Waiting by the River.
About the time when the two Compagnacci went on their errand, there was
another man who, on the opposite side of the Arno, was also going out
into the chill grey twilight. His errand, apparently, could have no
relation to theirs; he was making his way to the brink of the river at
a spot which, though within the city walls, was overlooked by no
dwellings, and which only seemed the more shrouded and lonely for the
warehouses and granaries which at some little distance backward turned
their shoulders to the river. There was a sloping width of long grass
and rushes made all the more dank by broad gutters which here and there
emptied themselves into the Arno.
The gutters and the loneliness were the attraction that drew this man
to come and sit down among the grass, and bend over the waters that ran
swiftly in the channelled slope at his side. For he had once had a
large piece of bread brought to him by one of those friendly runlets,
and more than once a raw carrot and apple-parings. It was worth while
to wait for such chances in a place where there was no one to see, and
often in his restless wakefulness he came to watch here before
daybreak; it might save him for one day the need of that silent begging
which consisted in sitting on a church-step by the wayside out beyond
the Porta San Frediano.
For Baldassarre hated begging so much that he would perhaps have chosen
to die rather than make even that silent appeal, but for one reason
that made him desire to live. It was no longer a hope; it was only that
possibility which clings to every idea that has taken complete
possession of the mind: the sort of possibility that makes a woman
watch on a headland for the ship which held something dear, though all
her neighbours are certain that the ship was a wreck long years ago.
After he had come out of the convent hospital, where the monks of San
Miniato had taken care of him as long as he was helpless; after he had
watched in vain for the Wife who was to help him, and had begun to
think that she was dead of the pestilence that seemed to fill all the
space since the night he parted from her, he had been unable to
conceive any way in which sacred vengeance could satisfy itself through
his arm. His knife was gone, and he was too feeble in body to win
another by work, too feeble in mind, even if he had had the knife, to
contrive that it should serve its one purpose. He was a shattered,
bewildered, lonely old man; yet he desired to live: _he_ waited for
something of which he had no distinct vision—something dim,
formless—that startled him, and made strong pulsations within him, like
that unknown thing which we look for when we start from sleep, though
no voice or touch has waked us. Baldassarre desired to live; and
therefore he crept out in the grey light, and seated himself in the
long grass, and watched the waters that had a faint promise in them.
Meanwhile the Compagnacci were busy at their work. The formidable bands
of armed men, left to do their will with very little interference from
an embarrassed if not conniving Signoria, had parted into two masses,
but both were soon making their way by different roads towards the
Arno. The smaller mass was making for the Ponte Rubaconte, the larger
for the Ponte Vecchio; but in both the same words had passed from mouth
to mouth as a signal, and almost every man of the multitude knew that
he was going to the Via de’ Bardi to sack a house there. If he knew no
other reason, could he demand a better?
The armed Compagnacci knew something more, for a brief word of command
flies quickly, and the leaders of the two streams of rabble had a
perfect understanding that they would meet before a certain house a
little towards the eastern end of the Via de’ Bardi, where the master
would probably be in bed, and be surprised in his morning sleep.
But the master of that house was neither sleeping nor in bed; he had
not been in bed that night. For Tito’s anxiety to quit Florence had
been stimulated by the events of the previous day: investigations would
follow in which appeals might be made to him delaying his departure:
and in all delay he had an uneasy sense that there was danger.
Falsehood had prospered and waxed strong; but it had nourished the twin
life, Fear. He no longer wore his armour, he was no longer afraid of
Baldassarre; but from the corpse of that dead fear a spirit had
risen—the undying _habit_ of fear. He felt he should not be safe till
he was out of this fierce, turbid Florence; and now he was ready to go.
Maso was to deliver up his house to the new tenant; his horses and
mules were awaiting him in San Gallo; Tessa and the children had been
lodged for the night in the Borgo outside the gate, and would be
dressed in readiness to mount the mules and join him. He descended the
stone steps into the courtyard, he passed through the great doorway,
not the same Tito, but nearly as brilliant as on the day when he had
first entered that house and made the mistake of falling in love with
Romola. The mistake was remedied now: the old life was cast off, and
was soon to be far behind him.
He turned with rapid steps towards the Piazza dei Mozzi, intending to
pass over the Ponte Rubaconte; but as he went along certain sounds came
upon his ears that made him turn round and walk yet more quickly in the
opposite direction. Was the mob coming into Oltrarno? It was a
vexation, for he would have preferred the more private road. He must
now go by the Ponte Vecchio; and unpleasant sensations made him draw
his mantle close round him, and walk at his utmost speed. There was no
one to see him in that grey twilight. But before he reached the end of
the Via de’ Bardi, like sounds fell on his ear again, and this time
they were much louder and nearer. Could he have been deceived before?
The mob must be coming over the Ponte Vecchio. Again he turned, from an
impulse of fear that was stronger than reflection; but it was only to
be assured that the mob was actually entering the street from the
opposite end. He chose not to go back to his house: after all they
would not attack _him_. Still, he had some valuables about him; and all
things except reason and order are possible with a mob. But necessity
does the work of courage. He went on towards the Ponte Vecchio, the
rush and the trampling and the confused voices getting so loud before
him that he had ceased to hear them behind.
For he had reached the end of the street, and the crowd pouring from
the bridge met him at the turning and hemmed in his way. He had not
time to wonder at a sudden shout before he felt himself surrounded,
not, in the first instance, by an unarmed rabble, but by armed
Compagnacci; the next sensation was that his cap fell off, and that he
was thrust violently forward amongst the rabble, along the narrow
passage of the bridge. Then he distinguished the shouts, “Piagnone!
Medicean! Piagnone! Throw him over the bridge!”
His mantle was being torn off him with strong pulls that would have
throttled him if the fibula had not given way. Then his scarsella was
snatched at; but all the while he was being hustled and dragged; and
the snatch failed—his scarsella still hung at his side. Shouting,
yelling, half motiveless execration rang stunningly in his ears,
spreading even amongst those who had not yet seen him, and only knew
there was a man to be reviled. Tito’s horrible dread was that he should
be struck down or trampled on before he reached the open arches that
surmount the centre of the bridge. There was one hope for him, that
they might throw him over before they had wounded him or beaten the
strength out of him; and his whole soul was absorbed in that one hope
and its obverse terror.
Yes—they _were_ at the arches. In that moment Tito, with bloodless face
and eyes dilated, had one of the self-preserving inspirations that come
in extremity. With a sudden desperate effort he mastered the clasp of
his belt, and flung belt and scarsella forward towards a yard of clear
space against the parapet, crying in a ringing voice—
“There are diamonds! there is gold!”
In the instant the hold on him was relaxed, and there was a rush
towards the scarsella. He threw himself on the parapet with a desperate
leap, and the next moment plunged—plunged with a great plash into the
dark river far below.
It was his chance of salvation; and it was a good chance. His life had
been saved once before by his fine swimming, and as he rose to the
surface again after his long dive he had a sense of deliverance. He
struck out with all the energy of his strong prime, and the current
helped him. If he could only swim beyond the Ponte alla Carrara he
might land in a remote part of the city, and even yet reach San Gallo.
Life was still before him. And the idiot mob, shouting and bellowing on
the bridge there, would think he was drowned.
They did think so. Peering over the parapet along the dark stream, they
could not see afar off the moving blackness of the floating hair, and
the velvet tunic-sleeves.
It was only from the other way that a pale olive face could be seen
looking white above the dark water: a face not easy even for the
indifferent to forget, with its square forehead, the long low arch of
the eyebrows, and the long lustrous agate-like eyes. Onward the face
went on the dark current, with inflated quivering nostrils, with the
blue veins distended on the temples. One bridge was passed—the bridge
of Santa Trinita. Should he risk landing now rather than trust to his
strength? No. He heard, or fancied he heard, yells and cries pursuing
him. Terror pressed him most from the side of his fellow-men: he was
less afraid of indefinite chances, and he swam on, panting and
straining. He was not so fresh as he would have been if he had passed
the night in sleep.
Yet the next bridge—the last bridge—was passed. He was conscious of it;
but in the tumult of his blood, he could only feel vaguely that he was
safe and might land. But where? The current was having its way with
him: he hardly knew where he was: exhaustion was bringing on the dreamy
state that precedes unconsciousness.
But now there were eyes that discerned him—aged eyes, strong for the
distance. Baldassarre, looking up blankly from the search in the runlet
that brought him nothing, had seen a white object coming along the
broader stream. Could that be any fortunate chance for _him_? He looked
and looked till the object gathered form: then he leaned forward with a
start as he sat among the rank green stems, and his eyes seemed to be
filled with a new light. Yet he only watched—motionless. Something was
being brought to him.
The next instant a man’s body was cast violently on the grass two yards
from him, and he started forward like a panther, clutching the velvet
tunic as he fell forward on the body and flashed a look in the man’s
face.
Dead—was he dead? The eyes were rigid. But no, it could not be—Justice
had brought him. Men looked dead sometimes, and yet the life came back
into them. Baldassarre did not feel feeble in that moment. He knew just
what he could do. He got his large fingers within the neck of the tunic
and held them there, kneeling on one knee beside the body and watching
the face. There was a fierce hope in his heart, but it was mixed with
trembling. In his eyes there was only fierceness: all the slow-burning
remnant of life within him seemed to have leaped into flame.
Rigid—rigid still. Those eyes with the half-fallen lids were locked
against vengeance. _Could_ it be that he was dead? There was nothing to
measure the time: it seemed long enough for hope to freeze into
despair.
Surely at last the eyelids were quivering: the eyes were no longer
rigid. There was a vibrating light in them; they opened wide.
“Ah, yes! You see me—you know me!”
Tito knew him; but he did not know whether it was life or death that
had brought him into the presence of his injured father. It might be
death—and death might mean this chill gloom with the face of the
hideous past hanging over him for ever.
But now Baldassarre’s only dread was, lest the young limbs should
escape him. He pressed his knuckles against the round throat, and knelt
upon the chest with all the force of his aged frame. Let death come
now!
Again he kept his watch on the face. And when the eyes were rigid
again, he dared not trust them. He would never lose his hold till some
one came and found them. Justice would send some witness, and then he,
Baldassarre, would declare that he had killed this traitor, to whom he
had once been a father. They would perhaps believe him now, and then he
would be content with the struggle of justice on earth—then he would
desire to die with his hold on this body, and follow the traitor to
hell that he might clutch him there.
And so he knelt, and so he pressed his knuckles against the round
throat, without trusting to the seeming death, till the light got
strong and he could kneel no longer. Then he sat on the body, still
clutching the neck of the tunic. But the hours went on, and no witness
came. No eyes descried afar off the two human bodies among the tall
grass by the riverside. Florence was busy with greater affairs, and the
preparation of a deeper tragedy.
Not long after those two bodies were lying in the grass, Savonarola was
being tortured, and crying out in his agony, “I will confess!”
It was not until the sun was westward that a waggon drawn by a mild
grey ox came to the edge of the grassy margin, and as the man who led
it was leaning to gather up the round stones that lay heaped in
readiness to be carried away, he detected some startling object in the
grass. The aged man had fallen forward, and his dead clutch was on the
garment of the other. It was not possible to separate them: nay, it was
better to put them into the waggon and carry them as they were into the
great Piazza, that notice might be given to the Eight.
As the waggon entered the frequented streets there was a growing crowd
escorting it with its strange burden. No one knew the bodies for a long
while, for the aged face had fallen forward, half hiding the younger.
But before they had been moved out of sight, they had been recognised.
“I know that old man,” Piero di Cosimo had testified. “I painted his
likeness once. He is the prisoner who clutched Melema on the steps of
the Duomo.”
“He is perhaps the same old man who appeared at supper in my gardens,”
said Bernardo Rucellai, one of the Eight. “I had forgotten him. I
thought he had died in prison. But there is no knowing the truth now.”
Who shall put his finger on the work of justice, and say, “It is
there”? Justice is like the Kingdom of God—it is not without us as a
fact, it is within us as a great yearning.