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Updated: May 1, 2025
Old men's eyes are like old men's memories; they are strongest for things a long way off." "It is better than having no portrait," said Romola, apologetically, after Bernardo had been silent a little while. "It is less like him now than the image I have in my mind, but then that might fade with the years."
She opened the door wide and showed the court covered with straw, on which lay four or five sick people, while some little children crawled or sat on it at their ease tiny pale creatures, biting straws and gurgling. "If you will come in," said Romola, tremulously, "I will find you a comfortable place, and bring you some more food." "No, I will not come in," said Baldassarre.
It had all been as rapid as the irreversible mingling of waters, for even the eager and jealous Bardo had not become impatient. "You have the volumes, my Romola?" the old man said, as they came near him again.
Romola held out the basket of bread to the man in the night-cap, looking at him without any reproach in her glance, as she said "Hunger is hard to bear, I know, and you have the power to take this bread if you will. It was saved for sick women and children. You are strong men; but if you do not choose to suffer because you are strong, you have the power to take everything from the weak.
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 placidity 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.
He cared for no explanation between them; he felt any thorough explanation impossible: he would have cared to have Romola fond again, and to her, fondness was impossible. She could be submissive and gentle, she could repress any sign of repulsion; but tenderness was not to be feigned. She was helplessly conscious of the result: her husband was alienated from her.
I would willingly know what they are yet it is useless: no, it might only deepen regret. I cannot add to my store." "I have one or two intaglios of much beauty," said Tito, proceeding to draw from his wallet a small case. But Romola no sooner saw the movement than she looked at him with significant gravity, and placed her finger on her lips "Con viso che tacendo dicea, Taci."
"In truth, I think he is not dead," said one of the brethren, when they had lifted him on the bier. "He has perhaps only sunk down for want of food." "Let me try to give him some wine," said Romola, coming forward.
They do not appear ready-made and finished at the beginning of a story, but, like real human beings amid the struggles of life, they change for the better or the worse. Tito Melema in Romola is an example of her skill in evolving character. At the outset, he is a beautiful Greek boy with a keen zest for pleasure.
But, when all is said as to his tragedy, personal and political, there remains this magnificent isolated figure, single-minded, austere and self-sacrificing, in an age of indulgence. For most people "Romola" is the medium through which Savonarola is visualized; but there he is probably made too theatrical. Yet he must have had something of the theatre in him even to consent to the ordeal by fire.
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