by George Eliot
CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT.
ROMOLA'S WAKING.
Romola in her boat passed from dreaming into long deep sleep, and thenagain from deep sleep into busy dreaming, till at last she felt herselfstretching out her arms in the court of the Bargello, where theflickering flames of the tapers seemed to get stronger and stronger tillthe dark scene was blotted out with light. Her eyes opened and she sawit was the light of morning. Her boat was lying still in a littlecreek; on her right-hand lay the speckless sapphire-blue of theMediterranean; on her left one of those scenes which were and still arerepeated again and again like a sweet rhythm, on the shores of thatloveliest sea.
In a deep curve of the mountains lay a breadth of green land, curtainedby gentle tree-shadowed slopes leaning towards the rocky heights. Upthese slopes might be seen here and there, gleaming between thetree-tops, a pathway leading to a little irregular mass of building thatseemed to have clambered in a hasty way up the mountain-side, and takena difficult stand there for the sake of showing the tall belfry as asight of beauty to the scattered and clustered houses of the villagebelow. The rays of the newly-risen sun fell obliquely on the westwardhorn of this crescent-shaped nook: all else lay in dewy shadow. Nosound came across the stillness; the very waters seemed to have curvedthemselves there for rest.
The delicious sun-rays fell on Romola and thrilled her gently like acaress. She lay motionless, hardly watching the scene; rather, feelingsimply the presence of peace and beauty. While we are still in ouryouth there can always come, in our early waking, moments when merepassive existence is itself a Lethe, when the exquisiteness of subtleindefinite sensation creates a bliss which is without memory and withoutdesire. As the soft warmth penetrated Romola's young limbs, as her eyesrested on this sequestered luxuriance, it seemed that the agitating pasthad glided away like that dark scene in the Bargello, and that theafternoon dreams of her girlhood had really come back to her. For aminute or two the oblivion was untroubled; she did not even think thatshe could rest here for ever, she only felt that she rested. Then shebecame distinctly conscious that she was lying in the boat which hadbeen bearing her over the waters all through the night. Instead ofbringing her to death, it had been the gently lulling cradle of a newlife. And in spite of her evening despair she was glad that the morninghad come to her again: glad to think that she was resting in thefamiliar sunlight rather than in the unknown regions of death. _Could_she not rest here? No sound from Florence would reach her. Alreadyoblivion was troubled; from behind the golden haze were piercing domesand 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, ifshe could, to resist the rush of thoughts that urged themselves alongwith the conjecture how far the boat had carried her. Why need shemind? This was a sheltered nook where there were simple villagers whowould not harm her. For a little while, at least, she might rest andresolve 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 apause in her life. She turned to watch the crescent-shaped valley, thatshe might get back the soothing sense of peace and beauty which she hadfelt in her first waking.
She had not been in this attitude of contemplation more than a fewminutes when across the stillness there came a piercing cry; not a briefcry, but continuous and more and more intense. Romola felt sure it wasthe cry of a little child in distress that no one came to help. Shestarted up and put one foot on the side of the boat ready to leap on tothe beach; but she paused there and listened: the mother of the childmust be near, the cry must soon cease. But it went on, and drew Romolaso irresistibly, seeming the more piteous to her for the sense of peacewhich had preceded it, that she jumped on to the beach and walked manypaces before she knew what direction she would take. The cry, shethought, came from some rough garden growth many yards on herright-hand, where she saw a half-ruined hovel. She climbed over a lowbroken stone fence, and made her way across patches of weedy green cropsand ripe but neglected corn. The cry grew plainer, and convinced thatshe was right she hastened towards the hovel; but even in that hurriedwalk she felt an oppressive change in the air as she left the seabehind. Was there some taint lurking amongst the green luxuriance thathad 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 dartingthrough her like a pain. The next moment her foot was within thedoorway, but the sight she beheld in the sombre light arrested her witha shock of awe and horror. On the straw, with which the floor wasscattered, lay three dead bodies, one of a tall man, one of a girl abouteight years old, and one of a young woman whose long black hair wasbeing clutched and pulled by a living child--the child that was sendingforth the piercing cry. Romola's experience in the haunts of death anddisease made thought and action prompt: she lifted the little livingchild, and in trying to soothe it on her bosom, still sent to look atthe bodies and see if they were really dead. The strongly marked typeof race in their features, and their peculiar garb, made her conjecturethat they were Spanish or Portuguese Jews, who had perhaps been putashore and abandoned there by rapacious sailors, to whom their propertyremained as a prey. Such things were happening continually to Jewscompelled to abandon their homes by the Inquisition: the cruelty ofgreed thrust them from the sea, and the cruelty of superstition thrustthem back to it.
"But, surely," thought Romola, "I shall find some woman in the villagewhose mother's heart will not let her refuse to tend this helplesschild--if the real mother is indeed dead."
This doubt remained, because while the man and girl looked emaciated andalso showed signs of having been long dead, the woman seemed to havebeen hardier, and had not quite lost the robustness of her form.Romola, kneeling, was about to lay her hand on the heart; but as shelifted the piece of yellow woollen drapery that lay across the bosom,she saw the purple spots which marked the familiar pestilence. Then itstruck her that if the villagers knew of this, she might have moredifficulty than she had expected in getting help from them; they wouldperhaps shrink from her with that child in her arms. But she had moneyto offer them, and they would not refuse to give her some goat's milk inexchange for it.
She set out at once towards the village, her mind filled now with theeffort to soothe the little dark creature, and with wondering how sheshould win some woman to be good to it. She could not help hoping alittle in a certain awe she had observed herself to inspire, when sheappeared, unknown and unexpected, in her religious dress. As she passedacross a breadth of cultivated ground, she noticed, with wonder, thatlittle patches of corn mingled with the other crops had been left toover-ripeness untouched by the sickle, and that golden apples and darkfigs lay rotting on the weedy earth. There were grassy spaces withinsight, but no cow, or sheep, or goat. The stillness began to havesomething fearful in it to Romola; she hurried along towards thethickest cluster of houses, where there would be the most life to appealto on behalf of the helpless life she carried in her arms. But she hadpicked up two figs, and bit little pieces from the sweet pulp to stillthe child with.
She entered between two lines of dwellings. It was time that villagersshould have been stirring long ago, but not a soul was in sight. Theair was becoming more and more oppressive, laden, it seemed, with somehorrible impurity. There was a door open; she looked in, and saw grimemptiness. Another open door; and through that she saw a man lying deadwith all his garments on, his head lying athwart a spade handle, and anearthenware cruse in his hand, as if he had fallen suddenly.
Romola felt horror taking possession of her. Was she in a village ofthe 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 cryfilled her ears. At last she saw a figure crawling slowly out of ahouse, and soon sinking back in a sitting posture against the wall. Shehastened towards the figure; it was a young woman in fevered anguish,and she, too, held a pitcher in her hand. As Romola approached her shedid
not start; the one need was too absorbing for any other idea toimpress 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, "Youshall 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 thedifficulty of carrying the pitcher as well as feeding the child. Butthe little one was getting more content as the morsels of sweet pulpwere repeated, and ceased to distress her with its cry, so that shecould give a less distracted attention to the objects around her.
The well lay twenty yards or more beyond the end of the street, and asRomola was approaching it her eyes were directed to the opposite greenslope immediately below the church. High up, on a patch of grassbetween the trees, she had descried a cow and a couple of goats, and shetried to trace a line of path that would lead her close to that cheeringsight, when once she had done her errand to the well. Occupied in thisway, she was not aware that she was very near the well, and that someone approaching it on the other side had fixed a pair of astonished eyesupon her.
Romola certainly presented a sight which, at, that moment and in thatplace, could hardly have been seen without some pausing and palpitation.With her gaze fixed intently on the distant slope, the long lines ofher thick grey garment giving a gliding character to her rapid walk, herhair 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-blackeyes, she might well startle that youth of fifteen, accustomed to swingthe censer in the presence of a Madonna less fair and marvellous thanthis.
"She carries a pitcher in her hand--to fetch water for the sick. It isthe Holy Mother, come to take care of the people who have thepestilence."
It was a sight of awe: she would, perhaps, be angry with those whofetched water for themselves only. The youth flung down his vessel interror, and Romola, aware now of some one near her, saw the black andwhite figure fly as if for dear life towards the slope she had just beencontemplating. But remembering the parched sufferer, she half-filledher 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 sheseated 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 openedher eyes, and, looking at Romola, said languidly--
"Who are you?"
"I came over the sea," said Romola, "I only came this morning. Are allthe people dead in these houses?"
"I think they are all ill now--all that are not dead. My father and mysister lie dead upstairs, and there is no one to bury them: and soon Ishall die."
"Not so, I hope," said Romola. "I am come to take care of you. I amused to the pestilence; I am not afraid. But there must be some leftwho are not ill. I saw a youth running towards the mountain when I wentto the well."
"I cannot tell. When the pestilence came, a great many people wentaway, and drove off the cows and goats. Give me more water!"
Romola, suspecting that if she followed the direction of the youth'sflight, she should find some men and women who were still healthy andable, determined to seek them out at once, that she might at least winthem to take care of the child, and leave her free to come back and seehow many living needed help, and how many dead needed burial. Shetrusted 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 darkbantling again, and set off towards the slope. She felt no burden ofchoice on her now, no longing for death. She was thinking how she wouldgo 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 towalk up a slope, and it seemed a long while before the winding path tookher near the cow and the goats. She was beginning herself to feel faintfrom heat, hunger, and thirst, and as she reached a double turning, shepaused to consider whether she would not wait near the cow, which someone was likely to come and milk soon, rather than toil up to the churchbefore she had taken any rest. Raising her eyes to measure the steepdistance, she saw peeping between the boughs, not more than five yardsoff, a broad round face, watching her attentively, and lower down theblack skirt of a priest's garment, and a hand grasping a bucket. Shestood mutely observing, and the face, too, remained motionless. Romolahad often witnessed the overpowering force of dread in cases ofpestilence, and she was cautious.
Raising her voice in a tone of gentle pleading, she said, "I came overthe sea. I am hungry, and so is the child. Will you not give us somemilk?"
Romola had divined part of the truth, but she had not divined thatpreoccupation of the priest's mind which charged her words with astrange significance. Only a little while ago, the young acolyte hadbrought word to the Padre that he had seen the Holy Mother with theBabe, fetching water for the sick: she was as tall as the cypresses, andhad a light about her head, and she looked up at the church. Thepievano [parish priest] had not listened with entire belief: he had beenmore than fifty years in the world without having any vision of theMadonna, and he thought the boy might have misinterpreted the unexpectedappearance of a villager. But he had been made uneasy, and beforeventuring to come down and milk his cow, he had repeated many Aves. Thepievano's conscience tormented him a little: he trembled at thepestilence, but he also trembled at the thought of the mild-facedMother, conscious that that Invisible Mercy might demand something moreof him than prayers and "Hails." In this state of mind--unable tobanish the image the boy had raised of the Mother with the glory abouther tending the sick--the pievano had come down to milk his cow, and hadsuddenly caught sight of Romola pausing at the parted way. Her pleadingwords, with their strange refinement of tone and accent, instead ofbeing explanatory, had a preternatural sound for him. Yet he did notquite believe he saw the Holy Mother: he was in a state of alarmedhesitation. If anything miraculous were happening, he felt there was nostrong presumption that the miracle would be in his favour. He darednot run away; he dared not advance.
"Come down," said Romola, after a pause. "Do not fear. Fear rather todeny food to the hungry when they ask you."
A moment after, the boughs were parted, and the complete figure of athickset priest with a broad, harmless face, his black frock much wornand soiled, stood, bucket in hand, looking at her timidly, and stillkeeping aloof as he took the path towards the cow in silence.
Romola followed him and watched him without speaking again, as he seatedhimself against the tethered cow, and, when he had nervously drawn somemilk, 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 afterwardsdrank some milk herself, the Padre observed her from his wooden stoolwith a timidity that changed its character a little. He recognised theHebrew baby, he was certain that he had a substantial woman before him;but there was still something strange and unaccountable in Romola'spresence in this spot, and the Padre had a presentiment that things weregoing to change with him. Moreover, that Hebrew baby was terriblyassociated with the dread of pestilence.
Nevertheless, when Romola smiled at the little one sucking its own milkylips, and stretched out the brass cup again, saying, "Give us more, goodfather," he obeyed less nervously than before.
Romola on her side was not unobservant; and when the second supply ofmilk had been drunk, she looked down at the round-headed man, and saidwith mild decision--
"And now tell me, father, how this pestilence came, and why you let yourpeople die without the sacraments; and lie unburied. For I am come overthe sea to help those who are left alive--and you, too, will help themnow."
He told her the story of the pestilence: and while he was telling it,the youth, who had fled before, h
ad come peeping and advancinggradually, till at last he stood and watched the scene from behind aneighbouring bush.
Three families of Jews, twenty souls in all, had been put ashore manyweeks ago, some of them already ill of the pestilence. The villagers,said the priest, had of course refused to give shelter to themiscreants, otherwise than in a distant hovel, and under heaps of straw.But when the strangers had died of the plague, and some of the peoplehad thrown the bodies into the sea, the sea had brought them back againin a great storm, and everybody was smitten with terror. A grave wasdug, and the bodies were buried; but then the pestilence attacked theChristians, and the greater number of the villagers went away over themountain, driving away their few cattle, and carrying provisions. Thepriest had not fled; he had stayed and prayed for the people, and he hadprevailed on the youth Jacopo to stay with him; but he confessed that amortal terror of the plague had taken hold of him, and he had not daredto go down into the valley.
"You will fear no longer, father," said Romola, in a tone of encouragingauthority; "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 formonths where the pestilence was, and see, I am strong. Jacopo will comewith us," she added, motioning to the peeping lad, who came slowly frombehind his defensive bush, as if invisible threads were dragging him.
"Come, Jacopo," said Romola again, smiling at him, "you will carry thechild for me. See! your arms are strong, and I am tired."
That was a dreadful proposal to Jacopo, and to the priest also; but theywere both under a peculiar influence forcing them to obey. Thesuspicion that Romola was a supernatural form was dissipated, but theirminds were filled instead with the more effective sense that she was ahuman being whom God had sent over the sea to command them.
"Now we will carry down the milk," said Romola, "and see if any onewants it."
So they went all together down the slope, and that morning the suffererssaw help come to them in their despair. There were hardly more than ascore alive in the whole valley; but all of these were comforted, mostwere saved, and the dead were buried.
In this way days, weeks, and months passed with Romola till the men weredigging and sowing again, till the women smiled at her as they carriedtheir great vases on their heads to the well, and the Hebrew baby was atottering tumbling Christian, Benedetto by name, having been baptised inthe church on the mountain-side. But by that time she herself wassuffering from the fatigue and languor that must come after a continuousstrain on mind and body. She had taken for her dwelling one of thehouses abandoned by their owners, standing a little aloof from thevillage street; and here on a thick heap of clean straw--a delicious bedfor those who do not dream of down--she felt glad to lie still throughmost of the daylight hours, taken care of along with the littleBenedetto by a woman whom the pestilence had widowed.
Every day the Padre and Jacopo and the small flock of survivingvillagers paid their visit to this cottage to see the blessed Lady, andto bring her of their best as an offering--honey, fresh cakes, eggs, andpolenta. It was a sight they could none of them forget, a sight theyall told of in their old age--how the sweet and sainted lady with herfair face, her golden hair, and her brown eyes that had a blessing inthem, lay weary with her labours after she had been sent over the sea tohelp them in their extremity, and how the queer little black Benedettoused to crawl about the straw by her side and want everything that wasbrought to her, and she always gave him a bit of what she took, and toldthem if they loved her they must be good to Benedetto.
Many legends were afterwards told in that valley about the blessed Ladywho came over the sea, but they were legends by which all who heardmight know that in times gone by a woman had done beautiful loving deedsthere, rescuing those who were ready to perish.
