Romola

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

  ROMOLA IN HER PLACE.

  It was the thirtieth of October 1496. The sky that morning was clearenough, and there was a pleasant autumnal breeze. But the Florentinesjust then thought very little about the land breezes: they were thinkingof the gales at sea, which seemed to be uniting with all other powers todisprove the Frate's declaration that Heaven took special care ofFlorence.

  For those terrible gales had driven away from the coast of Leghorncertain ships from Marseilles, freighted with soldiery and corn; andFlorence was in the direst need, first of food, and secondly of fightingmen. Pale Famine was in her streets, and her territory was threatenedon all its borders.

  For the French king, that new Charlemagne, who had entered Italy inanticipatory triumph, and had conquered Naples without the leasttrouble, had gone away again fifteen months ago, and was even, it wasfeared, in his grief for the loss of a new-born son, losing the languidintention of coming back again to redress grievances and set the Churchin order. A league had been formed against him--a Holy League, withPope Borgia at its head--to "drive out the barbarians," who stillgarrisoned the fortress of Naples. That had a patriotic sound; but,looked at more closely, the Holy League seemed very much like anagreement among certain wolves to drive away all other wolves, and thento see which among themselves could snatch the largest share of theprey. And there was a general disposition to regard Florence not as afellow-wolf, but rather as a desirable carcass. Florence, therefore, ofall 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 fightingsavagely for liberty, was being encouraged not only by strong forcesfrom Venice and Milan, but by the presence of the German EmperorMaximilian, who had been invited by the League, and was joining thePisans with such troops as he had in the attempt to get possession ofLeghorn, 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 shewas on the land by the bitter ill-will of the Pope and the jealousy ofsmaller 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 ofItalian defence--conciliatory embassies. And while the scarcity of foodwas every day becoming greater, they had resolved, in opposition to oldprecedent, not to shut out the starving country people, and themendicants driven from the gates of other cities, who came flocking toFlorence like birds from a land of snow.

  These acts of a government in which the disciples of Savonarola made thestrongest element were not allowed to pass without criticism. Thedisaffected were plentiful, and they saw clearly that the governmenttook the worst course for the public welfare. Florence ought to jointhe League and make common cause with the other great Italian States,instead of drawing down their hostility by a futile adherence to aforeign ally. Florence ought to take care of her own citizens, insteadof opening her gates to famine and pestilence in the shape of starvingcontadini and alien mendicants.

  Every day the distress became sharper: every day the murmurs becamelouder. And, to crown the difficulties of the government, for a monthand more--in obedience to a mandate from Rome--Fra Girolamo had ceasedto preach. But on the arrival of the terrible news that the ships fromMarseilles had been driven back, and that no corn was coming, the needfor the voice that could infuse faith and patience into the peoplebecame too imperative to be resisted. In defiance of the Papal mandatethe Signoria requested Savonarola to preach. And two days ago he hadmounted again the pulpit of the Duomo, and had told the people only towait and be steadfast and the divine help would certainly come.

  It was a bold sermon: he consented to have his frock stripped off himif, when Florence persevered in fulfilling the duties of piety andcitizenship, God did not come to her rescue.

  Yet at present, on this morning of the thirtieth, there were no signs ofrescue. Perhaps if the precious Tabernacle of the Madonna dell'Impruneta were brought into Florence and carried in devout procession tothe Duomo, that Mother, rich in sorrows and therefore in mercy, wouldplead for the suffering city? For a century and a half there wererecords how the Florentines, suffering from drought, or flood, orfamine, or pestilence, or the threat of wars, had fetched the potentimage within their walls, and had found deliverance. And gratefulhonour had been done to her and her ancient church of L'Impruneta; thehigh house of Buondelmonti, patrons of the church, had to guard herhidden image with bare sword; wealth had been poured out for prayers ather shrine, for chantings, and chapels, and ever-burning lights; andlands had been added, till there was much quarrelling for the privilegeof serving her. The Florentines were deeply convinced of hergraciousness to them, so that the sight of her tabernacle within theirwalls was like the parting of the cloud, and the proverb ran, that theFlorentines 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 hiddenimage had been brought with high and reverend escort from L'Impruneta,the privileged spot six miles beyond the gate of San Piero that lookstowards Rome, and had been deposited in the church of San Gaggio,outside the gate, whence it was to be fetched in solemn procession byall the fraternities, trades, and authorities of Florence.

  But the Pitying Mother had not yet entered within the walls, and themorning arose on unchanged misery and despondency. Pestilence washovering in the track of famine. Not only the hospitals were full, butthe courtyards of private houses had been turned into refuges andinfirmaries; and still there was unsheltered want. And early thismorning, as usual, members of the various fraternities who made it partof their duty to bury the unfriended dead, were bearing away the corpsesthat had sunk by the wayside. As usual, sweet womanly forms, with therefined air and carriage of the well-born, but in the plainest garb,were moving about the streets on their daily errands of tending the sickand relieving the hungry.

  One of these forms was easily distinguishable as Romola de' Bardi. Cladin the simplest garment of black serge, with a plain piece of blackdrapery drawn over her head, so as to hide all her hair, except thebands of gold that rippled apart on her brow, she was advancing from thePonte Vecchio towards the Por' Santa Maria--the street in a direct linewith the bridge--when she found her way obstructed by the pausing of abier, which was being carried by members of the company of San Jacopodel Popolo, in search for the unburied dead. The brethren at the headof the bier were stooping to examine something, while a group of idleworkmen, with features paled and sharpened by hunger, were clusteringaround and all talking at once.

  "He's dead, I tell you! Messer Domeneddio has loved him well enough totake him."

  "Ah, and it would be well for us all if we could have our legs stretchedout and go with our heads two or three _bracci_ foremost! It's illstanding upright with hunger to prop you."

  "Well, well, he's an old fellow. Death has got a poor bargain. Life'shad the best of him."

  "And no Florentine, ten to one! A beggar turned out of Siena. SanGiovanni defend us! They've no need of soldiers to fight us. They sendus an army of starving men."

  "No, no! This man is one of the prisoners turned out of the Stinche. Iknow by the grey patch where the prison badge was."

  "Keep quiet! Lend a hand! Don't you see the brethren are going to lifthim on the bier?"

  "It's likely he's alive enough if he could only look it. The soul maybe 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 theyhad lifted him on the bier. "He has perhaps only sunk down for want offood."

  "Let me try to give him some wine," said Romola, coming forward. Sheloosened the small flask which she carried at her belt, and, leaningtowards the prostrate
body, with a deft hand she applied a small ivoryimplement between the teeth, and poured into the mouth a few drops ofwine. The stimulus acted: the wine was evidently swallowed. She pouredmore, till the head was moved a little towards her, and the eyes of theold man opened full upon her with the vague look of returningconsciousness.

  Then for the first time a sense of complete recognition came overRomola. Those wild dark eyes opening in the sallow deep-lined face,with the white beard, which was now long again, were like anunmistakable signature to a remembered handwriting. The light of twosummers had not made that image any fainter in Romola's memory: theimage of the escaped prisoner, whom she had seen in the Duomo the daywhen Tito first wore the armour--at whose grasp Tito was paled withterror in the strange sketch she had seen in Piero's studio. A wretchedtremor and palpitation seized her. Now at last, perhaps, she was goingto know some secret which might be more bitter than all that had gonebefore. She felt an impulse to dart away as from a sight of horror; andagain, a more imperious need to keep close by the side of this old manwhom, the divination of keen feeling told her, her husband had injured.In the very instant of this conflict she still leaned towards him andkept her right-hand ready to administer more wine, while her left waspassed under his neck. Her hands trembled, but their habit of soothinghelpfulness would have served to guide them without the direction of herthought.

  Baldassarre was looking at _her_ for the first time. The closeseclusion in which Romola's trouble had kept her in the weeks precedingher flight and his arrest, had denied him the opportunity he had soughtof seeing the Wife who lived in the Via de' Bardi: and at this momentthe descriptions he had heard of the fair golden-haired woman were allgone, like yesterday's waves.

  "Will it not be well to carry him to the steps of San Stefano?" saidRomola. "We shall cease then to stop up the street, and you can go onyour way with your bier."

  They had only to move onward for about thirty yards before reaching thesteps of San Stefano, and by this time Baldassarre was able himself tomake some efforts towards getting off the bier, and propping himself onthe steps against the church-doorway. The charitable brethren passedon, but the group of interested spectators, who had nothing to do andmuch to say, had considerably increased. The feeling towards the oldman was not so entirely friendly now it was quite certain that he wasalive, but the respect inspired by Romola's presence caused the passingremarks 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 hecan't do so well without it. You and I, Cecco, know better what it isto go to bed fasting."

  "_Gnaffe_! that's why the Magnificent Eight have turned out some of theprisoners, that they may shelter honest people instead. But if everythief is to be brought to life with good wine and wheaten bread, weCiompi had better go and fill ourselves in Arno while the water'splenty."

  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, ifI leave it with you. I must go on, because I have promised to be at thehospital. But I will come back if you will wait here, and then I willtake you to some shelter. Do you understand? Will you wait? I willcome back."

  He looked dreamily at her, and repeated her words, "come back." It wasno wonder that his mind was enfeebled by his bodily exhaustion, but shehoped that he apprehended her meaning. She opened her basket, which wasfilled with pieces of soft bread, and put one of the pieces into hishand.

  "Do you keep your bread for those that can't swallow, madonna?" said arough-looking fellow, in a red night-cap, who had elbowed his way intothe inmost circle of spectators--a circle that was pressing ratherclosely on Romola.

  "If anybody isn't hungry," said another, "I say, let him alone. He'sbetter 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 wantno trencher."

  "Oh, you don't understand the Frate's charity," said a young man in anexcellent cloth tunic, whose face showed no signs of want. "The Fratehas been preaching to the birds, like Saint Anthony, and he's beentelling the hawks they were made to feed the sparrows, as every goodFlorentine citizen was made to feed six starving beggar-men from Arezzoor Bologna. Madonna, there, is a pious Piagnone: she's not going tothrow away her good bread on honest citizens who've got all the Frate'sprophecies to swallow."

  "Come, madonna," said he of the red cap, "the old thief doesn't eat thebread, you see: you'd better try _us_. We fast so much, we're halfsaints already."

  The circle had narrowed till the coarse men--most of them gaunt fromprivation--had left hardly any margin round Romola. She had been takingfrom her basket a small horn-cup, into which she put the piece of breadand just moistened it with wine; and hitherto she had not appeared toheed 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 heldout the basket of bread to the man in the night-cap, looking at himwithout any reproach in her glance, as she said--

  "Hunger is hard to bear, I know, and you have the power to take thisbread if you will. It was saved for sick women and children. You arestrong 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 thebread from this basket; but I shall watch by this old man; I shallresist your taking the bread from _him_."

  For a few moments there was perfect silence, while Romola looked at thefaces before her, and held out the basket of bread. Her own pale facehad the slightly pinched look and the deepening of the eye-socket whichindicate unusual fasting in the habitually temperate, and the largedirect gaze of her hazel eyes was all the more impressive.

  The man in the night-cap looked rather silly, and backed, thrusting hiselbow into his neighbour's ribs with an air of moral rebuke. Thebacking was general, every one wishing to imply that he had been pushedforward against his will; and the young man in the fine cloth tunic haddisappeared.

  But at this moment the armed servitors of the Signoria, who had begun topatrol 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 thechurch-steps, and said to Romola, in a respectful tone--

  "Madonna, if you want to go on your errands, I'll take care of the oldman."

  Cecco was a wild-looking figure: a very ragged tunic, made shaggy andvariegated by cloth-dust and clinging fragments of wool, gave relief toa pair of bare bony arms and a long sinewy neck; his square jaw shadedby a bristly black beard, his bridgeless nose and low forehead, made hisface look as if it had been crushed down for purposes of packing, and anarrow piece of red rag tied over his ears seemed to assist in thecompression. Romola looked at him with some hesitation.

  "Don't distrust me, madonna," said Cecco, who understood her lookperfectly; "I am not so pretty as you, but I've got an old mother whoeats my porridge for me. What! there's a heart inside me, and I'vebought a candle for the most Holy Virgin before now. Besides, seethere, the old fellow is eating his sop. He's hale enough: he'll be onhis 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 wenton her way towards the hospital of San Matteo, in the Piazza di SanMarco.