We old classmates will many of us doubtless live to see the twentieth
century. Strange thought! I know, of course, that the transition from
nineteen hundred to nineteen hundred and one will seem as natural as
that from ninety-nine to a hundred, or from this year to next. And yet
it seems to me that to see the first dawn of the new century will be
like reaching the summit of some high mountain, and looking out over
new countries and new horizons. I feel as though, that morning,
something unexpected and marvellous would be revealed to us; as though
there would be a sense almost of terror in finding one's self face to
face with it; a sense of having been hurled, by some unseen power, from
brink to brink of a measureless abyss.
Idle fancies! I know well enough what we shall be like when that time
comes. I see a sitting-room with a fireplace in the corner, or rather
many sitting-rooms with many fireplaces, and many old men seated, chin
in hand, in arm-chairs near the hearth. Near by stands a table with a
lamp on it, surrounded by a circle of children, or of nephews and
nieces, who nudge each other and point to their father or uncle,
whispering, "Hush--he's asleep;"--and laughing at the grotesque
expression that sleep has given to our wrinkled faces.
And then perhaps we shall wake, and the children will surround us,
begging, as usual, for stories of "a long time ago," and asking with
eager curiosity, "Uncle, did you ever see General Garibaldi?"--"Father,
were you ever close to King Victor Emmanuel?"--"Grandpapa, did you ever
hear Count Cavour speak?"
"Why, yes, child, many and many a time!"
"Oh, do tell us, what were they like? Did they look like their
portraits? How did they talk?"
And we shall tell them everything, and gradually, as we talk, our
voices will regain their old vigor, our cheeks will glow, and we shall
watch with delight the brightening of those eager eyes, the proud
uplifting of those innocent brows, and the impatient movement of the
little hands, signing to us, at each pause, to go on with the story.
And what will have befallen the world by that time? Will a Victor
Emmanuel III. rule over Italy? Will the Bersaglieri be at Trent? Will
one of our old friends, attached to the Ministry of the Interior, have
been made Governor of Tunis? Will France have passed through another
series of empires, republics, communes, and monarchies? Will the
threatened invasion of northern barbarians have taken place? Will
England also have received her coup-de-grace? Shall we have
experimented with a Commune? Will our great poet have been born? The
Church have been reformed? Rome rebuilt? Will there be any armies in
those days? And we--what standing shall we have in our village or town?
What shall we have done? How shall we have lived?
Ah, whatever has happened, whatever fate awaits us, if we have worked,
and loved, and believed--then, when we sit at sunset in the big
arm-chair on the terrace, and think of our families, of our friends, of
the mountains, of the carnivals, of the Tyrrhenian islands that we
dreamed of in our college days, we shall be sad, indeed, at the thought
of parting before long from such dear souls and from so beautiful a
country; but our faces will brighten with a smile serene and quiet as
the dawn of a new youth, and tempering the bitterness of farewell with
the tacit pledge of reunion.