struggling with them to lighten it? There is hunger and misery in our streets, yet you say, ‘I care not; I have my own sorrows; I will go away, if peradventure I can ease them.’ The servants of God are struggling after a law of justice, peace, and charity, that the hundred thousand citizens among whom you were born may be governed righteously; but you think no more of this than if you were a bird, that may spread its wings and fly whither it will in search of food to its liking. And yet you have scorned the teaching of the Church, my daughter. As if you, a wilful wanderer, following your own blind choice, were not below the humblest Florentine woman who stretches forth her hands with her own people, and craves a blessing for them; and feels a close sisterhood with the neighbour who kneels beside her and is not of her own blood; and thinks of the mighty purpose that God has for Florence; and waits and endures because the promised work is great, and she feels herself little.”
“I was not going away to ease and self-indulgence,” said Romola, raising her head again, with a prompting to vindicate herself. “I was going away to hardship. I expect no joy: it is gone from my life.”
“You are seeking your own will, my daughter. You are seeking some good other than the law you are bound to obey. But how will you find good? It is not a thing of choice: it is a river that flows from the foot of the Invisible Throne, and flows by the path of obedience.
I say again, man cannot choose his duties. You may choose to forsake your duties, and choose not to have the sorrow they bring. But you will go forth; and what will you find, my daughter? Sorrow without duty—bitter herbs, and no bread with them.”
“But if you knew,” said Romola, clasping her hands and pressing them tight, as she looked pleadingly at Fra Girolamo; “if you knew what it was to me—how impossible it seemed to me to bear it.”
“My daughter,” he said, pointing to the cord round Romola’s neck, “you carry something within your mantle; draw it forth, and look at it.”