Romola in her Place.
It was the thirtieth of October 1496. The sky that morning was clear
enough, and there was a pleasant autumnal breeze. But the Florentines
just then thought very little about the land breezes: they were
thinking of the gales at sea, which seemed to be uniting with all other
powers to disprove the Frate’s declaration that Heaven took special
care of Florence.
For those terrible gales had driven away from the coast of Leghorn
certain ships from Marseilles, freighted with soldiery and corn; and
Florence was in the direst need, first of food, and secondly of
fighting men. Pale Famine was in her streets, and her territory was
threatened on all its borders.
For the French king, that new Charlemagne, who had entered Italy in
anticipatory triumph, and had conquered Naples without the least
trouble, had gone away again fifteen months ago, and was even, it was
feared, in his grief for the loss of a new-born son, losing the languid
intention of coming back again to redress grievances and set the Church
in order. A league had been formed against him—a Holy League, with Pope
Borgia at its head—to “drive out the barbarians,” who still garrisoned
the fortress of Naples. That had a patriotic sound; but, looked at more
closely, the Holy League seemed very much like an agreement among
certain wolves to drive away all other wolves, and then to see which
among themselves could snatch the largest share of the prey. And there
was a general disposition to regard Florence not as a fellow-wolf, but
rather as a desirable carcass. Florence, therefore, of all the chief
Italian States, had alone declined to join the League, adhering still
to the French alliance.
She had declined at her peril. At this moment Pisa, still fighting
savagely for liberty, was being encouraged not only by strong forces
from Venice and Milan, but by the presence of the German Emperor
Maximilian, who had been invited by the League, and was joining the
Pisans with such troops as he had in the attempt to get possession of
Leghorn, while the coast was invested by Venetian and Genoese ships.
And if Leghorn should fall into the hands of the enemy, woe to
Florence! For if that one outlet towards the sea were closed, hedged in
as she was on the land by the bitter ill-will of the Pope and the
jealousy of smaller States, how could succours reach her?
The government of Florence had shown a great heart in this urgent need,
meeting losses and defeats with vigorous effort, raising fresh money,
raising fresh soldiers, but not neglecting the good old method of
Italian defence—conciliatory embassies. And while the scarcity of food
was every day becoming greater, they had resolved, in opposition to old
precedent, not to shut out the starving country people, and the
mendicants driven from the gates of other cities, who came flocking to
Florence like birds from a land of snow.
These acts of a government in which the disciples of Savonarola made
the strongest element were not allowed to pass without criticism. The
disaffected were plentiful, and they saw clearly that the government
took the worst course for the public welfare. Florence ought to join
the League and make common cause with the other great Italian States,
instead of drawing down their hostility by a futile adherence to a
foreign ally. Florence ought to take care of her own citizens, instead
of opening her gates to famine and pestilence in the shape of starving
contadini and alien mendicants.
Every day the distress became sharper: every day the murmurs became
louder. And, to crown the difficulties of the government, for a month
and more—in obedience to a mandate from Rome—Fra Girolamo had ceased to
preach. But on the arrival of the terrible news that the ships from
Marseilles had been driven back, and that no corn was coming, the need
for the voice that could infuse faith and patience into the people
became too imperative to be resisted. In defiance of the Papal mandate
the Signoria requested Savonarola to preach. And two days ago he had
mounted again the pulpit of the Duomo, and had told the people only to
wait and be steadfast and the divine help would certainly come.
It was a bold sermon: he consented to have his frock stripped off him
if, when Florence persevered in fulfilling the duties of piety and
citizenship, God did not come to her rescue.
Yet at present, on this morning of the thirtieth, there were no signs
of rescue. Perhaps if the precious Tabernacle of the Madonna dell’
Impruneta were brought into Florence and carried in devout procession
to the Duomo, that Mother, rich in sorrows and therefore in mercy,
would plead for the suffering city? For a century and a half there were
records how the Florentines, suffering from drought, or flood, or
famine, or pestilence, or the threat of wars, had fetched the potent
image within their walls, and had found deliverance. And grateful
honour had been done to her and her ancient church of L’Impruneta; the
high house of Buondelmonti, patrons of the church, had to guard her
hidden image with bare sword; wealth had been poured out for prayers at
her shrine, for chantings, and chapels, and ever-burning lights; and
lands had been added, till there was much quarrelling for the privilege
of serving her. The Florentines were deeply convinced of her
graciousness to them, so that the sight of her tabernacle within their
walls was like the parting of the cloud, and the proverb ran, that the
Florentines had a Madonna who would do what they pleased.
When were they in more need of her pleading pity than now? And already,
the evening before, the tabernacle containing the miraculous hidden
image had been brought with high and reverend escort from L’Impruneta,
the privileged spot six miles beyond the gate of San Piero that looks
towards Rome, and had been deposited in the church of San Gaggio,
outside the gate, whence it was to be fetched in solemn procession by
all the fraternities, trades, and authorities of Florence.
But the Pitying Mother had not yet entered within the walls, and the
morning arose on unchanged misery and despondency. Pestilence was
hovering in the track of famine. Not only the hospitals were full, but
the courtyards of private houses had been turned into refuges and
infirmaries; and still there was unsheltered want. And early this
morning, as usual, members of the various fraternities who made it part
of their duty to bury the unfriended dead, were bearing away the
corpses that had sunk by the wayside. As usual, sweet womanly forms,
with the refined air and carriage of the well-born, but in the plainest
garb, were moving about the streets on their daily errands of tending
the sick and relieving the hungry.
One of these forms was easily distinguishable as Romola de’ Bardi. Clad
in the simplest garment of black serge, with a plain piece of black
drapery drawn over her head, so as to hide all her hair, except the
bands of gold that rippled apart on her brow, she was advancing from
the Ponte Vecchio towards the Por’ Santa Maria—the street in a direct
line with the bridge—when she found her way obstructed by the pausing
of a bier, which was being carried by members of the company of San
Jacopo del Popolo, in search for the unburied dead. The brethren at the
head of the bier were stooping to examine something, while a group of
idle workmen, with features paled and sharpened by hunger, were
clustering around and all talking at once.
“He’s dead, I tell you! Messer Domeneddio has loved him well enough to
take him.”
“Ah, and it would be well for us all if we could have our legs
stretched out and go with our heads two or three _bracci_ foremost!
It’s ill standing upright with hunger to prop you.”
“Well, well, he’s an old fellow. Death has got a poor bargain. Life’s
had the best of him.”
“And no Florentine, ten to one! A beggar turned out of Siena. San
Giovanni defend us! They’ve no need of soldiers to fight us. They send
us an army of starving men.”
“No, no! This man is one of the prisoners turned out of the Stinche. I
know by the grey patch where the prison badge was.”
“Keep quiet! Lend a hand! Don’t you see the brethren are going to lift
him on the bier?”
“It’s likely he’s alive enough if he could only look it. The soul may
be inside him if it had only a drop of _vernaccia_ to warm it.”
“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. She
loosened the small flask which she carried at her belt, and, leaning
towards the prostrate body, with a deft hand she applied a small ivory
implement between the teeth, and poured into the mouth a few drops of
wine. The stimulus acted: the wine was evidently swallowed. She poured
more, till the head was moved a little towards her, and the eyes of the
old man opened full upon her with the vague look of returning
consciousness.
Then for the first time a sense of complete recognition came over
Romola. Those wild dark eyes opening in the sallow deep-lined face,
with the white beard, which was now long again, were like an
unmistakable signature to a remembered handwriting. The light of two
summers had not made that image any fainter in Romola’s memory: the
image of the escaped prisoner, whom she had seen in the Duomo the day
when Tito first wore the armour—at whose grasp Tito was paled with
terror in the strange sketch she had seen in Piero’s studio. A wretched
tremor and palpitation seized her. Now at last, perhaps, she was going
to know some secret which might be more bitter than all that had gone
before. She felt an impulse to dart away as from a sight of horror; and
again, a more imperious need to keep close by the side of this old man
whom, the divination of keen feeling told her, her husband had injured.
In the very instant of this conflict she still leaned towards him and
kept her right-hand ready to administer more wine, while her left was
passed under his neck. Her hands trembled, but their habit of soothing
helpfulness would have served to guide them without the direction of
her thought.
Baldassarre was looking at _her_ for the first time. The close
seclusion in which Romola’s trouble had kept her in the weeks preceding
her flight and his arrest, had denied him the opportunity he had sought
of seeing the Wife who lived in the Via de’ Bardi: and at this moment
the descriptions he had heard of the fair golden-haired woman were all
gone, like yesterday’s waves.
“Will it not be well to carry him to the steps of San Stefano?” said
Romola. “We shall cease then to stop up the street, and you can go on
your way with your bier.”
They had only to move onward for about thirty yards before reaching the
steps of San Stefano, and by this time Baldassarre was able himself to
make some efforts towards getting off the bier, and propping himself on
the steps against the church-doorway. The charitable brethren passed
on, but the group of interested spectators, who had nothing to do and
much to say, had considerably increased. The feeling towards the old
man was not so entirely friendly now it was quite certain that he was
alive, but the respect inspired by Romola’s presence caused the passing
remarks to be made in a rather more subdued tone than before.
“Ah, they gave him his morsel every day in the Stinche—that’s why he
can’t do so well without it. You and I, Cecco, know better what it is
to go to bed fasting.”
“_Gnaffè_! that’s why the Magnificent Eight have turned out some of the
prisoners, that they may shelter honest people instead. But if every
thief is to be brought to life with good wine and wheaten bread, we
Ciompi had better go and fill ourselves in Arno while the water’s
plenty.”
Romola had seated herself on the steps by Baldassarre, and was saying,
“Can you eat a little bread now? perhaps by-and-by you will be able, if
I leave it with you. I must go on, because I have promised to be at the
hospital. But I will come back if you will wait here, and then I will
take you to some shelter. Do you understand? Will you wait? I will come
back.”
He looked dreamily at her, and repeated her words, “come back.” It was
no wonder that his mind was enfeebled by his bodily exhaustion, but she
hoped that he apprehended her meaning. She opened her basket, which was
filled with pieces of soft bread, and put one of the pieces into his
hand.
“Do you keep your bread for those that can’t swallow, madonna?” said a
rough-looking fellow, in a red night-cap, who had elbowed his way into
the inmost circle of spectators—a circle that was pressing rather
closely on Romola.
“If anybody isn’t hungry,” said another, “I say, let him alone. He’s
better off than people who’ve got craving stomachs and no breakfast.”
“Yes, indeed; if a man’s a mind to die, it’s a time to encourage him,
instead of making him come back to life against his will. Dead men want
no trencher.”
“Oh, you don’t understand the Frate’s charity,” said a young man in an
excellent cloth tunic, whose face showed no signs of want. “The Frate
has been preaching to the birds, like Saint Anthony, and he’s been
telling the hawks they were made to feed the sparrows, as every good
Florentine citizen was made to feed six starving beggar-men from Arezzo
or Bologna. Madonna, there, is a pious Piagnone: she’s not going to
throw away her good bread on honest citizens who’ve got all the Frate’s
prophecies to swallow.”
“Come, madonna,” said he of the red cap, “the old thief doesn’t eat the
bread, you see: you’d better try _us_. We fast so much, we’re half
saints already.”
The circle had narrowed till the coarse men—most of them gaunt from
privation—had left hardly any margin round Romola. She had been taking
from her basket a small horn-cup, into which she put the piece of bread
and just moistened it with wine; and hitherto she had not appeared to
heed them. But now she rose to her feet, and looked round at them.
Instinctively the men who were nearest to her pushed backward a little,
as if their rude nearness were the fault of those behind. 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. You can take the
bread from this basket; but I shall watch by this old man; I shall
resist your taking the bread from _him_.”
For a few moments there was perfect silence, while Romola looked at the
faces before her, and held out the basket of bread. Her own pale face
had the slightly pinched look and the deepening of the eye-socket which
indicate unusual fasting in the habitually temperate, and the large
direct gaze of her hazel eyes was all the more impressive.
The man in the night-cap looked rather silly, and backed, thrusting his
elbow into his neighbour’s ribs with an air of moral rebuke. The
backing was general, every one wishing to imply that he had been pushed
forward against his will; and the young man in the fine cloth tunic had
disappeared.
But at this moment the armed servitors of the Signoria, who had begun
to patrol the line of streets through which the procession was to pass,
came up to disperse the group which was obstructing the narrow street.
The man addressed as Cecco retreated from a threatening mace up the
church-steps, and said to Romola, in a respectful tone—
“Madonna, if you want to go on your errands, I’ll take care of the old
man.”
Cecco was a wild-looking figure: a very ragged tunic, made shaggy and
variegated by cloth-dust and clinging fragments of wool, gave relief to
a pair of bare bony arms and a long sinewy neck; his square jaw shaded
by a bristly black beard, his bridgeless nose and low forehead, made
his face look as if it had been crushed down for purposes of packing,
and a narrow piece of red rag tied over his ears seemed to assist in
the compression. Romola looked at him with some hesitation.
“Don’t distrust me, madonna,” said Cecco, who understood her look
perfectly; “I am not so pretty as you, but I’ve got an old mother who
eats my porridge for me. What! there’s a heart inside me, and I’ve
bought a candle for the most Holy Virgin before now. Besides, see
there, the old fellow is eating his sop. He’s hale enough: he’ll be on
his legs as well as the best of us by-and-by.”
“Thank you for offering to take care of him, friend,” said Romola,
rather penitent for her doubting glance. Then leaning to Baldassarre,
she said, “Pray wait for me till I come again.”
He assented with a slight movement of the head and hand, and Romola
went on her way towards the hospital of San Matteo, in the Piazza di
San Marco.