第 20 页

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,