第 22 页

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