COUNTESS AMMIANI
Countess Ammiani was a Venetian lady of a famous House, the name of
which is as a trumpet sounding from the inner pages of the Republic.
Her face was like a leaf torn from an antique volume; the hereditary
features told the story of her days. The face was sallow and fireless;
life had faded like a painted cloth upon the imperishable moulding.
She had neither fire in her eyes nor colour on her skin. The thin close
multitudinous wrinkles ran up accurately ruled from the chin to the
forehead's centre, and touched faintly once or twice beyond, as you
observe the ocean ripples run in threads confused to smoothness within a
space of the grey horizon sky. But the chin was firm, the mouth and nose
were firm, the forehead sat calmly above these shows of decay. It was a
most noble face; a fortress face; strong and massive, and honourable in
ruin, though stripped of every flower.
This lady in her girlhood had been the one lamb of the family dedicated
to heaven. Paolo, the General, her lover, had wrenched her from that
fate to share with him a life of turbulent sorrows till she should
behold the blood upon his grave. She, like Laura Fiaveni, had bent her
head above a slaughtered husband, but, unlike Laura, Marcellina Ammiani
had not buried her heart with him. Her heart and all her energies had
been his while he lived; from the visage of death it turned to her son.
She had accepted the passion for Italy from Paolo; she shared it with
Carlo. Italian girls of that period had as little passion of their own
as flowers kept out of sunlight have hues. She had given her son to her
country with that intensely apprehensive foresight of a mother's love
which runs quick as Eastern light from the fervour of the devotion to
the remote realization of the hour of the sacrifice, seeing both in one.
Other forms of love, devotion in other bosoms, may be deluded, but hers
will not be. She sees the sunset in the breast of the springing dawn.
Often her son Carlo stood a ghost in her sight. With this haunting
prophetic vision, it was only a mother, who was at the same time a
supremely noble woman, that could feel all human to him notwithstanding.
Her heart beat thick and fast when Carlo and Luciano entered the
morning-room where she sat, and stopped to salute her in turn.
'Well?' she said without betraying anxiety or playing at carelessness.
Carlo answered, 'Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die. I think
that's the language of peaceful men.'
'You are to be peaceful men to-morrow, my Carlo?'
'The thing is in Count Medole's hands,' said Luciano; 'and he is
constitutionally of our Agostino's opinion that we are bound to wait
till the Gods kick us into action; and, as Agostino says, Medole has
raised himself upon our shoulders so as to be the more susceptible to
their wishes when they blow a gale.'
He informed her of the momentary thwarting of the conspiracy, and won
Carlo's gratitude by not speaking of the suspicion which had fallen on
Vittoria.
'Medole,' he said, 'has the principal conduct of the business in Milan,
as you know, countess. Our Chief cannot be everywhere at once; so Medole
undertakes to decide for him here in old Milan. He decided yesterday
afternoon to put off our holiday for what he calls a week. Checco, the
idiot, in whom he confides, gave me the paper signifying the fact at
four o'clock. There was no appeal; for we can get no place of general
meeting under Medole's prudent management. He fears our being swallowed
in a body if we all meet.'
The news sent her heart sinking in short throbs down to a delicious
rest; but Countess Ammiani disdained to be servile to the pleasure, even
as she had strengthened herself to endure the shocks of pain. It was a
conquered heart that she and every Venetian and Lombard mother had to
carry; one that played its tune according to its nature, shaping no
action, sporting no mask. If you know what is meant by that phrase, a
conquered heart, you will at least respect them whom you call weak women
for having gone through the harshest schooling which this world can show
example of. In such mothers Italy revived. The pangs and the martyrdom
were theirs. Fathers could march to the field or to the grey glacis with
their boys; there was no intoxication of hot blood to cheer those who
sat at home watching the rise and fall of trembling scales which said
life or death for their dearest. Their least shadowy hope could be but a
shrouded contentment in prospect; a shrouded submission in feeling. What
bloom of hope was there when Austria stood like an iron wall, and their
own ones dashing against it were as little feeble waves that left a red
mark and no more? But, duty to their country had become their religion;
sacrifice they accepted as their portion; when the last stern evil
befell them they clad themselves in a veil and walked upon an earth they
had passed from for all purposes save service of hands. Italy revived in
these mothers. Their torture was that of the re-animation of her frame
from the death-trance.
Carlo and Luciano fell hungrily upon dishes of herb-flavoured cutlets,
and Neapolitan maccaroni, green figs, green and red slices of melon,
chocolate, and a dry red Florentine wine. The countess let them eat, and
then gave her son a letter that been delivered at her door an hour back
by the confectioner Zotti. It proved to be an enclosure of a letter
addressed to Vittoria by the Chief. Genoa was its superscription. From
that place it was forwarded by running relays of volunteer messengers.
There were points of Italy which the Chief could reach four-and-twenty
hours in advance of the Government with all its aids and machinery.
Vittoria had simply put her initials at the foot of the letter. Carlo
read it eagerly and cast it aside. It dealt in ideas and abstract
phraseology; he could get nothing of it between his impatient teeth;
he was reduced to a blank wonder at the reason for her sending it on to
him. It said indeed--and so far it seemed to have a meaning for her:
'No backward step. We can bear to fall; we cannot afford to draw back.'
And again:
'Remember that these uprisings are the manifested pulsations of the
heart of your country, so that none shall say she is a corpse, and
knowing that she lives, none shall say that she deserves not freedom. It
is the protest of her immortal being against her impious violator.'
Evidently the Chief had heard nothing of the counterstroke of Barto
Rizzo, and of Count Medole's miserable weakness: but how, thought
Carlo, how can a mind like Vittoria's find matter to suit her in such
sentences? He asked himself the question, forgetting that a little time
gone by, while he was aloof from the tumult and dreaming of it, this
airy cloudy language and every symbolism, had been strong sustaining
food, a vital atmosphere, to him. He did not for the moment (though by
degrees he recovered his last night's conception of her) understand that
among the noble order of women there is, when they plunge into strife,
a craving for idealistic truths, which men are apt, under the heat and
hurry of their energies, to put aside as stars that are meant merely for
shining.
His mother perused the letter--holding it out at arm's length--and laid
it by; Luciano likewise. Countess Ammiani was an aristocrat: the tone
and style of the writing were distasteful to her. She allowed her son's
judgement of the writer to stand for her own, feeling that she could
surrender little prejudices in favour of one who appeared to hate the
Austrians so mortally. On the other hand, she defended Count Medole.
Her soul shrank at the thought of the revolution being yielded up to
theorists and men calling themselves men of the people--a class of men
to whom Paolo her soldier-husband's aversion had always been formidably
pronounced. It was an old and a wearisome task for Carlo to explain
to her that the times were changed and the necessities of the hour
different since the day when his father conspired and fought for
freedom. Yet he could not gainsay her when she urged that the nobles
should be elected to lead, if they consented to lead; for if they did
not lead, were they not excluded from the movement?
'I fancy you have defined their patriotism,' said Carlo.
'Nay, my son; but you are one of them.'
'Indeed, my dearest mother, that is not what they will tell you.'
'Because you have chosen to throw yourself into the opposite ranks.'
'You perceive that you divide our camp, madame my mother. For me there
is no natural opposition of ranks. What are we? We are slaves: all are
slaves. While I am a slave, shall I boast that I am of noble birth?
“Proud of a coronet with gems of paste!” some one writes. Save me from
that sort of pride! I am content to take my patent of nobility for good
conduct in the revolution. Then I will be count, or marquis, or duke;
I am not a Republican pure blood;--but not till then. And in the
meantime--'
'Carlo is composing for his newspaper,' the countess said to Luciano.
'Those are the leaders who can lead,' the latter replied. 'Give the men
who are born to it the first chance. Old Agostino is right--the people
owe them their vantage ground. But when they have been tried and
they have failed, decapitate them. Medole looks upon revolution as a
description of conjuring trick. He shuffles cards and arranges them for
a solemn performance, but he refuses to cut them if you look too serious
or I look too eager; for that gives him a suspicion that you know what
is going to turn up; and his object is above all things to produce a
surprise.'
'You are both of you unjust to Count Medole,' said the countess. 'He
imperils more than all of you.'
'Magnificent estates, it is true; but of head or of heart not quite
so much as some of us,' said Luciano, stroking his thick black pendent
moustache and chin-tuft. 'Ah, pardon me; yes! he does imperil a finer
cock's comb.
'When he sinks, and his vanity is cut in two, Medole will bleed so as to
flood his Lombard flats. It will be worse than death to him.'
Carlo said: 'Do you know what our Agostino says of Count Medole?'
'Oh, for ever Agostino with you young men!' the countess exclaimed. 'I
believe he laughs at you.'
'To be sure he does: he laughs at all. But, what he says of Count Medole
holds the truth of the thing, and may make you easier concerning
the count's estates. He says that Medole is vaccine matter which the
Austrians apply to this generation of Italians to spare us the terrible
disease. They will or they won't deal gently with Medole, by-and-by;
but for the present he will be handled tenderly. He is useful. I wish
I could say that we thought so too. And now,' Carlo stooped to her and
took her hand, 'shall we see you at La Scala to-night?'
The countess, with her hands lying in his, replied: 'I have received an
intimation from the authorities that my box is wanted.'
'So you claim your right to occupy it!'
'That is my very humble protest for personal liberty.'
'Good: I shall be there, and shall much enjoy an introduction to the
gentleman who disputes it with you. Besides, mother, if the Signorina
Vittoria sings...'
Countess Ammiani's gaze fixed upon her son with a level steadiness. His
voice threatened to be unequal. All the pleading force of his eyes was
thrown into it, as he said: 'She will sing: and she gives the signal;
that is certain. We may have to rescue her. If I can place her under
your charge, I shall feel that she is safe, and is really protected.'
The countess looked at Luciano before she answered:
'Yes, Carlo, whatever I can do. But you know I have not a scrap of
influence.'
'Let her lie on your bosom, my mother.'
'Is this to be another Violetta?'
'Her name is Vittoria,' said Carlo, colouring deeply. A certain Violetta
had been his boy's passion.
Further distracting Austrian band-music was going by. This time it was
a regiment of Italians in the white and blue uniform. Carlo and Luciano
leaned over the balcony, smoking, and scanned the marching of their
fellow-countrymen in the livery of servitude.
'They don't step badly,' said one; and the other, with a smile of
melancholy derision, said, 'We are all brothers!'
Following the Italians came a regiment of Hungarian grenadiers, tall,
swam-faced, and particularly light-limbed men, looking brilliant in the
clean tight military array of Austria. Then a squadron of blue hussars,
and Croat regiment; after which, in the midst of Czech dragoons and
German Uhlans and blue Magyar light horsemen, with General officers and
aides about him, the veteran Austrian Field-Marshal rode, his easy hand
and erect figure and good-humoured smile belying both his age and his
reputation among Italians. Artillery, and some bravely-clad horse of
the Eastern frontier, possibly Serb, wound up the procession. It gleamed
down the length of the Corso in a blinding sunlight; brass helmets and
hussar feathers, white and violet surcoats, green plumes, maroon capes,
bright steel scabbards, bayonet-points,--as gallant a show as some
portentously-magnified summer field, flowing with the wind, might
be; and over all the banner of Austria--the black double-headed eagle
ramping on a yellow ground. This was the flower of iron meaning on such
a field.
The two young men held their peace. Countess Ammiani had pushed her
chair back into a dark corner of the room, and was sitting there when
they looked back, like a sombre figure of black marble.