Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (212 page)

Tessa felt much teased and frightened. “Oh, Bratti,” she said, with a discomposed face, “I want to buy a great many confetti: I’ve got little Lillo and Ninna at home. And nice coloured sweet things cost a great deal. And they will not like the cross so well, though I know it would be good to have it.”

“Come, then,” said Bratti, fond of laying up a store of merits by imagining possible extortions and then heroically renouncing them, “since you’re an old acquaintance, you shall have it for two quattrini. It’s making you a present of the cross, to say nothing of the blessing.”

Tessa was reaching out her two quattrini with trembling hesitation, when Bratti said abruptly, “Stop a bit! Where do you live?”

“Oh, a long way off,” she answered, almost automatically, being preoccupied with her quattrini; “beyond San Ambrogio, in the Via Piccola, at the top of the house where the wood is stacked below.”

“Very good,” said Bratti, in a patronising tone; “then I’ll let you have the cross on trust, and call for the money. So you live inside the gates? Well, well, I shall be passing.”

“No, no!” said Tessa, frightened lest Naldo should be angry at this revival of an old acquaintance. “I can spare the money. Take it now.”

“No,” said Bratti, resolutely; “I’m not a hard-hearted pedlar. I’ll call and see if you’ve got any rags, and you shall make a bargain. See, here’s the cross: and there’s Pippo’s shop not far behind you: you can go and fill your basket, and I must go and get mine empty.
Addio, piccina
.”

Bratti went on his way, and Tessa, stimulated to change her money into confetti before further accident, went into Pippo’s shop, a little fluttered by the thought that she had let Bratti know more about her than her husband would approve. There were certainly more dangers in coming to see the Carnival than in staying at home; and she would have felt this more strongly if she had known that the wicked old man, who had wanted to kill her husband on the hill, was still keeping her in sight. But she had not noticed the man with the burden on his back.

The consciousness of having a small basketful of things to make the children glad, dispersed her anxiety, and as she entered the Via de’ Libraj her face had its visual expression of childlike content. And now she thought there was really a procession coming, for she saw white robes and a banner, and her heart began to palpitate with expectation. She stood a little aside, but in that narrow street there was the pleasure of being obliged to look very close. The banner was pretty: it was the Holy Mother with the Babe, whose love for her Tessa had believed in more and more since she had had her babies; and the figures in white had not only green wreaths on their heads, but little red crosses by their side, which caused her some satisfaction that she also had her red cross. Certainly, they looked as beautiful as the angels on the clouds, and to Tessa’s mind they too had a background of cloud, like everything else that came to her in life. How and whence did they come? She did not mind much about knowing. But one thing surprised her as newer than wreaths and crosses; it was that some of the white figures carried baskets between them. What could the baskets be for?

But now they were very near, and, to her astonishment, they wheeled aside and came straight up to her. She trembled as she would have done if Saint Michael in the picture had shaken his head at her, and was conscious of nothing but terrified wonder till she saw close to her a round boyish face, lower than her own, and heard a treble voice saying, “Sister, you carry the Anathema about you. Yield it up to the blessed Gesu, and He will adorn you with the gems of His grace.”

Tessa was only more frightened, understanding nothing. Her first conjecture settled on her basket of sweets. They wanted that, these alarming angels. Oh dear, dear! She looked down at it.

“No, sister,” said a taller youth, pointing to her necklace and the clasp of her belt, “it is those vanities that are the Anathema. Take off that necklace and unclasp that belt, that they may be burned in the holy Bonfire of Vanities, and save
you
from burning.”

“It is the truth, my sister,” said a still taller youth, evidently the archangel of this band. “Listen to these voices speaking the divine message. You already carry a red cross: let that be your only adornment. Yield up your necklace and belt, and you shall obtain grace.”

This was too much. Tessa, overcome with awe, dared not say “no,” but she was equally unable to render up her beloved necklace and clasp. Her pouting lips were quivering, the tears rushed to her eyes, and a great drop fell. For a moment she ceased to see anything; she felt nothing but confused terror and misery. Suddenly a gentle hand was laid on her arm, and a soft, wonderful voice, as if the Holy Madonna were speaking, said, “Do not be afraid; no one shall harm you.”

Tessa looked up and saw a lady in black, with a young heavenly face and loving hazel eyes. She had never seen any one like this lady before, and under other circumstances might have had awestruck thoughts about her; but now everything else was overcome by the sense that loving protection was near her. The tears only fell the faster, relieving her swelling heart, as she looked up at the heavenly face, and, putting her hand to her necklace, said sobbingly —

“I can’t give them to be burnt. My husband — he bought them for me — and they are so pretty — and Ninna — oh, I wish I’d never come!”

“Do not ask her for them,” said Romola, speaking to the white-robed boys in a tone of mild authority. “It answers no good end for people to give up such things against their will. That is not what Fra Girolamo approves: he would have such things given up freely.”

Madonna Romola’s word was not to be resisted, and the white train moved on. They even moved with haste, as if some new object had caught their eyes; and Tessa felt with bliss that they were gone, and that her necklace and clasp were still with her.

“Oh, I will go back to the house,” she said, still agitated; “I will go nowhere else. But if I should meet them again, and you not be there?” she added, expecting everything from this heavenly lady.

“Stay a little,” said Romola. “Come with me under this doorway, and we will hide the necklace and clasp, and then you will be in no danger.”

She led Tessa under the archway, and said, “Now, can we find room for your necklace and belt in your basket? Ah! your basket is full of crisp things that will break: let us be careful, and lay the heavy necklace under them.”

It was like a change in a dream to Tessa — the escape from nightmare into floating safety and joy — to find herself taken care of by this lady, so lovely, and powerful, and gentle. She let Romola unfasten her necklace and clasp, while she herself did nothing but look up at the face that bent over her.

“They are sweets for Lillo and Ninna,” she said, as Romola carefully lifted up the light parcels in the basket, and placed the ornaments below them.

“Those are your children?” said Romola, smiling. “And you would rather go home to them than see any more of the Carnival? Else you have not far to go to the Piazza de’ Signori, and there you would see the pile for the great bonfire.”

“No, oh no!” said Tessa, eagerly; “I shall never like bonfires again. I will go back.”

“You live at some castello, doubtless,” said Romola, not waiting for an answer. “Towards which gate do you go?”

“Towards Por’ Santa Croce.”

“Come, then,” said Romola, taking her by the hand and leading her to the corner of a street nearly opposite. “If you go down there,” she said, pausing, “you will soon be in a straight road. And I must leave you now, because some one else expects me. You will not be frightened. Your pretty things are quite safe now. Addio.”

“Addio, Madonna,” said Tessa, almost in a whisper, not knowing what else it would be right to say; and in an instant the heavenly lady was gone. Tessa turned to catch a last glimpse, but she only saw the tall gliding figure vanish round the projecting stonework. So she went on her way in wonder, longing to be once more safely housed with Monna Lisa, undesirous of carnivals for evermore.

Baldassarre had kept Tessa in sight till the moment of her parting with Romola: then he went away with his bundle of yarn. It seemed to him that he had discerned a clue which might guide him if he could only grasp the necessary details firmly enough. He had seen the two wives together, and the sight had brought to his conceptions that vividness which had been wanting before. His power of imagining facts needed to be reinforced continually by the senses. The tall wife was the noble and rightful wife; she had the blood in her that would be readily kindled to resentment; she would know what scholarship was, and how it might lie locked in by the obstructions of the stricken body, like a treasure buried by earthquake. She could believe him: she would be
inclined
to believe him, if he proved to her that her husband was unfaithful. Women cared about that: they would take vengeance for that. If this wife of Tito’s loved him, she would have a sense of injury which Baldassarre’s mind dwelt on with keen longing, as if it would be the strength of another Will added to his own, the strength of another mind to form devices.

Both these wives had been kind to Baldassarre, and their acts towards him, being bound up with the very image of them, had not vanished from his memory; yet the thought of their pain could not present itself to him as a check. To him it seemed that pain was the order of the world for all except the hard and base. If any were innocent, if any were noble, where could the utmost gladness lie for them? Where it lay for him — in unconquerable hatred and triumphant vengeance. But he must be cautious: he must watch this wife in the Via de’ Bardi, and learn more of her; for even here frustration was possible. There was no power for him now but in patience.

Chapter Fifty On
e.

Monna Brigida’s Conversion.

When Romola said that some one else expected her, she meant her cousin Brigida, but she was far from suspecting how much that good kinswoman was in need of her. Returning together towards the Piazza, they had descried the company of youths coming to a stand before Tessa, and when Romola, having approached near enough to see the simple little contadina’s distress, said, “Wait for me a moment, cousin,” Monna Brigida said hastily, “Ah, I will not go on: come for me to Boni’s shop, — I shall go back there.”

The truth was, Monna Brigida had a consciousness on the one hand of certain “vanities” carried on her person, and on the other of a growing alarm lest the Piagnoni should be right in holding that rouge, and false hair, and pearl embroidery, endamaged the soul. Their serious view of things filled the air like an odour; nothing seemed to have exactly the same flavour as it used to have; and there was the dear child Romola, in her youth and beauty, leading a life that was uncomfortably suggestive of rigorous demands on woman. A widow at fifty-five whose satisfaction has been largely drawn from what she thinks of her own person, and what she believes others think of it, requires a great fund of imagination to keep her spirits buoyant. And Monna Brigida had begun to have frequent struggles at her toilet. If her soul would prosper better without them, was it really worth while to put on the rouge and the braids? But when she lifted up the hand-mirror and saw a sallow face with baggy cheeks, and crows’-feet that were not to be dissimulated by any simpering of the lips — when she parted her grey hair, and let it lie in simple Piagnone fashion round her face, her courage failed. Monna Berta would certainly burst out laughing at her, and call her an old hag, and as Monna Berta was really only fifty-two, she had a superiority which would make the observation cutting. Every woman who was not a Piagnone would give a shrug at the sight of her, and the men would accost her as if she were their grandmother. Whereas, at fifty-five a woman was not so very old — she only required making up a little. So the rouge and the braids and the embroidered berretta went on again, and Monna Brigida was satisfied with the accustomed effect; as for her neck, if she covered it up, people might suppose it was too old to show, and, on the contrary, with the necklaces round it, it looked better than Monna Berta’s. This very day, when she was preparing for the Piagnone Carnival, such a struggle had occurred, and the conflicting fears and longings which caused the struggle, caused her to turn back and seek refuge in the druggist’s shop rather than encounter the collectors of the Anathema when Romola was not by her side. But Monna Brigida was not quite rapid enough in her retreat. She had been descried, even before she turned away, by the white-robed boys in the rear of those who wheeled round towards Tessa, and the willingness with which Tessa was given up was, perhaps, slightly due to the fact that part of the troop had already accosted a personage carrying more markedly upon her the dangerous weight of the Anathema. It happened that several of this troop were at the youngest age taken into peculiar training; and a small fellow of ten, his olive wreath resting above cherubic cheeks and wide brown eyes, his imagination really possessed with a hovering awe at existence as something in which great consequences impended on being good or bad, his longings nevertheless running in the direction of mastery and mischief, was the first to reach Monna Brigida and place himself across her path. She felt angry, and looked for an open door, but there was not one at hand, and by attempting to escape now, she would only make things worse. But it was not the cherubic-faced young one who first addressed her; it was a youth of fifteen, who held one handle of a wide basket.

“Venerable mother!” he began, “the blessed Jesus commands you to give up the Anathema which you carry upon you. That cap embroidered with pearls, those jewels that fasten up your false hair — let them be given up and sold for the poor; and cast the hair itself away from you, as a lie that is only fit for burning. Doubtless, too, you have other jewels under your silk mantle.”

“Yes, lady,” said the youth at the other handle, who had many of Fra Girolamo’s phrases by heart, “they are too heavy for you: they are heavier than a millstone, and are weighting you for perdition. Will you adorn yourself with the hunger of the poor, and be proud to carry God’s curse upon your head?”

“In truth you are old, buona madre,” said the cherubic boy, in a sweet soprano. “You look very ugly with the red on your cheeks and that black glistening hair, and those fine things. It is only Satan who can like to see you. Your Angel is sorry. He wants you to rub away the red.”

The little fellow snatched a soft silk scarf from the basket, and held it towards Monna Brigida, that she might use it as her guardian angel desired. Her anger and mortification were fast giving way to spiritual alarm. Monna Berta and that cloud of witnesses, highly-dressed society in general, were not looking at her, and she was surrounded by young monitors, whose white robes, and wreaths, and red crosses, and dreadful candour, had something awful in their unusualness. Her Franciscan confessor, Fra Cristoforo, of Santa Croce, was not at hand to reinforce her distrust of Dominican teaching, and she was helplessly possessed and shaken by a vague sense that a supreme warning was come to her. Unvisited by the least suggestion of any other course that was open to her, she took the scarf that was held out, and rubbed her cheeks, with trembling submissiveness.

“It is well, madonna,” said the second youth. “It is a holy beginning. And when you have taken those vanities from your head, the dew of heavenly grace will descend on it.” The infusion of mischief was getting stronger, and putting his hand to one of the jewelled pins that fastened her braids to the berretta, he drew it out. The heavy black plait fell down over Monna Brigida’s face, and dragged the rest of the head-gear forward. It was a new reason for not hesitating: she put up her hands hastily, undid the other fastenings, and flung down into the basket of doom her beloved crimson-velvet berretta, with all its unsurpassed embroidery of seed-pearls, and stood an unrouged woman, with grey hair pushed backward from a face where certain deep lines of age had triumphed over
embonpoint
.

But the berretta was not allowed to lie in the basket. With impish zeal the youngsters lifted it, and held it up pitilessly, with the false hair dangling.

“See, venerable mother,” said the taller youth, “what ugly lies you have delivered yourself from! And now you look like the blessed Saint Anna, the mother of the Holy Virgin.”

Thoughts of going into a convent forthwith, and never showing herself in the world again, were rushing through Monna Brigida’s mind. There was nothing possible for her but to take care of her soul.

Of course, there were spectators laughing: she had no need to look round to assure herself of that. Well! it would, perhaps, be better to be forced to think more of Paradise. But at the thought that the dear accustomed world was no longer in her choice, there gathered some of those hard tears which just moisten elderly eyes, and she could see but dimly a large rough hand holding a red cross, which was suddenly thrust before her over the shoulders of the boys, while a strong guttural voice said —

“Only four quattrini, madonna, blessing and all! Buy it. You’ll find a comfort in it now your wig’s gone. Deh! what are we sinners doing all our lives? Making soup in a basket, and getting nothing but the scum for our stomachs. Better buy a blessing, madonna! Only four quattrini; the profit is not so much as the smell of a danaro, and it goes to the poor.”

Monna Brigida, in dim-eyed confusion, was proceeding to the further submission of reaching money from her embroidered scarsella, at present hidden by her silk mantle, when the group round her, which she had not yet entertained the idea of escaping, opened before a figure as welcome as an angel loosing prison-bolts.

“Romola, look at me!” said Monna Brigida, in a piteous tone, putting out both her hands.

The white troop was already moving away, with a slight consciousness that its zeal about the head-gear had been superabundant enough to afford a dispensation from any further demand for penitential offerings.

“Dear cousin, don’t be distressed,” said Romola, smitten with pity, yet hardly able to help smiling at the sudden apparition of her kinswoman in a genuine, natural guise, strangely contrasted with all memories of her. She took the black drapery from her own head, and threw it over Monna Brigida’s. “There,” she went on soothingly, “no one will remark you now. We will turn down the Via del Palagio and go straight to our house.”

They hastened away, Monna Brigida grasping Romola’s hand tightly, as if to get a stronger assurance of her being actually there.

“Ah, my Romola, my dear child!” said the short fat woman, hurrying with frequent steps to keep pace with the majestic young figure beside her; “what an old scarecrow I am! I must be good — I mean to be good!”

“Yes, yes; buy a cross!” said the guttural voice, while the rough hand was thrust once more before Monna Brigida: for Bratti was not to be abashed by Romola’s presence into renouncing a probable customer, and had quietly followed up their retreat. “Only four quattrini, blessing and all — and if there was any profit, it would all go to the poor.”

Monna Brigida would have been compelled to pause, even if she had been in a less submissive mood. She put up one hand deprecatingly to arrest Romola’s remonstrance, and with the other reached out a grosso, worth many white quattrini, saying, in an entreating tone —

“Take it, good man, and begone.”

“You’re in the right, madonna,” said Bratti, taking the coin quickly, and thrusting the cross into her hand; “I’ll not offer you change, for I might as well rob you of a mass. What! we must all be scorched a little, but you’ll come off the easier; better fall from the window than the roof. A good Easter and a good year to you!”

“Well, Romola,” cried Monna Brigida, pathetically, as Bratti left them, “if I’m to be a Piagnone it’s no matter how I look!”

“Dear cousin,” said Romola, smiling at her affectionately, “you don’t know how much better you look than you ever did before. I see now how good-natured your face is, like yourself. That red and finery seemed to thrust themselves forward and hide expression. Ask our Piero or any other painter if he would not rather paint your portrait now than before. I think all lines of the human face have something either touching or grand, unless they seem to come from low passions. How fine old men are, like my godfather! Why should not old women look grand and simple?”

“Yes, when one gets to be sixty, my Romola,” said Brigida, relapsing a little; “but I’m only fifty-five, and Monna Berta, and everybody — but it’s no use: I will be good, like you. Your mother, if she’d been alive, would have been as old as I am; we were cousins together. One
must
either die or get old. But it doesn’t matter about being old, if one’s a Piagnone.”