up his cart in an olive grove and was examining the fruit on the trees.
Lupetto, whose turn it was to sleep, lay snugly curled up on the seat.
We sat down to rest in the pleasant shade of the gray green leaves.
There are twelve aged olive trees in the grove, and another larger and
more picturesque than the rest originally belonging to the same group,
standing alone, on the other side of the white high road. The trunk of
this old tree is almost hollow, a mere shell of shaggy bark. The knotted
roots reach out an amazing distance from the stem before they grip the
earth. The twisted trunk and limbs look like a tortured human being with
uplifted arms, and suggest the men turned to trees of the Inferno.
“This is the finest olive tree I have seen in Italy,” J. said. Oreste
gloomily assented.
“It is a noble tree worth any three of the others. See how many olives
it has. Leandro will come soon to gather them.”
“Your cousin, Leandro?”
“Yes; this is his tree. My grandfather of blessed memory who owned these
thirteen trees had thirteen children. When he died he left one olive
tree to each child. The mother of Leandro was his favorite daughter,
there is no denying that, and to her he left this tree, though by good
rights it should have come to the eldest son, my father. They quarrelled
at the time, but my uncle the priest patched things up between them, he
said it was a disgrace for kindred to quarrel over an inheritance. All
very well for him to preach,--priests are obliged to, that is how they
earn their living. I was a mere child, or the matter would not have
been so easily settled, I can tell you. It is too late now; this famous
tree is Leandro’s, I must content myself with that blighted one yonder,
plainly the poorest of the lot.”
“Your tree has not been so well cared for as the others,” J. said. “Look
how wisely these branches have been pruned. The sun reaches every part.”
The branches in the middle of the big olive had been neatly cut away
leaving an open space the shape of a cup in the centre.
“There may be something in what you say,” grumbled Oreste, “indeed I
have little time to care for my property. I must always be on the road,
now with wine, now with olives, now with strawberries. Besides, I have
not Leandro’s opportunities; he sells to the strangers!”
“We will try your oil; bring the first you make to the Palazzo
Rusticucci.” On this we parted. We shall see Oreste in Rome before long
and ascertain if the oil from his tree is as good as that of the famous
old patriarch tree which we have had in other years from Leandro. To
know the vines that bear your grapes and the trees that give your olives
and oil is the next best thing to owning them, don’t you think?
The most interesting person we have met in Nemi is an old soldier of
Garibaldi’s. We were watching the sunset from the terrace of the inn one
evening, when we fell into talk with him. He is a grave, thoughtful man;
stern of expression, slow of speech, not quite like any other Italian I
have ever known. He walks with a cane, and stoops badly; I am sure if he
could stand upright he would measure six feet two inches in height. His
face is a network of wrinkles, he has an ugly red scar across one cheek.
The conversation beginning with the weather soon changed to politics. At
first he spoke in English, of which he has a small stock of words.
Something was said about the Pope and the temporal power. He bristled
all over, growing red as a turkey cock as he said,--
“The Popay as a Popay, very welley; the Popay as a Kingay, not at
alley!”
After this he relapsed into Italian and would not be induced to speak
more English. Cruel, was it not? He is gloomy enough about the present
political situation; pessimistic about the future.
He spoke with slow cold anger of a recent act of the Italian parliament,
which he cannot forgive.
“They to pass a vote of censure on Francesco Crispi! The whole lot of
them are not worth one finger of his hand!” he said.
“Everybody knows that it was the result of a political cabal against
Crispi.”
“No, not everybody; some are wholly ignorant and others forget! We who
were with him in Sicily, where he was as the right hand of Garibaldi,
know the man for what he is. He has been insulted, and his friends will
be slow to forget the insult.”
“You also were in Sicily with Garibaldi?”
“I am one of the Thousand.”
It was as if he had said “I am one of the Three Hundred of Thermopylæ,”
or the “Six Hundred of Balaclava!” It was electrifying to find oneself
in the company of one of those “few and good men” who sailed with
Garibaldi from Quarto, on the 5th of May, 1860, landed six days later at
Marsala under the protection of the British gunboats Intrepid and Argus,
made the glorious march to Palermo, and freed Sicily and Naples from the
hateful yoke of the Bourbons.
“I have heard that you of the Thousand loved your chief as if he had
been your father; is this true?”
“Our acts, not merely our words, proved it to be true. We would have
died for him to the last man. Even the women and priests wanted to take
up arms and follow Garibaldi. You know the story of the nuns? A whole
convent of nuns, from the old mother abbess to the youngest novice, gave
him the kiss of peace, they would not be denied!” He grew visibly
younger as he talked, there was fire in the man; it took but the breath
of our sympathy to blow the embers to a flame.
“Was that scar on your cheek made by an Austrian or a French bayonet?”
He rubbed the old wound with a stiff hand smiling grimly to himself. “By
neither--worse yet! At Calatafini, when the royal troops--they were
Neapolitans--had exhausted their cartridges, they threw stones at us.
Have you not heard what Garibaldi said of that action? ‘The old
misfortune, a fight between Italians, but it proves to me what can be
done with this family united.’ One day while the chief was watering his
horse at a spring a Franciscan friar suddenly appeared among us. Some of
the men tried to arrest him, but he forced his way to the chiefs side,
threw himself on his knees, and begged to be taken along with us. There
were some who believed him an enemy in disguise, but the man, his name
was Fra Pantaleo, did good service and proved true as steel!”
As long as the talk is of the old time our ancient soldier is a hero;
when it touches to-day he degenerates into a grumbler. He seems less
dissatisfied with the army than with most things modern. “My grandson is
serving his four years. Where do you suppose his regiment is quartered?
In Milan; that is as it should be, the North and the South must know
each other. It is well to send the men of Sicily to Piedmont and the
Piedmontese to Sicily. In this manner they may learn that they are
before all things Italians.”
The veterans who fought for the Unification of Italy are treated very
much as we treat the veterans who fought for the preservation of our
Union; they are scolded, laughed at, loved, and forgiven many things
that would be unpardonable in others. On national holidays the old
Garibaldians turn out in their red shirts, white kerchiefs, and peaked
caps. They are fewer now, their blouses have faded to a softer red than
when I first saw them in the year 1878, mustered to meet Garibaldi,
already mortally ill, when he came up from rocky Caprera to Rome for
the funeral of Victor Emanuel, the man he had made King of Italy. I
remember it as if it had all happened yesterday. We were in the square
outside the railroad station when he arrived. The Piazza di Termini was
packed with silent people waiting patiently hour after hour. At last we
heard the whistle of an engine; the crowd was shaken by a murmur,
“Garibaldi has come!”
A landeau was driven across the piazza at a footpace, Garibaldi lay
across the carriage, his head raised on a pillow. He wore the classic
gray felt hat and the red blouse. At first his eyes were closed as if he
were in pain. His face reminded one that God made man in His own image.
The features were fine and firm, the hair and beard were a rich silver,
the complexion white and rose, like a child’s. He was always described
as “bronzed”; the delicacy came from his long illness. Once he opened
his eyes, those who stood near caught an eagle’s glance. A tall woman
lifted her child high over her head, whispering to it, “Never, never,
never forget that thou hast seen the face of Garibaldi.” There was no
applause; many women, some men were weeping. As the carriage passed, the
guard of honor, his old companions in arms, closed around it. F., who
was near us in the crowd, was singing under his breath the words of the
old Carbonari song,
“_Zitto! silenzio, chi passa la ronda? evviva la republica, evviva
liberta_ (Hush, silence! Who passes the patrol? Long live the republic,
and long live liberty)!”
I wonder if F. remembers! He is a Pope’s man now and denies the virtue
of republics.
I described this scene to our old soldier; his bloodshot eyes grew
redder yet as he said gruffly,--
“I too was there!”
* * * * *
To-morrow we go back to Rome. We have ordered a basket of strawberries
to take with us. I have written to the _gobbo_ to meet us at the
station; as we pass the _fruttajola’s_ shop I shall stop and tell her
that I now understand all about the strawberries of Nemi.
PALAZZO RUSTICUCCI, ROME, July 14, 1900.
This summer I am again trying the Roman method of supineness; I eat very
little, sleep a great deal, and keep mostly indoors. Last year I
exhausted myself with bicycling and other violent exercise. The English
and German residents recommend this energetic course, but I find that
the Romans are right. The terrace is too lovely, ablaze with marigolds,
cannas, cockscombs, balsams, oleanders, and portulacas. Our only failure
has been the dahlias, which all died. The vines are all doing famously;
the red honeysuckle which J. dug up (in the very face of the white bull)
at the Villa Madama, has grown to an astonishing size. Our large
passion-flower vine covered half the terrace pergola; it had out-grown
the largest flower-pot that is made, so to save its life J. gave it to
Signor Boni for the Roman forum. Four men carried it downstairs. It was
tragic to see the beautiful branches broken and trailing as they put it
in a cart and drove it away.
This is the beginning of the end! Beppino was right, the Palazzo
Rusticucci is sold to a brotherhood of French monks, and we must deliver
up the apartment and the terrace to them on the first day of September.
Many of our beloved plants will be bought by friends, others we shall
give away. The honeysuckles and some of the roses follow the
passion-flower to the forum; others go to the garden of the American
School of Archæology, where the dear Nortons will care for them, and
some to the Spanish Academy, where the Signora Villegas will have an eye
to them.
Camphoring goes on to-day; the general wretchedness of “things in the
saddle” is in the air. How stupidly we complicate life by acquiring
fleeces of Miletus and other perishable objects. How to dispose of the
accumulations of all these years? Diogenes had the right of it. In
future a tub and the sunlight will suffice me.
This afternoon as we were sitting comfortably together in the big old
studio (the coolest place in Rome) enjoying our tea, Signor Boni threw a
bombshell into our camp.
“I notice,” he said, “that those cracks in the wall have widened
perceptibly since I was last here.”
The studio is forty feet high, sixty feet long. Among the jocose
charcoal sketches scrawled on the walls certain evil-looking cracks
zigzag from the high-pitched wooden roof to the red brick pavement. When
we first came they were no more than mere cracks in the whitewash; now
they gape wide enough to hold my finger. As we were examining the cracks
we all started at a sound like the snapping of a pistol over our heads.
“What was that noise?” I cried.
“Only the creaking of the ceiling beams, it happens every now and
again,” said J.
“Before we restored the Ducal Palace in Venice, and saved it from
tumbling down, the same thing went on,” said Signor Boni; “but, _amici
miei_, do you not see what all this means?”
“It means that this old barrack is going to pieces,” said J.; “some day
they will either have to shore it up or tear it down.”
“Listen,” said the Venetian, impressively. “Last Sunday morning the
Palazzo Piombino, in the Via della Scrofa, not half a mile from here,
fell in a heap of ruins, all in a second, with no more warning than you
have had. If it had not been _festa_, and a fine day, there would have
been a great loss of life. As it was the people were all out gadding
about the town.”
Pietro, who had been listening, now chimed in. “_Scuse Signore_, there
was the cook, a friend of mine, who was obliged to remain at home in
order to freeze the ice cream,--thirsty work on a hot day. _Magari_,
that cook’s thirst saved his life. He had just climbed through the
grating into the wine cellar to get a _fiaschetta_ of the wine of
Orvieto, when piff, paff, pifferty! down came the house crashing about
his ears. The wine cellar had a vaulted stone roof so strong that it
resisted all the bricks, mortar, and rubbish that fell upon it. They
heard that cook shrieking like a small devil, and dug him out; the flask
of Orvieto was still in his hand, though he had not drunk a drop; he
believed that the catastrophe was a judgment upon him for taking the
wine.”
“The Palazzo Rusticucci to be sold over our heads, the studio
threatening to fall down upon them--our Roman world is crumbling about
us!” I cried.
To which Pietro’s “What are you going to do about it?” was cold
comfort.
XV
THE KING IS DEAD. LONG LIVE THE KING!
PALAZZO RUSTICUCCI, ROME, July 29, 1900.
I was awakened at six o’clock this morning by a loud knocking and the
shrill voices of my maids calling to me. Hurrying out to the hall I
found the three pale, shivering women huddled together near our door.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
Old Nena could only lift her withered hands to heaven and cry aloud to
the Madonna. Filomena stood staring dully, saying over and over
again,----
“Murdered, murdered, murdered!”
Pompilia the Tuscan seemed less distraught than the others.
“Tell me quickly what has happened?” I said to her.
“They have killed our King!” wailed Pompilia.
“It is true,” Filomena sobbed; “I heard it when I went to mass.”
We dressed immediately and went out into the street, to find that it was
only too true. Giuseppe the baker standing at his shop door, white as
his linen clothes, read aloud the dreadful news from his morning paper.
In the dark shop behind, his boy fed the crackling fire with brushwood
as if nothing out of the common had happened. The loaves were ready for
the oven; it was his business to keep up the fire.
“Last night, at half-past ten o’clock, as the King was getting into his
carriage at Monza, he was shot and almost instantly killed. As he fell,
those nearest caught him in their arms imploring him to say if he were
seriously hurt. His Majesty answered, _Non è niente_ (It is nothing).’
These were his last words, he died almost immediately after.”
Ignazio our gardener who had just come up, a damp newspaper crumpled in
his hand, echoed the words:
“It is nothing! It is nothing! Was not that like him? Ah! he was a brave
man.”
“The assassin was with difficulty saved from the mob;” Giuseppe
continued to read.
“Why _did_ they save him?” interrupted Ignazio. “They should have let
the people tear the wretch to pieces, and that would have been too good
for him!”
“It is nothing!” Giuseppe repeated. “Ah! you may well say he was a brave
man. Do you remember the last time they tried to murder our good King?
He was on his way to the races. The officer in the carriage with him was
wounded; Re Umberto sent the injured man back to Rome while he himself
drove on to Tor di Quinto as if nothing had happened. In the royal box
he said to one of his suite that being shot at was one of ‘_gl’incerti
del mestiere_ (the risks of the profession).’ Ah! he _was_ a brave man;
he deserved a better trade.”
“Well they have killed him at last,” said Ignazio. “What do you suppose
will be done to the murderer? Will they hang him? No, indeed; nothing so
sensible! We tax-payers must support that vile assassin for the rest of
his life. I ask you, is there any sense in that? They should let the
people have him; we will give him justice. Ah! if I had only been
there!”
Ignazio, perhaps the gentlest man I have ever known, was quite
transported with rage. Cursing and crying he dashed the tears from his
eyes with his clenched fist.
Old Nena took Ignazio by the sleeve: “Come away, man,” she said gruffly;
“will it help matters for you to have a fit of apoplexy?”
Filomena, the soft hearted, took his other arm; between them they led
him into the house. Pompilia, made of sterner stuff, remained to listen
to the baker.
“We have no capital punishment in Italy,” Giuseppe explained to me. “The
King’s assassin will be sentenced to solitary confinement for life.”
“Was the man an anarchist?” I asked.
“An anarchist, yes; and an Italian--more shame to him. But, _Signora
mia_, he comes from your country; read for yourself.” The regicide has
lived in Paterson, New Jersey. It is said that two Italian anarchist
newspapers published in that town have advocated the murder of
sovereigns in general, of King Umberto in particular. The paper Giuseppe
handed me attacks our Government sharply for allowing the publication of
these incendiary sheets.
Rome is very quiet; the grief seems to be genuine and universal. The
Prince and Princess of Naples are cruising in the Mediterranean. It is
believed that a message from a semaphore was understood upon the royal
yacht, and hoped that the young King will soon land and make his
proclamation. The evening papers speak of him already as King Victor
Emanuel III. and of our dear Queen Margaret as the Queen Mother! As soon
as Pope Leo heard of the murder he celebrated mass for the repose of the
King’s soul.
The twenty-two years of King Umberto’s reign seem to me like a dream. I
am haunted by a song of my mother’s; I hear the tragic pathos of her
voice singing the words which when I was a little child and could not
understand their meaning always sent me shamefaced into the corner to
hide my tears:
“Kingdoms have passed away since last we met:
See from their thrones of pride monarchs like spectres glide,
Love’s law doth still abide, Love reigneth yet!”
I was in Rome when this dead King’s father, Victor Emanuel, died; I
strewed roses before his sumptuous funeral car with its eight black
horses; I saw King Umberto receive the oath of allegiance from his
troops, take the vow to support the constitution. Again I am in Rome; if
I live so long I shall see his funeral pageant, and yet I feel as young
as ever I did in my life, and my feelings are hurt when people treat me
as if I were not so. Read me this riddle if you can: mystery of
mysteries!
This morning Patsy, sent back to Rome as a special correspondent of the
“Daily----” surprised us at breakfast. You may imagine if we were glad
to see him. People here are so tense, so overstrained and excited, that
his presence is like a fresh north wind after days of sirocco. He
brought us the latest bulletins from the Press Club.
“Yesterday,” he said, “the young King and Queen landed from their yacht
somewhere on the coast of Calabria and went directly to Monza by way of
Naples, where Crispi, old, broken, and nearly blind, met them at the
station. The son of the murdered King hurrying to his father’s body
stops to embrace the old Minister. Can’t you imagine it? Though Crispi
is out of office and out of public favor, the young man remembers the
time when he was a child and Crispi was his father’s right hand. That
was a meeting worth seeing. I wish I had been there.”
History will judge both King and Minister more fairly than
contemporaries have done; it will find the King worthy of the great name
he bore. I gather from Patsy’s talk that the reaction is beginning
already.
“The Italians are finding out,” he said, “that the King inherited more
than his name from Humbert of the White Hand; he had the same colossal
loyalty, courage, and honesty. It sounds brutal to say it, but I believe
his tragic death has done more to secure the throne to the dynasty than
any act of his life could have done. Sympathy is already wiping out the
memory of his mistakes. There could not be a more propitious opening for
the new reign.”
August 8.
Rome is crowded. It is strange to see the hotels open, the Corso alive
with people, the Pincio and Villa Borghese filled with carriages at this
usually dead season. The Court, the people of the embassies, special
envoys from all the countries of Europe, and I should think nearly every
distinguished personage in Italy, are here for the King’s funeral
to-morrow. All these people augment rather than lessen the universal
gloom; after six months of jubilation Rome is a mourning city. This
afternoon we drove to the Quirinal Palace to inscribe our names in the
Queen’s book. A dozen large folios lie on as many tables in the entrance
hall; here all who wish to express their sympathy may write their names.
I recognized among those waiting to sign, the French Ambassador, Beppino
(Prince Nero’s grandson), and our Ignazio. One table was surrounded by
poorly dressed lads,--they looked like newsboys, messengers, and the
like. They are the best witnesses of the progress made in the last
twenty years; when King Umberto came to the throne, the street boys of
Rome did not write their names. To-night the walls are covered with
manifestoes from the various trades, guilds, and associations,
expressing horror at the crime, sympathy for the royal family, grief for
the murdered King, loyalty to his house.
August 9.
The King’s funeral was to-day. The weather was fair and very cool for
the season. We left home at half-past five in the morning and drove to
the Corso, where we were obliged to leave our carriage. We had a pass
which took us through the lines of cavalry stretched across the Piazza
Venezia. We reached the balcony we had secured (thanks to kind Mr.
Iddings, of our embassy) in the Via Nazionale, half an hour before the
funeral procession started. We kept a place for Patsy, who soon joined
us, looking, for him, rather jaded. He had been up all night, having
come down from Monza on the special train which brought the King’s body.
“It was a wonderful journey,” Patsy said. “The bells were tolled in
every town we passed through; all the stations were hung with crape;
everywhere, even at the poorest villages, we were met by citizens
bringing flowers. When we arrived, the train was half buried in laurel
and roses.”
“Were you late in reaching Rome?”
“That was the best of it: there was no confusion, no delay, we were
exactly on time. It was half-past six when the Duke of Aosta stepped
from the train,--he was in command of the guard which escorted the body
from Monza--and saluted King Victor, who was waiting on the platform.
The cousins--they are about of an age, I fancy--looked hard at each
other, shook hands, then embraced.”
Patsy had evidently been a good deal moved by the scene, which is not
surprising. You know Aosta is the heir presumptive and has a son, while
the young King is still childless.
“How did King Victor look?”
“Soldierly; as the coffin touched the soil of Rome, his lip trembled; it
seemed for a moment as if he would give way; but he controlled
himself,--that was the only sign of weakness.”
The procession opened with a troop of lancers, dashing fellows, well
mounted and well set up. Then followed artillery, infantry, engineers,
sailors, marines, and in the place of honor nearest to the cortege, the
trim, smart _bersaglieri_, a crack regiment of riflemen. Their dress is
very picturesque: dark blue uniforms, crimson facings, and large round
hats with cocks’ feathers worn on one side. The crowd in the streets was
extraordinarily quiet; the only sounds were the tramp, tramp of the
soldiers’ feet, the muffled drums of the dead march. Many of the people
had waited all night to secure their places. The civic officers of Rome
marched in fine mediæval costumes, the dresses of the _gonfalonieri_,
red and yellow cloth, were among the best.
“Have you ever seen such a well-drilled procession, or such a
well-behaved crowd?” said Patsy.
I confessed that I had never seen better. Just as we were commenting on
the fine gravity and self-control of those who marched, and of those
who waited and watched, the silence--which till then really had been
remarkable--was broken by a sound like the buzzing of thousands of
insects.
“Who can these be?” I asked.
“The lawyers are coming,” said Patsy.