track he has left me to treadâalone in my blindness.â
Romola started from her seat, and carried away the large volume to its place again, stung too acutely by her fatherâs last words to remain motionless as well as silent; and when she turned away from the shelf again, she remained standing at some distance from him, stretching her arms downwards and clasping her fingers tightly as she looked with a sad dreariness in her young face at the lifeless objects around herâthe parchment backs, the unchanging mutilated marble, the bits of obsolete bronze and clay.
Bardo, though usually susceptible to Romolaâs movements and eager to trace them, was now too entirely preoccupied by the pain of rankling memories to notice her departure from his side.
âYes,â he went on, âwith my son to aid me, I might have had my due share in the triumphs of this century: the names of the Bardi, father and son, might have been held reverently on the lips of scholars in the ages to come; not on account of frivolous verses or philosophical treatises, which are superfluous and presumptuous attempts to imitate the inimitable, such as allure vain men like Panhormita, and from which even the admirable Poggio did not keep himself sufficiently free; but because we should have given a lamp whereby men might have studied the supreme productions of the past. For why is a young man like Poliziano (who was not yet born when I was already held worthy to maintain a discussion with Thomas of Sarzana) to have a glorious memory as a commentator on the Pandectsâwhy is Ficino, whose Latin is an offence to me, and who wanders purblind among the superstitious fancies that marked the decline at once of art, literature, and philosophy, to descend to posterity as the very high priest of Platonism, while I, who am more than their equal, have not effected anything but scattered work, which will be appropriated by other men? Why? but because my son, whom I had brought up to replenish my ripe learning with young enterprise, left me and all liberal pursuits that he might lash himself and howl at midnight with besotted friarsâthat he might go wandering on pilgrimages befitting men who know of no past older than the missal and the crucifix?âleft me when the night was already beginning to fall on me.â
In these last words the old manâs voice, which had risen high in indignant protest, fell into a tone of reproach so tremulous and plaintive that Romola, turning her eyes again towards the blind aged face, felt her heart swell with forgiving pity. She seated herself by her father again, and placed her hand on his kneeâtoo proud to obtrude consolation in words that might seem like a vindication of her own value, yet wishing to comfort him by some sign of her presence.
âYes, Romola,â said Bardo, automatically letting his left-hand, with its massive prophylactic rings, fall a little too heavily on the delicate blue-veined back of the girlâs right, so that she bit her lip to prevent herself from starting. âIf even Florence only is to remember me, it can but be on the same ground that it will remember Niccolò Niccoliâbecause I forsook the vulgar pursuit of wealth in commerce that I might devote myself to collecting the precious remains of ancient art and wisdom, and leave them, after the example of the munificent Romans, for an everlasting possession to my fellow-citizens. But why do I say Florence only? If Florence remembers me, will not the world remember me? . . . Yet,â added Bardo, after a short pause, his voice falling again into a saddened key, âLorenzoâs untimely death has raised a new difficulty. I had his promiseâI should have had his bondâthat my collection should always bear my name and should never be sold, though the harpies might clutch everything else; but there is enough for themâthere is more than enoughâand for thee, too, Romola, there