Garibaldi Giuseppe
Rule of the Monk; Or, Rome in the Nineteenth Century
CHAPTER LVI. PRINCE T —
In the shameful times when the right of the "coscia" existed, princes had little necessity to woo a humble maiden, or to sue for her favor. At the present day things have assumed a different aspect. Although princes exist who possess as much pride of birth, or even more, than those of old days, still we see many obliged to conform to more moderate pretensions in matters of the heart, aspiring humbly to the favor of a plebeian divinity. Such were the thoughts of poor Prince T-.
He stood in the vestibule of the Zecchini Palace, admiring the throng of graceful visitors. In the crowded saloons it was difficult to do justice to the faces, and still less to the deportment of the ladies. From that part of the vestibule, on the first step, where the Roman prince had established himself, observation was easier.
Suddenly, from the midst of the crowd emerged, as if by destiny, one of those forms which, once seen, are reflected in the soul forever. Golden-brown eyes, hair, and eyelashes adorned a face which would have served Titian as a model of beauty – in a word, he saw the type of the Venetian ideal. The Prince, until then immovable in the crowd hurrying to and fro, was struck by a glance of those wonderful eyes, which seemed to look at every thing and every body, without for a moment fixing their glance on any.
As if under a spell, the Prince rushed after the footsteps of the unknown lady, whose light foot seemed to float over the ground. He hurried on after her, but the wish to overtake her was one thing, the capability another. The beautiful and graceful girl, either more active or more accustomed to fashionable throngs in Venice, was already seated in a gondola, and had ordered the gondolier to put off when the Prince reached the edge of the canal.
What could he do? throw himself into the water, and seize on the gunwale of the lady's boat, like a madman, begging a word for pity's sake? This was his first impulse; yet a bath in the waters of the lagoon in March would be no joke, while to present himself before the lady of his thoughts in the condition which would result from immersion, would be unpropitious, and an especial trial to the dignity of a man of rank. He decided on taking a more rational course, that of embarking in a gondola and following the incognita. "Row hard," said the Prince to the gondolier, "and if you overtake that black gondola I will reward you well."
Having pointed out the boat to be pursued, the gondolier cried "Avanti" to his companion at the prow, and turning up his red shirt sleeves (red shirts being the prevailing fashion just then among the Venetian rowers, in honor of the guest of the day), the gondolier prepared to use the oar with that grace and vigor which is not to be rivalled by any boatmen in the world.
"Onward! onward! gondola mio! onward and overtake that too swift boat which bears away my life; and why should not that lovely girl be such to me, the Adriatic beauty of which I have dreamed a thousand times, when Venice was enslaved as my poor Rome still is? Yet why did I only catch a glimpse of her? Why did her dazzling eye thus meet mine, subdue me in a moment, and make me hers forever, only to disappear? and has not her magic glance wounded others as well as me? The very atmosphere around her intoxicated me; must it not have affected all near her? Ah, Dio! is this love at last? Is this that transient passion which men enjoy as they bite at doubtful fruits and throw them away when tasted? or is it that spiritual love which brings the creature near to God, which transforms the miseries of life, its dangers, death itself, into ineffable happiness? Yes! it is that; and now, come ye powerful of the earth, dare but to touch my mistress whom I love with indescribable passion, approach her with an army of ruffians at your back, profane but the hem of her gown, and my sword shall defy all for her sweet sake. Onward! onward!" cried the Prince, interrupting his own soliloquy. "Row hard, and if one crown be not enough, you shall have ten. Onward!"
"But suppose she were a plebeian? Well! in the name of heaven what is a plebeian? When God created man did he make patricians and plebeians? Does not the power that awes the vulgar come from tyrants and despots?"
"Ah! if that beautiful young creature should prove an impure, a nameless one!"
"Oh, blasphemer of love, cease your profanity! How could a guilty woman's face show such pure transcendent loveliness!"
Annita was a plebeian. The entrance to her dwelling showed that. There stood no columned porch where the gondola drew up before a simple door-step. The plain little staircase was bare; no rich vases with exotic flowers stood about the threshold. A few flower-pots adorned the window-sills, for Annita loved flowers as well as a princess could love them, but hers were little, simple blossoms – I will not say poor ones, for they were dear to the young girl, a very treasure to her.
An aged lady, who by day would have attracted the attention of every one – so great was the anxiety depicted on her face – had awaited until that moment, eleven at night, her beloved Annita, who, with the curiosity of a child, had desired, like others, to have a close view of the man of the people. Mario, her only brother, being absent, the mother had confided her to the care of the family gondolier.
When Monna Rosa had ascertained that the newly arrived gondola was that which she expected, she left the balcony, where she had been watching with great misgivings for its arrival, and rapidly descended the stairs, lantern in hand, to receive her beloved child. The two women were clasped in each other's arms, as if after a long separation, when the Prince arrived, and taking advantage of the open door, and of the evident attention of the mother and daughter, he entered the house with the audacity of a soldier on a conquered territory. At length, disengaged from each other's arms, the mother was exclaiming in a tone of gentle reproach, "Why so late, Annita?" when both started on perceiving the presence of a stranger.
Having entered on a bold adventure, the Prince felt that he must carry it through with spirit. He therefore advanced towards the young girl, who, when so near, seemed more beautiful than ever.
He was about to try to find words to excuse his impetuous and irrepressible admiration, when at that moment an iron grasp from behind seized his wrist, and with a shake that made him stagger, separated him from the women.
From a third gondola, which had arrived a short time after the two first, there had sprung out swiftly and resolutely a new and youthful actor on this interesting scene. Tall in stature, vigorous and handsome in person, the last arrival wore the red shirt, and on the left side of his broad breast bore that distinctive mark of the brave, "The Medal of the Thousand."
Morosini was Annitas lover. An attentive observer would have read in the young girl's face a world of affectionate emotion at the sight of her beloved, succeeded by an expression of affright, when his manly, sonorous voice, addressed the Prince, "You are mistaken, sir! You will not find here the game you seek; retrace your steps, and make your search elsewhere."
The shaking he had received, and the rough words that followed, had aroused the Prince's ire, and as he was not wanting in courage, he answered his interlocutor in the same tone.
"Insolent rascal! I came not here to affront, but to offer respectful homage. As for your impertinence, if you are a man of Rome, you will give me satisfaction. Here is my card. I shall be found at the Victoria Hotel, and at your service, until mid-day to-morrow."
"I will not keep you waiting," was Morosini's reply, and with this the disconcerted Prince flung away.
CHAPTER LVII. THE DUEL
The Italian sportsman does not pursue the partridge in the thicket, but after covering up the waters of all the small pools save one, he there awaits his sport with shot, with net, or with bird-lime, at the moment that the innocent creature seeks refuge and refreshment. It is during the sultry hours that the ploughman lies in wait at the watering-place, to restore his rebel oxen to the yoke from which they have escaped. The corsair, who would be in vain sought on the ocean, is trapped at the mouth of his hiding place, to which he conducts his prey.
Such was the reasoning of our four Romans as regards Prince T-, for whom they vainly sought in every hole and corner. After they had discovered and sent home the cut-throats of the Holy Office, through the forced assistance of Cencio, they placed themselves on the lookout, in the vicinity of the Victoria Hotel, awaiting the appearance of T-. In fact, about twelve o'clock, he made his appearance, and was followed to his room by his friends, who made him acquainted with the design of the assassin, and other circumstances.
The Prince was too reserved to inform his friends of his approaching duel, especially Orazio, whose ardent nature he well knew, and who would not have yielded to any other the office of second; still he needed a second, and taking advantage of a moment's animated discussion among his companions, he summoned Attilio to the balcony by a glance, and asked him to remain with him for that night. Orazio, Muzio, and Gasparo finally took leave, and Attilio remained, under pretext of particular business.
At the first dawn of day, a young man in a red shirt knocked at the door of a room marked No. 8 in the Victoria Hotel, and presented to Prince T – a cartel, signed Morosini, and thus worded: —
"I accept your challenge, and await you at the door of your hotel in my gondola. I have weapons with me, but you had better bring your own, in case mine should not be suitable. The seconds will regulate the conditions of the duel.
"Morosini."
After the Prince had risen, and summoned Attilio, he introduced him to the second of Morosini, and in a few minutes the conditions were settled as to arms, which were to be pistols; distance, twenty steps, to be walked over, firing à volonté. The ground chosen was behind the Murazzi, to which the combatants could immediately repair.
And truly, when one has to die, or to kill, it is best over as soon as possible, because even the stoutest hearts are disinclined to either alternative, and wish the time of expectancy abridged.
What shall I say of duelling? I have always thought it disgraceful that men can not come to an understanding without killing one another. But, on the other hand, it is not time for us, who are still oppressed by the powerful of the earth, still the despised of Europe, to preach individual or general peace, to advocate the forgiveness of private outrages, when we are often so publicly outraged. We, who are trampled upon in our rights, our consciences, our honor, by the vilest section of our nation – we, who, in order to be allowed life, consideration, and protection, are compelled to debase ourselves, must not quite despoil ourselves of our one protection!
Away with duelling, then, when we shall have a constitution, a well-organized government – when we shall enjoy our rights within as well as without; but, in the present dangerous times for honor and right, we can not proclaim peace.
Meanwhile, the gondolas carrying the combatants proceeded towards the Murazzi, the rowers for some time coasting the immense rampart constructed by the Venetian republic as a defense against the fury of the Adriatic, and finally disembarking their passengers on the deserted shore, which is dry when the north winds or the siroccos blow.
The antagonists leaped on the sand, chose a convenient place, and, after having measured twenty steps, the seconds handed the pistols to the principals, who placed themselves on the two spots marked on the sand. Attilio had to clap his hands three times, and at the third signal the combatants were to walk forward and fire à volonté. Already two signals were given; Attilio's hands were again raised to make the third, when a voice cried, from the spot where the gondolas awaited, "Hold!"
The four men all turned in that direction, and saw one of the gondoliers, a venerable, gray-haired man, who was advancing towards them.
"Hold!" repeated the old man; and he came forward without stopping until he stood between the two antagonists. Then he spoke, with a somewhat faltering voice, yet still in a manly tone, with such force as could hardly have been expected in one of his breeding and age-
"Hold! sons of one mother! The act you are about to accomplish will stain one of you with the blood of a compatriot – blood which might flow for the welfare of this unhappy land, which has still so much to do ere she can attain the independence she has aimed at for so many centuries. The vanquished will pass away without one word of love or blessing from those dear to him; the victor will remain for life with the sting of remorse in his heart. You, by whose bronzed and noble face I recognize a child of this unhappy land, has not Italy still many enemies? does she not need all her offspring to loosen the chains of centuries? Abandon, then, this fraticidal struggle, I beseech you, in the name of our common mother! Why should you gratify the enemies of Italy by the murder of her friends? You came forth antagonists, return companions and brothers!"
The waves of the Adriatic were breaking with more effect against the rocks that border Murazzi than the patriotic and humane words of the old man on the obstinate will of the two angry compatriots; and, with a certain aristocratic impulse of pride, the Prince exclaimed to his counsellor "Retire!"
The seconds recommenced with the same number of signals as before, and at the third the adversaries marched towards one another, with pistol cocked in the right hand, with eyes unflinchingly fixed on each other, and with the deliberate intention of homicide. About the twelfth step the Prince fired, his ball grazed the side of Morosini's neck, blood flowed, but the wound was slight. The soldier of Calatafimi, cooler than his antagonist, approached closer. At about eight paces he fired, and the brother of Irene sank on the ground – the ball had pierced his heart.
The Holy Office of the Vatican laughed at the news, with the infernal joy which it experiences every time that blood shed by private discord reddens the unhappy soil.
And who spilt that Italian blood? An Italian hand, alas! consecrated to the redemption of his country. How often it has been thus!
CHAPTER LVIII. ROME
Ok the second of December, the despot of the Seine, the false Emperor, the enemy of all liberty, and the great ally of all tyrants, after seventeen years of unrighteous rule, pretended, with the same hypocrisy with which he kept her enslaved, to liberate the Niobe of nations, the old metropolis of the world – the ruler, the martyr, the glory of the earth.
He carried on the work of Divine vengeance. Attila, at the head of his ferocious tribes, had conquered Rome, destroyed her, and exterminated her people. Was not this God's justice?
"Whosoever sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed!"
The ancient Romans ruled the world by subjugating the remotest nations, pillaging and breaking them down. Slavery, misery, and ruin, their ministers, compelled the nations of the earth to submit to their tyrants.
The successor of the Attilas, not less a robber than they, threw himself on an easy prey, and his false heart beat with joy when he clutched the victim. Yet even this action was but a caricature of the actions of the Attilas who have punished Rome. To accomplish great deeds, even of the evil sort, there must be great hearts, and he has a heart both little and cowardly. In all he does, we can see he intends to imitate his uncle; but the want of genius and energy makes the attempt a failure. Attila conquered, and made a pile of ruins of the proud victress-city. The modern Attila, in a Jesuit guise, did not destroy, did not ruin, because he considered the prey as his own property.
Afterwards, enfeebled by advancing years and luxury, his throne shaken to its foundation, he renewed his sinister undertakings in America, where he attempted to deal a death-blow to the sanctuary of the world's liberty – the great Republic – by building an Austrian empire at her gates.
And the Italian Government has accepted the bidding of the false Emperor, acting as the sbirro of the Vatican, to hinder the Romans from liberating themselves, obliging them to submit to the government of the Holy Office, to deny to Italy her capital, though proclaimed by her parliament.
We firmly believe that a more cowardly Government than the Italian can not be found in ancient or modern history. It must be accepted as the fate of humanity to find ever side by side with so much good so much evil, humiliation, and wickedness. We say side by side, because it can not be denied that the unity of Italy is a marvel of good accomplished, in spite of all the efforts made by rulers and selfish factions to hold back this unfortunate country, by impoverishing and perverting it, and by every means of depredation and deception.
But what a Government! Can, indeed, this agency of corruption be called a Government? And the unhappy people! what are they? Half of them bought over to hold the other half in bondage and in misery.
Hail, brave Mexicans! We envy your valor and constancy in freeing your land from the mercenaries of despotism! Accept, gallant descendants of Columbus, from your Italian brethren, congratulations on your redeemed liberty! On you was to be imposed a like tyranny, and you swept it away, as a noble and free river sweeps away impurity.
We alone – talkative, presumptuous, vain, boasting of glory, liberty, greatness – are yet enchained! – blindfolded, freeing ourselves with words, but unfit to accomplish by deeds that political reconstruction which alone would give us the right to sit down beside the other free nations. Trembling before the despotism of an unrighteous foreign tyrant, we dare not, for fear of him, walk about in our own homes, tell the world we are our own masters, or tear from our wrists the fetters which he has fixed there; and, more humiliating and degrading still, he has left the prey, which the indignation of the world forbade his appropriating, and has said, "Keep her, cowards; become cut-throats in my stead; but beware of meddling with my will!"
Oh, Rome! Thou who art truly "the only one!" Rome the eternal! Once above all human greatness! And now – now, how degraded! Thy resurrection must yet be a catastrophe, and a revolution, to shake the rest of the world!
CHAPTER LIX. VENICE AND THE BUCENTAUER
The stains of slavery are only to be finally washed out with blood. The more intelligent and wealthier classes ought once for all to understand this, and to spare humanity the false solutions which settle nothing.
In other days, Venice, following the impetus given by her sister Lombardy, effaced the many years of her humiliation and servility in blood. It is not so now. She emerges from foreign dominion, not through her own acts, but by the courage of others. Oh! if only her liberty had been won by the valor of her brethren! But no, she was redeemed by foreign swords. Sadowa, the glory of Prussia, freed Venice, and the Italian nation asks no veil to hide this dishonor.
Nations, like individuals, require dignity to live – require the life of the soul besides mere physical existence, to which our rulers would condemn us.
Once the Queen of the Adriatic carried her proud lion into the far east, repressed the victorious Ottoman, and dictated laws to him. The monarchs of Europe, invoked and backed by the jealous Italian States, conspired together against Venice, and were driven off by the amphibious and brave republicans. Who would now recognize those proud compatriots of the Dandoli and the Morosini in the ranks of men who require the foreigner to free them, and, when free, throw themselves among the offscourings of "the Moderates" – a party ready for any abasement, for any infamy.
How tyranny alters the noblest beings, and emasculates them! Take comfort, however, Venetians; you do not stand alone, for such as you have I seen the descendants of Leonidas and Cincinnatus. Slavery impressed on the forehead of man such a mark of infamy as to confound him with the beasts of the forest.
However, humbled as they have been, and still are, the Italians do not neglect their amusements and their festivals. "Bread and pleasure!" they cry to their tyrants, as of old they cried to their tribunes; and the priest, to please, cheat, and corrupt them, has surrounded himself by a mass of ostentatious ceremonies, surpassing all that the impostors of old furnished, to conceal fraud by magnificent display. Do not talk of politics, do not even think of them, but pay, and despoil yourselves with a good grace, so as to support your masters richly, then they will give you to satiety masses, processions, festas, games, amusements, and sensual pleasures.
The sailing of the Bucentaur was one of the ceremonies very dear to the people when Venice was free, when it had its own Government and Doge. On the day fixed for the festival, the Bucentaur, the most splendid galley of the Republic, decked out with as much ornament and as many banners as possible, glittering with gilding and rich hangings, bore the Doge, the Ministers of State, and the most remarkable beauties of the day, all in gala costume. They started from the palace of St. Mark, and rowed towards the Adriatic. Many other galleys formed a procession, following in the wake of the Bucentaur, as well as a large number of gondolas decked for the holiday, and containing the largest part of the population, male and female.
Oh, beautiful wert thou in those days, ill-fated Queen! when thy Dandoli, thy Morosini, sought, in the name of Venice, to propitiate the waves on behalf of the bold navigators of the Adriatic. Hail to thee, Republic of nine centuries! true mother of Republics! Yet if in thy greatness thou hadst associated with thine Italian sisters instead of hating them, the foreigner would not have trodden us all down and enslaved us. Hide the wounds that your chains have made, smooth the lines that misery has impressed on your forehead. Do not forget, whether rejoicing or sorrowing, those humiliations through which you have passed, and henceforth remember that only when united can Italy defy the great foreign powers who are jealous of her uprise.
General Garibaldi stood leaning against a balcony of St. Mark's Palace, which looked over the lagoon, in the company of our fair Romans, with Muzio, Orazio, and Gasparo. He was listening to an old cicerone, who was dilating on the ancient glories of the Republic, and after having spoken on a variety of subjects, this individual had arrived at the description of the festival of the Bucentaur. He expressed his regret at not being able to see one of them nowadays, and pointed to the spot whence from the mole started the famous craft, when suddenly Muzio's eye was arrested by a well-known face, which appeared at the entrance of the cabin of a gondola drawn up at the gates of the palace. Muzio disappeared like lightning, and stood before Attilio, who descended, pressed his friend's right hand, and could only articulate the melancholy word, "Dead!"
"It was fated, then, that this relic of Roman greatness should come here to die," murmured the ex-President, having partly heard, partly guessed the tidings of Attilio.
"He died like a brave man," said the chief of the Three Hundred.
"And many Italians know how to die so," thought Muzio; "but it is sweeter to die fighting against the oppressors!"
"I will return to our party," said Muzio, "and consult with the General, that he may turn our excursion in another direction, so as not to expose Irene and Orazio to the shock of meeting the remains of their beloved one; I will afterwards rejoin you with Gasparo."
