Romola
George Eliot
Paperback
(Independently published, June 21, 2020)
The Loggia deâ Cerchi stood in the heart of old Florence, within a labyrinth of narrow streets behind the Badia, now rarely threaded by the stranger, unless in a dubious search for a certain severely simple doorplace, bearing this inscription: Qui Nacque Il Divino Poeta.To the ear of Dante, the same streets rang with the shout and clash of fierce battle between rival families; but in the fifteenth century, they were only noisy with the unhistorical quarrels and broad jests of woolcarders in the cloth-producing quarters of San Martino and Garbo.Under this loggia, in the early morning of the 9th of April 1492, two men had their eyes fixed on each other: one was stooping slightly, and looking downward with the scrutiny of curiosity; the other, lying on the pavement, was looking upward with the startled gaze of a suddenly-awakened dreamer.The standing figure was the first to speak. He was a grey-haired, broad-shouldered man, of the type which, in Tuscan phrase, is moulded with the fist and polished with the pickaxe; but the self-important gravity which had written itself out in the deep lines about his brow and mouth seemed intended to correct any contemptuous inferences from the hasty workmanship which Nature had bestowed on his exterior. He had deposited a large well-filled bag, made of skins, on the pavement, and before him hung a pedlarâs basket, garnished partly with small womanâs-ware, such as thread and pins, and partly with fragments of glass, which had probably been taken in exchange for those commodities.âYoung man,â he said, pointing to a ring on the finger of the reclining figure, âwhen your chin has got a stiffer crop on it, youâll know better than to take your nap in street-corners with a ring like that on your forefinger. By the holy âvangels! if it had been anybody but me standing over you two minutes agoâbut Bratti Ferravecchi is not the man to steal. The cat couldnât eat her mouse if she didnât catch it alive, and Bratti couldnât relish gain if it had no taste of a bargain. Why, young man, one San Giovanni, three years ago, the Saint sent a dead body in my wayâa blind beggar, with his cap well-lined with piecesâbut, if youâll believe me, my stomach turned against the money Iâd never bargained for, till it came into my head that San Giovanni owed me the pieces for what I spend yearly at the Festa; besides, I buried the body and paid for a massâand so I saw it was a fair bargain. But how comes a young man like you, with the face of Messer San Michele, to be sleeping on a stone bed with the wind for a curtain?âThe deep guttural sounds of the speaker were scarcely intelligible to the newly-waked, bewildered listener, but he understood the action of pointing to his ring: he looked down at it, and, with a half-automatic obedience to the warning, took it off and thrust it within his doublet, rising at the same time and stretching himself.- Taken from "Romola" written by George Eliot