CHAPTER XVII
IN THE PIAZZA D'ARMI
Carlo and Luciano followed the regiments to the Piazza d'Armi, drawnafter them by that irresistible attraction to youths who have as yethad no shroud of grief woven for them--desire to observe the aspect of abrilliant foe.
The Piazza d'Armi was the field of Mars of Milan, and an Austrian reviewof arms there used to be a tropical pageant. The place was too narrowfor broad manoeuvres, or for much more than to furnish an inspectionof all arms to the General, and a display (with its meaning) to thepopulace. An unusually large concourse of spectators lined the square,like a black border to a vast bed of flowers, nodding now this way,now that. Carlo and Luciano passed among the groups, presenting theperfectly smooth faces of young men of fashion, according to theuniversal aristocratic pattern handed down to querulous mortals fromOlympus--the secret of which is to show a triumphant inaction ofthe heart and the brain, that are rendered positively subservient toelegance of limb. They knew the chances were in favour of their beingarrested at any instant. None of the higher members of the Milanesearistocracy were visible; the people looked sullen. Carlo was attractedby the tall figure of the Signor Antonio-Pericles, whom he beheld inconverse with the commandant of the citadel, out in the square, amongchatting and laughing General officers. At Carlo's elbow there came aburst of English tongues; he heard Vittoria's English name spoken withanimation. 'Admire those faces,' he said to Luciano, but the latter wasinterchanging quiet recognitions among various heads of the crowd; alanguage of the eyelids and the eyebrows. When he did look round headmired the fair island faces with an Italian's ardour: 'Their women aresplendid!' and he no longer pushed upon Carlo's arm to make way ahead.In the English group were two sunny-haired girls and a blue-eyed ladywith the famous English curls, full, and rounding richly. This ladytalked of her brother, and pointed him out as he rode down the line inthe Marshal's staff. The young officer indicated presently broke awayand galloped up to her, bending over his horse's neck to join theconversation. Emilia Belloni's name was mentioned. He stared, andappeared to insist upon a contrary statement.
Carlo scrutinized his features. While doing so he was accosted, andbeheld his former adversary of the Motter--one, with whom he hadyesterday shaken hands in the Piazza of La Scala. The ceremony wascordially renewed. Luciano unlinked his arm from Carlo and left him.
'It appears that you are mistaken with reference to MademoiselleBelloni,' said Captain Gambier. 'We hear on positive authority that shewill not appear at La Scala to-night. It's a disappointment; though,from what you did me the honour to hint to me, I cannot allow myself toregret it.'
Carlo had a passionate inward prompting to trust this Englishman withthe secret. It was a weakness that he checked. When one really takes toforeigners, there is a peculiar impulse (I speak of the people who areaccessible to impulse) to make brothers of them. He bowed, and said,'She does not appear?'
'She has in fact quitted Milan. Not willingly. I would have stopped thebusiness if I had known anything of it; but she is better out of theway, and will be carefully looked after, where she is. By this time sheis in the Tyrol.'
'And where?' asked Carlo, with friendly interest.
'At a schloss near Meran. Or she will be there in a very few hours. Ifeared--I may inform you that we were very good friends in England--Ifeared that when she once came to Italy she would get into politicalscrapes. I dare say you agree with me that women have nothing to dowith politics. Observe: you see the lady who is speaking to the Austrianofficer?--he is her brother. Like Mademoiselle Belloni he has adopteda fresh name; it's the name of his uncle, a General Pierson in theAustrian service. I knew him in England: he has been in our service.Mademoiselle Belloni lived with his sisters for some years two or three.As you may suppose, they are all anxious to see her. Shall I introduceyou? They will be glad to know one of her Italian friends.'
Carlo hesitated; he longed to hear those ladies talk of Vittoria. 'Dothey speak French?'
'Oh, dear, yes. That is, as we luckless English people speak it. Perhapsyou will more easily pardon their seminary Italian. See there,' CaptainGambier pointed at some trotting squadrons; 'these Austrians havecertainly a matchless cavalry. The artillery seems good. The infantryare fine men--very fine men. They have a "woodeny" movement; but that'sin the nature of the case: tremendous discipline alone gives homogeneityto all those nationalities. Somehow they get beaten. I doubt whetheranything will beat their cavalry.'
'They are useless in street-fighting,' said Carlo.
'Oh, street-fighting!' Captain Gambier vented a soldier's disgust at thenotion. 'They're not in Paris. Will you step forward?'
Just then the tall Greek approached the party of English. Theintroduction was delayed.
He was addressed by the fair lady, in the island tongue, as 'Mr.Pericles.' She thanked him for his extreme condescension in deigning tonotice them. But whatever his condescension had been, it did not extendto an admitted acquaintance with the poor speech of the land of fogs. Anexhibition of aching deafness was presented to her so resolutely, thatat last she faltered, 'What! have you forgotten English, Mr. Pericles?You spoke it the other day.'
'It is ze language of necessity--of commerce,' he replied.
'But, surely, Mr. Pericles, you dare not presume to tell me you chooseto be ignorant of it whenever you please?'
'I do not take grits into ze teeth, madame; no more.' 'But you speak itperfectly.'
'Perfect it may be, for ze transactions of commerce. I wish to keep myteez.'
'Alas!' said the lady, compelled, 'I must endeavour to swim in French.'
'At your service, madame,' quoth the Greek, with an immediate doublingof the length of his body.
Carlo heard little more than he knew; but the confirmation of whatwe know will sometimes instigate us like fresh intelligence, and thelover's heart was quick to apprehend far more than he knew in onedirection. He divined instantaneously that the English-Austrianspoken of by Barto Rizzo was the officer sitting on horseback withinhalf-a-dozen yards of him. The certainty of the thought cramped hismuscles. For the rest, it became clear to him that the attempt of themillionaire connoisseur to carry off Vittoria had received the tacitsanction of the Austrian authorities; for reasons quite explicable, Mr.Pericles, as the English lady called him, distinctly hinted it, whileaffirming with vehement self-laudation that his scheme had succeeded forthe vindication of Art.
'The opera you will hear zis night,' he said, 'will be hissed. You willhear a chorus of screech-owls to each song of that poor Irma, whom theItalian people call "crabapple." Well; she pleases German ears, and ifthey can support her, it is well. But la Vittoria--your Belloni--youwill not hear; and why? She has been false to her Art, false! She hasbecome a little devil in politics. It is a Guy Fawkes femelle! She hasbeen guilty of the immense crime of ingratitude. She is dismissed tostudy, to penitence, and to the society of her old friends, if they willvisit her.'
'Of course we will,' said the English lady; 'either before or after ourvisit to Venice--delicious Venice!'
'Which you have not seen--hein?' Mr. Pericles snarled; 'and have notsmelt. There is no music in Venice! But you have nothing but streettinkle-tinkle! A place to live in! mon Dieu!'
The lady smiled. 'My husband insists upon trying the baths of Bormio,and then we are to go over a pass for him to try the grape-cure atMeran. If I can get him to promise me one whole year in Italy, our visitto Venice may be deferred. Our doctor, monsieur, indicates our route. Ifmy brother can get leave of absence, we shall go to Bormio and to Meranwith him. He is naturally astonished that Emilia refused to see him;and she refused to see us too! She wrote a letter, dated from theConservatorio to him, he had it in his saddlebag, and was robbed of itand other precious documents, when the wretched, odious people set uponhim in Verona-poor boy! She said in the letter that she would see him ina few days after the fifteenth, which is to-day!
'Ah! a few days after the fifteenth, which is to-day,' Mr. Periclesrepeated. 'I saw you but the day befor
e yesterday, madame, or I couldhave brought you together.
She is now away-off--out of sight--the perfule! Ah false that she is;speak not of her. You remember her in England. There it was trouble,trouble; but here, we are a pot on a fire with her; speak not of her.She has used me ill, madame. I am sick.'
His violent gesticulation drooped. In a temporary abandonment tochagrin, he wiped the moisture from his forehead, unwilling or heedlessof the mild ironical mouthing of the ladies, and looked about; for Carlohad made a movement to retire,--he had heard enough for discomfort.
'Ah! my dear Ammiani, the youngest editor in Europe! how goes it withyou?' the Greek called out with revived affability.
Captain Gambier perceived that it was time to present his Italianacquaintance to the ladies by name, as a friend of Mademoiselle Belloni.
'My most dear Ammiani,' Antonio-Pericles resumed; he barely attemptedto conceal his acrid delight in casting a mysterious shadow of comingvexation over the youth; 'I am afraid you will not like the operaCamilla, or perhaps it is the Camilla you will not like. But, shoulderarms, march!' (a foot regiment in motion suggested the form of therecommendation) 'what is not for to-day may be for to-morrow. Let uswait. I think, my Ammiani, you are to have a lemon and not an orange.Never mind. Let us wait.'
Carlo got his forehead into a show of smoothness, and said, 'Suppose, mydear Signor Antonio, the prophet of dark things were to say to himself,"Let us wait?"'
'Hein-it is deep.' Antonio-Pericles affected to sound the sentence,eye upon earth, as a sparrow spies worm or crumb. 'Permit me,' headded rapidly; an idea had struck him from his malicious reservestores,--'Here is Lieutenant Pierson, of the staff of the Field-Marshalof Austria, unattached, an old friend of Mademoiselle EmiliaBelloni,--permit me,--here is Count Ammiani, of the Lombardia Milanesejournal, a new friend of the Signorina Vittoria Campa-MademoiselleBelloni the Signorina Campa--it is the same person, messieurs; permit meto introduce you.'
Antonio-Pericles waved his arm between the two young men.
Their plain perplexity caused him to dash his fingers down each side ofhis moustachios in tugs of enjoyment.
For Lieutenant Pierson, who displayed a certain readiness to bow, hadcaught a sight of the repellent stare on Ammiani's face; a still andflat look, not aggressive, yet anything but inviting; like a shield.
Nevertheless, the lieutenant's head produced a stiff nod. Carlo's didnot respond; but he lifted his hat and bowed humbly in retirement to theladies.
Captain Gambier stepped aside with him.
'Inform Lieutenant Pierson, I beg you,' said Ammiani, 'that I am at hisorders, if he should consider that I have insulted him.'
'By all means,' said Gambier; 'only, you know, it's impossible for me toguess what is the matter; and I don't think he knows.'
Luciano happened to be coming near. Carlo went up to him, and stoodtalking for half a minute. He then returned to Captain Gambier, andsaid, 'I put myself in the hands of a man of honour. You are aware thatItalian gentlemen are not on terms with Austrian officers. If I am seenexchanging salutes with any one of them, I offend my countrymen; andthey have enough to bear already.'
Perceiving that there was more in the background, Gambier simply bowed.He had heard of Italian gentlemen incurring the suspicion of theirfellows by merely being seen in proximity to an Austrian officer.
As they were parting, Carlo said to him, with a very direct meaning inhis eyes, 'Go to the opera tonight.'
'Yes, I suppose so,' the Englishman answered, and digested the look andthe recommendation subsequently.
Lieutenant Pierson had ridden off. The war-machine was in motion fromend to end: the field of flowers was a streaming flood; regiment byregiment, the crash of bands went by. Outwardly the Italians conductedthemselves with the air of ordinary heedless citizens, in whose bosomsthe music set no hell-broth boiling. Patrician and plebeian, they werechiefly boys; though here and there a middle-aged workman cast a lookof intelligence upon Carlo and Luciano, when these two passed along thecrowd. A gloom of hoarded hatred was visible in the mass of faces, readyto spring fierily.
Arms were in the city. With hatred to prompt the blow, with arms tostrike, so much dishonour to avenge, we need not wonder that theseyouths beheld the bit of liberty in prospect magnified by their mightyobfuscating ardour, like a lantern in a fog. Reason did not act. Theywere in such a state when just to say 'Italia! Italia!' gave them nerveto match an athlete. So, the parading of Austria, the towering athlete,failed of its complete lesson of intimidation, and only ruffled thesurface of insurgent hearts. It seemed, and it was, an insult to thetrodden people, who read it as a lesson for cravens: their instinctcommonly hits the bell. They felt that a secure supremacy would not haveparaded itself: so they divined indistinctly that there was weaknesssomewhere in the councils of the enemy. When the show had vanished,their spirits hung pausing, like the hollow air emptied of big sound,and reacted. Austria had gained little more by her display than theconscientious satisfaction of the pedagogue who lifts the rod to adviseintending juvenile culprits how richly it can be merited and how poorwill be their future grounds of complaint.
But before Austria herself had been taught a lesson she conceived thatshe had but one man and his feeble instruments, and occasional frenzies,opposed to her, him whom we saw on the Motterone, which was ceasing tobe true; though it was true that the whole popular movement flowed fromthat one man. She observed travelling sparks in the embers of Italy, andcrushed them under her heel, without reflecting that a vital heat mustbe gathering where the spots of fire run with such a swiftness. Itwas her belief that if she could seize that one man, whom many of theyounger nobles and all the people acknowledged as their Chief--forhe stood then without a rival in his task--she would have the neck ofconspiracy in her angry grasp. Had she caught him, the conspiracy forItalian freedom would not have crowed for many long seasons; the torchwould have been ready, but not the magazine. He prepared it; it was hewho preached to the Italians that opportunity is a mocking devil when welook for it to be revealed; or, in other words, wait for chance; as itis God's angel when it is created within us, the ripe fruit of virtueand devotion. He cried out to Italians to wait for no inspiration buttheir own; that they should never subdue their minds to follow any alienexample; nor let a foreign city of fire be their beacon. Watching overhis Italy; her wrist in his meditative clasp year by year; he stood likea mystic leech by the couch of a fair and hopeless frame, pledged torevive it by the inspired assurance, shared by none, that life had notforsaken it. A body given over to death and vultures-he stood by it inthe desert. Is it a marvel to you that when the carrion-wings swoopedlow, and the claws fixed, and the beak plucked and savoured its morsel,he raised his arm, and urged the half-resuscitated frame to somevindicating show of existence? Arise! he said, even in what appearedmost fatal hours of darkness. The slack limbs moved; the body rose andfell. The cost of the effort was the breaking out of innumerable wounds,old and new; the gain was the display of the miracle that Italy lived.She tasted her own blood, and herself knew that she lived.
Then she felt her chains. The time was coming for her to prove, by thevirtues within her, that she was worthy to live, when others of hersons, subtle and adept, intricate as serpents, bold, unquestioning aswell-bestridden steeds, should grapple and play deep for her in the gameof worldly strife. Now--at this hour of which I speak--when Austriansmarched like a merry flame down Milan streets, and Italians stood likethe burnt-out cinders of the fire-grate, Italy's faint wrist was stillin the clutch of her grave leech, who counted the beating of her pulsebetween long pauses, that would have made another think life to beheaving its last, not beginning.
The Piazza d'Armi was empty of its glittering show.