names, is a theory that may do for some
isle of Cristoforo Colombo’s finding, but will never do for our fine
old quarrelsome Florence. A change must come before long, and with
patience and caution we have every chance of determining the change in
our favour. Meanwhile, the best thing we can do will be to keep the
Frate’s flag flying, for if any other were to be hoisted just now it
would be a black flag for us.”
“It’s true,” said Niccolò Ridolfi, in a curt decisive way. “What you
say is true, Lorenzo. For my own part, I am too old for anybody to
believe that I’ve changed my feathers. And there are certain of us—our
old Bernardo del Nero for one—whom you would never persuade to borrow
another man’s shield. But we can lie still, like sleepy old dogs; and
it’s clear enough that barking would be of no use just now. As for this
psalm-singing party, who vote for nothing but the glory of God, and
want to make believe we can all love each other, and talk as if vice
could be swept out with a besom by the Magnificent Eight, their day
will not be a long one. After all the talk of scholars, there are but
two sorts of government: one where men show their teeth at each other,
and one where men show their tongues and lick the feet of the
strongest. They’ll get their Great Council finally voted
to-morrow—that’s certain enough—and they’ll think they’ve found out a
new plan of government; but as sure as there’s a human skin under every
lucco in the Council, their new plan will end like every other, in
snarling or in licking. That’s my view of things as a plain man. Not
that I consider it becoming in men of family and following, who have
got others depending on their constancy and on their sticking to their
colours, to go a-hunting with a fine net to catch reasons in the air,
like doctors of law. I say frankly that, as the head of my family, I
shall be true to my old alliances; and I have never yet seen any
chalk-mark on political reasons to tell me which is true and which is
false. My friend Bernardo Rucellai here is a man of reasons, I know,
and I have no objection to anybody’s finding fine-spun reasons for me,
so that they don’t interfere with my actions as a man of family who has
faith to keep with his connections.”
“If that is an appeal to me, Niccolò,” said Bernardo Rucellai, with a
formal dignity, in amusing contrast with Ridolfi’s curt and pithy ease,
“I may take this opportunity of saying, that while my wishes are partly
determined by long-standing personal relations, I cannot enter into any
positive schemes with persons over whose actions I have no control. I
myself might be content with a restoration of the old order of things;
but with modifications—with important modifications. And the one point
on which I wish to declare my concurrence with Lorenzo Tornabuoni is,
that the best policy to be pursued by our friends is, to throw the
weight of their interest into the scale of the popular party. For
myself, I condescend to no dissimulation; nor do I at present see the
party or the scheme that commands my full assent. In all alike there is
crudity and confusion of ideas, and of all the twenty men who are my
colleagues in the present crisis, there is not one with whom I do not
find myself in wide disagreement.”
Niccolò Ridolfi shrugged his shoulders, and left it to some one else to
take up the ball. As the wine went round the talk became more and more
frank and lively, and the desire of several at once to be the chief
speaker, as usual caused the company to break up into small knots of
two and three.
It was a result which had been foreseen by Lorenzo Tornabuoni and
Giannozzo Pucci, and they were among the first to turn aside from the
highroad of general talk and enter into a special conversation with
Tito, who sat between them; gradually pushing away their seats, and
turning their backs on the table and wine.
“In truth, Melema,” Tornabuoni was saying at this stage, laying one
hose-clad leg across the knee of the other, and caressing his ankle, “I
know of no man in Florence who can serve our party better than you. You
see what most of our friends are: men who can no more hide their
prejudices than a dog can hide the natural tone of his bark, or else
men whose political ties are so notorious, that they must always be
objects of suspicion. Giannozzo here, and I, I flatter myself, are able
to overcome that suspicion; we have that power of concealment and
finesse, without which a rational cultivated man, instead of having any
prerogative, is really at a disadvantage compared with a wild bull or a
savage. But, except yourself, I know of no one else on whom we could
rely for the necessary discretion.”
“Yes,” said Giannozzo Pucci, laying his hand on Tito’s shoulder, “the
fact is, Tito mio, you can help us better than if you were Ulysses
himself, for I am convinced that Ulysses often made himself
disagreeable. To manage men one ought to have a sharp mind in a velvet
sheath. And there is not a soul in Florence who could undertake a
business like this journey to Rome, for example, with the same safety
that you can. There is your scholarship, which may always be a pretext
for such journeys; and what is better, there is your talent, which it
would be harder to match than your scholarship. Niccolò Macchiavelli
might have done for us if he had been on our side, but hardly so well.
He is too much bitten with notions, and has not your power of
fascination. All the worse for him. He has lost a great chance in life,
and you have got it.”
“Yes,” said Tornabuoni, lowering his voice in a significant manner,
“you have only to play your game well, Melema, and the future belongs
to you. For the Medici, you may rely upon it, will keep a foot in Rome
as well as in Florence, and the time may not be far-off when they will
be able to make a finer career for their adherents even than they did
in old days. Why shouldn’t you take orders some day? There’s a
cardinal’s hat at the end of that road, and you would not be the first
Greek who has worn that ornament.”
Tito laughed gaily. He was too acute not to measure Tornabuoni’s
exaggerated flattery, but still the flattery had a pleasant flavour.
“My joints are not so stiff yet,” he said, “that I can’t be induced to
run without such a high prize as that. I think the income of an abbey
or two held ‘in commendam,’ without the trouble of getting my head
shaved, would satisfy me at present.”
“I was not joking,” said Tornabuoni, with grave suavity; “I think a
scholar would always be the better off for taking orders. But we’ll
talk of that another time. One of the objects to be first borne in
mind, is that you should win the confidence of the men who hang about
San Marco; that is what Giannozzo and I shall do, but you may carry it
farther than we can, because you are less observed. In that way you can
get a thorough knowledge of their doings, and you will make a broader
screen for your agency on our side. Nothing of course can be done
before you start for Rome, because this bit of business between Piero
de’ Medici and the French nobles must be effected at once. I mean when
you come back, of course; I need say no more. I believe you could make
yourself the pet votary of San Marco, if you liked; but you are wise
enough to know that effective dissimulation is never immoderate.”
“If it were not that an adhesion to the popular side is necessary to
your safety as an agent of our party, Tito mio,” said Giannozzo Pucci,
who was more fraternal and less patronising in his manner than
Tornabuoni, “I could have wished your skill to have been employed in
another way, for which it is still better fitted. But now we must look
out for some other man among us who will manage to get into the
confidence of our sworn enemies, the Arrabbiati; we need to know their
movements more than those of the Frate’s party, who are strong enough
to play above-board. Still, it would have been a difficult thing for
you, from your known relations with the Medici a little while back, and
that sort of kinship your wife has with Bernardo del Nero. We must find
a man who has no distinguished connections, and who has not yet taken
any side.”
Tito was pushing his hair backward automatically, as his manner was,
and looking straight at Pucci with a scarcely perceptible smile on his
lip.
“No need to look out for any one else,” he said, promptly. “I can
manage the whole business with perfect ease. I will engage to make
myself the special confidant of that thick-headed Dolfo Spini, and know
his projects before he knows them himself.”
Tito seldom spoke so confidently of his own powers, but he was in a
state of exaltation at the sudden opening of a new path before him,
where fortune seemed to have hung higher prizes than any he had thought
of hitherto. Hitherto he had seen success only in the form of favour;
it now flashed on him in the shape of power—of such power as is
possible to talent without traditional ties, and without beliefs. Each
party that thought of him as a tool might become dependent on him. His
position as an alien, his indifference to the ideas or prejudices of
the men amongst whom he moved, were suddenly transformed into
advantages; he became newly conscious of his own adroitness in the
presence of a game that he was called on to play. And all the motives
which might have made Tito shrink from the triple deceit that came
before him as a tempting game, had been slowly strangled in him by the
successive falsities of his life.
Our lives make a moral tradition for our individual selves, as the life
of mankind at large makes a moral tradition for the race; and to have
once acted nobly seems a reason why we should always be noble. But Tito
was feeling the effect of an opposite tradition: he had won no memories
of self-conquest and perfect faithfulness from which he could have a
sense of falling.
The triple colloquy went on with growing spirit till it was interrupted
by a call from the table. Probably the movement came from the listeners
in the party, who were afraid lest the talkers should tire themselves.
At all events it was agreed that there had been enough of gravity, and
Rucellai had just ordered new flasks of Montepulciano.
“How many minstrels are there among us?” he said, when there had been a
general rallying round the table. “Melema, I think you are the chief:
Matteo will give you the lute.”
“Ah, yes!” said Giannozzo Pucci, “lead the last chorus from Poliziano’s
‘Orfeo,’ that you have found such an excellent measure for, and we will
all fall in:—
“‘Ciascum segua, o Bacco, te:
Bacco, Bacco, evoe, evoe!’”
The servant put the lute into Tito’s hands, and then said something in
an undertone to his master. A little subdued questioning and answering
went on between them, while Tito touched the lute in a preluding way to
the strain of the chorus, and there was a confusion of speech and
musical humming all round the table. Bernardo Rucellai had said, “Wait
a moment, Melema;” but the words had been unheard by Tito, who was
leaning towards Pucci, and singing low to him the phrases of the
Maenad-chorus. He noticed nothing until the buzz round the table
suddenly ceased, and the notes of his own voice, with its soft
low-toned triumph, “Evoe, evoe!” fell in startling isolation.
It was a strange moment. Baldassarre had moved round the table till he
was opposite Tito, and as the hum ceased there might be seen for an
instant Baldassarre’s fierce dark eyes bent on Tito’s bright smiling
unconsciousness, while the low notes of triumph dropped from his lips
into the silence.
Tito looked up with a slight start, and his lips turned pale, but he
seemed hardly more moved than Giannozzo Pucci, who had looked up at the
same moment—or even than several others round the table; for that
sallow deep-lined face with the hatred in its eyes seemed a terrible
apparition across the wax-lit ease and gaiety. And Tito quickly
recovered some self-command. “A mad old man—he looks like it—he _is_
mad!” was the instantaneous thought that brought some courage with it;
for he could conjecture no inward change in Baldassarre since they had
met before. He just let his eyes fall and laid the lute on the table
with apparent ease; but his fingers pinched the neck of the lute hard
while he governed his head and his glance sufficiently to look with an
air of quiet appeal towards Bernardo Rucellai, who said at once—
“Good man, what is your business? What is the important declaration
that you have to make?”
“Messer Bernardo Rucellai, I wish you and your honourable friends to
know in what sort of company you are sitting. There is a traitor among
you.”
There was a general movement of alarm. Every one present, except Tito,
thought of political danger and not of private injury.
Baldassarre began to speak as if he were thoroughly assured of what he
had to say; but, in spite of his long preparation for this moment,
there was the tremor of overmastering excitement in his voice. His
passion shook him. He went on, but he did not say what he had meant to
say. As he fixed his eyes on Tito again the passionate words were like
blows—they defied premeditation.
“There is a man among you who is a scoundrel, a liar, a robber. I was a
father to him. I took him from beggary when he was a child. I reared
him, I cherished him, I taught him, I made him a scholar. My head has
lain hard that his might have a pillow. And he left me in slavery; he
sold the gems that were mine, and when I came again, he denied me.”
The last words had been uttered with almost convulsed agitation, and
Baldassarre paused, trembling. All glances were turned on Tito, who was
now looking straight at Baldassarre. It was a moment of desperation
that annihilated all feeling in him, except the determination to risk
anything for the chance of escape. And he gathered confidence from the
agitation by which Baldassarre was evidently shaken. He had ceased to
pinch the neck of the lute, and had thrust his thumbs into his belt,
while his lips had begun to assume a slight curl. He had never yet done
an act of murderous cruelty even to the smallest animal that could
utter a cry, but at that moment he would have been capable of treading
the breath from a smiling child for the sake of his own safety.
“What does this mean, Melema?” said Bernardo Rucellai, in a tone of
cautious surprise. He, as well as the rest of the company, felt
relieved that the tenor of the accusation was not political.
“Messer Bernardo,” said Tito, “I believe this man is mad. I did not
recognise him the first time he encountered me in Florence, but I know
now that he is the servant who years ago accompanied me and my adoptive
father to Greece, and was dismissed on account of misdemeanours. His
name is Jacopo di Nola. Even at that time I believe his mind was
unhinged, for, without any reason, he had conceived a strange hatred
towards me; and now I am convinced that he is labouring under a mania
which causes him to mistake his identity. He has already attempted my
life since he has been in Florence; and I am in constant danger from
him. But he is an object of pity rather than of indignation. It is too
certain that my father is dead. You have only my word for it; but I
must leave it to your judgment how far it is probable that a man of
intellect and learning would have been lurking about in dark corners
for the last month with the purpose of assassinating me; or how far it
is probable that, if this man were my second father, I could have any
motive for denying him. That story about my being rescued from beggary
is the vision of a diseased brain. But it will be a satisfaction to me
at least if you will demand from him proofs of his identity, lest any
malignant person should choose to make this mad impeachment a reproach
to me.”
Tito had felt more and more confidence as he went on; the lie was not
so difficult when it was once begun; and as the words fell easily from
his lips, they gave him a sense of power such as men feel when they
have begun a muscular feat successfully. In this way he acquired
boldness enough to end with a challenge for proofs.
Baldassarre, while he had been walking in the gardens and afterwards
waiting in an outer room of the pavilion with the servants, had been
making anew the digest of the evidence he would bring to prove his
identity and Tito’s baseness, recalling the description and history of
his gems, and assuring himself by rapid mental glances that he could
attest his learning and his travels. It might be partly owing to this
nervous strain that the new shock of rage he felt as Tito’s lie fell on
his ears brought a strange bodily effect with it: a cold stream seemed
to rush over him, and the last words of the speech seemed to be drowned
by ringing chimes. Thought gave way to a dizzy horror, as if the earth
were slipping away from under him. Every one in the room was looking at
him as Tito ended, and saw that the eyes which had had such fierce
intensity only a few minutes before had now a vague fear in them. He
clutched the back of a seat, and was silent.
Hardly any evidence could have been more in favour of Tito’s assertion.
“Surely I have seen this man before, somewhere,” said Tornabuoni.
“Certainly you have,” said Tito, readily, in a low tone. “He is the
escaped prisoner who clutched me on the steps of the Duomo. I did not
recognise him then; he looks now more as he used to do, except that he
has a more unmistakable air of mad imbecility.”
“I cast no doubt on your word, Melema,” said Bernardo Rucellai, with
cautious gravity, “but you are right to desire some positive test of
the fact.” Then turning to Baldassarre, he said, “If you are the person
you claim to be, you can doubtless give some description of the gems
which were your property. I myself was the purchaser of more than one
gem from Messer Tito—the chief rings, I believe, in his collection. One
of them is a fine sard, engraved with a subject from Homer. If, as you
allege, you are a scholar, and the rightful owner of that ring, you can
doubtless turn to the noted passage in Homer from which that subject is
taken. Do you accept this test, Melema? or have you anything to allege
against its validity? The Jacopo you speak of, was he a scholar?”
It was a fearful crisis for Tito. If he said “Yes,” his quick mind told
him that he would shake the credibility of his story: if he said “No,”
he risked everything on the uncertain extent of Baldassarre’s
imbecility. But there was no noticeable pause before he said, “No. I
accept the test.”
There was a dead silence while Rucellai moved towards the recess where
the books were, and came back with the fine Florentine Homer in his
hand. Baldassarre, when he was addressed, had turned his head towards
the speaker, and Rucellai believed that he had understood him. But he
chose to repeat what he had said, that there might be no mistake as to
the test.
“The ring I possess,” he said, “is a fine sard, engraved with a subject
from Homer. There was no other at all resembling it in Messer Tito’s
collection. Will you turn to the passage in Homer from which that
subject is taken? Seat yourself here,” he added, laying the book on the
table, and pointing to his own seat while he stood beside it.
Baldassarre had so far recovered from the first confused horror
produced by the sensation of rushing coldness and chiming din in the
ears as to be partly aware of what was said to him: he was aware that
something was being demanded from him to prove his identity, but he
formed no distinct idea of the details. The sight of the book recalled
the habitual longing and faint hope that he could read and understand,
and he moved towards the chair immediately.
The book was open before him, and he bent his head a little towards it,
while everybody watched him eagerly. He turned no leaf. His eyes
wandered over the pages that lay before him, and then fixed on them a
straining gaze. This lasted for two or three minutes in dead silence.
Then he lifted his hands to each side of his head, and said, in a low
tone of despair, “Lost, lost!”
There was something so piteous in the wandering look and the low cry,
that while they confirmed the belief in his madness they raised
compassion. Nay, so distinct sometimes is the working of a double
consciousness within us, that Tito himself, while he triumphed in the
apparent verification of his lie, wished that he had never made the lie
necessary to himself—wished he had recognised his father on the
steps—wished he had gone to seek him—wished everything had been
different. But he had borrowed from the terrible usurer Falsehood, and
the loan had mounted and mounted with the years, till he belonged to
the usurer, body and soul.
The compassion excited in all the witnesses was not without its danger
to Tito; for conjecture is constantly guided by feeling, and more than
one person suddenly conceived that this man might have been a scholar
and have lost his faculties. On the other hand, they had not present to
their minds the motives which could have led Tito to the denial of his
benefactor, and having no ill-will towards him, it would have been
difficult to them to believe that he had been uttering the basest of
lies. And the originally common type of Baldassarre’s person, coarsened
by years of hardship, told as a confirmation of Tito’s lie. If
Baldassarre, to begin with, could have uttered precisely the words he
had premeditated, there might have been something in the form of his
accusation which would have given it the stamp not only of true
experience but of mental refinement. But there had been no such
testimony in his impulsive agitated words: and there seemed the very
opposite testimony in the rugged face and the coarse hands that
trembled beside it, standing out in strong contrast in the midst of
that velvet-clad, fair-handed company.
His next movement, while he was being watched in silence, told against
him too. He took his hands from his head, and felt for something under
his tunic. Every one guessed what that movement meant—guessed that
there was a weapon at his side. Glances were interchanged; and Bernardo
Rucellai said, in a quiet tone, touching Baldassarre’s shoulder—
“My friend, this is an important business of yours. You shall have all
justice. Follow me into a private room.”
Baldassarre was still in that half-stunned state in which he was
susceptible to any prompting, in the same way as an insect that forms
no conception of what the prompting leads to. He rose from his seat,
and followed Rucellai out of the room.
In two or three minutes Rucellai came back again, and said—
“He is safe under lock and key. Piero Pitti, you are one of the
Magnificent Eight, what do you think of our sending Matteo to the
palace for a couple of sbirri, who may escort him to the Stinche? (The
largest prison in Florence.) If there is any danger in him, as I think
there is, he will be safe there; and we can inquire about him
to-morrow.”
Pitti assented, and the order was given.
“He is certainly an ill-looking fellow,” said Tornabuoni. “And you say
he has attempted your life already, Melema?”
And the talk turned on the various forms of madness, and the fierceness
of the southern blood. If the seeds of conjecture unfavourable to Tito
had been planted in the mind of any one present, they were hardly
strong enough to grow without the aid of much daylight and ill-will.
The common-looking, wild-eyed old man, clad in serge, might have won
belief without very strong evidence, if he had accused a man who was
envied and disliked. As it was, the only congruous and probable view of
the case seemed to be the one that sent the unpleasant accuser safely
out of sight, and left the pleasant serviceable Tito just where he was
before.
The subject gradually floated away, and gave place to others, till a
heavy tramp, and something like the struggling of a man who was being
dragged away, were heard outside. The sounds soon died out, and the
interruption seemed to make the last hour’s conviviality more resolute
and vigorous. Every one was willing to forget a disagreeable incident.
Tito’s heart was palpitating, and the wine tasted no better to him than
if it had been blood.
To-night he had paid a heavier price than ever to make himself safe. He
did not like the price, and yet it was inevitable that he should be
glad of the purchase.
And after all he led the chorus. He was in a state of excitement in
which oppressive sensations, and the wretched consciousness of
something hateful but irrevocable, were mingled with a feeling of
triumph which seemed to assert itself as the feeling that would subsist
and be master of the morrow.
And it _was_ master. For on the morrow, as we saw, when he was about to
start on his mission to Rome, he had the air of a man well satisfied
with the world.