Recollections of the Military Tournament of Stockholm in 1800--
The Comte de Fersen--King Gustavus IV.--The Challenge of the
Unknown Knight--The Games on the Bridge at Pisa.
During the next four days the whole of Vienna seemed engrossed with
the accounts of the magnificence of the _carrousel_. Every particular
was eagerly caught up, the names of the knights and their dames were
on everybody’s lips. There were frequent allusions to the accident to
Prince Lichtenstein, whose life had for some time been in danger. In
short, the _carrousel_ was the inevitable subject of every conversation.
At a reception at the Princesse Jean de Lichtenstein’s, the whole of
the programme was minutely reviewed; some praised and others criticised
the knights and their dames, the feats accomplished, the horses, the
evolutions, etc. Nevertheless, the upshot of all the remarks was that,
in respect of splendour, nothing like it had ever been seen in Europe,
and that no fête of that kind had ever been attended by an equal number
of spectators.[72]
‘It is perfectly natural that Germany, which is the birthplace of
tournaments, should endeavour to revive their glory on such a solemn
occasion,’ said Prince Philippe de Hesse-Hombourg. ‘I do not think that
anything of the kind has ever been attempted since Louis XIV.‘s time,’
said the hostess. ‘If Colbert had seen our knights and their fair ones,
he would probably have admitted being beaten.’
I reminded them that the first years of the nineteenth century had
been marked by several of those tournaments; and that I myself had
witnessed one in Stockholm given by Gustavus-Adolphus IV. At the
commencement of his reign that prince endeavoured to preserve in
Sweden the brilliant valour and the elegant and courtly manners of
which the Court of Gustavus III. had afforded such perfect models. He
was passionately fond of those warlike exercises, and they generally
took place at his summer residence of Drotningholm. ‘Assuredly,’ I
remarked, ‘the Vienna _carrousel_ has been admirable throughout from
a spectacular point of view. But that which I saw in 1800 could vie
with it, not in respect of its pomp and splendour, or by reason of the
eminent rank of its spectators, but through its faithful adherence to,
and accurate reproduction of, ancient traditions. It was, moreover,
marked by an incident which recalled the chivalric and often bloody
encounters of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.’ As a matter of
course, I was pressed to give further particulars, and this, as far as
my memory serves me, is what I told them.
* * * * *
The tournament was given in honour of the queen’s birthday, and for
several months beforehand the northern Courts had been apprised of it.
The young king was to figure among the champions, and the queen, one of
the handsomest women of her time, was to crown the victor and present
to him in the presence of the whole Court the reward of his skill,
which consisted of a scarf wholly embroidered by her own hands. Nothing
had been left undone to invest this fête with all the prestige that
formerly marked those of Louis XIV., the accounts of which had fairly
astonished the whole of Europe.
The Comte de Fersen,[73] whose physical advantages and lucky star had
placed him in such high favour at the Court of France, came to fetch
us, ‘my father’ [the Marquis de Chambonas, who had adopted the author]
and me, to escort us to Drotningholm. Before proceeding thither, he
had to take on his way the Comte de Paar, his fellow-umpire at the
tournament, who, in virtue of being a ‘Gentleman of the Chamber,’ had
been present at the rehearsal of a ballet to be given on that very
evening for the first time at the opera. No sooner had we reached the
doors of the magnificent structure, due to Gustavus III.‘s love of
art, than we were conducted to a room preceding the royal box, where a
collation was awaiting us. It was there that Gustavus-Adolphus supped
when he came to the theatre, and that, divesting himself of all his
royal prerogatives, he became the equal of his friends. In tragic
contrast with the rest of the magnificent and sumptuous furniture,
with all those gold, silken, and alabaster decorations, one could not
help noticing a crimson velvet couch with stains all over it. It was
on this couch that Gustavus-Adolphus III. had been laid during the
night of the 16th March 1792, after the exploit of Ankarstroem. The
blood from his wound had practically soaked the material. Though it
would have been extremely simple to remove the piece of furniture, thus
effacing the trace of a crime committed in a place devoted to pleasure,
the king, from motives it was not easy to guess, had insisted upon
the couch remaining there, perhaps as an object lesson or merely as a
remembrance.[74]
The Comte de Paar soon joined us, and shortly afterwards we were on our
way to the Queen’s demesne, about four leagues from Stockholm. Numerous
carriages were performing the same journey, and they rendered the
picturesque Swedish country road more animated than usual.
A dense crowd had gathered since early morning around the castle,
blocking up every approach to it. They were on foot, on horseback,
and in every kind of conveyance; nevertheless, most admirable order
prevailed throughout. Two Uhlans of the Guards and an equerry were
waiting for the Comte de Fersen, who, in virtue of his functions as an
umpire, was to preside at the fête.
At a little distance from the castle, in a pretty valley overlooked
by wooded heights, a circus had been erected, with galleries capable
of holding about four thousand spectators. Its floor had disappeared
beneath a thick layer of the finest sand, and high and strong palisades
surrounded it on every side. The women, in their richest apparel,
were almost without exception remarkable for the beauty peculiar to
their sisters of northern climes. The men were in uniform or in Court
dress. A cloak of black silk lined with crimson satin was considered
tantamount to gala vesture. The grandees of the kingdom had all
donned the dresses connected with their functions. Stands, draped
with satin, and displaying the three crowns of Sweden, were set apart
for the ambassadors. The ring was hung with Swedish standards. At one
end of the building was the pavilion for the queen and her ladies of
honour, particularly noticeable for the coquettish mingling of its
decorations, consisting of flowers, weapons, and flags, intertwined
with simple and genuine elegance. Dupré, the French architect, one of
the most celebrated decorators of Europe, had superintended all the
arrangements.
At regular distances there were columns, from some of which were
suspended the rings for the games, while others supported the Turks’
heads to be slashed at by the competitors. The banners of the knights
selected to dispute the prize were first borne in procession around the
arena, then fixed against the different barriers of the ring.
Before leaving us Comte de Fersen had introduced us to his friend, M.
de Rozen, a young man who had taken part in the previous _carrousel_,
and who was, therefore, in a position to give us full particulars of
the present one. The various emblems and mottoes of the banners and
scutcheons were as ingenious as they were instructive in the true
spirit of chivalry. Among many I cite the following:--
A sword on a field azure.
Motto--‘Je pars, je brille, je frappe.’
(I go, I shine, I strike.)
A lion on a field starred.
‘La valeur soumet les astres.’
(Valour subjugates the stars.)
A fire burning on an altar.
‘Ce qui est pur est éternel.’
(The pure lasts for ever.)
An ermine climbing a steep height.
‘Tâche sans tache.’
(Try but keep stainless.)
Finally, another shield, checkered red and yellow, was that of Tonin,
the jester of the late king. His motto, though, would have given no
clue to that effect.
It ran:
‘Tout par raison,
Raison par tout,
Partout raison.’
(Every thing through reason,
Reason in every thing,
Everywhere reason.)
Tonin only jousted with witticisms, biting remarks and wholesome
truths, brought home to his hearers with a laugh; on all these points
he could make sure of the victory, for he varied them like his motto.
Among all these banners, resplendent with colour and embroidery, there
hung a black one without a squire to guard it. We asked M. de Rozen to
whom this mournful standard belonged.
‘Do you not know?’ he replied. ‘Have you not read in the papers that
a knight who wishes to remain unknown has challenged to single combat
the champion sufficiently bold to dispute with him the prize of the
tournament? The prize, as you are aware, is a scarf embroidered by the
queen. At the time fixed for calling the roll of the knights they found
his glove lying in the middle of the ring, and his black banner planted
where it is now; attached to it was his buckler, with the following
words on a star-spangled blue ground:
‘Tra tanti una.’
(Only one among all.)
‘To add to the strangeness of the challenge is his choice of the
battle-axe, which went out of use long ago. The most curious stories
are going the round in connection with the challenge of that mysterious
Amadis. Among the different versions the most implicitly believed in is
the following:
‘A young noble, sprung from one of the most illustrious families of
Great Britain, saw the Queen at Baden when she was only Princess
Dorothée-Wilhelmine. He fell deeply in love with her. Considering his
rank and his immense fortune, he might possibly have aspired to her
hand with success. But the two sisters of our queen having married
respectively the Emperor of Russia and Maximilien de Bavière, reasons
of state and the fitness of things carried her to the throne of Sweden.
The young lord, unable to conquer a feeling which from that moment was
shorn of all hope, was mad enough to gain admission surreptitiously to
our Court, and always under a fresh disguise. He was recognised by the
ladies-in-waiting of our queen, and narrowly escaped the punishment
due to his foolhardiness. The rumour went that he had gone to America.
Informed, no doubt, with the rest of Europe of the preparations for
this tournament, he wished to make an attempt to conquer or to die
under the very eyes of the woman he loves. It is even said that,
knowing the chivalric spirit of Gustavus-Adolphus, he conceived the
flattering hope of having a royal adversary to contend with, with the
possible chance of succeeding him who, as he probably thought, robbed
him at first.
‘The Comte de Torstenson, son of the field-marshal, has offered to take
up the challenge. He has practised for some time with the battle-axe,
and acquired marvellous skill with it.’
At that moment the harmonious strains of a hundred instruments
announced the arrival of the queen, and every eye was turned towards
her.
Her perfect beauty and the stateliness of her person would have
revealed the sovereign under the humblest dress. Surrounded by her
Court ladies, she took her seat under the canopy prepared for her.
Immediately the king at the head of his nobles entered the ring and
rode round it, saluting with his lance all the ladies, who had risen at
his coming.
Gustavus-Adolphus IV. was at that time in his twenty-second year.
He was well built, had a martial bearing, and a noble and frank
countenance. He was anxious to copy Charles XII., and, to enhance
the likeness, he wore, as a rule, a blue coat, buttoned to the chin,
and had his hair brushed up from the roots. But with the sword that
performed such wonders at Bender, he lacked the strong arm that had so
often made the sword victorious, and the genius that had directed it.
When he passed before the queen, in his magnificent costume, with head
erect and proud mien, and holding his lance with a firm grip, his
horse reared. Gustavus tried to quiet it, but an accidental touch of
the spurs made matters worse, and he was within an ace of being thrown.
It was the same animal he had ridden on the day of his coronation at
Upsala, and which had nearly killed him--an accident that, as a matter
of course, had furnished the superstitious among his subjects with a
thousand conjectures regarding the future of his reign. The cause of
the mishap was, however, sufficiently simple. The groom or equerry
entrusted with the training of the animal for the ceremony stopped
every day before the shop of a shoemaker, whose wife, a young Finnish
woman, amused herself by giving it a piece of bread and salt. The
handsome charger got thoroughly used to stopping at the hospitable
door, and when Gustavus, the crown on his head and sceptre in hand,
proceeded to the cathedral, it refused to pass the shop without its
usual ration. The king, thinking it was a mere whim on the animal’s
part, put the rowels into its flesh; the horse reared, crown and
sceptre rolled into the dust, and without the prompt assistance of
a page walking by the monarch’s side, who by clutching at his boot
restored his equilibrium, Gustavus would have gone the way of the royal
insignia. At the news of the accident, the fortune-teller, Arvidson,
exclaimed, it was said, with tears coursing down her cheeks: ‘The race
of Wasa has ceased to reign in Sweden.’[75] At the slightest uncommon
event of that reign, the prediction of the fortune-teller was ‘trotted
out’; as a matter of course the spectators at the tournament at once
added this omen to the rest.
Meanwhile, the barrier was thrown open to the knights in their
magnificent dresses. Divided into quadrilles, they rode around the
lists, and in passing before the queen they saluted by lowering their
lances. All wore the colours of their dames in the form of a scarf, a
veil, a knot of ribbons, or a buckle. After that, they put their horses
through the boldest and most graceful evolutions. When that warlike
procession was concluded, to the sound of blasts from the combined
bands of the regiments of the Guards and the cheering of the crowd,
they retired to await the signal for the jousts.
A herald-of-arms, taking his stand in the centre of the arena,
announced the opening of the tournament, and added in a loud voice:
‘In the name of the king, and according to the laws of the kingdom, it
is forbidden to any subject or alien to give or to accept a challenge
to single combat under no matter what pretext. It would be senseless
to imagine that an enclosure intended for the display of games of
skill could with impunity serve for the shedding of blood in the very
presence of the queen.’
The proclamation was received with signs of general approval. The
black banner of the unknown champion was torn down, and contemptuously
flung over the barrier. After which, Gustavus rode up to the Comte
de Torstenson, who had taken up his position at the entrance to the
lists, and who wore a brilliant suit of armour, with a magnificent
breastplate, inlaid with gold, over a coat of double mail, and whose
hand grasped a heavy battle-axe, which was lowered as his king drew
near.
‘Comte de Torstenson,’ said Gustavus, holding out his hand, ‘we
appreciate your courage, and we thank you for it, but we reserve it for
a more noble opportunity.’
The lists were declared open. The king said in a loud voice, ‘Let every
one do his duty.’ Comte Fersen in his capacity of judge replied: ‘Go.’
Then the different games commenced and were kept up for four hours. As
at the Vienna _carrousel_, the knights vied with each other in showing
their skill, their valour, and agility. The weather was magnificent;
its beauty seemed to enhance the general enthusiasm. Scarfs fluttered
in the air, joyous applause and murmurs of praise broke forth at every
moment from lips as red as the rose, while flowers were flung by hands
trembling with emotion and fell at the competitors’ feet.
The contest was a long one; the champions vying with each other in
skill. Finally, Comte Piper was adjudged the victor. The judge and the
heralds proclaimed his name and conducted him to the feet of the queen,
who, while complimenting him, vested him with the scarf, the reward
of his skill, and held out the hand that embroidered the ornament for
him to kiss. The trumpets sounded a joyous blast, while cheers broke
forth greeting the victorious young champion, who was moreover pelted
with flowers. His banner was hung upon a car drawn by two milk-white
reindeer richly caparisoned: Comte Fersen had sent for them to his
estate in Lapland to offer them to the king. The car was escorted by
the whole of the Court across the park to the banqueting hall at the
castle. Several tables had been spread; the king presided over that
occupied by his family and the victorious knight; the chancellor and
the grand officers of the crown presided over the others. Refreshments
were served to the people in the garden, and when night set in, the
gaiety that prevailed on the immense lawn and in the bosky dells
glittering with lights invested the fête with the air of a family
gathering.
After the banquet we went to the beautiful opera-house to hear the
lyrical drama of _Gustave Wasa_, the music of which was by Piccini,
and the libretto by the late king. Finally, a general illumination of
the gardens, a torchlight procession, and enormous fireworks fitly
wound up the day, which doubtless was among the small number of happy
ones reserved by fate for Gustavus-Adolphus IV.
* * * * *
The guests of the Princesse Jean de Lichtenstein had listened
attentively to the particulars of a fête which apparently did not
belong to our own times. The listeners, and especially the fair sex,
had probably expected a sequel to the challenge of the knight of
the black banner, which sequel, of course, was to take the form of
a ‘combat to the death.’ The pacific termination of the tournament
seemed to cause more or less of a disappointment. I ventured to remark
that neither the tournament at Stockholm nor the _carrousel_ in Vienna
could compare with the games enacted on the bridge of Pisa, which,
from the standpoint of danger and tenacity of purpose, presented the
most perfect image of the old wars in Italy of the Middle Ages. No one
present but myself had ever witnessed these games, and I was asked to
convey an idea of them.
* * * * *
The last of those games, at which I happened to be present, took place
during the short-lived existence of the kingdom of Etruria.[76] They
had been abolished long ago on account of the accidents to which they
gave rise. The queen’s consent to their revival was obtained with
great difficulty. The origin of this struggle cannot be fixed with
any degree of certainty, for though it was called ‘a game’ it was in
reality a battle. It is more than probable that they dated from the
long distant past; according to some, they were Greek and almost as
old as the Olympic Games. The Pisans maintain that in the ancient
chronicles of their town there is a mention of the names of some
champions of Sainte-Marie who formed part of the contingent despatched
by their republic to the Crusades. In our days Alfieri has given us a
poetical picture of those chivalric contests, with all their perils and
the passions they aroused.
Pisa is traversed by the Arno; and a handsome marble bridge connects
the two quarters of the town. One quarter has its patroness in the
Virgin Mary, the other is placed under the protection of St. Anthony.
When they celebrated those games in days of old, each side chose three
hundred champions to proclaim and maintain the pre-eminence of their
patron’s banner against all comers. Those improvised defenders were
always selected from among the strongest, the bravest, and most agile
young fellows of their quarter.
They were clad in armour similar to that worn by their ancestors in
the palmy days of the republic. Trained and drilled long beforehand by
experienced leaders, they stoutly prepared themselves both for attack
and defence. A massive breastplate, a helmet, armlets, and cuish of
steel constituted their means of defence; their weapon of offence
consisted of a kind of club of hard wood, three feet long; one blow
dealt with force and precision was sufficient to disable an adversary.
A lowered barrier in the centre of the bridge separated the combatants.
At the stroke of three from the cathedral towers, a cannon shot gave
the signal, and immediately the barrier was raised. Amidst a furious
blast of trumpets, the struggle began, and the blows from the heavy
clubs rang on the steel of the breastplates and helmets. That game,
almost as barbarous as the times that gave it birth, lasted for
three-quarters of an hour. At the discharge of a second shot, the
barrier was lowered, and the party which had driven back the other from
its position, if but the length of a foot, was proclaimed the victor.
Cries of joy rang on the bank that had gained the victory, while a
mournful silence attested the defeat and the disgrace of the opposite
bank.
In 1805 I happened to be in Pisa, and thanks to some friends and the
kindness of M. Aubusson de la Feuillade, the French ambassador, I was
enabled to witness that extraordinary fête. It had been announced
throughout the length and breadth of Italy some weeks before its
celebration. At the news of the forthcoming contest offered to strength
and dexterity, there was a rush from all parts of combatants who had
acquired a reputation for bravery or herculean strength. There was,
according to report, one from Calabria, others from Ancona and Geneva;
Rome had sent a couple of Transteverinos, and, wonderful to relate, the
learned University of Padua added to the contingent with a professor
reputed to be the strongest man of Italy. Personages belonging to the
highest classes of Italian society had inscribed themselves under the
name of some of their retainers: assured of preserving their incognito,
thanks to the visors of their helmets, they intended taking part in
the struggle, the pugilistic fever having become general. Constant
practice had familiarised the athletes with the use of their clubs to
such a degree as to enable them to handle these as their forefathers
handled the double-edged sword in the Middle Ages. The professor from
Padua talked of challenging four men armed with sabres and swords, and
of vanquishing them with the sole aid of his club. The enthusiasm had
turned all heads. No doubt it is a very extraordinary thing that,
in an enlightened age like ours, such an amusement, with all its
inevitable and perhaps fatal consequences, should have been allowed.
It is, moreover, most probable that the danger involved in the whole
affair added to people’s curiosity. Certain is it, however, that Pisa
was invaded by more than a hundred thousand strangers--an enormous
number for a town the population of which did not exceed twelve
thousand inhabitants.
The week preceding the struggle was spent in warlike exercises, and
the eve of the day itself in pious practices and meditation. All the
combatants scrupulously kept their vigil in prayers like the knights of
old, went to confession, and took the Sacrament. The bishop publicly
blessed the standards, richly embroidered by the ladies of the foremost
families of the land. In short, everything calculated to sustain the
combatants’ courage was resorted to in honour of either the patron
or patroness whose banner they defended. Those who had laid wagers
on the event--and their number and the amount of their bets were
considerable--spared neither promises nor encouragement. During that
week, each combatant was fed like a podesta; but the use of strong
liquors was strictly forbidden: like Richelieu at the siege of Mahon,
the chiefs intimated in the ‘orders for the day’ that any champion
guilty of inebriety should not have the honour of competing.
From six in the morning, all the windows overlooking the Arno at that
point were occupied by elegantly dressed women; these windows had
been let at enormous prices. There were, moreover, stands on both
banks of the river intended for spectators. The quays were absolutely
black with people from the rural districts. The excursion, in their
minds, was invested with the solemnity of a pilgrimage. Their varied
and picturesque dresses offered a unique sight. A large stand,
richly draped, had been erected for the queen, the court, the corps
diplomatique, and foreigners of distinction who had come from all the
Italian Courts.
Craft of all dimensions, displaying bunting from prow to stern,
and provided with elegant tents, crowded the river. They had bands
on board, and a glance showed the preparations for cold collations
everywhere. This flotilla alone was a delightful sight. On both sides
of the bridge there were other craft: they, as it were, constituted
the riparian police, and were charged with keeping both boats and
spectators at a distance. Their second mission consisted in affording
aid to the combatants who from some cause or other might tumble into
the stream. Such accidents, to judge from a picture at the town hall,
painted more than two centuries before, were by no means improbable.
The canvas represented, among other phases of the struggle, two knights
clinging tightly to each other, and continuing the contest, while
dropping into the river.
The living picture that day was scarcely less curious, with the noise,
bustle, and stir of the spectators, the constant movement on both banks
of the stream, the diversity of Italian dialects, and the innumerable
incidents of that outdoor life which in this sunny clime seems the most
natural.
At twelve o’clock the combatants donned their armour; their trainers
and chiefs crowd around them and renew their counsels and instructions.
To watch the excitement of their wives and their womankind one might
have taken them for so many Spartan matrons handing their bucklers to
their sons and saying: ‘With it or on it.’
Thus armed, the combatants repair to their respective encampments;
refreshments are served out to them under tents, and this time the
solids are washed down with wine from the best cellars of the town.
At the bugle-call they emerge from their encampments and form in line
of battle; then, preceded by their military bands and with banners
unfurled, they slowly gain the side of the bridge they have sworn
to defend. The banners were attached outside the parapets. On each
side plans of attack and defence had been prepared, and so carefully
elaborated as to elicit the admiration of a most competent judge in
military matters, namely, the General of Division Duchesne. He had
made the campaigns of Italy, Holland, and Egypt, and considered them
(the plans) samples of strategical skill, from the manner in which the
forces were disposed for an engagement in which everything depended on
physical strength.
Meanwhile the two parties had been pressing against the barrier for
some minutes. Three struck from the cathedral clock; at the same time
the air rings with the firing of the cannon, the signal so impatiently
waited for. The obstacle dividing the two contingents is lifted, and
the attack commences with a tenacity of which none but an eyewitness
can conceive an approximate idea. All kinds of cries fall upon the
ear. To the majority of the spectators the interest of the whole is
heightened by the promptings of greed, of pride, and even of love. Each
sign of success is greeted with deafening applause. The bravery of the
combatants rises into frenzy, and the hand-to-hand struggle becomes a
real battle with its fury and its alternating incidents.
While the two troops assail each other with equal fury, each side
flings long ropes with iron crooks attached to them into their
adversaries’ ranks. The crook catches a leg, a man is down, and he
is dragged away captive. It is simply a modification of the lasso
practised by the Tartars on the Yedissen steppes: the running knot is
thrown around the necks of the wild horses and they are checked in
their stampede.
The half-hour after three had struck, and the two contingents, pressed
tightly against each other, seemed so many athletes who, unable to make
their opponents budge, spend their strength in protracted efforts. Not
an inch of ground had been gained; another ten minutes, and Victory
herself, in her indecisive mood, would have claimed, as in days of old,
her share of the glory.
The two masses were so tightly wedged against each other as to make
fighting impossible. They were simply like the waves of two meeting
streams. In order to give further weight to the men, each leader
ordered his band of musicians to advance, which movement again only
equalised the power of resistance. On the two banks a mournful silence
followed the joyous acclamations of the previous half-hour; the
general deadlock left little or no hope of a decisive result. At last
two champions of the hindmost ranks of Sainte-Marie hit upon a most
audacious movement. In spite of the weight of their armour, they climb
on to the shoulders of their comrades, and for a few moments remain
erect on the flooring of brass and steel; in other words, the large
helmets so closely serried as to leave little or no space between them.
Advancing carefully from helmet to helmet, they reach the first rows
of their own contingent. From the height of that living fortress, as
from the height of a war-chariot, they shower tremendous blows with
their clubs on the heads of their adversaries. The latter, though
protected by the metal covering their skulls, finally reel and fall
down. The breach is made, a thousand cries of victory from the side of
Sainte-Marie are heard, and its mass advances. In a short time it has
over-stepped its own line of demarcation, and the banner of St. Anthony
is carried away by the two aerial champions.
The leader of the opposite forces in vain attempts a defence similar
to the attack. Some St. Anthony champions also climb on to their
fellows’ shoulders. There is positively a second combat on the heads
of the combatants, without, however, detracting in the slightest from
the fury of the onslaught of those who are on _terra firma_. It was
indeed something marvellous to see those two stages of warriors dealing
each other blows and using all the combined resources of strength. The
struggle was both violent and intense; at one moment it seemed that the
banner of St. Anthony was going to be recovered. One of the champions
of Sainte-Marie, the nearest to the parapet, took his club in both
hands, and with a swing brought it down on the head of the adversary
facing him. The latter reels, loses his balance, and drops into the
Arno. Frenzied clamour from both sides rends the air. The army of the
Holy Virgin redoubles its efforts and stands like a rock on the ground
it has gained. Joshua was not there to stop the sun in its course. The
third quarter of the hour has struck, the cannon gives the signal and
the barrier is lowered. The army of the Holy Virgin remains the victor;
the honour of the day belongs incontestably to it.
Immediately the victorious quarter rang with joy and inspiriting
blasts of trumpets, while a mournful silence and a feeling of disgrace
fell upon that of the vanquished. It is a true saying that men derive
the energy of their feelings from the sky under which they were
born. Hence, while the champions of the Holy Virgin were loaded with
caresses, praise, and gifts, carried in triumph and enthusiastically
welcomed by their families, those of St. Anthony silently regained
their domiciles, where sarcasm and reproaches awaited them, and where
they perhaps deemed themselves fortunate if, for balm to their wounds,
they did not get additional blows from their own flesh and blood.
At night the victorious quarter was agog with balls, concerts, music,
the tooting of horns, the whole of it only ceasing with morn. On the
bank opposite everything remained pitch dark. The quarter conveyed the
impression of being inhabited by ghosts.
Nothing, I fancy, can be compared to that scene. For more than
a century, Europe had not witnessed a similar spectacle, where
everything, arms as well as wounds, was altogether serious. And he
who had not seen a real battle might have well believed that he was
witnessing one by going back in his imagination to an epoch when cannon
was not as yet the last argument of kings.