to see my father. He is not very well, be gentle with him," he replied,
and as he spoke, his look of anguish clearly proclaimed what he feared
from Pierre, some imprudent word, perhaps even a final mission, the
malediction of that man and woman whom he had killed. And surely if his
father knew, he would die as well. "Ah! how annoying it is," he resumed,
"I can't go up with you! There are gentlemen waiting for me. Yes, how
annoyed I am. As soon as possible, however, I will join you, yes, as soon
as possible."
He knew not how to stop the young priest, whom he must evidently allow to
remain with his father, whilst he himself stayed down below, kept there
by his pecuniary worries. But how distressful were the eyes with which he
watched Pierre climb the stairs, how he seemed to supplicate him with his
whole quivering form. His father, good Lord, the only true love, the one
great, pure, faithful passion of his life!
"Don't make him talk too much, brighten him, won't you?" were his parting
words.
Up above it was not Batista, the devoted ex-soldier, who opened the door,
but a very young fellow to whom Pierre did not at first pay any
attention. The little room was bare and light as on previous occasions,
and from the broad curtainless window there was the superb view of Rome,
Rome crushed that day beneath a leaden sky and steeped in shade of
infinite mournfulness. Old Orlando, however, had in no wise changed, but
still displayed the superb head of an old blanched lion, a powerful
muzzle and youthful eyes, which yet sparkled with the passions which had
growled in a soul of fire. Pierre found the stricken hero in the same
arm-chair as previously, near the same table littered with newspapers,
and with his legs buried in the same black wrapper, as if he were there
immobilised in a sheath of stone, to such a point that after months and
years one was sure to perceive him quite unchanged, with living bust, and
face glowing with strength and intelligence.
That grey day, however, he seemed gloomy, low in spirits. "Ah! so here
you are, my dear Monsieur Froment," he exclaimed, "I have been thinking
of you these three days past, living the awful days which you must have
lived in that tragic Palazzo Boccanera. Ah, God! What a frightful
bereavement! My heart is quite overwhelmed, these newspapers have again
just upset me with the fresh details they give!" He pointed as he spoke
to the papers scattered over the table. Then with a gesture he strove to
brush aside the gloomy story, and banish that vision of Benedetta dead,
which had been haunting him. "Well, and yourself?" he inquired.
"I am leaving this evening," replied Pierre, "but I did not wish to quit
Rome without pressing your brave hands."
"You are leaving? But your book?"
"My book--I have been received by the Holy Father, I have made my
submission and reprobated my book."
Orlando looked fixedly at the priest. There was a short interval of
silence, during which their eyes told one another all that they had to
tell respecting the affair. Neither felt the necessity of any longer
explanation. The old man merely spoke these concluding words: "You have
done well, your book was a chimera."
"Yes, a chimera, a piece of childishness, and I have condemned it myself
in the name of truth and reason."
A smile appeared on the dolorous lips of the impotent hero. "Then you
have seen things, you understand and know them now?"
"Yes, I know them; and that is why I did not wish to go off without
having that frank conversation with you which we agreed upon."
Orlando was delighted, but all at once he seemed to remember the young
fellow who had opened the door to Pierre, and who had afterwards modestly
resumed his seat on a chair near the window. This young fellow was a
youth of twenty, still beardless, of a blonde handsomeness such as
occasionally flowers at Naples, with long curly hair, a lily-like
complexion, a rosy mouth, and soft eyes full of a dreamy languor. The old
man presented him in fatherly fashion, Angiolo Mascara his name was, and
he was the grandson of an old comrade in arms, the epic Mascara of the
Thousand, who had died like a hero, his body pierced by a hundred wounds.
"I sent for him to scold him," continued Orlando with a smile. "Do you
know that this fine fellow with his girlish airs goes in for the new
ideas? He is an Anarchist, one of the three or four dozen Anarchists that
we have in Italy. He's a good little lad at bottom, he has only his
mother left him, and supports her, thanks to the little berth which he
holds, but which he'll lose one of these fine days if he is not careful.
Come, come, my child, you must promise me to be reasonable."
Thereupon Angiolo, whose clean but well-worn garments bespoke decent
poverty, made answer in a grave and musical voice: "I am reasonable, it
is the others, all the others who are not. When all men are reasonable
and desire truth and justice, the world will be happy."
"Ah! if you fancy that he'll give way!" cried Orlando. "But, my poor
child, just ask Monsieur l'Abbe if one ever knows where truth and justice
are. Well, well, one must leave you the time to live, and see, and
understand things."
Then, paying no more attention to the young man, he returned to Pierre,
while Angiolo, remaining very quiet in his corner, kept his eyes ardently
fixed on them, and with open, quivering ears lost not a word they said.
"I told you, my dear Monsieur Froment," resumed Orlando, "that your ideas
would change, and that acquaintance with Rome would bring you to accurate
views far more readily than any fine speeches I could make to you. So I
never doubted but what you would of your own free will withdraw your book
as soon as men and things should have enlightened you respecting the
Vatican at the present day. But let us leave the Vatican on one side,
there is nothing to be done but to let it continue falling slowly and
inevitably into ruin. What interests me is our Italian Rome, which you
treated as an element to be neglected, but which you have now seen and
studied, so that we can both speak of it with the necessary knowledge!"
He thereupon at once granted a great many things, acknowledged that
blunders had been committed, that the finances were in a deplorable
state, and that there were serious difficulties of all kinds. They, the
Italians, had sinned by excess of legitimate pride, they had proceeded
too hastily with their attempt to improvise a great nation, to change
ancient Rome into a great modern capital as by the mere touch of a wand.
And thence had come that mania for erecting new districts, that mad
speculation in land and shares, which had brought the country within a
hair's breadth of bankruptcy.
At this Pierre gently interrupted him to tell him of the view which he
himself had arrived at after his peregrinations and studies through Rome.
"That fever of the first hour, that financial /debacle/," said he, "is
after all nothing. All pecuniary sores can be healed. But the grave point
is that your Italy still remains to be created. There is no aristocracy
left, and as yet there is no people, nothing but a devouring middle
class, dating from yesterday, which preys on the rich harvest of the
future before it is ripe."
Silence fell. Orlando sadly wagged his old leonine head. The cutting
harshness of Pierre's formula struck him in the heart. "Yes, yes," he
said at last, "that is so, you have seen things plainly; and why say no
when facts are there, patent to everybody? I myself had already spoken to
you of that middle class which hungers so ravenously for place and
office, distinctions and plumes, and which at the same time is so
avaricious, so suspicious with regard to its money which it invests in
banks, never risking it in agriculture or manufactures or commerce,
having indeed the one desire to enjoy life without doing anything, and so
unintelligent that it cannot see it is killing its country by its
loathing for labour, its contempt for the poor, its one ambition to live
in a petty way with the barren glory of belonging to some official
administration. And, as you say, the aristocracy is dying, discrowned,
ruined, sunk into the degeneracy which overtakes races towards their
close, most of its members reduced to beggary, the others, the few who
have clung to their money, crushed by heavy imposts, possessing nought
but dead fortunes which constant sharing diminishes and which must soon
disappear with the princes themselves. And then there is the people,
which has suffered so much and suffers still, but is so used to suffering
that it can seemingly conceive no idea of emerging from it, blind and
deaf as it is, almost regretting its ancient bondage, and so ignorant, so
abominably ignorant, which is the one cause of its hopeless, morrowless
misery, for it has not even the consolation of understanding that if we
have conquered and are trying to resuscitate Rome and Italy in their
ancient glory, it is for itself, the people, alone. Yes, yes, no
aristocracy left, no people as yet, and a middle class which really
alarms one. How can one therefore help yielding at times to the terrors
of the pessimists, who pretend that our misfortunes are as yet nothing,
that we are going forward to yet more awful catastrophes, as though,
indeed, what we now behold were but the first symptoms of our race's end,
the premonitory signs of final annihilation!"
As he spoke he raised his long quivering arms towards the window, towards
the light, and Pierre, deeply moved, remembered how Cardinal Boccanera on
the previous day had made a similar gesture of supplicant distress when
appealing to the divine power. And both men, Cardinal and patriot, so
hostile in their beliefs, were instinct with the same fierce and
despairing grandeur.
"As I told you, however, on the first day," continued Orlando, "we only
sought to accomplish logical and inevitable things. As for Rome, with her
past history of splendour and domination which weighs so heavily upon us,
we could not do otherwise than take her for capital, for she alone was
the bond, the living symbol of our unity at the same time as the promise
of eternity, the renewal offered to our great dream of resurrection and
glory."
He went on, recognising the disastrous conditions under which Rome
laboured as a capital. She was a purely decorative city with exhausted
soil, she had remained apart from modern life, she was unhealthy, she
offered no possibility of commerce or industry, she was invincibly preyed
upon by death, standing as she did amidst that sterile desert of the
Campagna. Then he compared her with the other cities which are jealous of
her; first Florence, which, however, has become so indifferent and so
sceptical, impregnated with a happy heedlessness which seems inexplicable
when one remembers the frantic passions, and the torrents of blood
rolling through her history; next Naples, which yet remains content with
her bright sun, and whose childish people enjoy their ignorance and
wretchedness so indolently that one knows not whether one ought to pity
them; next Venice, which has resigned herself to remaining a marvel of
ancient art, which one ought to put under glass so as to preserve her
intact, slumbering amid the sovereign pomp of her annals; next Genoa,
which is absorbed in trade, still active and bustling, one of the last
queens of that Mediterranean, that insignificant lake which was once the
opulent central sea, whose waters carried the wealth of the world; and
then particularly Turin and Milan, those industrial and commercial
centres, which are so full of life and so modernised that tourists
disdain them as not being "Italian" cities, both of them having saved
themselves from ruin by entering into that Western evolution which is
preparing the next century. Ah! that old land of Italy, ought one to
leave it all as a dusty museum for the pleasure of artistic souls, leave
it to crumble away, even as its little towns of Magna Graecia, Umbria,
and Tuscany are already crumbling, like exquisite /bibelots/ which one
dares not repair for fear that one might spoil their character. At all
events, there must either be death, death soon and inevitable, or else
the pick of the demolisher, the tottering walls thrown to the ground, and
cities of labour, science, and health created on all sides; in one word,
a new Italy really rising from the ashes of the old one, and adapted to
the new civilisation into which humanity is entering.
"However, why despair?" Orlando continued energetically. "Rome may weigh
heavily on our shoulders, but she is none the less the summit we coveted.
We are here, and we shall stay here awaiting events. Even if the
population does not increase it at least remains stationary at a figure
of some 400,000 souls, and the movement of increase may set in again when
the causes which stopped it shall have ceased. Our blunder was to think
that Rome would become a Paris or Berlin; but, so far, all sorts of
social, historical, even ethnical considerations seem opposed to it; yet
who can tell what may be the surprises of to-morrow? Are we forbidden to
hope, to put faith in the blood which courses in our veins, the blood of
the old conquerors of the world? I, who no longer stir from this room,
impotent as I am, even I at times feel my madness come back, believe in
the invincibility and immortality of Rome, and wait for the two millions
of people who must come to populate those dolorous new districts which
you have seen so empty and already falling into ruins! And certainly they
will come! Why not? You will see, you will see, everything will be
populated, and even more houses will have to be built. Moreover, can you
call a nation poor, when it possesses Lombardy? Is there not also
inexhaustible wealth in our southern provinces? Let peace settle down,
let the South and the North mingle together, and a new generation of
workers grow up. Since we have the soil, such a fertile soil, the great
harvest which is awaited will surely some day sprout and ripen under the
burning sun!"
Enthusiasm was upbuoying him, all the /furia/ of youth inflamed his eyes.
Pierre smiled, won over; and as soon as he was able to speak, he said:
"The problem must be tackled down below, among the people. You must make
men!"
"Exactly!" cried Orlando. "I don't cease repeating it, one must make
Italy. It is as if a wind from the East had blown the seed of humanity,
the seed which makes vigorous and powerful nations, elsewhere. Our people
is not like yours in France, a reservoir of men and money from which one
can draw as plentifully as one pleases. It is such another inexhaustible
reservoir that I wish to see created among us. And one must begin at the
bottom. There must be schools everywhere, ignorance must be stamped out,
brutishness and idleness must be fought with books, intellectual and
moral instruction must give us the industrious people which we need if we
are not to disappear from among the great nations. And once again for
whom, if not for the democracy of to-morrow, have we worked in taking
possession of Rome? And how easily one can understand that all should
collapse here, and nothing grow up vigorously since such a democracy is
absolutely absent. Yes, yes, the solution of the problem does not lie
elsewhere; we must make a people, make an Italian democracy."
Pierre had grown calm again, feeling somewhat anxious yet not daring to
say that it is by no means easy to modify a nation, that Italy is such as
soil, history, and race have made her, and that to seek to transform her
so radically and all at once might be a dangerous enterprise. Do not
nations like beings have an active youth, a resplendent prime, and a more
or less prolonged old age ending in death? A modern democratic Rome, good
heavens! The modern Romes are named Paris, London, Chicago. So he
contented himself with saying: "But pending this great renovation of the
people, don't you think that you ought to be prudent? Your finances are
in such a bad condition, you are passing through such great social and
economic difficulties, that you run the risk of the worst catastrophes
before you secure either men or money. Ah! how prudent would that
minister be who should say in your Chamber: 'Our pride has made a
mistake, it was wrong of us to try to make ourselves a great nation in
one day; more time, labour, and patience are needed; and we consent to
remain for the present a young nation, which will quietly reflect and
labour at self-formation, without, for a long time yet, seeking to play a
dominant part. So we intend to disarm, to strike out the war and naval
estimates, all the estimates intended for display abroad, in order to
devote ourselves to our internal prosperity, and to build up by
education, physically and morally, the great nation which we swear we
will be fifty years hence!' Yes, yes, strike out all needless
expenditure, your salvation lies in that!"
But Orlando, while listening, had become gloomy again, and with a vague,
weary gesture he replied in an undertone: "No, no, the minister who
should use such language would be hooted. It would be too hard a
confession, such as one cannot ask a nation to make. Every heart would
bound, leap forth at the idea. And, besides, would not the danger perhaps
be even greater if all that has been done were allowed to crumble? How
many wrecked hopes, how much discarded, useless material there would be!
No, we can now only save ourselves by patience and courage--and forward,
ever forward! We are a very young nation, and in fifty years we desired
to effect the unity which others have required two hundred years to
arrive at. Well, we must pay for our haste, we must wait for the harvest
to ripen, and fill our barns." Then, with another and more sweeping wave
of the arm, he stubbornly strengthened himself in his hopes. "You know,"
said he, "that I was always against the alliance with Germany. As I
predicted, it has ruined us. We were not big enough to march side by side
with such a wealthy and powerful person, and it is in view of a war,
always near at hand and inevitable, that we now suffer so cruelly from
having to support the budgets of a great nation. Ah! that war which has
never come, it is that which has exhausted the best part of our blood and
sap and money without the slightest profit. To-day we have nothing before
us but the necessity of breaking with our ally, who speculated on our
pride, who has never helped us in any way, who has never given us
anything but bad advice, and treated us otherwise than with suspicion.
But it was all inevitable, and that's what people won't admit in France.
I can speak freely of it all, for I am a declared friend of France, and
people even feel some spite against me on that account. However, explain
to your compatriots, that on the morrow of our conquest of Rome, in our
frantic desire to resume our ancient rank, it was absolutely necessary
that we should play our part in Europe and show that we were a power with
whom the others must henceforth count. And hesitation was not allowable,
all our interests impelled us toward Germany, the evidence was so binding
as to impose itself. The stern law of the struggle for life weighs as
heavily on nations as on individuals, and this it is which explains and
justifies the rupture between the two sisters, France and Italy, the
forgetting of so many ties, race, commercial intercourse, and, if you
like, services also. The two sisters, ah! they now pursue each other with
so much hatred that all common sense even seems at an end. My poor old
heart bleeds when I read the articles which your newspapers and ours
exchange like poisoned darts. When will this fratricidal massacre cease,
which of the two will first realise the necessity of peace, the necessity
of the alliance of the Latin races, if they are to remain alive amidst
those torrents of other races which more and more invade the world?" Then
gaily, with the /bonhomie/ of a hero disarmed by old age, and seeking a
refuge in his dreams, Orlando added: "Come, you must promise to help me
as soon as you are in Paris. However small your field of action may be,
promise me you will do all you can to promote peace between France and
Italy; there can be no more holy task. Relate all you have seen here, all
you have heard, oh! as frankly as possible. If we have faults, you
certainly have faults as well. And, come, family quarrels can't last for
ever!"
"No doubt," Pierre answered in some embarrassment. "Unfortunately they
are the most tenacious. In families, when blood becomes exasperated with
blood, hate goes as far as poison and the knife. And pardon becomes
impossible."
He dared not fully express his thoughts. Since he had been in Rome,
listening, and considering things, the quarrel between Italy and France
had resumed itself in his mind in a fine tragic story. Once upon a time
there were two princesses, daughters of a powerful queen, the mistress of
the world. The elder one, who had inherited her mother's kingdom, was
secretly grieved to see her sister, who had established herself in a
neighbouring land, gradually increase in wealth, strength, and
brilliancy, whilst she herself declined as if weakened by age,
dismembered, so exhausted, and so sore, that she already felt defeated on
the day when she attempted a supreme effort to regain universal power.
And so how bitter were her feelings, how hurt she always felt on seeing
her sister recover from the most frightful shocks, resume her dazzling
/gala/, and continue to reign over the world by dint of strength and
grace and wit. Never would she forgive it, however well that envied and
detested sister might act towards her. Therein lay an incurable wound,
the life of one poisoned by that of the other, the hatred of old blood
for young blood, which could only be quieted by death. And even if peace,
as was possible, should soon be restored between them in presence of the
younger sister's evident triumph, the other would always harbour deep
within her heart an endless grief at being the elder yet the vassal.
"However, you may rely on me," Pierre affectionately resumed. "This
quarrel between the two countries is certainly a great source of grief
and a great peril. And assuredly I will only say what I think to be the
truth about you. At the same time I fear that you hardly like the truth,
for temperament and custom have hardly prepared you for it. The poets of
every nation who at various times have written on Rome have intoxicated
you with so much praise that you are scarcely fitted to hear the real
truth about your Rome of to-day. No matter how superb a share of praise
one may accord you, one must all the same look at the reality of things,
and this reality is just what you won't admit, lovers of the beautiful as
you ever are, susceptible too like women, whom the slightest hint of a
wrinkle sends into despair."
Orlando began to laugh. "Well, certainly, one must always beautify things
a little," said he. "Why speak of ugly faces at all? We in our theatres
only care for pretty music, pretty dancing, pretty pieces which please
one. As for the rest, whatever is disagreeable let us hide it, for
mercy's sake!"
"On the other hand," the priest continued, "I will cheerfully confess the
great error of my book. The Italian Rome which I neglected and sacrificed
to papal Rome not only exists but is already so powerful and triumphant
that it is surely the other one which is bound to disappear in course of
time. However much the Pope may strive to remain immutable within his
Vatican, a steady evolution goes on around him, and the black world, by
mingling with the white, has already become a grey world. I never
realised that more acutely than at the /fete/ given by Prince
Buongiovanni for the betrothal of his daughter to your grand-nephew. I
came away quite enchanted, won over to the cause of your resurrection."