Produced by Dagny [dagnypg@yahoo.com]
and David Widger [widger@cecomet.net]
THE THREE CITIES
ROME
BY
EMILE ZOLA
TRANSLATED BY ERNEST A. VIZETELLY
PART II
IV
ON the afternoon of that same day Pierre, having leisure before him, at
once thought of beginning his peregrinations through Rome by a visit on
which he had set his heart. Almost immediately after the publication of
"New Rome" he had been deeply moved and interested by a letter addressed
to him from the Eternal City by old Count Orlando Prada, the hero of
Italian independence and reunion, who, although unacquainted with him,
had written spontaneously after a first hasty perusal of his book. And
the letter had been a flaming protest, a cry of the patriotic faith still
young in the heart of that aged man, who accused him of having forgotten
Italy and claimed Rome, the new Rome, for the country which was at last
free and united. Correspondence had ensued, and the priest, while
clinging to his dream of Neo-Catholicism saving the world, had from afar
grown attached to the man who wrote to him with such glowing love of
country and freedom. He had eventually informed him of his journey, and
promised to call upon him. But the hospitality which he had accepted at
the Boccanera mansion now seemed to him somewhat of an impediment; for
after Benedetta's kindly, almost affectionate, greeting, he felt that he
could not, on the very first day and with out warning her, sally forth to
visit the father of the man from whom she had fled and from whom she now
asked the Church to part her for ever. Moreover, old Orlando was actually
living with his son in a little palazzo which the latter had erected at
the farther end of the Via Venti Settembre.
Before venturing on any step Pierre resolved to confide in the Contessina
herself; and this seemed the easier as Viscount Philibert de la Choue had
told him that the young woman still retained a filial feeling, mingled
with admiration, for the old hero. And indeed, at the very first words
which he uttered after lunch, Benedetta promptly retorted: "But go,
Monsieur l'Abbe, go at once! Old Orlando, you know, is one of our
national glories--you must not be surprised to hear me call him by his
Christian name. All Italy does so, from pure affection and gratitude. For
my part I grew up among people who hated him, who likened him to Satan.
It was only later that I learned to know him, and then I loved him, for
he is certainly the most just and gentle man in the world."
She had begun to smile, but timid tears were moistening her eyes at the
recollection, no doubt, of the year of suffering she had spent in her
husband's house, where her only peaceful hours had been those passed with
the old man. And in a lower and somewhat tremulous voice she added: "As
you are going to see him, tell him from me that I still love him, and,
whatever happens, shall never forget his goodness."
So Pierre set out, and whilst he was driving in a cab towards the Via
Venti Settembre, he recalled to mind the heroic story of old Orlando's
life which had been told him in Paris. It was like an epic poem, full of
faith, bravery, and the disinterestedness of another age.
Born of a noble house of Milan, Count Orlando Prada had learnt to hate
the foreigner at such an early age that, when scarcely fifteen, he
already formed part of a secret society, one of the ramifications of the
antique Carbonarism. This hatred of Austrian domination had been
transmitted from father to son through long years, from the olden days of
revolt against servitude, when the conspirators met by stealth in
abandoned huts, deep in the recesses of the forests; and it was rendered
the keener by the eternal dream of Italy delivered, restored to herself,
transformed once more into a great sovereign nation, the worthy daughter
of those who had conquered and ruled the world. Ah! that land of whilom
glory, that unhappy, dismembered, parcelled Italy, the prey of a crowd of
petty tyrants, constantly invaded and appropriated by neighbouring
nations--how superb and ardent was that dream to free her from such long
opprobrium! To defeat the foreigner, drive out the despots, awaken the
people from the base misery of slavery, to proclaim Italy free and Italy
united--such was the passion which then inflamed the young with
inextinguishable ardour, which made the youthful Orlando's heart leap
with enthusiasm. He spent his early years consumed by holy indignation,
proudly and impatiently longing for an opportunity to give his blood for
his country, and to die for her if he could not deliver her.
Quivering under the yoke, wasting his time in sterile conspiracies, he
was living in retirement in the old family residence at Milan, when,
shortly after his marriage and his twenty-fifth birthday, tidings came to
him of the flight of Pius IX and the Revolution of Rome.* And at once he
quitted everything, wife and hearth, and hastened to Rome as if summoned
thither by the call of destiny. This was the first time that he set out
scouring the roads for the attainment of independence; and how
frequently, yet again and again, was he to start upon fresh campaigns,
never wearying, never disheartened! And now it was that he became
acquainted with Mazzini, and for a moment was inflamed with enthusiasm
for that mystical unitarian Republican. He himself indulged in an ardent
dream of a Universal Republic, adopted the Mazzinian device, "/Dio e
popolo/" (God and the people), and followed the procession which wended
its way with great pomp through insurrectionary Rome. The time was one of
vast hopes, one when people already felt a need of renovated religion,
and looked to the coming of a humanitarian Christ who would redeem the
world yet once again. But before long a man, a captain of the ancient
days, Giuseppe Garibaldi, whose epic glory was dawning, made Orlando
entirely his own, transformed him into a soldier whose sole cause was
freedom and union. Orlando loved Garibaldi as though the latter were a
demi-god, fought beside him in defence of Republican Rome, took part in
the victory of Rieti over the Neapolitans, and followed the stubborn
patriot in his retreat when he sought to succour Venice, compelled as he
was to relinquish the Eternal City to the French army of General Oudinot,
who came thither to reinstate Pius IX. And what an extraordinary and
madly heroic adventure was that of Garibaldi and Venice! Venice, which
Manin, another great patriot, a martyr, had again transformed into a
republican city, and which for long months had been resisting the
Austrians! And Garibaldi starts with a handful of men to deliver the
city, charters thirteen fishing barks, loses eight in a naval engagement,
is compelled to return to the Roman shores, and there in all wretchedness
is bereft of his wife, Anita, whose eyes he closes before returning to
America, where, once before, he had awaited the hour of insurrection. Ah!
that land of Italy, which in those days rumbled from end to end with the
internal fire of patriotism, where men of faith and courage arose in
every city, where riots and insurrections burst forth on all sides like
eruptions--it continued, in spite of every check, its invincible march to
freedom!
* It was on November 24, 1848, that the Pope fled to Gaeta,
consequent upon the insurrection which had broken out nine
days previously.--Trans.
Orlando returned to his young wife at Milan, and for two years lived
there, almost in concealment, devoured by impatience for the glorious
morrow which was so long in coming. Amidst his fever a gleam of happiness
softened his heart; a son, Luigi, was born to him, but the birth killed
the mother, and joy was turned into mourning. Then, unable to remain any
longer at Milan, where he was spied upon, tracked by the police,
suffering also too grievously from the foreign occupation, Orlando
decided to realise the little fortune remaining to him, and to withdraw
to Turin, where an aunt of his wife took charge of the child. Count di
Cavour, like a great statesman, was then already seeking to bring about
independence, preparing Piedmont for the decisive /role/ which it was
destined to play. It was the time when King Victor Emmanuel evinced
flattering cordiality towards all the refugees who came to him from every
part of Italy, even those whom he knew to be Republicans, compromised and
flying the consequences of popular insurrection. The rough, shrewd House
of Savoy had long been dreaming of bringing about Italian unity to the
profit of the Piedmontese monarchy, and Orlando well knew under what
master he was taking service; but in him the Republican already went
behind the patriot, and indeed he had begun to question the possibility
of a united Republican Italy, placed under the protectorate of a liberal
Pope, as Mazzini had at one time dreamed. Was that not indeed a chimera
beyond realisation which would devour generation after generation if one
obstinately continued to pursue it? For his part, he did not wish to die
without having slept in Rome as one of the conquerors. Even if liberty
was to be lost, he desired to see his country united and erect, returning
once more to life in the full sunlight. And so it was with feverish
happiness that he enlisted at the outset of the war of 1859; and his
heart palpitated with such force as almost to rend his breast, when,
after Magenta, he entered Milan with the French army--Milan which he had
quitted eight years previously, like an exile, in despair. The treaty of
Villafranca which followed Solferino proved a bitter deception: Venetia
was not secured, Venice remained enthralled. Nevertheless the Milanese
was conquered from the foe, and then Tuscany and the duchies of Parma and
Modena voted for annexation. So, at all events, the nucleus of the
Italian star was formed; the country had begun to build itself up afresh
around victorious Piedmont.
Then, in the following year, Orlando plunged into epopoeia once more.
Garibaldi had returned from his two sojourns in America, with the halo of
a legend round him--paladin-like feats in the pampas of Uruguay, an
extraordinary passage from Canton to Lima--and he had returned to take
part in the war of 1859, forestalling the French army, overthrowing an
Austrian marshal, and entering Como, Bergamo, and Brescia. And now, all
at once, folks heard that he had landed at Marsala with only a thousand
men--the Thousand of Marsala, the ever illustrious handful of braves!
Orlando fought in the first rank, and Palermo after three days'
resistance was carried. Becoming the dictator's favourite lieutenant, he
helped him to organise a government, then crossed the straits with him,
and was beside him on the triumphal entry into Naples, whose king had
fled. There was mad audacity and valour at that time, an explosion of the
inevitable; and all sorts of supernatural stories were current--Garibaldi
invulnerable, protected better by his red shirt than by the strongest
armour, Garibaldi routing opposing armies like an archangel, by merely
brandishing his flaming sword! The Piedmontese on their side had defeated
General Lamoriciere at Castelfidardo, and were invading the States of the
Church. And Orlando was there when the dictator, abdicating power, signed
the decree which annexed the Two Sicilies to the Crown of Italy; even as
subsequently he took part in that forlorn attempt on Rome, when the
rageful cry was "Rome or Death!"--an attempt which came to a tragic issue
at Aspromonte, when the little army was dispersed by the Italian troops,
and Garibaldi, wounded, was taken prisoner, and sent back to the solitude
of his island of Caprera, where he became but a fisherman and a tiller of
the rocky soil.*
* M. Zola's brief but glowing account of Garibaldi's glorious
achievements has stirred many memories in my mind. My uncle,
Frank Vizetelly, the war artist of the /Illustrated London
News/, whose bones lie bleaching somewhere in the Soudan, was
one of Garibaldi's constant companions throughout the memorable
campaign of the Two Sicilies, and afterwards he went with him
to Caprera. Later, in 1870, my brother, Edward Vizetelly, acted
as orderly-officer to the general when he offered the help of
his sword to France.--Trans.
Six years of waiting again went by, and Orlando still dwelt at Turin,
even after Florence had been chosen as the new capital. The Senate had
acclaimed Victor Emmanuel, King of Italy; and Italy was indeed almost
built, it lacked only Rome and Venice. But the great battles seemed all
over, the epic era was closed; Venice was to be won by defeat. Orlando
took part in the unlucky battle of Custozza, where he received two
wounds, full of furious grief at the thought that Austria should be
triumphant. But at that same moment the latter, defeated at Sadowa,
relinquished Venetia, and five months later Orlando satisfied his desire
to be in Venice participating in the joy of triumph, when Victor Emmanuel
made his entry amidst the frantic acclamations of the people. Rome alone
remained to be won, and wild impatience urged all Italy towards the city;
but friendly France had sworn to maintain the Pope, and this acted as a
check. Then, for the third time, Garibaldi dreamt of renewing the feats
of the old-world legends, and threw himself upon Rome like a soldier of
fortune illumined by patriotism and free from every tie. And for the
third time Orlando shared in that fine heroic madness destined to be
vanquished at Mentana by the Pontifical Zouaves supported by a small
French corps. Again wounded, he came back to Turin in almost a dying
condition. But, though his spirit quivered, he had to resign himself; the
situation seemed to have no outlet; only an upheaval of the nations could
give Rome to Italy.
All at once the thunderclap of Sedan, of the downfall of France,
resounded through the world; and then the road to Rome lay open, and
Orlando, having returned to service in the regular army, was with the
troops who took up position in the Campagna to ensure the safety of the
Holy See, as was said in the letter which Victor Emmanuel wrote to Pius
IX. There was, however, but the shadow of an engagement: General
Kanzler's Pontifical Zouaves were compelled to fall back, and Orlando was
one of the first to enter the city by the breach of the Porta Pia. Ah!
that twentieth of September--that day when he experienced the greatest
happiness of his life--a day of delirium, of complete triumph, which
realised the dream of so many years of terrible contest, the dream for
which he had sacrificed rest and fortune, and given both body and mind!
Then came more than ten happy years in conquered Rome--in Rome adored,
flattered, treated with all tenderness, like a woman in whom one has
placed one's entire hope. From her he awaited so much national vigour,
such a marvellous resurrection of strength and glory for the endowment of
the young nation. Old Republican, old insurrectional soldier that he was,
he had been obliged to adhere to the monarchy, and accept a senatorship.
But then did not Garibaldi himself--Garibaldi his divinity--likewise call
upon the King and sit in parliament? Mazzini alone, rejecting all
compromises, was unwilling to rest content with a united and independent
Italy that was not Republican. Moreover, another consideration influenced
Orlando, the future of his son Luigi, who had attained his eighteenth
birthday shortly after the occupation of Rome. Though he, Orlando, could
manage with the crumbs which remained of the fortune he had expended in
his country's service, he dreamt of a splendid destiny for the child of
his heart. Realising that the heroic age was over, he desired to make a
great politician of him, a great administrator, a man who should be
useful to the mighty nation of the morrow; and it was on this account
that he had not rejected royal favour, the reward of long devotion,
desiring, as he did, to be in a position to help, watch, and guide Luigi.
Besides, was he himself so old, so used-up, as to be unable to assist in
organisation, even as he had assisted in conquest? Struck by his son's
quick intelligence in business matters, perhaps also instinctively
divining that the battle would now continue on financial and economic
grounds, he obtained him employment at the Ministry of Finances. And
again he himself lived on, dreaming, still enthusiastically believing in
a splendid future, overflowing with boundless hope, seeing Rome double
her population, grow and spread with a wild vegetation of new districts,
and once more, in his loving enraptured eyes, become the queen of the
world.
But all at once came a thunderbolt. One morning, as he was going
downstairs, Orlando was stricken with paralysis. Both his legs suddenly
became lifeless, as heavy as lead. It was necessary to carry him up
again, and never since had he set foot on the street pavement. At that
time he had just completed his fifty-sixth year, and for fourteen years
since he had remained in his arm-chair, as motionless as stone, he who
had so impetuously trod every battlefield of Italy. It was a pitiful
business, the collapse of a hero. And worst of all, from that room where
he was for ever imprisoned, the old soldier beheld the slow crumbling of
all his hopes, and fell into dismal melancholy, full of unacknowledged
fear for the future. Now that the intoxication of action no longer dimmed
his eyes, now that he spent his long and empty days in thought, his
vision became clear. Italy, which he had desired to see so powerful, so
triumphant in her unity, was acting madly, rushing to ruin, possibly to
bankruptcy. Rome, which to him had ever been the one necessary capital,
the city of unparalleled glory, requisite for the sovereign people of
to-morrow, seemed unwilling to take upon herself the part of a great
modern metropolis; heavy as a corpse she weighed with all her centuries
on the bosom of the young nation. Moreover, his son Luigi distressed him.
Rebellious to all guidance, the young man had become one of the devouring
offsprings of conquest, eager to despoil that Italy, that Rome, which his
father seemed to have desired solely in order that he might pillage them
and batten on them. Orlando had vainly opposed Luigi's departure from the
ministry, his participation in the frantic speculations on land and house
property to which the mad building of the new districts had given rise.
But at the same time he loved his son, and was reduced to silence,
especially now when everything had succeeded with Luigi, even his most
risky financial ventures, such as the transformation of the Villa
Montefiori into a perfect town--a colossal enterprise in which many of
great wealth had been ruined, but whence he himself had emerged with
millions. And it was in part for this reason that Orlando, sad and
silent, had obstinately restricted himself to one small room on the third
floor of the little palazzo erected by Luigi in the Via Venti
Settembre--a room where he lived cloistered with a single servant,
subsisting on his own scanty income, and accepting nothing but that
modest hospitality from his son.
As Pierre reached that new Via Venti Settembre* which climbs the side and
summit of the Viminal hill, he was struck by the heavy sumptuousness of
the new "palaces," which betokened among the moderns the same taste for
the huge that marked the ancient Romans. In the warm afternoon glow,
blent of purple and old gold, the broad, triumphant thoroughfare, with
its endless rows of white house-fronts, bore witness to new Rome's proud
hope of futurity and sovereign power. And Pierre fairly gasped when he
beheld the Palazzo delle Finanze, or Treasury, a gigantic erection, a
cyclopean cube with a profusion of columns, balconies, pediments, and
sculptured work, to which the building mania had given birth in a day of
immoderate pride. And on the other side of the street, a little higher
up, before reaching the Villa Bonaparte, stood Count Prada's little
palazzo.
* The name--Twentieth September Street--was given to the
thoroughfare to commemorate the date of the occupation
of Rome by Victor Emmanuel's army.--Trans.
After discharging his driver, Pierre for a moment remained somewhat
embarrassed. The door was open, and he entered the vestibule; but, as at
the mansion in the Via Giulia, no door porter or servant was to be seen.
So he had to make up his mind to ascend the monumental stairs, which with
their marble balustrades seemed to be copied, on a smaller scale, from
those of the Palazzo Boccanera. And there was much the same cold
bareness, tempered, however, by a carpet and red door-hangings, which
contrasted vividly with the white stucco of the walls. The
reception-rooms, sixteen feet high, were on the first floor, and as a
door chanced to be ajar he caught a glimpse of two /salons/, one
following the other, and both displaying quite modern richness, with a
profusion of silk and velvet hangings, gilt furniture, and lofty mirrors
reflecting a pompous assemblage of stands and tables. And still there was
nobody, not a soul, in that seemingly forsaken abode, which exhaled
nought of woman's presence. Indeed Pierre was on the point of going down
again to ring, when a footman at last presented himself.
"Count Prada, if you please."
The servant silently surveyed the little priest, and seemed to
understand. "The father or the son?" he asked.
"The father, Count Orlando Prada."
"Oh! that's on the third floor." And he condescended to add: "The little
door on the right-hand side of the landing. Knock loudly if you wish to
be admitted."
Pierre indeed had to knock twice, and then a little withered old man of
military appearance, a former soldier who had remained in the Count's
service, opened the door and apologised for the delay by saying that he
had been attending to his master's legs. Immediately afterwards he
announced the visitor, and the latter, after passing through a dim and
narrow ante-room, was lost in amazement on finding himself in a
relatively small chamber, extremely bare and bright, with wall-paper of a
light hue studded with tiny blue flowers. Behind a screen was an iron
bedstead, the soldier's pallet, and there was no other furniture than the
arm-chair in which the cripple spent his days, with a table of black wood
placed near him, and covered with books and papers, and two old
straw-seated chairs which served for the accommodation of the infrequent
visitors. A few planks, fixed to one of the walls, did duty as
book-shelves. However, the broad, clear, curtainless window overlooked
the most admirable panorama of Rome that could be desired.
Then the room disappeared from before Pierre's eyes, and with a sudden
shock of deep emotion he only beheld old Orlando, the old blanched lion,
still superb, broad, and tall. A forest of white hair crowned his
powerful head, with its thick mouth, fleshy broken nose, and large,
sparkling, black eyes. A long white beard streamed down with the vigour
of youth, curling like that of an ancient god. By that leonine muzzle one
divined what great passions had growled within; but all, carnal and
intellectual alike, had erupted in patriotism, in wild bravery, and
riotous love of independence. And the old stricken hero, his torso still
erect, was fixed there on his straw-seated arm-chair, with lifeless legs
buried beneath a black wrapper. Alone did his arms and hands live, and
his face beam with strength and intelligence.
Orlando turned towards his servant, and gently said to him: "You can go
away, Batista. Come back in a couple of hours." Then, looking Pierre full
in the face, he exclaimed in a voice which was still sonorous despite his
seventy years: "So it's you at last, my dear Monsieur Froment, and we
shall be able to chat at our ease. There, take that chair, and sit down
in front of me."
He had noticed the glance of surprise which the young priest had cast
upon the bareness of the room, and he gaily added: "You will excuse me
for receiving you in my cell. Yes, I live here like a monk, like an old
invalided soldier, henceforth withdrawn from active life. My son long
begged me to take one of the fine rooms downstairs. But what would have
been the use of it? I have no needs, and I scarcely care for feather
beds, for my old bones are accustomed to the hard ground. And then too I
have such a fine view up here, all Rome presenting herself to me, now
that I can no longer go to her."
With a wave of the hand towards the window he sought to hide the
embarrassment, the slight flush which came to him each time that he thus
excused his son; unwilling as he was to tell the true reason, the scruple
of probity which had made him obstinately cling to his bare pauper's
lodging.
"But it is very nice, the view is superb!" declared Pierre, in order to
please him. "I am for my own part very glad to see you, very glad to be
able to grasp your valiant hands, which accomplished so many great
things."
Orlando made a fresh gesture, as though to sweep the past away. "Pooh!
pooh! all that is dead and buried. Let us talk about you, my dear
Monsieur Froment, you who are young and represent the present; and
especially about your book, which represents the future! Ah! if you only
knew how angry your book, your 'New Rome,' made me first of all."
He began to laugh, and took the book from off the table near him; then,
tapping on its cover with his big, broad hand, he continued: "No, you
cannot imagine with what starts of protest I read your book. The Pope,
and again the Pope, and always the Pope! New Rome to be created by the
Pope and for the Pope, to triumph thanks to the Pope, to be given to the
Pope, and to fuse its glory in the glory of the Pope! But what about us?
What about Italy? What about all the millions which we have spent in
order to make Rome a great capital? Ah! only a Frenchman, and a Frenchman
of Paris, could have written such a book! But let me tell you, my dear
sir, if you are ignorant of it, that Rome has become the capital of the
kingdom of Italy, that we here have King Humbert, and the Italian people,
a whole nation which must be taken into account, and which means to keep
Rome--glorious, resuscitated Rome--for itself!"
This juvenile ardour made Pierre laugh in turn. "Yes, yes," said he, "you
wrote me that. Only what does it matter from my point of view? Italy is
but one nation, a part of humanity, and I desire concord and fraternity
among all the nations, mankind reconciled, believing, and happy. Of what
consequence, then, is any particular form of government, monarchy or
republic, of what consequence is any question of a united and independent
country, if all mankind forms but one free people subsisting on truth and
justice?"
To only one word of this enthusiastic outburst did Orlando pay attention.
In a lower tone, and with a dreamy air, he resumed: "Ah! a republic. In
my youth I ardently desired one. I fought for one; I conspired with
Mazzini, a saintly man, a believer, who was shattered by collision with
the absolute. And then, too, one had to bow to practical necessities; the
most obstinate ended by submitting. And nowadays would a republic save
us? In any case it would differ but little from our parliamentary
monarchy. Just think of what goes on in France! And so why risk a
revolution which would place power in the hands of the extreme
revolutionists, the anarchists? We fear all that, and this explains our
resignation. I know very well that a few think they can detect salvation
in a republican federation, a reconstitution of all the former little
states in so many republics, over which Rome would preside. The Vatican
would gain largely by any such transformation; still one cannot say that
it endeavours to bring it about; it simply regards the eventuality
without disfavour. But it is a dream, a dream!"
At this Orlando's gaiety came back to him, with even a little gentle
irony: "You don't know, I suppose, what it was that took my fancy in your
book--for, in spite of all my protests, I have read it twice. Well, what
pleased me was that Mazzini himself might almost have written it at one
time. Yes! I found all my youth again in your pages, all the wild hope of
my twenty-fifth year, the new religion of a humanitarian Christ, the
pacification of the world effected by the Gospel! Are you aware that,
long before your time, Mazzini desired the renovation of Christianity? He
set dogma and discipline on one side and only retained morals. And it was
new Rome, the Rome of the people, which he would have given as see to the
universal Church, in which all the churches of the past were to be
fused--Rome, the eternal and predestined city, the mother and queen,
whose domination was to arise anew to ensure the definitive happiness of
mankind! Is it not curious that all the present-day Neo-Catholicism, the
vague, spiritualistic awakening, the evolution towards communion and
Christian charity, with which some are making so much stir, should be
simply a return of the mystical and humanitarian ideas of 1848? Alas! I
saw all that, I believed and burned, and I know in what a fine mess those
flights into the azure of mystery landed us! So it cannot be helped, I
lack confidence."
Then, as Pierre on his side was growing impassioned and sought to reply,
he stopped him: "No, let me finish. I only want to convince you how
absolutely necessary it was that we should take Rome and make her the
capital of Italy. Without Rome new Italy could not have existed; Rome
represented the glory of ancient time; in her dust lay the sovereign
power which we wished to re-establish; she brought strength, beauty,
eternity to those who possessed her. Standing in the middle of our
country, she was its heart, and must assuredly become its life as soon as
she should be awakened from the long sleep of ruin. Ah! how we desired
her, amidst victory and amidst defeat, through years and years of
frightful impatience! For my part I loved her, and longed for her, far
more than for any woman, with my blood burning, and in despair that I
should be growing old. And when we possessed her, our folly was a desire
to behold her huge, magnificent, and commanding all at once, the equal of
the other great capitals of Europe--Berlin, Paris, and London. Look at
her! she is still my only love, my only consolation now that I am
virtually dead, with nothing alive in me but my eyes."
With the same gesture as before, he directed Pierre's attention to the
window. Under the glowing sky Rome stretched out in its immensity,
empurpled and gilded by the slanting sunrays. Across the horizon, far,
far away, the trees of the Janiculum stretched a green girdle, of a
limpid emerald hue, whilst the dome of St. Peter's, more to the left,
showed palely blue, like a sapphire bedimmed by too bright a light. Then
came the low town, the old ruddy city, baked as it were by centuries of
burning summers, soft to the eye and beautiful with the deep life of the
past, an unbounded chaos of roofs, gables, towers, /campanili/, and
cupolas. But, in the foreground under the window, there was the new
city--that which had been building for the last five and twenty
years--huge blocks of masonry piled up side by side, still white with
plaster, neither the sun nor history having as yet robed them in purple.
And in particular the roofs of the colossal Palazzo delle Finanze had a
disastrous effect, spreading out like far, bare steppes of cruel
hideousness. And it was upon the desolation and abomination of all the
newly erected piles that the eyes of the old soldier of conquest at last
rested.
Silence ensued. Pierre felt the faint chill of hidden, unacknowledged
sadness pass by, and courteously waited.
"I must beg your pardon for having interrupted you just now," resumed
Orlando; "but it seems to me that we cannot talk about your book to any
good purpose until you have seen and studied Rome closely. You only
arrived yesterday, did you not? Well, stroll about the city, look at
things, question people, and I think that many of your ideas will change.
I shall particularly like to know your impression of the Vatican since
you have cone here solely to see the Pope and defend your book against
the Index. Why should we discuss things to-day, if facts themselves are
calculated to bring you to other views, far more readily than the finest
speeches which I might make? It is understood, you will come to see me
again, and we shall then know what we are talking about, and, maybe,
agree together."
"Why certainly, you are too kind," replied Pierre. "I only came to-day to
express my gratitude to you for having read my book so attentively, and
to pay homage to one of the glories of Italy."
Orlando was not listening, but remained for a moment absorbed in thought,
with his eyes still resting upon Rome. And overcome, despite himself, by
secret disquietude, he resumed in a low voice as though making an
involuntary confession: "We have gone too fast, no doubt. There were
expenses of undeniable utility--the roads, ports, and railways. And it
was necessary to arm the country also; I did not at first disapprove of
the heavy military burden. But since then how crushing has been the war
budget--a war which has never come, and the long wait for which has
ruined us. Ah! I have always been the friend of France. I only reproach
her with one thing, that she has failed to understand the position in
which we were placed, the vital reasons which compelled us to ally
ourselves with Germany. And then there are the thousand millions of
/lire/* swallowed up in Rome! That was the real madness; pride and
enthusiasm led us astray. Old and solitary as I've been for many years
now, given to deep reflection, I was one of the first to divine the
pitfall, the frightful financial crisis, the deficit which would bring
about the collapse of the nation. I shouted it from the housetops, to my
son, to all who came near me; but what was the use? They didn't listen;
they were mad, still buying and selling and building, with no thought but
for gambling booms and bubbles. But you'll see, you'll see. And the worst
is that we are not situated as you are; we haven't a reserve of men and
money in a dense peasant population, whose thrifty savings are always at
hand to fill up the gaps caused by big catastrophes. There is no social
rise among our people as yet; fresh men don't spring up out of the lower
classes to reinvigorate the national blood, as they constantly do in your
country. And, besides, the people are poor; they have no stockings to
empty. The misery is frightful, I must admit it. Those who have any money
prefer to spend it in the towns in a petty way rather than to risk it in
agricultural or manufacturing enterprise. Factories are but slowly built,
and the land is almost everywhere tilled in the same primitive manner as
it was two thousand years ago. And then, too, take Rome--Rome, which
didn't make Italy, but which Italy made its capital to satisfy an ardent,
overpowering desire--Rome, which is still but a splendid bit of scenery,
picturing the glory of the centuries, and which, apart from its
historical splendour, has only given us its degenerate papal population,
swollen with ignorance and pride! Ah! I loved Rome too well, and I still
love it too well to regret being now within its walls. But, good heavens!
what insanity its acquisition brought us, what piles of money it has cost
us, and how heavily and triumphantly it weighs us down! Look! look!"
* 40,000,000 pounds.
He waved his hand as he spoke towards the livid roofs of the Palazzo
delle Finanze, that vast and desolate steppe, as though he could see the
harvest of glory all stripped off and bankruptcy appear with its fearful,
threatening bareness. Restrained tears were dimming his eyes, and he
looked superbly pitiful with his expression of baffled hope and grievous
disquietude, with his huge white head, the muzzle of an old blanched lion
henceforth powerless and caged in that bare, bright room, whose
poverty-stricken aspect was instinct with so much pride that it seemed,
as it were, a protest against the monumental splendour of the whole
surrounding district! So those were the purposes to which the conquest
had been put! And to think that he was impotent, henceforth unable to
give his blood and his soul as he had done in the days gone by.
"Yes, yes," he exclaimed in a final outburst; "one gave everything, heart
and brain, one's whole life indeed, so long as it was a question of
making the country one and independent. But, now that the country is
ours, just try to stir up enthusiasm for the reorganisation of its
finances! There's no ideality in that! And this explains why, whilst the
old ones are dying off, not a new man comes to the front among the young
ones--"
All at once he stopped, looking somewhat embarrassed, yet smiling at his
feverishness. "Excuse me," he said, "I'm off again, I'm incorrigible. But
it's understood, we'll leave that subject alone, and you'll come back
here, and we'll chat together when you've seen everything."
From that moment he showed himself extremely pleasant, and it was
apparent to Pierre that he regretted having said so much, by the
seductive affability and growing affection which he now displayed. He
begged the young priest to prolong his sojourn, to abstain from all hasty
judgments on Rome, and to rest convinced that, at bottom, Italy still
loved France. And he was also very desirous that France should love
Italy, and displayed genuine anxiety at the thought that perhaps she
loved her no more. As at the Boccanera mansion, on the previous evening,
Pierre realised that an attempt was being made to persuade him to
admiration and affection. Like a susceptible woman with secret misgivings
respecting the attractive power of her beauty, Italy was all anxiety with
regard to the opinion of her visitors, and strove to win and retain their
love.
However, Orlando again became impassioned when he learnt that Pierre was
staying at the Boccanera mansion, and he made a gesture of extreme
annoyance on hearing, at that very moment, a knock at the outer door.
"Come in!" he called; but at the same time he detained Pierre, saying,
"No, no, don't go yet; I wish to know--"
But a lady came in--a woman of over forty, short and extremely plump, and
still attractive with her small features and pretty smile swamped in fat.
She was a blonde, with green, limpid eyes; and, fairly well dressed in a
sober, nicely fitting mignonette gown, she looked at once pleasant,
modest, and shrewd.
"Ah! it's you, Stefana," said the old man, letting her kiss him.
"Yes, uncle, I was passing by and came up to see how you were getting
on."
The visitor was the Signora Sacco, niece of Prada and a Neapolitan by
birth, her mother having quitted Milan to marry a certain Pagani, a
Neapolitan banker, who had afterwards failed. Subsequent to that disaster
Stefana had married Sacco, then merely a petty post-office clerk. He,
later on, wishing to revive his father-in-law's business, had launched
into all sorts of terrible, complicated, suspicious affairs, which by
unforeseen luck had ended in his election as a deputy. Since he had
arrived in Rome, to conquer the city in his turn, his wife had been
compelled to assist his devouring ambition by dressing well and opening a
/salon/; and, although she was still a little awkward, she rendered him
many real services, being very economical and prudent, a thorough good
housewife, with all the sterling, substantial qualities of Northern Italy
which she had inherited from her mother, and which showed conspicuously
beside the turbulence and carelessness of her husband, in whom flared
Southern Italy with its perpetual, rageful appetite.
Despite his contempt for Sacco, old Orlando had retained some affection
for his niece, in whose veins flowed blood similar to his own. He thanked
her for her kind inquiries, and then at once spoke of an announcement
which he had read in the morning papers, for he suspected that the deputy
had sent his wife to ascertain his opinion.
"Well, and that ministry?" he asked.
The Signora had seated herself and made no haste to reply, but glanced at
the newspapers strewn over the table. "Oh! nothing is settled yet," she
at last responded; "the newspapers spoke out too soon. The Prime Minister
sent for Sacco, and they had a talk together. But Sacco hesitates a good
deal; he fears that he has no aptitude for the Department of Agriculture.
Ah! if it were only the Finances--However, in any case, he would not have
come to a decision without consulting you. What do you think of it,
uncle?"
He interrupted her with a violent wave of the hand: "No, no, I won't mix
myself up in such matters!"
To him the rapid success of that adventurer Sacco, that schemer and
gambler who had always fished in troubled waters, was an abomination, the
beginning of the end. His son Luigi certainly distressed him; but it was
even worse to think that--whilst Luigi, with his great intelligence and
many remaining fine qualities, was nothing at all--Sacco, on the other
hand, Sacco, blunderhead and ever-famished battener that he was, had not
merely slipped into parliament, but was now, it seemed, on the point of
securing office! A little, swarthy, dry man he was, with big, round eyes,
projecting cheekbones, and prominent chin. Ever dancing and chattering,
he was gifted with a showy eloquence, all the force of which lay in his
voice--a voice which at will became admirably powerful or gentle! And
withal an insinuating man, profiting by every opportunity, wheedling and
commanding by turn.
"You hear, Stefana," said Orlando; "tell your husband that the only
advice I have to give him is to return to his clerkship at the
post-office, where perhaps he may be of use."
What particularly filled the old soldier with indignation and despair was
that such a man, a Sacco, should have fallen like a bandit on Rome--on
that Rome whose conquest had cost so many noble efforts. And in his turn
Sacco was conquering the city, was carrying it off from those who had won
it by such hard toil, and was simply using it to satisfy his wild passion
for power and its attendant enjoyments. Beneath his wheedling air there
was the determination to devour everything. After the victory, while the
spoil lay there, still warm, the wolves had come. It was the North that
had made Italy, whereas the South, eager for the quarry, simply rushed
upon the country, preyed upon it. And beneath the anger of the old
stricken hero of Italian unity there was indeed all the growing
antagonism of the North towards the South--the North industrious,
economical, shrewd in politics, enlightened, full of all the great modern
ideas, and the South ignorant and idle, bent on enjoying life
immediately, amidst childish disorder in action, and an empty show of
fine sonorous words.
Stefana had begun to smile in a placid way while glancing at Pierre, who
had approached the window. "Oh, you say that, uncle," she responded; "but
you love us well all the same, and more than once you have given me
myself some good advice, for which I'm very thankful to you. For
instance, there's that affair of Attilio's--"
She was alluding to her son, the lieutenant, and his love affair with
Celia, the little Princess Buongiovanni, of which all the drawing-rooms,
white and black alike, were talking.
"Attilio--that's another matter!" exclaimed Orlando. "He and you are both
of the same blood as myself, and it's wonderful how I see myself again in
that fine fellow. Yes, he is just the same as I was at his age,
good-looking and brave and enthusiastic! I'm paying myself compliments,
you see. But, really now, Attilio warms my heart, for he is the future,
and brings me back some hope. Well, and what about his affair?"
"Oh! it gives us a lot of worry, uncle. I spoke to you about it before,
but you shrugged your shoulders, saying that in matters of that kind all
that the parents had to do was to let the lovers settle their affairs
between them. Still, we don't want everybody to repeat that we are urging
our son to get the little princess to elope with him, so that he may
afterwards marry her money and title."
At this Orlando indulged in a frank outburst of gaiety: "That's a fine
scruple! Was it your husband who instructed you to tell me of it? I know,
however, that he affects some delicacy in this matter. For my own part, I
believe myself to be as honest as he is, and I can only repeat that, if I
had a son like yours, so straightforward and good, and candidly loving, I
should let him marry whomsoever he pleased in his own way. The
Buongiovannis--good heavens! the Buongiovannis--why, despite all their
rank and lineage and the money they still possess, it will be a great
honour for them to have a handsome young man with a noble heart as their
son-in-law!"
Again did Stefana assume an expression of placid satisfaction. She had
certainly only come there for approval. "Very well, uncle," she replied,
"I'll repeat that to my husband, and he will pay great attention to it;
for if you are severe towards him he holds you in perfect veneration. And
as for that ministry--well, perhaps nothing will be done, Sacco will
decide according to circumstances."
She rose and took her leave, kissing the old soldier very affectionately
as on her arrival. And she complimented him on his good looks, declaring
that she found him as handsome as ever, and making him smile by speaking
of a lady who was still madly in love with him. Then, after acknowledging
the young priest's silent salutation by a slight bow, she went off, once
more wearing her modest and sensible air.
For a moment Orlando, with his eyes turned towards the door, remained
silent, again sad, reflecting no doubt on all the difficult, equivocal
present, so different from the glorious past. But all at once he turned
to Pierre, who was still waiting. "And so, my friend," said he, "you are
staying at the Palazzo Boccanera? Ah! what a grievous misfortune there
has been on that side too!"
However, when the priest had told him of his conversation with Benedetta,
and of her message that she still loved him and would never forget his
goodness to her, no matter whatever happened, he appeared moved and his
voice trembled: "Yes, she has a good heart, she has no spite. But what
would you have? She did not love Luigi, and he was possibly violent.
There is no mystery about the matter now, and I can speak to you freely,
since to my great grief everybody knows what has happened."