THE MOUNTAIN HEIGHTS—THE CENTRAL EUROPEAN
COMMITTEE—MAZZINI—LEDRU-ROLLIN—KOSSUTH
In London I made haste to see Mazzini, not only because he had taken the
warmest and most active interest in the misfortunes which had befallen
my family, but also because I was charged with a special commission to
him from his friends. Medici, Pisacane, Mezzacapo, Cosenz, Bertani and
the rest were dissatisfied with the direction of affairs given from
London; they said that Mazzini did not understand the new position, and
they complained of the revolutionary sycophants who, to curry favour,
supported his idea that everything was ready for a rising and only
waiting for a signal. They wanted internal changes in the party, they
thought it essential to introduce a far more military element and to
have strategists at the head of the movement, instead of lawyers and
journalists. With this object they wished Mazzini to associate himself
more closely with generals of genius, such as Ulloa,[32] who with old
Pepe[33] stood in dissatisfied aloofness.
They commissioned me to tell all this to Mazzini, partly because they
knew he had confidence in me, and partly because my position outside the
Italian parties freed my hands.
Mazzini received me as an old friend. At last the conversation turned
on the message given me by his friends. At first he listened to me very
attentively, though he did not disguise the fact that he was not quite
pleased at opposition; but when from general propositions I came down to
details and personal questions, then he suddenly cut me short.
‘That is not so at all, there is not a word of sense in it!’
‘It is not six weeks, though,’ I observed, ‘since I left Genoa, and I
have spent the last two years in Italy and can myself confirm a great
deal of what I have said, speaking in the name of your friends.’
‘It is just because you have been in Genoa that you say that. What is
Genoa? What could you hear there? The opinion of one group of the exiles!
I know that they think that, but I know too that they are mistaken.
Genoa is a very important centre, but it is only one point and I know
the whole of Italy; I know the needs of every little spot from Abruzzi
to Vorarlberg. Our friends in Genoa are out of touch with the whole
peninsula, they cannot judge what it wants, they cannot judge the state
of mind of the public.’
I made two or three more attempts, but by now he was _en garde_,
beginning to get angry and answering impatiently. I ceased speaking, with
a feeling of sadness; I had not noticed such intolerance in him in old
days.
‘I am very grateful to you,’ he said, after a moment’s thought. ‘I ought
to know our friends’ opinion; I am ready to weigh everything, to consider
everything, but whether I agree or not is a different matter; a great
responsibility lies upon me, not only before God and my conscience, but
before the Italian people.’
My mediation was a failure.
Mazzini was already planning his 3rd of February 1853; the question was
settled in his mind, and his friends did not agree with him.
‘Do you know Ledru-Rollin, and Kossuth?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Would you like to make their acquaintance?’
‘Very much.’
‘You ought to see them. I will write you a few words to both. Tell them
what you have seen, how you have left our friends. Ledru-Rollin,’ he went
on, taking up the pen and beginning a note, ‘is the most charming man in
the world, but a Frenchman _jusqu’au bout des ongles_. He firmly believes
that Europe will never move without a revolution in France. _Le peuple
initiateur!..._ But where is French initiative now? Though even in the
past the ideas which moved France came from Italy or from England. You
will see that Italy will begin the new era of revolution! What do you
think?’
‘I must own that I do not think so.’
‘Why,’ he said smiling, ‘will it be the Slav world?’
‘I didn’t say that; I do not know on what Ledru-Rollin bases his
convictions, but it is very probable that no revolution will succeed in
Europe while France is in the state of prostration in which we see her.’
‘So you are still under the influence of the prestige of France?’
‘The prestige of her geographical position, her formidable army and her
natural support by Russia, Austria and Prussia.’[34]
‘France is asleep, we will awaken her.’
There was nothing left for me to say but, ‘God grant that your words may
come true!’
Which of us was right at that moment was shown by Garibaldi. In a former
chapter I have spoken of my meeting with him in the West India Docks on
his American ship, _The Commonwealth_.
There at lunch with him, in the presence of Orsini, Haug and me,
Garibaldi, speaking with great affection of Mazzini, gave his candid
opinion of the attempt of the 3rd of February 1853 (we met in the spring
of 1854), and spoke of the necessity of uniting all the Italian groups
in one fighting party. And on the evening of the same day, we met at the
house of an acquaintance; Garibaldi was not in good spirits, Mazzini
took out of his pocket a number of the _Italia del Popolo_, and showed
him an article in it. Garibaldi read it through and said: ‘Yes, it is
smartly written, but a very mischievous article. I tell you plainly,
the journalist or the writer ought to be severely punished for such an
article. To do all he can to increase the breach between us and Piedmont
when we only have one army, the army of the King of Sardinia! It is a
recklessness and unnecessary insolence that borders upon crime.’
Mazzini defended the paper, Garibaldi became still more depressed.
When leaving his ship, he had said it would be too late to go back to
the docks and that he would sleep at a hotel, and I had invited him to
come home with me instead. He had consented. Besieged on all sides by an
indomitable legion of ladies, Garibaldi succeeded by a series of marches
and countermarches in extricating himself from the throng and, reaching
me, whispered in my ear: ‘How long are you staying?’
‘Let us go at once if you like.’
‘Please do.’
We took leave; on the way home he said to me: ‘How sorry I am, how
terribly sorry that Peppo[35] is so carried away and with the noblest
and purest intentions makes such mistakes! It was more than I could
stand just now; he is pleased at having trained his followers to irritate
Piedmont. Why, if the king goes over altogether to the reactionaries,
free speech will be silenced in Italy and the last support of the
movement will be lost. The republic, the republic! I have been a
republican all my life, but it is not a question of a republic now. I
know the Italian masses better than Mazzini, I have lived with them and
lived their life. Mazzini knows the educated classes of Italy and sways
their intellects; but out of them there is no making an army to drive out
the Austrians and the Pope; for the mass, for the Italian people, the
only banner is “Unity and the expulsion of foreigners!” And how is that
to be attained by estranging the one powerful kingdom in Italy which,
for one reason or another, wishes to stand by Italy, and is afraid to do
so; instead of inviting its co-operation, they repel it and insult it.
On the day when the _young man_ believes that he has more in common with
the archdukes than with us, the progress of Italy will be delayed for a
generation or two.’
Next day was Sunday; he went for a walk with my son, had his daguerrotype
taken at Caldesi’s and brought it me for a present, and then stayed to
dinner.
In the middle of dinner, I was called out to see an Italian who had been
sent by Mazzini and had been looking for Garibaldi all day; I asked him
to sit down to the table with us.
The Italian seemed anxious to speak to him alone, I suggested they should
go into my study. In the course of the conversation Garibaldi twice over
repeated what he had said to me on the way home.
In aim he was completely at one with Mazzini, but differed from him in
the method of achieving it. That Garibaldi understood the masses of the
people better I am absolutely convinced. Mazzini, like a mediaeval monk,
had a deep understanding of one side of life, but invented the others;
he lived a great deal in thought and passion, not in the everyday world;
from his early years till his hair was grey, he had lived in the juntas
of the Carbonari, and in a circle of persecuted republicans and Liberal
writers; he was in relations with Greek revolutionary clubs and Spanish
_exaltados_, he conspired with the genuine Cavaignac and the impostor
Ramorino,[36] with the Swiss James Fazy, with the Polish democracy, with
the Moldo-Wallachians.... From his study the enthusiastic Konarski set
off with his blessing, went to Russia and was lost. All that is so, but
he was never in touch with the people, with that _solo interprete della
legge divina_, with that thick layer that goes down to the foundations,
that is, reaches the fields and the plough, and includes the wild
shepherds of Calabria, the _facchinos_ and the boatmen; while Garibaldi,
not only in Italy but everywhere, lived among them, knew their strength
and their weakness, their griefs and their joys: he knew them on the
field of battle and on the stormy ocean, he could become a legendary
figure like Bem,[37] and inspired more faith than his patron, San
Giuseppe....
Only Mazzini did not believe in him.
And Garibaldi as he went away said: ‘I am going with a heavy heart, I
have no influence over him, and again he will undertake something before
the time is ripe!’
Garibaldi guessed right. Before a year was over, there were again two
or three unsuccessful outbreaks; Orsini was arrested by the Piedmont
gendarmes on Piedmont soil, almost with a weapon in his hands, one of
the centres of the movement was discovered in Rome, and the marvellous
organisation of which I have spoken was broken up. The panic-stricken
governments strengthened their police: the brutal coward, the King of
Naples, resorted to torture again.
Then Garibaldi could stand it no longer, and published the famous letter
in which he said: ‘None but madmen or enemies of the Italian cause can
take part in these unfortunate risings.’
Perhaps that letter ought not to have been published. Mazzini was crushed
and unhappy. Garibaldi had dealt him a blow ... but that his letter was
perfectly consistent with what he had said to me and before me—of that
there can be no doubt.
Next day I went to see Ledru-Rollin; he received me very graciously. His
colossal, imposing figure, which did not gain by scrutiny _en détail_,
made a favourable impression as a whole. He must have been both a _bon
enfant_ and a _bon vivant_. His grey hair and the wrinkles on his brow
showed that his anxieties had not passed over him quite without leaving
a trace. He had spent his life and his fortune on the revolution and the
public favour had deserted him. The strange, ambiguous part he played in
April and May and his feebleness in the days of June had estranged from
him a section of the Reds, without bringing him any nearer the Blues. His
name which had served as a symbol, and had at one time been on the lips
of the peasants, though in a distorted form,[38] was more rarely heard.
Even his party in London was gradually melting away; especially after
Felix Pyat set up in London.
Settling himself comfortably on a sofa, Ledru-Rollin began to ‘harangue’
me: ‘The revolution,’ he said, ‘can only radiate (_rayonner_) from
France. It is clear that whatever country you belong to, you ought first
of all to assist us for the sake of your own cause. The revolution can
only come from Paris. I know very well that our friend Mazzini is not
of that opinion. He is carried away by his patriotism. What can Italy
do with Austria on her back and the soldiers of Napoleon in Rome? What
we need is Paris; Paris means Rome; Warsaw, Hungary, Sicily—and happily
Paris is perfectly ready—make no mistake about it, she is perfectly
ready! The revolution is made. _La révolution est faite, c’est clair
comme bonjour._ I don’t think about that, I think of what is to follow
it, of how to avoid our mistakes of the past.’ He went on in this way for
half an hour and, suddenly realising that he was not alone and not facing
an audience, said to me in a very good-natured way: ‘You see you and I
are entirely at one about it.’ I had not opened my lips. Ledru-Rollin
went on: ‘As for the material fact of the revolution, it is delayed
by our lack of funds. Our means have been exhausted in this struggle
which has been going on for years and years. If only I had at once a
hundred thousand francs at my disposal—yes—a miserable hundred thousand
francs—there would be revolution in Paris the day after to-morrow or the
day after that.’
‘But how is it,’ I observed at last, ‘that such a wealthy nation,
absolutely ready to rise, does not find a hundred thousand or even half a
million francs?’
Ledru-Rollin coloured a little but answered without faltering: ‘_Pardon,
pardon_, you are speaking of theoretical hypotheses, while I am speaking
of facts, simple facts.’
That I could not understand.
When I was leaving, Ledru-Rollin escorted me down the stairs in the
English fashion and, giving me his enormous, titanic hand, said once
more: ‘I hope this is not good-bye. I shall always be pleased to see you,
and so _au revoir_.’
‘In Paris,’ I added.
‘In Paris?’
‘You have so convinced me that the revolution is just upon us, that I
really don’t know if I shall have time to see you here.’
He looked at me in perplexity, and so I made haste to add: ‘Anyway I
sincerely hope so. That I think you cannot doubt.’
‘Otherwise you would not have been here,’ he observed, and we parted.
* * * * *
Kossuth I saw for the first time on my second visit. It happened like
this: when I arrived I was greeted in the parlour by a military gentleman
in a semi-Hungarian military costume, with the information that His
Honour the Governor was not receiving.
‘Here is a letter from Mazzini.’
‘I will give it him at once. Kindly sit down.’ He offered me a pipe and
then a chair. Two or three minutes later he returned. ‘His Honour the
Governor extremely regrets that he cannot see you, he is just finishing
his American mail. However, if you like to wait, he will be delighted to
see you later.’
‘And will he soon have finished his letters?’
‘At five o’clock exactly.’
I glanced at my watch; it was half-past one.
‘Well, I am not going to wait three hours and a half.’
‘But will you not come again later?’
‘I live at least three miles from Notting Hill. However,’ I added, ‘I
have no pressing business with His Honour the Governor!’
‘But His Honour the Governor will be extremely sorry.’
‘Here is my address, then.’
A week passed; one evening a long gentleman with long whiskers appeared—a
Hungarian colonel whom I had met in the summer at Lugano.
‘I have come to you from His Honour the Governor. He is very much
troubled at your not having been to see him.’
‘Oh, how unfortunate! However, I did leave him my address. If I knew the
right time to go I would certainly go to see Kossuth to-day or ...’ I
added inquiringly, ‘what ought I to say ... to His Honour the Governor?’
‘_Zu dem Olten, zu dem Olten_,’ observed the colonel, smiling; ‘we always
call him _der Olte_ among ourselves. What a man! You will see. Such a
head as his there is not in the whole world, never has been and ...’ the
colonel inwardly sang a hymn in praise of Kossuth.
‘Very good, I will come to-morrow at two o’clock.’
‘That is impossible. To-morrow is Wednesday. To-morrow morning the old
man only receives our people, only Hungarians.’
I could not help laughing, and the colonel laughed too.
‘When does your old man drink tea?’ I asked.
‘At eight o’clock in the evening.’
‘Tell him that I will come to-morrow at eight o’clock. If that won’t do
you must write to me.’
‘He will be delighted—I will wait for you in the reception-room.’
This time as soon as I rang the bell the long colonel met me, and a short
colonel at once led me to Kossuth’s study.
I found Kossuth working at a big table; he was wearing a black velvet
Hungarian jacket and a little black cap: he is far better-looking than
all his portraits and busts; in his youth he must have been a handsome
fellow and the romantically pensive character of his face must have
been terribly attractive to women. His features have not the classical
correctness of Mazzini’s, Saffi’s or Orsini’s; but—and perhaps indeed
owing to this fact—he was more akin to us Northerners. Not only a strong
mind but a deeply feeling heart could be seen in his mournfully gentle
expression; his melancholy smile and rather impressive manner of speech
put the finishing touches to his charm. He speaks extremely well, though
with a distinct accent, equally persistent in his French, his German and
his English. He does not elaborate his phrases nor deal in commonplaces;
he thinks with one, listens, and develops his thought almost always
originally, because he is much freer than the others from pedantry and
the spirit of party. Perhaps a legal training may be detected in his
manner of advancing arguments and objections, but what he says is earnest
and well thought out.
Kossuth had had a great deal to do with the practical business of his
countryside before 1848; this gave him a certain correctness of judgment.
He was very well aware that in the world of events and practice it is not
always possible to fly straight as the crow, that facts rarely develop
along a simple logical line, but take a tacking course, zigzagging or
going off at a tangent. And that is among others the reason why Kossuth
is inferior to Mazzini in fiery activity, and why, on the other hand,
Mazzini is continually making attempts, desperate efforts, while Kossuth
makes none at all.
Mazzini’s attitude towards the Italian revolution is that of a fanatic;
he believes in his idea of it; he does not subject that idea to
criticism, but bounds forward _ora e sempre_, like an arrow loosed from
the bow. The less he takes circumstances into account the simpler and
more persistent is his activity, and the purer his idea.
The revolutionary idealism of Ledru-Rollin is not complicated either; it
may be all found in the speeches of the Convention and the measures of
the Committee of Public Security. Kossuth brought with him from Hungary
no common store of revolutionary tradition, no apocalyptic formulas of
social doctrinairism, but simply the protest of his own country, which
he had studied thoroughly, a new country, unknown as regards its needs,
as regards its barbaric free institutions and as regards its mediaeval
forms. In comparison with his comrades, Kossuth was a specialist.
The French refugees, with their unfortunate habit of judging everything
wholesale and measuring everything by their own standard, made it a
great reproach against Kossuth that in Marseilles he had expressed his
sympathy with Socialist ideas, and, in the speech delivered in London
from the balcony of the Mansion House, had spoken with deep respect of
the parliamentary system.
Kossuth was perfectly right. These events occurred during his journey
from Constantinople, that is, during the most triumphantly heroic episode
of the dark years that followed 1848. The American ship which tore him
from the uplifted claws of Austria and Russia was proudly sailing with
the exile to one republic and stopped on the shores of another. There
already a decree of the police-dictator of France was waiting to forbid
the exile’s stepping on the soil of the future empire. Now that would
have been the end of it; but in those days there were still men in France
not completely broken in, and crowds of workmen hastened in boats to
the ship to greet Kossuth, and Kossuth very naturally spoke with them
of Socialism. The scene changes. On the way, one free country begged
of the other a visit from the exile. Kossuth, publicly thanking the
English for his reception, did not conceal his respect for the system
which made it possible. He was in both cases perfectly sincere; he did
not represent any party at all; he could sympathise with the French
workman and sympathise with the English constitution without becoming an
Orleanist or being false to Republicanism. Kossuth knew this and well
understood his position in England as regards revolutionary parties on
the negative side, too; he became neither a Glückist nor a Piccinist;[39]
he held himself equally aloof from Ledru-Rollin and from Louis Blanc.
With Mazzini and Worcell he had ground in common, their frontiers were
adjacent, their struggle was similar and, indeed, almost the same; with
them he first made friends.
But Mazzini and Worcell had long been what the Spanish call
_afrancisados_. Kossuth, with stubborn reluctance, gave in to them, and
it is well worth noting that he yielded in proportion as his hopes of a
rising in Hungary grew fainter and fainter.
From my conversation with Mazzini and Ledru-Rollin, it is evident
that Mazzini looked for the revolutionary impulse from Italy, and was
altogether greatly dissatisfied with France, but from that it does not
follow that I am wrong in calling him _afrancisado_. His attitude was
on the one hand due to a patriotism not altogether in harmony with the
idea of the brotherhood of peoples and the universal republic, and on the
other hand to his personal indignation with France for having in 1848
done nothing to help Italy and in 1849 everything to ruin her. But being
irritated against the France of to-day does not mean being outside her
influence; the French revolutionary faith has its common uniform, its
ritual, its creeds; within its limits one may be a political liberal or a
desperate democrat; one may without loving France love one’s own country
in a French fashion; all those will be variations, personal cases, but
the algebraical formula will remain the same.
Kossuth’s conversation with me at once took a serious turn, there was
more sadness than cheerfulness in his views and his words; he certainly
did not expect a revolution to-morrow. His knowledge of South-Eastern
Europe was immense; he surprised me by quoting points from the treaties
of Catherine with the Porte.
‘What terrible mischief you did us at the time of our rebellion,’ he
said, ‘and what terrible mischief to yourselves! What a narrow and
anti-Slav policy to support Austria! You may be sure Austria will not say
thank you for being saved; do you imagine she does not understand that
Nicholas was not helping her, but despotic power in general?’
He knew far less about the social than about the political and military
state of Russia. That is not surprising. There are but few of our own
statesmen who know anything about it except generalities and casual,
private, disconnected observations. He thought that the Crown peasants
paid their taxes in the form of labour, and questioned me about the
village commune and the power of the landowners; I told him what I knew.
On leaving Kossuth I asked myself what he had in common with his
comrades, except caring for the independence of his people. Mazzini was
dreaming of freeing humanity by means of Italy, Ledru-Rollin wanted
to free mankind in Paris and then sternly to dictate freedom to the
whole world. Kossuth hardly troubled about humanity and was, it seemed,
scarcely concerned whether a republic would shortly be proclaimed in
Lisbon, or whether the Bey of Tripoli would be called a simple citizen of
the one and indivisible Tripoli commonwealth.
This distinction, which struck me from the first glance, was apparent
afterwards in a succession of actions. Mazzini and Ledru-Rollin, as
men independent of practical considerations, did their utmost to make
revolutionary attempts every two or three months, Mazzini by risings,
Ledru-Rollin by the dispatch of agents. Mazzini’s friends were perishing
in the Austrian and Papal prisons, Ledru-Rollin’s emissaries were
perishing in Lambessa and Cayenne,[40] but with the fanaticism of blind
believers they persisted in dispatching their Isaacs to the sacrifice.
Kossuth made no attempts; Libényi,[41] who stuck a knife in the Emperor
of Austria, had no connection with him.
No doubt Kossuth came to London with more sanguine hopes, and, indeed,
there is no denying that he might well have had his head turned. One need
but recall the continual ovation, the regal procession across seas and
oceans, and the towns of America quarrelling over the honour of being the
first to meet him and to conduct him within their walls. Proud London,
the city of two millions, stood waiting for him at the railway-station,
the Lord Mayor’s carriage was there in readiness for him; aldermen,
sheriffs, Members of Parliament escorted him through a sea of surging
people who greeted him, shouting and flinging up their hats.... And when
he came out on the balcony of the Mansion House with the Lord Mayor, he
was welcomed with thunders of ‘Hurrah!’ such as Nicholas could never
wring from the crowd in London through the patronage of Wellington, the
statue to Nelson, or by courting favour over race-horses.
The haughty English aristocracy, who went down to their country seats
while Napoleon III. was banqueting with the Queen at Windsor or carousing
with shopkeepers in the City, forgot their dignity and crowded in coaches
and carriages to see the famous agitator. People of the highest rank were
presented to him, the exile. _The Times_ frowned on it at first, but was
so scared at the clamour of public opinion that it began abusing Napoleon
to smooth over its error.
Is it strange that Kossuth came back from America full of hopes? But
after spending a year or two in London and seeing the direction history
was taking on the Continent and the cooling of enthusiasm in England
itself, he saw that a rising in Hungary was impossible and that England
was a poor ally of revolution. Once again he was filled with hopes and
again championed his old cause before the English people: that was at the
beginning of the Crimean War.
He abandoned his seclusion then and appeared hand in hand with Worcell,
that is, with democratic Poland, which besought the Allies for no
more than a summons, no more than their consent, in order to risk a
rebellion. No doubt this was for Poland the great moment—_oggi o mai_.
If the restoration of Poland had been sanctioned, what might not Hungary
have expected? That was why Kossuth appeared at the Polish meeting of
the 29th of November 1854, and asked for a hearing. That was why he
afterwards, in company with Worcell, visited the principal towns of
England, promoting the agitation for the benefit of Poland. Kossuth’s
speeches delivered on those occasions are very remarkable both in form
and matter, but this time England was not carried away by him: people
flocked in crowds to the meetings, applauded his marvellous eloquence,
were ready to subscribe to funds; but the movement went no further, his
words did not call forth that echo in other circles, in the masses, which
might have influenced Parliament or have forced the Government to change
its course. The year 1854 passed; 1855 had come; Nicholas was dead.
Poland had not moved, the war was confined to the shores of the Crimea;
it was useless even to dream of the restoration of Polish nationalism;
Austria was a bone in the throat of the Allies. Besides, all were longing
for peace, all that mattered had been attained, the civilian Napoleon was
covered with military glory.
Kossuth withdrew from the stage again. His articles in the _Atlas_ and
the lectures on the Concordat, which he gave in Edinburgh and Manchester,
are rather to be reckoned as private work. Kossuth had saved neither his
own fortune nor his wife’s. Accustomed to the lavish luxury of Hungarian
magnates, he had in a foreign land to earn his livelihood; he did this
and made no secret of it.
There is something of dignity and melancholy about the whole family:
one can see that great events have passed over it and have raised the
diapason of all. Kossuth is to this day surrounded by a few faithful
followers; at first they were his court and now they are simply his
friends.
Events have left their trace on him, he has grown much older of late,
and his resignation makes one’s heart ache.
The first two years we rarely met; then chance brought us together at one
of the most beautiful spots not only in England but in Europe—in the Isle
of Wight. We spent a month in Ventnor at the same time that he was there
in 1855.
Before he went away we were all at a children’s party. Kossuth’s two
sons, splendid and charming lads, were dancing with my children....
Kossuth stood in the doorway and looked mournfully at them, then with a
smile towards my son said to me:
‘Here is the younger generation quite ready to replace us.’
‘Will they see it?’
‘That is just what I was wondering. Meanwhile let them dance,’ he added
and watched them still more mournfully.
I fancy that then, too, we were thinking the same thing: will their
fathers see it? And what will they see? Does not the revolutionary era,
for which we, in the light of the dying glow of the ’nineties, were
striving, for which Liberal France, Young Italy, Mazzini, Ledru-Rollin
were striving, already belong to the past? Are not these men becoming
the sorrowful representatives of the past, around whom a new life and
new problems are springing up? Their religion, their language, their
movement, their aims are all akin to us, and at the same time alien ...
the chime of the church bell on the still morning of a saint’s-day and
the singing of the liturgy thrill the soul even now, but yet we have no
faith!
These are melancholy truths: it is hard, bitter to look some things
in the face, hard sometimes to tell plainly what one sees. And is it
necessary? It, too, is in its way an obsession or a disease. ‘The truth,
the bare truth and nothing but the truth!’ All that is very fine; but is
the seeing of it compatible with our life? Will it not corrode it, as too
strong an acid eats away the sides of a vessel, and is not the passion
for it a terrible infirmity that bitterly punishes one who cherishes it
in his heart?
One memorable day for me a year ago, this thought was particularly
insistent.
On the day of Worcell’s death I was awaiting the sculptor in the poor
room where that martyr’s sufferings ended. An old servant was standing
with a guttering yellow candle-end in her hand, to light up the wasted
corpse that lay covered by a single sheet. As afflicted as Job, he had
fallen asleep with a smile on his lips, faith was still steady in his
dimming eyes, closed by a fanatic like himself, Mazzini.
I loved that old man and grieved over him, and I did not once tell him
all the truth that I had in my mind. I did not want to trouble his
failing spirit, he had suffered far too much, he needed the prayer for
the dying and not the truth, and that is why he was so glad when Mazzini
whispered vows and words of faith into his dying ear!
Appendix
(To Chapter 2)[42]
What has changed? The years ’59 and ’60 have widened the horizon.
Persons and parties are more clearly defined, some have grown stronger,
others have vanished. With strained attention, checking not only every
criticism, but even the throbbing of our hearts, we have watched over
those dear to us for these last two years. They have at times disappeared
behind the smoke of battle, at times have stood out vividly against it,
growing vaster every minute, and again have vanished in the smoke. At
this moment it has passed away and we can breathe again, all those dear
to us are safe!
And beyond the smoke, in the shade, apart from the noise of battle,
with no share in the rejoicings of victory, with no share in the laurel
wreaths, one figure stands out like a colossus.
Cursed by all parties, by the cheated plebeian, by the savage priest,
by the cowardly bourgeois, and the scum of Piedmont; vilified by all
the organs of all the reactions, from the papal and imperial _Moniteur_
to the liberal eunuchs of Cavour, and the grand eunuch of the London
money-changers, _The Times_ (which cannot mention Mazzini’s name without
vulgar abuse), he remained not only ‘unshaken in the midst of universal
error,’ but with joy and rapture blessing the friends and foes who were
carrying out _his_ thought, _his_ plan. Pointing to him, as to some angel
of destruction:
‘The people mysteriously saved by him
Reviled his sacred head,’[43]
but beside him stood not Kutuzov but Garibaldi. In the person of her
hero, her deliverer, Italy did not break with Mazzini. How was it
Garibaldi did not yield him half his laurels? Why did he not openly avow
that he went hand in hand with him? Why did not the abandoned triumvir
of Rome urge his claims? Why did Mazzini himself beg Garibaldi not to
mention him? And why did the popular leader, pure-hearted as a child,
keep silence and thus falsely admit the breach?
There was something dearer to both than their persons, their names, their
reputations ... Italy!
And the vulgar world of to-day did not understand them. It could not
grasp such greatness; its bookkeeping is not equal to adjusting the
accounts of such a debit and credit!
Garibaldi has become more than ever a figure from Cornelius Nepos; he has
the same antique grandeur on his little farm, the same simple-hearted,
pure grandeur, as a description from Homer or a Greek statue. No trace of
rhetoric, of melodrama, of diplomacy. They are superfluous in the heroic
epic; when it was over and everyday life began, then the King dismissed
him as one dismisses the driver who has brought one to one’s destination
and, embarrassed at not being able to give him a tip, surpassed Austria
in his colossal ingratitude; while Garibaldi did not resent it, but, with
a smile on his face and fifty _scudi_ in his pocket, went out from the
palaces of the countries he had subdued, leaving the courtiers to reckon
his expenses and decide that he had spoiled the bear’s skin.
They might amuse themselves as they pleased: half of the great work was
done, if Italy was welded into one and the white _cretins_ had been
driven out.
There were painful moments for Garibaldi. He is captivated by people;
just as he was captivated by Alexandre Dumas, he is captivated by Victor
Emmanuel; the King’s lack of delicate feeling wounds him, the King
knows this, and, to soften him, sends pheasants killed by his own hands,
flowers from his own garden, and loving notes inscribed: ‘_Sempre il tuo
amico Vittorio_.’
For Mazzini, people do not exist, for him nothing exists but the cause
and, indeed, the one cause; he himself exists, ‘lives and moves,’ only in
it. However many pheasants and flowers the King might send him, he would
not be touched. But he would at once collaborate, not only with him whom
he reckons a good though foolish man, but even with his Talleyrand in
miniature, whom he does not reckon a good or even a decent man. Mazzini
is an ascetic, the Calvin, the Procida[44] of Italian emancipation.
One-sided, for ever absorbed by one idea, for ever ready and on his
guard, Mazzini keeps his vigil with the same obstinacy and patience with
which he created a compact party out of scattered individuals and vague
yearnings, and, after a dozen failures, called out Garibaldi and his army
of half-free Italy, and preserved the living, infallible hope of its
unity. Day and night, catching fish and going out hunting, lying down and
getting up, Garibaldi and his followers see the thin, melancholy hand of
Mazzini pointing to Rome, and they will still march thither.
I did wrong in omitting from a fragment that I have published already
some pages about Mazzini; his figure has not come out so clearly without
them. I dwelt particularly on his breach with Garibaldi in 1854 and on
my difference of opinion with him. I did this through delicacy, but such
delicacy is too petty for Mazzini, there is no need to keep anything back
about such men, there is no need to spare them!
After his return from Naples he wrote me a note; I hastened to him, I had
a pang at my heart when I saw him, I was still expecting to find him sad
and wounded in his love, his position was tragic in the extreme. I did
in fact find him older physically but younger in soul; with both hands
stretched out, as his habit was, he rushed towards me with the words:
‘And so at last it is coming true!’ There was a look of delight in his
eyes, and his voice trembled.
He spent the whole evening telling me of the time that preceded the
expedition to Sicily, of his relations with Victor Emmanuel, then
of Naples. In the enthusiasm, in the love with which he talked of
Garibaldi’s victories and heroic deeds, there was as much affection for
him as in his abuse of him for over-trustfulness and inability to read
men.
As I listened to him, I tried to catch a single note, a single sound
of wounded pride, and I could not catch it; he was sad, but sad like a
mother abandoned for the time by a beloved son—she knows that the son
will come back and, more than that, knows that the son is happy: that
covers everything for her.
Mazzini is full of hopes, he stands closer to Garibaldi than ever. With
a smile he described how Neapolitan crowds, incited by the agents of
Cavour, surrounded his house, shouting: ‘Death to Mazzini!’ They had been
persuaded, among other things, that Mazzini was a ‘Bourbon republican.’
‘There were several men and one young Russian with me at the time,’ he
told me; ‘he was surprised at our going on talking as before. “Don’t
be uneasy,” I said to soothe him, “they won’t kill me, they will only
shout!”’
No, there is no need to spare men like that!
_January 31, 1861._