CHAPTER XVI
COUNTESS AMMIANI
Countess Ammiani was a Venetian lady of a famous House, the name ofwhich is as a trumpet sounding from the inner pages of the Republic.Her face was like a leaf torn from an antique volume; the hereditaryfeatures 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 closemultitudinous wrinkles ran up accurately ruled from the chin to theforehead's centre, and touched faintly once or twice beyond, as youobserve the ocean ripples run in threads confused to smoothness within aspace of the grey horizon sky. But the chin was firm, the mouth and nosewere firm, the forehead sat calmly above these shows of decay. It was amost noble face; a fortress face; strong and massive, and honourable inruin, though stripped of every flower.
This lady in her girlhood had been the one lamb of the family dedicatedto heaven. Paolo, the General, her lover, had wrenched her from thatfate to share with him a life of turbulent sorrows till she shouldbehold the blood upon his grave. She, like Laura Fiaveni, had bent herhead above a slaughtered husband, but, unlike Laura, Marcellina Ammianihad not buried her heart with him. Her heart and all her energies hadbeen 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 withCarlo. Italian girls of that period had as little passion of their ownas flowers kept out of sunlight have hues. She had given her son to hercountry with that intensely apprehensive foresight of a mother's lovewhich runs quick as Eastern light from the fervour of the devotion tothe remote realization of the hour of the sacrifice, seeing both in one.Other forms of love, devotion in other bosoms, may be deluded, but herswill 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 hauntingprophetic vision, it was only a mother, who was at the same time asupremely noble woman, that could feel all human to him notwithstanding.Her heart beat thick and fast when Carlo and Luciano entered themorning-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 thinkthat'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 isconstitutionally of our Agostino's opinion that we are bound to waittill the Gods kick us into action; and, as Agostino says, Medole hasraised himself upon our shoulders so as to be the more susceptible totheir wishes when they blow a gale.'
He informed her of the momentary thwarting of the conspiracy, and wonCarlo's gratitude by not speaking of the suspicion which had fallen onVittoria.
'Medole,' he said, 'has the principal conduct of the business in Milan,as you know, countess. Our Chief cannot be everywhere at once; so Medoleundertakes to decide for him here in old Milan. He decided yesterdayafternoon to put off our holiday for what he calls a week. Checco, theidiot, in whom he confides, gave me the paper signifying the fact atfour o'clock. There was no appeal; for we can get no place of generalmeeting under Medole's prudent management. He fears our being swallowedin a body if we all meet.'
The news sent her heart sinking in short throbs down to a deliciousrest; but Countess Ammiani disdained to be servile to the pleasure, evenas she had strengthened herself to endure the shocks of pain. It was aconquered heart that she and every Venetian and Lombard mother had tocarry; one that played its tune according to its nature, shaping noaction, sporting no mask. If you know what is meant by that phrase, aconquered heart, you will at least respect them whom you call weak womenfor having gone through the harshest schooling which this world can showexample of. In such mothers Italy revived. The pangs and the martyrdomwere theirs. Fathers could march to the field or to the grey glacis withtheir boys; there was no intoxication of hot blood to cheer those whosat at home watching the rise and fall of trembling scales which saidlife or death for their dearest. Their least shadowy hope could be but ashrouded contentment in prospect; a shrouded submission in feeling. Whatbloom of hope was there when Austria stood like an iron wall, and theirown ones dashing against it were as little feeble waves that left a redmark and no more? But, duty to their country had become their religion;sacrifice they accepted as their portion; when the last stern evilbefell them they clad themselves in a veil and walked upon an earth theyhad passed from for all purposes save service of hands. Italy revived inthese mothers. Their torture was that of the re-animation of her framefrom 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, andthen gave her son a letter that been delivered at her door an hour backby the confectioner Zotti. It proved to be an enclosure of a letteraddressed to Vittoria by the Chief. Genoa was its superscription. Fromthat place it was forwarded by running relays of volunteer messengers.There were points of Italy which the Chief could reach four-and-twentyhours in advance of the Government with all its aids and machinery.Vittoria had simply put her initials at the foot of the letter. Carloread it eagerly and cast it aside. It dealt in ideas and abstractphraseology; 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 tohim. 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 theheart of your country, so that none shall say she is a corpse, andknowing that she lives, none shall say that she deserves not freedom. Itis the protest of her immortal being against her impious violator.'
Evidently the Chief had heard nothing of the counterstroke of BartoRizzo, and of Count Medole's miserable weakness: but how, thoughtCarlo, how can a mind like Vittoria's find matter to suit her in suchsentences? He asked himself the question, forgetting that a little timegone by, while he was aloof from the tumult and dreaming of it, thisairy cloudy language and every symbolism, had been strong sustainingfood, a vital atmosphere, to him. He did not for the moment (though bydegrees he recovered his last night's conception of her) understand thatamong the noble order of women there is, when they plunge into strife,a craving for idealistic truths, which men are apt, under the heat andhurry of their energies, to put aside as stars that are meant merely forshining.
His mother perused the letter--holding it out at arm's length--and laidit by; Luciano likewise. Countess Ammiani was an aristocrat: the toneand style of the writing were distasteful to her. She allowed her son'sjudgement of the writer to stand for her own, feeling that she couldsurrender little prejudices in favour of one who appeared to hate theAustrians so mortally. On the other hand, she defended Count Medole.Her soul shrank at the thought of the revolution being yielded up totheorists and men calling themselves men of the people--a class of mento whom Paolo her soldier-husband's aversion had always been formidablypronounced. It was an old and a wearisome task for Carlo to explainto her that the times were changed and the necessities of the hourdifferent since the day when his father conspired and fought forfreedom. Yet he could not gainsay her when she urged that the noblesshould be elected to lead, if they consented to lead; for if they didnot 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 thereis no natural opposition of ranks. What are we? We are slaves: all areslaves. 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
fromthat sort of pride! I am content to take my patent of nobility for goodconduct 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 themeantime--'
'Carlo is composing for his newspaper,' the countess said to Luciano.
'Those are the leaders who can lead,' the latter replied. 'Give the menwho are born to it the first chance. Old Agostino is right--the peopleowe them their vantage ground. But when they have been tried andthey have failed, decapitate them. Medole looks upon revolution as adescription of conjuring trick. He shuffles cards and arranges them fora solemn performance, but he refuses to cut them if you look too seriousor I look too eager; for that gives him a suspicion that you know whatis going to turn up; and his object is above all things to produce asurprise.'
'You are both of you unjust to Count Medole,' said the countess. 'Heimperils more than all of you.'
'Magnificent estates, it is true; but of head or of heart not quiteso much as some of us,' said Luciano, stroking his thick black pendentmoustache and chin-tuft. 'Ah, pardon me; yes! he does imperil a finercock's comb.
'When he sinks, and his vanity is cut in two, Medole will bleed so as toflood 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. 'Ibelieve he laughs at you.'
'To be sure he does: he laughs at all. But, what he says of Count Medoleholds the truth of the thing, and may make you easier concerningthe count's estates. He says that Medole is vaccine matter which theAustrians apply to this generation of Italians to spare us the terribledisease. 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 wishI could say that we thought so too. And now,' Carlo stooped to her andtook her hand, 'shall we see you at La Scala to-night?'
The countess, with her hands lying in his, replied: 'I have received anintimation 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 thegentleman who disputes it with you. Besides, mother, if the SignorinaVittoria sings...'
Countess Ammiani's gaze fixed upon her son with a level steadiness. Hisvoice threatened to be unequal. All the pleading force of his eyes wasthrown 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 underyour 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 ofinfluence.'
'Let her lie on your bosom, my mother.'
'Is this to be another Violetta?'
'Her name is Vittoria,' said Carlo, colouring deeply. A certain Violettahad been his boy's passion.
Further distracting Austrian band-music was going by. This time it wasa regiment of Italians in the white and blue uniform. Carlo and Lucianoleaned over the balcony, smoking, and scanned the marching of theirfellow-countrymen in the livery of servitude.
'They don't step badly,' said one; and the other, with a smile ofmelancholy 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 theclean tight military array of Austria. Then a squadron of blue hussars,and Croat regiment; after which, in the midst of Czech dragoons andGerman Uhlans and blue Magyar light horsemen, with General officers andaides about him, the veteran Austrian Field-Marshal rode, his easy handand erect figure and good-humoured smile belying both his age and hisreputation among Italians. Artillery, and some bravely-clad horse ofthe Eastern frontier, possibly Serb, wound up the procession. It gleameddown the length of the Corso in a blinding sunlight; brass helmets andhussar feathers, white and violet surcoats, green plumes, maroon capes,bright steel scabbards, bayonet-points,--as gallant a show as someportentously-magnified summer field, flowing with the wind, mightbe; and over all the banner of Austria--the black double-headed eagleramping on a yellow ground. This was the flower of iron meaning on sucha field.
The two young men held their peace. Countess Ammiani had pushed herchair back into a dark corner of the room, and was sitting there whenthey looked back, like a sombre figure of black marble.