Romola’s waking.
Romola in her boat passed from dreaming into long deep sleep, and then
again from deep sleep into busy dreaming, till at last she felt herself
stretching out her arms in the court of the Bargello, where the
flickering flames of the tapers seemed to get stronger and stronger
till the dark scene was blotted out with light. Her eyes opened and she
saw it was the light of morning. Her boat was lying still in a little
creek; on her right-hand lay the speckless sapphire-blue of the
Mediterranean; on her left one of those scenes which were and still are
repeated again and again like a sweet rhythm, on the shores of that
loveliest sea.
In a deep curve of the mountains lay a breadth of green land, curtained
by gentle tree-shadowed slopes leaning towards the rocky heights. Up
these slopes might be seen here and there, gleaming between the
tree-tops, a pathway leading to a little irregular mass of building
that seemed to have clambered in a hasty way up the mountain-side, and
taken a difficult stand there for the sake of showing the tall belfry
as a sight of beauty to the scattered and clustered houses of the
village below. The rays of the newly-risen sun fell obliquely on the
westward horn of this crescent-shaped nook: all else lay in dewy
shadow. No sound came across the stillness; the very waters seemed to
have curved themselves there for rest.
The delicious sun-rays fell on Romola and thrilled her gently like a
caress. She lay motionless, hardly watching the scene; rather, feeling
simply the presence of peace and beauty. While we are still in our
youth there can always come, in our early waking, moments when mere
passive existence is itself a Lethe, when the exquisiteness of subtle
indefinite sensation creates a bliss which is without memory and
without desire. As the soft warmth penetrated Romola’s young limbs, as
her eyes rested on this sequestered luxuriance, it seemed that the
agitating past had glided away like that dark scene in the Bargello,
and that the afternoon dreams of her girlhood had really come back to
her. For a minute or two the oblivion was untroubled; she did not even
think that she could rest here for ever, she only felt that she rested.
Then she became distinctly conscious that she was lying in the boat
which had been bearing her over the waters all through the night.
Instead of bringing her to death, it had been the gently lulling cradle
of a new life. And in spite of her evening despair she was glad that
the morning had come to her again: glad to think that she was resting
in the familiar sunlight rather than in the unknown regions of death.
_Could_ she not rest here? No sound from Florence would reach her.
Already oblivion was troubled; from behind the golden haze were
piercing domes and towers and walls, parted by a river and enclosed by
the green hills.
She rose from her reclining posture and sat up in the boat, willing, if
she could, to resist the rush of thoughts that urged themselves along
with the conjecture how far the boat had carried her. Why need she
mind? This was a sheltered nook where there were simple villagers who
would not harm her. For a little while, at least, she might rest and
resolve on nothing. Presently she would go and get some bread and milk,
and then she would nestle in the green quiet, and feel that there was a
pause in her life. She turned to watch the crescent-shaped valley, that
she might get back the soothing sense of peace and beauty which she had
felt in her first waking.
She had not been in this attitude of contemplation more than a few
minutes when across the stillness there came a piercing cry; not a
brief cry, but continuous and more and more intense. Romola felt sure
it was the cry of a little child in distress that no one came to help.
She started up and put one foot on the side of the boat ready to leap
on to the beach; but she paused there and listened: the mother of the
child must be near, the cry must soon cease. But it went on, and drew
Romola so irresistibly, seeming the more piteous to her for the sense
of peace which had preceded it, that she jumped on to the beach and
walked many paces before she knew what direction she would take. The
cry, she thought, came from some rough garden growth many yards on her
right-hand, where she saw a half-ruined hovel. She climbed over a low
broken stone fence, and made her way across patches of weedy green
crops and ripe but neglected corn. The cry grew plainer, and convinced
that she was right she hastened towards the hovel; but even in that
hurried walk she felt an oppressive change in the air as she left the
sea behind. Was there some taint lurking amongst the green luxuriance
that had seemed such an inviting shelter from the heat of the coming
day? She could see the opening into the hovel now, and the cry was
darting through her like a pain. The next moment her foot was within
the doorway, but the sight she beheld in the sombre light arrested her
with a shock of awe and horror. On the straw, with which the floor was
scattered, lay three dead bodies, one of a tall man, one of a girl
about eight years old, and one of a young woman whose long black hair
was being clutched and pulled by a living child—the child that was
sending forth the piercing cry. Romola’s experience in the haunts of
death and disease made thought and action prompt: she lifted the little
living child, and in trying to soothe it on her bosom, still sent to
look at the bodies and see if they were really dead. The strongly
marked type of race in their features, and their peculiar garb, made
her conjecture that they were Spanish or Portuguese Jews, who had
perhaps been put ashore and abandoned there by rapacious sailors, to
whom their property remained as a prey. Such things were happening
continually to Jews compelled to abandon their homes by the
Inquisition: the cruelty of greed thrust them from the sea, and the
cruelty of superstition thrust them back to it.
“But, surely,” thought Romola, “I shall find some woman in the village
whose mother’s heart will not let her refuse to tend this helpless
child—if the real mother is indeed dead.”
This doubt remained, because while the man and girl looked emaciated
and also showed signs of having been long dead, the woman seemed to
have been hardier, and had not quite lost the robustness of her form.
Romola, kneeling, was about to lay her hand on the heart; but as she
lifted the piece of yellow woollen drapery that lay across the bosom,
she saw the purple spots which marked the familiar pestilence. Then it
struck her that if the villagers knew of this, she might have more
difficulty than she had expected in getting help from them; they would
perhaps shrink from her with that child in her arms. But she had money
to offer them, and they would not refuse to give her some goat’s milk
in exchange for it.
She set out at once towards the village, her mind filled now with the
effort to soothe the little dark creature, and with wondering how she
should win some woman to be good to it. She could not help hoping a
little in a certain awe she had observed herself to inspire, when she
appeared, unknown and unexpected, in her religious dress. As she passed
across a breadth of cultivated ground, she noticed, with wonder, that
little patches of corn mingled with the other crops had been left to
over-ripeness untouched by the sickle, and that golden apples and dark
figs lay rotting on the weedy earth. There were grassy spaces within
sight, but no cow, or sheep, or goat. The stillness began to have
something fearful in it to Romola; she hurried along towards the
thickest cluster of houses, where there would be the most life to
appeal to on behalf of the helpless life she carried in her arms. But
she had picked up two figs, and bit little pieces from the sweet pulp
to still the child with.
She entered between two lines of dwellings. It was time that villagers
should have been stirring long ago, but not a soul was in sight. The
air was becoming more and more oppressive, laden, it seemed, with some
horrible impurity. There was a door open; she looked in, and saw grim
emptiness. Another open door; and through that she saw a man lying dead
with all his garments on, his head lying athwart a spade handle, and an
earthenware cruse in his hand, as if he had fallen suddenly.
Romola felt horror taking possession of her. Was she in a village of
the unburied dead? She wanted to listen if there were any faint sound,
but the child cried out afresh when she ceased to feed it, and the cry
filled her ears. At last she saw a figure crawling slowly out of a
house, and soon sinking back in a sitting posture against the wall. She
hastened towards the figure; it was a young woman in fevered anguish,
and she, too, held a pitcher in her hand. As Romola approached her she
did not start; the one need was too absorbing for any other idea to
impress itself on her.
“Water! get me water!” she said, with a moaning utterance.
Romola stooped to take the pitcher, and said gently in her ear, “You
shall have water; can you point towards the well?”
The hand was lifted towards the more distant end of the little street,
and Romola set off at once with as much speed as she could use under
the difficulty of carrying the pitcher as well as feeding the child.
But the little one was getting more content as the morsels of sweet
pulp were repeated, and ceased to distress her with its cry, so that
she could give a less distracted attention to the objects around her.
The well lay twenty yards or more beyond the end of the street, and as
Romola was approaching it her eyes were directed to the opposite green
slope immediately below the church. High up, on a patch of grass
between the trees, she had descried a cow and a couple of goats, and
she tried to trace a line of path that would lead her close to that
cheering sight, when once she had done her errand to the well. Occupied
in this way, she was not aware that she was very near the well, and
that some one approaching it on the other side had fixed a pair of
astonished eyes upon her.
Romola certainly presented a sight which, at, that moment and in that
place, could hardly have been seen without some pausing and
palpitation. With her gaze fixed intently on the distant slope, the
long lines of her thick grey garment giving a gliding character to her
rapid walk, her hair rolling backward and illuminated on the left side
by the sun-rays, the little olive baby on her right arm now looking out
with jet-black eyes, she might well startle that youth of fifteen,
accustomed to swing the censer in the presence of a Madonna less fair
and marvellous than this.
“She carries a pitcher in her hand—to fetch water for the sick. It is
the Holy Mother, come to take care of the people who have the
pestilence.”
It was a sight of awe: she would, perhaps, be angry with those who
fetched water for themselves only. The youth flung down his vessel in
terror, and Romola, aware now of some one near her, saw the black and
white figure fly as if for dear life towards the slope she had just
been contemplating. But remembering the parched sufferer, she
half-filled her pitcher quickly and hastened back.
Entering the house to look for a small cup, she saw salt meat and meal:
there were no signs of want in the dwelling. With nimble movement she
seated baby on the ground, and lifted a cup of water to the sufferer,
who drank eagerly and then closed her eyes and leaned her head
backward, seeming to give herself up to the sense of relief. Presently
she opened her eyes, and, looking at Romola, said languidly—
“Who are you?”
“I came over the sea,” said Romola, “I only came this morning. Are all
the people dead in these houses?”
“I think they are all ill now—all that are not dead. My father and my
sister lie dead upstairs, and there is no one to bury them: and soon I
shall die.”
“Not so, I hope,” said Romola. “I am come to take care of you. I am
used to the pestilence; I am not afraid. But there must be some left
who are not ill. I saw a youth running towards the mountain when I went
to the well.”
“I cannot tell. When the pestilence came, a great many people went
away, and drove off the cows and goats. Give me more water!”
Romola, suspecting that if she followed the direction of the youth’s
flight, she should find some men and women who were still healthy and
able, determined to seek them out at once, that she might at least win
them to take care of the child, and leave her free to come back and see
how many living needed help, and how many dead needed burial. She
trusted to her powers of persuasion to conquer the aid of the timorous,
when once she knew what was to be done.
Promising the sick woman to come back to her, she lifted the dark
bantling again, and set off towards the slope. She felt no burden of
choice on her now, no longing for death. She was thinking how she would
go to the other sufferers, as she had gone to that fevered woman.
But, with the child on her arm, it was not so easy to her as usual to
walk up a slope, and it seemed a long while before the winding path
took her near the cow and the goats. She was beginning herself to feel
faint from heat, hunger, and thirst, and as she reached a double
turning, she paused to consider whether she would not wait near the
cow, which some one was likely to come and milk soon, rather than toil
up to the church before she had taken any rest. Raising her eyes to
measure the steep distance, she saw peeping between the boughs, not
more than five yards off, a broad round face, watching her attentively,
and lower down the black skirt of a priest’s garment, and a hand
grasping a bucket. She stood mutely observing, and the face, too,
remained motionless. Romola had often witnessed the overpowering force
of dread in cases of pestilence, and she was cautious.
Raising her voice in a tone of gentle pleading, she said, “I came over
the sea. I am hungry, and so is the child. Will you not give us some
milk?”
Romola had divined part of the truth, but she had not divined that
preoccupation of the priest’s mind which charged her words with a
strange significance. Only a little while ago, the young acolyte had
brought word to the Padre that he had seen the Holy Mother with the
Babe, fetching water for the sick: she was as tall as the cypresses,
and had a light about her head, and she looked up at the church. The
pievano (parish priest) had not listened with entire belief: he had
been more than fifty years in the world without having any vision of
the Madonna, and he thought the boy might have misinterpreted the
unexpected appearance of a villager. But he had been made uneasy, and
before venturing to come down and milk his cow, he had repeated many
Aves. The pievano’s conscience tormented him a little: he trembled at
the pestilence, but he also trembled at the thought of the mild-faced
Mother, conscious that that Invisible Mercy might demand something more
of him than prayers and “Hails.” In this state of mind—unable to banish
the image the boy had raised of the Mother with the glory about her
tending the sick—the pievano had come down to milk his cow, and had
suddenly caught sight of Romola pausing at the parted way. Her pleading
words, with their strange refinement of tone and accent, instead of
being explanatory, had a preternatural sound for him. Yet he did not
quite believe he saw the Holy Mother: he was in a state of alarmed
hesitation. If anything miraculous were happening, he felt there was no
strong presumption that the miracle would be in his favour. He dared
not run away; he dared not advance.
“Come down,” said Romola, after a pause. “Do not fear. Fear rather to
deny food to the hungry when they ask you.”
A moment after, the boughs were parted, and the complete figure of a
thickset priest with a broad, harmless face, his black frock much worn
and soiled, stood, bucket in hand, looking at her timidly, and still
keeping aloof as he took the path towards the cow in silence.
Romola followed him and watched him without speaking again, as he
seated himself against the tethered cow, and, when he had nervously
drawn some milk, gave it to her in a brass cup he carried with him in
the bucket. As Romola put the cup to the lips of the eager child, and
afterwards drank some milk herself, the Padre observed her from his
wooden stool with a timidity that changed its character a little. He
recognised the Hebrew baby, he was certain that he had a substantial
woman before him; but there was still something strange and
unaccountable in Romola’s presence in this spot, and the Padre had a
presentiment that things were going to change with him. Moreover, that
Hebrew baby was terribly associated with the dread of pestilence.
Nevertheless, when Romola smiled at the little one sucking its own
milky lips, and stretched out the brass cup again, saying, “Give us
more, good father,” he obeyed less nervously than before.
Romola on her side was not unobservant; and when the second supply of
milk had been drunk, she looked down at the round-headed man, and said
with mild decision—
“And now tell me, father, how this pestilence came, and why you let
your people die without the sacraments; and lie unburied. For I am come
over the sea to help those who are left alive—and you, too, will help
them now.”
He told her the story of the pestilence: and while he was telling it,
the youth, who had fled before, had come peeping and advancing
gradually, till at last he stood and watched the scene from behind a
neighbouring bush.
Three families of Jews, twenty souls in all, had been put ashore many
weeks ago, some of them already ill of the pestilence. The villagers,
said the priest, had of course refused to give shelter to the
miscreants, otherwise than in a distant hovel, and under heaps of
straw. But when the strangers had died of the plague, and some of the
people had thrown the bodies into the sea, the sea had brought them
back again in a great storm, and everybody was smitten with terror. A
grave was dug, and the bodies were buried; but then the pestilence
attacked the Christians, and the greater number of the villagers went
away over the mountain, driving away their few cattle, and carrying
provisions. The priest had not fled; he had stayed and prayed for the
people, and he had prevailed on the youth Jacopo to stay with him; but
he confessed that a mortal terror of the plague had taken hold of him,
and he had not dared to go down into the valley.
“You will fear no longer, father,” said Romola, in a tone of
encouraging authority; “you will come down with me, and we will see who
is living, and we will look for the dead to bury them. I have walked
about for months where the pestilence was, and see, I am strong. Jacopo
will come with us,” she added, motioning to the peeping lad, who came
slowly from behind his defensive bush, as if invisible threads were
dragging him.
“Come, Jacopo,” said Romola again, smiling at him, “you will carry the
child for me. See! your arms are strong, and I am tired.”
That was a dreadful proposal to Jacopo, and to the priest also; but
they were both under a peculiar influence forcing them to obey. The
suspicion that Romola was a supernatural form was dissipated, but their
minds were filled instead with the more effective sense that she was a
human being whom God had sent over the sea to command them.
“Now we will carry down the milk,” said Romola, “and see if any one
wants it.”
So they went all together down the slope, and that morning the
sufferers saw help come to them in their despair. There were hardly
more than a score alive in the whole valley; but all of these were
comforted, most were saved, and the dead were buried.
In this way days, weeks, and months passed with Romola till the men
were digging and sowing again, till the women smiled at her as they
carried their great vases on their heads to the well, and the Hebrew
baby was a tottering tumbling Christian, Benedetto by name, having been
baptised in the church on the mountain-side. But by that time she
herself was suffering from the fatigue and languor that must come after
a continuous strain on mind and body. She had taken for her dwelling
one of the houses abandoned by their owners, standing a little aloof
from the village street; and here on a thick heap of clean straw—a
delicious bed for those who do not dream of down—she felt glad to lie
still through most of the daylight hours, taken care of along with the
little Benedetto by a woman whom the pestilence had widowed.
Every day the Padre and Jacopo and the small flock of surviving
villagers paid their visit to this cottage to see the blessed Lady, and
to bring her of their best as an offering—honey, fresh cakes, eggs, and
polenta. It was a sight they could none of them forget, a sight they
all told of in their old age—how the sweet and sainted lady with her
fair face, her golden hair, and her brown eyes that had a blessing in
them, lay weary with her labours after she had been sent over the sea
to help them in their extremity, and how the queer little black
Benedetto used to crawl about the straw by her side and want everything
that was brought to her, and she always gave him a bit of what she
took, and told them if they loved her they must be good to Benedetto.
Many legends were afterwards told in that valley about the blessed Lady
who came over the sea, but they were legends by which all who heard
might know that in times gone by a woman had done beautiful loving
deeds there, rescuing those who were ready to perish.