“Do you hear the hawks?”
And we both searched the summits with dazzled eyes.
“Listen.”
The rock rose to heaven bristling with points and stained a reddish
colour like rust or clotted blood; and the screams of the birds of prey
heightened the impression of its savage pride.
Then a sudden giddiness overwhelmed me--a sort of horror of too vast
ambitions and desires. Perhaps in the very depths of my being the
primitive feelings of early forefathers awoke; for my indescribable
agitation took the form of a lightning-like succession of flashing
visions, in which I saw men like myself pouring into vanquished cities,
leaping over heaps of corpses and ruins, with untiring gestures,
thrusting their swords into men’s bodies, carrying half-naked women on
their saddle-bows through the innumerable flames of a conflagration,
while their horses, lithe cruel animals like leopards, waded up to
their bellies in blood.
“Ah, I should have known how to possess thee in the midst of slaughter
under a canopy of fire, overshadowed by the wing of death!” said the
soul of my ancestors to her who stood by my side. “My will would have
urged my body to the performance of prodigies of valour; and though
I had had to clamber up the smooth sides of this wall, defended by a
thousand bowmen, yet I should have borne thee away alive.”
Filled with the glow from this magnificent and tremendous desolation
reaching to the heavens, my eyes fell on the maiden’s face, and saw it
so strongly lit up by the reflection, that an almost painful joy swept
over me. And I felt a mad desire to take that head in my hands, turn it
back, bring it close to my lips, gaze on it more closely, impress every
line of it in my thought--a feeling not unlike his who finds under the
barren soil some sublime fragment which will reveal to the world the
glory of an idea for long nearly extinct.
She was like a statue placed in full view of the rising sun; her
perfection did not fear the light. In her bodily form I saw the impress
of the eternal type, and at the same moment I recognised the fragility
of the flesh, which bore no immunity from human fate. She was like a
delicious fruit at the highest point of its maturity, beyond which
point corruption sets in. The skin of her face had the wonderful
transparency of the blossom which to-morrow will fade.
“Who shall deliver thee from the sacrilege of Time the destroyer? Who
shall slay thee with a mortal dart at the summit of thy perfection
when the miserable signs of decay begin to appear?” The dark saying of
her brother came back to my mind: “Violante is killing herself with
perfumes.” ... And silently I worshipped her, with a religious desire
to praise her in her every movement. “Oh sovereign being, feeling thou
art perfect, thou dost also feel the necessity of death; thou dost
know that only death can preserve thee from all base injury; and since
everything in thee is noble, thou dost purpose to offer to that solemn
custody a body royally embalmed in perfumes.”
* * * * *
After such draughts of balmy wine, how could the meal to which we sat
down have any savour?
Yet the vague and colourless things that surrounded my musings composed
themselves into a kind of quiet harmony, which little by little soothed
the passion that had been kindled in my soul by the volcanic rock.
The walls were covered with mirrors, symmetrically divided all
round into compartments by little gilt pillars, while the surface
of each compartment was painted with festoons and clusters of roses
alternately, and the mirrors were tarnished and green as the waters
of lonely pools, and the little pillars were delicately twisted like
the fair locks of girls, and the roses were faint and languid as
the garlands which crown the waxen martyrs in sanctuaries. But in
honour perhaps of the guest who was the donor, the long branches of
almond blossom had been ingeniously wreathed among the sconces of the
candelabra. They spread their still fresh and living blossoms over the
ancient mirrors, and multiplied reflections in the green pallor seemed
to create the semblance of a far-off watery springtime.
There was a kind of quiet charm about all these things which seemed to
descend and mingle with Massimilla’s grace; so much so, that I felt
as if the maiden already promised to Jesus shared their nature. She
seemed already to wear the appearance of a being “who has departed from
this present age,” like Beatrice in the vision of the Vita Nuova, as
if, with her meek air, she were saying also: “I am about to behold the
beginning of peace.”
She sat opposite me, and I looked at her, till this fancy of mine grew
so strong that I began to imagine her absent and her place empty for
a few moments. And immediately the empty space was filled with a deep
shadow resembling the mouth of a pit into which all the kindred were to
be cast, one after another. And thus I was able to attain a unique and
tragic vision of all these living beings, in the extraordinarily clear
relief afforded by that background of shadow.
They were eating a meal round the accustomed table; they made the
ordinary movements demanded by natural necessity; from time to time
they said a few simple words. But their tones and actions seemed
accompanied by a mystery which at times endowed them with an almost
terrible significance or again at times made them almost as laughable
as the play of automatons. One contrast was cruelly clear, that between
the manner of vital functions they were fulfilling and the signs of
inevitable destruction which were being fulfilled in them. Seated on
the right of Massimilla, Antonello displayed in his whole behaviour
a sort of repressed impatience, as if he were compelled to use his
hands to feed, not himself, but a stranger. And as I gazed at him,
an intuition flashed through me of the horror that strangled him as
he realised the presence of a stranger within him, a presence dimly
felt as yet, but still certain. And my eyes, passing instinctively to
Oddo, who sat on Massimilla’s left, noticed in his attitude something
like a feeble reflection of his brother’s discomfort. Nothing seemed
to me sweeter than that virginal figure sitting calm amidst their
restlessness, like a statue of prayer.
A strange odour of honey from the almond blossom filled the warm air.
Sometimes a petal, rosier than the others, dropped down the mirror and
fell as into silent water. And I remembered our stay in the orchard.
Ah, indeed, how could those wretched eyes, tormented by phantoms,
perceive pure and beautiful things? What was I doing there myself
except holding a commemoration of the dead? Everything round me
grew dim like the walls, and seemed to recede into a distant past;
everything assumed an antiquated and faded look, and appeared to be
covered with dust. The two servants moved slowly and dreamily about in
their blue liveries and long white stockings; they looked as if they
had come out of an old wardrobe of the last century;--melancholy ruins
of former luxury. When they withdrew they seemed to vanish like shadows
into the delusive distance of the mirrors, and to re-enter their
inanimate world.
* * * * *
But the spell was broken by the voice of the prince, a voice which
called up old memories. Every one kept a respectful silence while he
was speaking; and no sound was heard but that of his deep aged voice,
which at times became hoarse with repressed anger, or trembled with
heartfelt sorrow and regret.
It chanced to be a disastrous day for the old man; it was the
anniversary of the king’s flight to Gaeta; it completed the
twenty-first year of exile.
“Well,” he said, as he turned to me with a glance kindling with faith,
looking, with his white beard, almost like one of the ancient prophets,
“well, Claudio, when a king falls as Francis of Bourbon fell at Gaeta,
that is to say, like a martyr and a hero, it is impossible not to
believe that God will raise him up again and restore his kingdom. Mark
my words, son of Massenzio Cantelmo, and do not forget them. And God
grant that this come to pass before my eyes are closed! That is my only
desire.”
He was preparing an apotheosis of fire and blood on the ruins of the
strong city for the pale ghost of royalty.
“Wonderful faith!” I thought, as I saw what sparks could still glow
in the ashy blue of those feeble eyes. “Wonderful and vain faith!
The power of the Bourbons slumbers at San Dionigi.” And as the old
man’s words called up the gleaming vision of the Bavarian heroine,
my contempt increased for that king of twenty-three, on whom Fortune
had bestowed the very horse which carried Henry of Navarre to Paris,
and who was cowardly enough, like the miserable Philip V., to have no
ambition to ride anything more substantial than the imaginary horses of
the tapestries that lined his walls.
“What a magnificent enterprise lay before that Bourbon prince when
he departed from the palace at Caserta, where the doctors were busy
embalming the corpse of his murdered father as it lay pierced with
innumerable wounds!” I thought, in the eager spirit which the warlike
images evoked by the venerable old man had kindled in me. “Nothing was
wanting to incite him, not even the corruption and odour of corpses,
which are powerful to inspire thoughts of greatness. In very truth,
everything was his: the lordly power of an ancient name, youth, which
attracts and carries men away, kingship over three fair seas accustomed
to tyranny, a rich kingdom in sight of a curved bay sonorous as a lyre,
a passionate companion, who seemed to draw in through her delicate
nostrils the atmosphere of heroic ambitions, a temperament capable of
trembling with the voluptuousness of power, and full of the electric
current which directs the hurricane. All these were his to enjoy and to
defend; and still, as exiled husband on the farthest shore of another
sea, his ear was filled with the clamour of his faithful people,
although another kind of clamour reached him also; and the opportunity
was offered to him of a splendid struggle beyond the limits of his
dominions, on fields already watered with blood, and smoking with the
strength of their fermentation--fields open to the strongest thought,
the noblest word, the swiftest sword. In very truth, everything was
his, save the lion’s nature. Why was it Fortune’s will to heap the
burden of such favours upon a feeble, lamb-like nature? Never did
blood so cowardly flow in youthful veins, never was there a more
torpid sensuality. The very beauty of his lawful kingdom, the divine
outlines of the shore, the balmy air, the mystery of the nights, all
the enchantments of the dying summer, ought at least to have touched
the senses of the youth, to have awaked in him the deep desire for
possession, to have communicated to him the savage rage for living.
Ah, that last evening in the almost deserted palace, forsaken by the
courtiers, with the strong breath of the sea wind blowing through the
empty halls, and bringing with it September perfumes, and the supreme
sweetness of the gulf, while the closed curtains waved mysteriously and
spread a vague terror, while the lights flickered and went out on the
tables, still strewn with the shameful letters announcing the flight
of those the prince had counted as most devoted. And the desolation of
that departure in the twilight, in the small ship commanded by a man
of the people, one of the few who remained faithful; and the silent
encounter with the warships, already gone over to the enemy, and full
of treachery; and the long, sleepless night passed on deck in vain
regrets, while the weary queen slept under the stars, exposed to the
chill night air; and at last, at sunrise, the rock of Gaeta, the final
refuge, fated to be the final ruin, where the royal dignity was to be
forced to come to terms with a bragging soldier!”
“Treason was everywhere, like the smoke and smell of gunpowder,”
continued the prince. He grew more and more troubled by these
sanguinary recollections, and from time to time a gesture from the
white hand on which the cameo gleamed gave animation to his words.
“The most terrible day of the siege was the fifth of February; and the
powder magazine of the Sant’ Antonio battery was blown up by treachery.”
“Ah! what an atrocious thing it was!” exclaimed Violante, with a
shudder and an instinctive movement as if to cover her ears with her
hands. “How terrible!”
“You can still remember it,” her father said, looking at her with
softer eyes.
“I always shall.”
“Violante was with us at Gaeta,” he added, turning to me. “She was
scarcely five years old, and was a great pet of the queen’s. The others
had started for Civita Vecchia on the _Volcano_ with the Contessa di
Trapani. We were staying in the artillery quarters beneath the shore
batteries....”
“I can remember it all!” interrupted Violante, seized by a sudden
emotion, which seemed to sweep over her from that great purple light
which lit up her far-off infancy. “Everything--everything seems as
distinct as if it had happened yesterday! The room was divided by two
partitions, made of flags sewn together. I can see the colours quite
clearly; they were signalling flags, blue, yellow, and red. It was
three or four in the afternoon when the explosion happened. Nina Rizzo,
the queen’s lady-in-waiting, had just gone out. I was holding in my
hand a cup of milk which the sisters at the hospital had sent me....”
She spoke on thus, in short sentences, in a somewhat muffled voice,
with a fixed look, describing all these little details, one after the
other, as if she were seeing them in a series of flashes. And the
scenes called up by her words, as she sat looking into the past, stood
out with an extraordinary force against the confused background of the
actual scene.
The old man and the maiden, as each in turn they commemorated the
ruin and slaughter of other days, seemed to annihilate all the vague,
colourless surroundings, and create a kind of fiery atmosphere, in
which my soul for a moment gasped painfully. The siege went on with
all its horrors, in the city crowded with soldiers, horses, and mules,
short of provisions and money, badly or insufficiently armed, scourged
with typhus and villainy. Rain came down in torrents, filling the
streets with black mire, in the midst of which the starving horses
wandering about sank down and perished. The iron hailstones riddled the
city, dismantled it, laid it low, set fire to it, and grew ever thicker
and noisier, never ceasing save for the brief intervals appointed for
the burial of the decaying corpses. In the churches divine service was
celebrated, the Invincible Patroness was invoked, and all the while
the stones were being torn from the walls, the windows were crashing
in, and out of the distance came the groans of the wounded as they
were carried away on stretchers. The sick men in the hospital raised
themselves in their beds when a shell pierced through the passage
walls, and expecting death, cried as the shell burst, “Long live the
King!” All on a sudden a powder magazine exploded, shaking the city
to its very foundations, and leaving it suffocated with smoke and
with terror, while in the open cavity bastions, cannons, palisades,
batteries, houses, and hundreds and hundreds of men were engulfed.
But from time to time, on very sunny days, a kind of heroic madness
seized the besieged, a kind of intoxication of death drove them into
danger, and made them seek out the batteries where the fire was
fiercest. In sight of the enemy the artillerymen sang and danced in
a kind of frenzy to the sound of the bugles. A great shout of joy and
affection greeted the queen’s appearance under the hail of bullets
on the esplanades. She moved with a bold step, in the easy grace of
her nineteen years, dressed in a shining bodice like a breastplate,
her face smiling under the plumes of her felt hat. Without moving an
eyelash as the bullets whistled by, she turned her encouraging eyes
on the soldiers; they inspired them like the waving of banners, and
beneath that gaze pride seemed to magnify its wounds, while those who
were unscathed seemed to long for the glory of a crimson stain. From
time to time men with eyes burning fiercely in blackened faces, with
their clothes torn to tatters, as though the jaws of a wild beast had
rent them--men covered with blood and powder rushed up to her from the
cannons, called her by name, and kissed the hem of her skirt.
“Ah, how beautiful she was, and how worthy of her throne!” exclaimed
the prince, and his voice assumed its manliest tones to celebrate her
prowess. “Her presence had a magnetic power over the soldiers. When she
was there, they all fought like lions. The twenty-second of January
was the most glorious day of the siege, because she remained on the
batteries till nightfall.”
A pause followed, a moment of meditation, in which each of us seemed to
be contemplating the ideal figure of the heroine on a field of ruin and
corpses.
“Tears were strange to her eyes!” said Violante slowly, absorbed in
her far-away memories. “When at the last hour I saw her weep, I was
overcome with terror and surprise, as if some unexpected and almost
incredible thing had occurred. As she kissed me, she watered my face
with her tears.” After another pause, she added--
“She wore a little green feather in her hat.”