The Call of the Blood

R >> Robert Smythe Hichens >> The Call of the Blood

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To Hermione this lonely and faded Madonna, smiling calmly beneath the
savagely frowning rock upon which dead men had built long years ago a
barbarous fastness, was touching in her solitude. There was something
appealing in her frailness, in her thin, anaemic calm. How long had she
been here? How long would she remain? She was fading away, as things fade
in the night. Yet she had probably endured for years, would still be here
for years to come, would be here to receive the wild flowers of peasant
children, the prayers of peasant lovers, the adoration of the poor, who,
having very little here, put their faith in far-off worlds, where they
will have harvests surely without reaping in the heat of the sun, where
they will have good wine without laboring in the vineyards, where they
will be able to rest without the thought coming to them, "If to-day I
rest, to-morrow I shall starve."

As Hermione looked at the painting lit by the little lamp, at the gifts
of the flowers and the fruit, she began to feel as if indeed a woman
dwelt there, in that niche of the crag, as if a heart were there, a soul
to pity, an ear to listen.

Lucrezia knelt down quietly, lit her candle, turned it upside down till
the hot wax dripped onto the rock and made a foundation for it, then
stuck it upright, crossed herself silently, and began to pray. Her lips
moved quickly. The candle-flame flickered for a moment, then burned
steadily, sending its thin fire up towards the evening star. After a
moment Hermione knelt down beside her.

She had never before prayed at a shrine. It was curious to be kneeling
under this savage wall of rock above which the evening star showed itself
in the clear heaven of night. She looked at the star and at the Madonna,
then at the little bunches of flowers, and at Lucrezia's candle. These
gifts of the poor moved her heart. Poverty giving is beautiful. She
thought that, and was almost ashamed of the comfort of her life. She
wished she had brought a candle, too. Then she bent her head and began to
pray that Sebastiano might remember Lucrezia and return to her. To make
her prayer more earnest, she tried to realize Lucrezia's sorrow by
putting herself in Lucrezia's place, and Maurice in Sebastiano's. It was
such a natural effort as people make every day, every hour. If Maurice
had forgotten her in absence, had given his love to another, had not
cared to return to her! If she were alone now in Sicily while he was
somewhere else, happy with some one else!

Suddenly the wildness of this place where she knelt became terrible to
her. She felt the horror of solitude, of approaching darkness. The
outlines of the rocks and of the ruined castle looked threatening,
alarming. The pale light of the lamp before the shrine and of Lucrezia's
votive candle drew to them not only the fluttering night-moths, but the
spirits of desolation and of hollow grief that dwell among the waste
places and among the hills. Night seemed no more beneficent, but dreary
as a spectre that came to rob the world of all that made it beautiful.
The loneliness of deserted women encompassed her. Was there any other
loneliness comparable to it?

She felt sure that there was not, and she found herself praying not only
for Lucrezia, but for all women who were sad because they loved, for all
women who were deserted by those whom they loved, or who had lost those
whom they loved.

At first she believed that she was addressing her prayer to the Madonna
della Rocca, the Blessed Virgin of the Rocks, whose pale image was before
her. But presently she knew that her words, the words of her lips and the
more passionate words of her heart, were going out to a Being before whom
the sun burned as a lamp and the moon as a votive taper. She was thinking
of women, she was praying for women, but she was no longer praying to a
woman. It seemed to her as if she was so ardent a suitor that she pushed
past the Holy Mother of God into the presence of God Himself. He had
created women. He had created the love of women. To Him she would, she
must, appeal.

Often she had prayed before, but never as now, never with such passion,
with such a sensation of personally pleading. The effort of her heart was
like the effort of womanhood. It seemed to her--and she had no feeling
that this was blasphemous--as if God knew, understood, everything of the
world He had created except perhaps this--the inmost agony some women
suffer, as if she, perhaps, could make Him understand this by her prayer.
And she strove to recount this agony, to make it clear to God.

Was it a presumptuous effort? She did not feel that it was. And now she
felt selfless. She was no more thinking of herself, was no longer obliged
to concentrate her thoughts and her imagination upon herself and the one
she loved best. She had passed beyond that, as she had passed beyond the
Madonna della Rocca. She was the voice and the heart not of a woman, but
of woman praying in the night to the God who had made woman and the
night.

From behind a rock Gaspare watched the two praying women. He had not
forgotten his padrone's words, and when Hermione and Lucrezia set off
from the cottage he had followed them, faithful to his trust. Intent upon
their errand, they had not seen him. His step was light among the stones,
and he had kept at a distance. Now he stood still, gazing at them as they
prayed.

Gaspare did not believe in priests. Very few Sicilians do. An uncle of
his was a priest's son, and he had other reasons, quite sufficient to his
mind, for being incredulous of the sanctity of those who celebrated the
mass to which he seldom went. But he believed in God, and he believed
superstitiously in the efficacy of the Madonna and in the powers of the
saints. Once his little brother had fallen dangerously ill on the festa
of San Giorgio, the santo patrono of Castel Vecchio. He had gone to the
festa, and had given all his money, five lire, to the saint to heal his
brother. Next day the child was well. In misfortune he would probably
utter a prayer, or burn a candle, himself. That Lucrezia might think that
she had reason to pray he understood, though he doubted whether the
Madonna and all the saints could do much for the reclamation of his
friend Sebastiano. But why should the padrona kneel there out-of-doors
sending up such earnest petitions? She was not a Catholic. He had never
seen her pray before. He looked on with wonder, presently with
discomfort, almost with anger. To-night he was what he would himself have
called "nervoso," and anything that irritated his already strung-up
nerves roused his temper. He was in anxiety about his padrone, and he
wanted to be back at the priest's house, he wanted to see his padrone
again at the earliest possible moment. The sight of his padrona
committing an unusual action alarmed him. Was she, then, afraid as he was
afraid? Did she know, suspect anything? His experience of women was that
whenever they were in trouble they went for comfort and advice to the
Madonna and the saints.

He grew more and more uneasy. Presently he drew softly a little nearer.
It was getting late. Night had fallen. He must know the result of the
padrone's interview with Salvatore, and he could not leave the padrona.
Well, then--! He crept nearer and nearer till at last he was close to the
shrine and could see the Madonna smiling. Then he crossed himself and
said, softly:

"Signora!"

Hermione did not hear him. She was wrapped in the passion of her prayer.

"Signora!"

He bent forward and touched her on the shoulder. She started, turned her
head, and rose to her feet.

"Gaspare!"

She looked startled. This abrupt recall to the world confused her for a
moment.

"Gaspare! What is it? The padrone?"

He took off his cap.

"Signora, do you know how late it is?"

"Has the padrone come back?"

Lucrezia was on her feet, too. The tears were in her eyes.

"Scusi, signora!" said Gaspare.

Hermione began to look more natural.

"Has the padrone come back and sent you for us?"

"He did not send me, signora. It was getting dark. I thought it best to
come. But I expect he is back. I expect he is waiting for us now."

"You came to guard me?"

She smiled. She liked his watchfulness.

"What's the time?"

She looked at her watch.

"Why, it is nine already! We must hurry. Come, Lucrezia!"

They went quickly down the path.

They did not talk as they went. Gaspare led the way. It was obvious that
he was in great haste. Sometimes he forgot that the padrona was not so
light-footed as he was, and sprang on so swiftly that she called to him
to wait. When at last they came in sight of the arch Hermione and
Lucrezia were panting.

"The padrone will--forgive us--when--he--sees how we have--hurried," said
Hermione, laughing at her own fatigue. "Go on, Gaspare!"

She stood for a moment leaning against the arch.

"And you go quickly, Lucrezia, and get the supper. The padrone--will
be--hungry after his bath."

"Si, signora."

Lucrezia went off to the back of the house. Then Hermione drew a long
breath, recovered herself, and walked to the terrace.

Gaspare met her with flaming eyes.

"The padrone is not here, signora. The padrone has not come back!"

He stood and stared at her.

It was not yet very dark. They stood in a sort of soft obscurity in which
all objects could be seen, not with sharp clearness, but distinctly.

"Are you sure, Gaspare?"

"Si, signora! The padrone has not come back. He is not here."

The boy's voice sounded angry, Hermione thought. It startled her. And the
way he looked at her startled her too.

"You have looked in the house? Maurice!" she called. "Maurice!"

"I say the padrone is not here, signora!"

Never before had Gaspare spoken to Hermione like this, in a tone almost
that she ought to have resented. She did not resent it, but it filled her
with a creeping uneasiness.

"What time is it? Nearly half-past nine. He ought to be here by now."

The boy nodded, keeping his flaming eyes on her.

"I said nine to give him lots of time to get cool, and change his
clothes, and--it's very odd."

"I will go down to the sea, signora. A rivederci."

He swung round to go, but Hermione caught his arm.

"No; don't go. Wait a moment, Gaspare. Don't leave me like this!"

She detained him.

"Why, what's the matter? What--what are you afraid of?"

Instantly there came into his face the ugly, obstinate look she had
already noticed, and wondered at, that day.

"What are you afraid of, Gaspare?" she repeated.

Her voice vibrated with a strength of feeling that as yet she herself
scarcely understood.

"Niente!" the boy replied, doggedly.

"Well, but then"--she laughed--"why shouldn't the padrone be a few
minutes late? It would be absurd to go down. You might miss him on the
way."

Gaspare said nothing. He stood there with his arms hanging and the ugly
look still on his face.

"Mightn't you? Mightn't you, Gaspare, if he came up by Marechiaro?"

"Si, signora."

"Well, then--"

They stood there in silence for a minute. Hermione broke it.

"He--you know how splendidly the padrone swims," she said. "Don't you,
Gaspare?"

The boy said nothing.

"Gaspare, why don't you answer when I speak to you?"

"Because I've got nothing to say, signora."

His tone was almost rude. At that moment he nearly hated Hermione for
holding him by the arm. If she had been a man he would have struck her
off and gone.

"Gaspare!" she said, but not angrily.

Her instinct told her that he was obliged to be utterly natural just then
under the spell of some violent feeling. She knew he loved his padrone.
The feeling must be one of anxiety. But it was absurd to be so anxious.
It was ridiculous, hysterical. She said to herself that it was Gaspare's
excitement that was affecting her. She was catching his mood.

"My dear Gaspare," she said, "we must just wait. The padrone will be here
in a minute. Perhaps he has come up by Marechiaro. Very likely he has
looked in at the hotel to see how the sick signore is after his day up
here. That is it, I feel sure."

She looked at him for agreement and met his stern and flaming eyes,
utterly unmoved by what she had said, utterly unconvinced. At this moment
she could not deny that this untrained, untutored nature had power over
hers. She let go his arm and sat down by the wall.

"Let us wait out here for a minute," she said.

"Va bene, signora."

He stood there quite still, but she felt as if in this unnatural
stillness there was violent movement, and she looked away from him. It
was fully night now. She gazed down at the ravine. By that way Maurice
would come, unless he really had gone to Marechiaro to see Artois. She
had suggested to Gaspare that this might be the reason of Maurice's
delay, but she knew that she did not think it was. Yet what other reason
could there be? He swam splendidly. She said that to herself. She kept on
saying it. Why?

Slowly the minutes crept by. The silence around them was intense, yet she
felt no calm, no peace in it. Like the stillness of Gaspare it seemed to
be violent. It began to frighten her. She began to wish for movement, for
sound. Presently a light shone in the cottage.

"Signora! Signora!"

Lucrezia's voice was calling.

"What is it?" she said.

"Supper is quite ready, signora."

"The signore has not come back yet. He is a little late."

Lucrezia came to the top of the steps.

"Where can the signore be, signora?" she said. "It only takes--"

Her voice died suddenly away. Hermione looked quickly at Gaspare, and saw
that he was gazing ferociously at Lucrezia as if to bid her be silent.

"Gaspare!" Hermione said, suddenly getting up.

"Signora?"

"I--it's odd the signore's not coming."

The boy answered nothing.

"Perhaps--perhaps there really has been an--an accident."

She tried to speak lightly.

"I don't think he would keep me waiting like this if--"

"I will go down to the sea," the boy said. "Signora, let me go down to
the sea!"

There was a fury of pleading in his voice. Hermione hesitated, but only
for a moment. Then she answered:

"Yes, you shall go. Stop, Gaspare!"

He had moved towards the arch.

"I'm coming with you."

"You, signora?"

"Yes."

"You cannot come! You are not to come!"

He was actually commanding her--his padrona.

"You are not to come, signora!" he repeated, violently.

"But I am coming," she said.

They stood facing each other. It was like a battle, Gaspare's manner, his
words, the tone in which they were spoken--all made her understand that
there was some sinister terror in his soul. She did not ask what it was.
She did not dare to ask. But she said again:

"I am coming with you, Gaspare."

He stared at her and knew that from that decision there was no appeal. If
he went she would accompany him.

"Let us wait here, signora," he said. "The padrone will be coming
presently. We had better wait here."

But now she was as determined on activity as before she had been--or
seemed--anxious for patience.

"I am going," she answered. "If you like to let me go alone you can."

She spoke very quietly, but there was a thrill in her voice. The boy saw
it was useless just then to pit his will against hers. He dropped his
head, and the ugly look came back to his face, but he made no reply.

"We shall be back very soon, Lucrezia. We are going a little way down to
meet the padrone. Come, Gaspare!"

She spoke to him gently, kindly, almost pleadingly. He made an odd sound.
It was not a word, nor was it a sob. She had never heard anything like it
before. It seemed to her to be like a smothered outcry of a heart torn by
some acute emotion.

"Gaspare!" she said. "We shall meet him. We shall meet him in the
ravine!"

Then they set out. As she was going, Hermione cast a look down towards
the sea. Always at this hour, when night had come, a light shone there,
the light in the siren's house. To-night that little spark was not
kindled. She saw only the darkness. She stopped.

"Why," she said, "there's no light!"

"Signora?"

She pointed over the wall.

"There's no light!" she repeated.

This little fact--she did not know why--frightened her.

"Signora, I am going!"

"Gaspare!" she said. "Give me your hand to help me down the path. It's so
dark. Isn't it?"

She put out her hand. The boy's hand was cold.

They set out towards the sea.

XXI

They did not talk as they went down the steep mountain-side, but when
they reached the entrance of the ravine Gaspare stopped abruptly and took
his cold hand away from his padrona's hand.

"Signora," he said, almost in a whisper. "Let me go alone!"

They were under the shade of the trees here and it was much darker than
upon the mountain-side. Hermione could not see the boy's face plainly.
She came close up to him.

"Why do you want to go alone?" she asked.

Without knowing it, she, too, spoke in an under-voice.

"What is it you are afraid of?" she added.

"I am not afraid."

"Yes," she said, "you are. Your hand is quite cold."

"Let me go alone, signora."

"No, Gaspare. There is nothing to be afraid of, I believe. But if--if
there should have been an accident, I ought to be there. The padrone is
my husband, remember."

She went on and he followed her.

Hermione had spoken firmly, even almost cheerfully, to comfort the boy,
whose uneasiness was surely greater than the occasion called for. So many
little things may happen to delay a man. And Maurice might really have
made the detour to Marechiaro on his way home. If he had, then they would
miss him by taking this path through the ravine. Hermione knew that, but
she did not hesitate to take it. She could not remain inactive to-night.
Patience was out of her reach. It was only by making a strong effort that
she had succeeded in waiting that short time on the terrace. Now she
could wait no longer. She was driven. Although she had not yet sincerely
acknowledged it to herself, fear was gradually taking possession of her,
a fear such as she had never yet known or even imagined.

She had never yet known or imagined such a fear. That she felt. But she
had another feeling, contradictory, surely. It began to seem to her as if
this fear, which was now coming upon her, had been near her for a long
time, ever since the night when she knew that she was going to Africa.
Had she not even expressed it to Maurice?

Those beautiful days and nights of perfect happiness--can they ever come
again? Had she not thought that many times? Was it not the voice of this
fear which had whispered those words, and others like them, to her mind?
And had there not been omens? Had there not been omens?

She heard Gaspare's feet behind her in the ravine, and it seemed to her
that she could tell by the sound of them upon the many little loose
stones that he was wild with impatience, that he was secretly cursing her
for obliging him to go so slowly. Had he been alone he would have sped
down with a rapidity almost like that of travelling light. She was
strong, active. She was going fast. Instinctively she went fast. But she
was a woman, not a boy.

"I can't help it, Gaspare!"

She was saying that mentally, saying it again and again, as she hurried
onward.

Had there not been omens?

That last letter of hers, whose loss had prevented Maurice from meeting
her on her return, from welcoming her! When she had reached the station
of Cattaro, and had not seen him upon the platform, she had felt "I have
lost him." Afterwards, directly almost, she had laughed at the feeling as
absurd. But she had had it. And then, when at last he had come, she had
been moved to suggest that he might like to sleep outside upon the
terrace. And he had agreed to the suggestion. They had not resumed their
old, sweet relation of husband and wife.

Had there not been omens?

And only an hour ago, scarcely that, not that, she had knelt before the
Madonna della Rocca and she had prayed, she had prayed passionately for
deserted women, for women who loved and who had lost those whom they
loved.

The fear was upon her fully now, and she fully knew that it was. Why had
she prayed for lonely, deserted women? What had moved her to such a
prayer?

"Was I praying for myself?"

At that thought a physical weakness came to her, and she felt as if she
could not go on. By the side of the path, growing among pointed rocks,
there was a gnarled olive-tree, whose branches projected towards her.
Before she knew what she was doing she had caught hold of one and stood
still. So suddenly she had stopped that Gaspare, unprepared, came up
against her in the dark.

"Signora! What is the matter?"

His voice was surely angry. For a moment she thought of telling him to go
on alone, quickly.

"What is it, signora?"

"Nothing--only--I've walked so fast. Wait one minute!"

She felt the agony of his impatience, and it seemed to her that she was
treating him very cruelly to-night.

"You know, Gaspare," she said, "it's not easy for women--this rough
walking, I mean. We've got our skirts."

She laughed. How unnatural, how horrible her laugh sounded in the
darkness! He did not say any more. She knew he was wondering why she had
laughed like that. After a moment she let go the branch. But her legs
were trembling, and she stumbled when she began to walk on.

"Signora, you are tired already. You had better let me go alone."

For the first time she told him a lie.

"I should be afraid to wait here all by myself in the night," she said.
"I couldn't do that."

"Who would come?"

"I should be frightened."

She thought she saw him look at her incredulously in the dark, but was
not sure.

"Be kind to me to-night, Gaspare!" she said.

She felt a sudden passionate need of gentleness, of support, a woman's
need of sympathy.

"Won't you?" she added.

"Signora!" he said.

His voice sounded shocked, she thought; but in a moment, when they came
to an awkward bit of the path, he put his hand under her arm, and very
carefully, almost tenderly, helped her over it. Tears rushed into her
eyes. For such a small thing she was crying! She turned her head so that
Gaspare should not see, and tried to control her emotion. That terrible
question kept on returning to her heart.

"Was I praying for myself when I prayed at the shrine of the Madonna
della Rocca?"

Hermione was gifted, or cursed, with imagination, and as she never made
use of her imaginative faculty in any of the arts, it was, perhaps, too
much at the service of her own life. In happiness it was a beautiful
handmaid, helping her to greater joy, but in unhappy, or in only anxious
moments, it was, as it usually is, a cursed thing. It stood at her elbow,
then, like a demon full of suggestions that were terrible. With an
inventiveness that was diabolic it brought vividly before her scenes to
shake the stoutest courage. It painted the future black. It showed her
the world as a void. And in that void she was as something falling,
falling, yet reaching nothing.

Now it was with her in the ravine, and as she asked questions, terrible
questions, it gave her terrible answers. And it reminded her of other
omens--it told her these facts were really omens--which till now she had
not thought of.

Why had both she and Maurice been led to think and to speak of death
to-day?

Upon the mountain-top the thought of death had come to her when she
looked at the glory of the dawn. She had said to Maurice, "'The mountains
will endure'--but we!" Of course it was a truism, such a thing as she
might say at any time when she was confronted by the profound stability
of nature. Thousands of people had said much the same thing on thousands
of occasions. Yet now the demon at her elbow whispered to her that the
remark had had a peculiar significance. She had even said, "What is it
makes one think most of death when--when life, new life, is very near?"

Existence is made up of loss and gain. New beings rush into life day by
day and hour by hour. Birth is about us, but death is about us too. And
when we are given something, how often is something also taken from us!
Was that to be her fate?

And Maurice--he had been led to speak of death, afterwards, just as he
was going away to the sea. She recalled his words, or the demon whispered
them over to her:

"'One can never tell what will happen--suppose one of us were to die
here? Don't you think it would be good to lie there where we lay this
afternoon, under the oak-trees, in sight of Etna and the sea? I think it
would."

They were his very last words, his who was so full of life, who scarcely
ever seemed to realize the possibility of death. All through the day
death had surely been in the air about them. She remembered her dream, or
quasi-dream. In it she had spoken. She had muttered an appeal, "Don't
leave me alone!" and at another time she had tried to realize Maurice in
England and had failed. She had felt as if Sicily would never let him go.
And when she had spoken her thought he had hinted that Sicily could only
keep him by holding him in arms of earth, holding him in those arms that
keep the body of man forever.

Perhaps it was ordained that her Sicilian should never leave the island
that he loved. In all their Sicilian days how seldom had she thought of
their future life together in England! Always she had seen herself with
Maurice in the south. He had seemed to belong to the south, and she had
brought him to the south. And now--would the south let him go? The
thought of the sirens of legend flitted through her mind. They called men
to destruction. She imagined them sitting among the rocks near the Casa
della Sirene, calling--calling to her Sicilian.

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