Amours de Voyage | Page 8

fewer, moreover, than usual,?Much and silenter far; and so I begin to imagine?Something is really afloat. Ere I leave, the Caffe is empty,?Empty too the streets, in all its length the Corso?Empty, and empty I see to my right and left the Condotti.?Twelve o'clock, on the Pincian Hill, with lots of English,?Germans, Americans, French,--the Frenchmen, too, are protected,--?So we stand in the sun, but afraid of a probable shower;?So we stand and stare, and see, to the left of St. Peter's,?Smoke, from the cannon, white,--but that is at intervals only,--?Black, from a burning house, we suppose, by the Cavalleggieri;?And we believe we discern some lines of men descending?Down through the vineyard-slopes, and catch a bayonet gleaming.?Every ten minutes, however,--in this there is no misconception,--?Comes a great white puff from behind Michel Angelo's dome, and?After a space the report of a real big gun,--not the Frenchman's!--?That must be doing some work. And so we watch and conjecture.?Shortly, an Englishman comes, who says he has been to St. Peter's,?Seen the Piazza and troops, but that is all he can tell us;?So we watch and sit, and, indeed, it begins to be tiresome.--?All this smoke is outside; when it has come to the inside,?It will be time, perhaps, to descend and retreat to our houses.?Half-past one, or two. The report of small arms frequent,?Sharp and savage indeed; that cannot all be for nothing:?So we watch and wonder; but guessing is tiresome, very.?Weary of wondering, watching, and guessing, and gossiping idly,?Down I go, and pass through the quiet streets with the knots of?National Guards patrolling, and flags hanging out at the windows,?English, American, Danish,--and, after offering to help an?Irish family moving en masse to the Maison Serny,?After endeavouring idly to minister balm to the trembling?Quinquagenarian fears of two lone British spinsters,?Go to make sure of my dinner before the enemy enter.?But by this there are signs of stragglers returning; and voices?Talk, though you don't believe it, of guns and prisoners taken;?And on the walls you read the first bulletin of the morning.--?This is all that I saw, and all that I know of the battle.
VI. Claude to Eustace.
Victory! Victory!--Yes! ah, yes, thou republican Zion,?Truly the kings of the earth are gathered and gone by together;?Doubtless they marvelled to witness such things, were astonished, and so forth. Victory! Victory! Victory!--Ah, but it is, believe me,?Easier, easier far, to intone the chant of the martyr?Than to indite any paean of any victory. Death may?Sometimes be noble; but life, at the best, will appear an illusion.?While the great pain is upon us, it is great; when it is over,?Why, it is over. The smoke of the sacrifice rises to heaven,?Of a sweet savour, no doubt, to Somebody; but on the altar,?Lo, there is nothing remaining but ashes and dirt and ill odour.?So it stands, you perceive; the labial muscles that swelled with?Vehement evolution of yesterday Marseillaises,?Articulations sublime of defiance and scorning, to-day colLapse?and languidly mumble, while men and women and papers?Scream and re-scream to each other the chorus of Victory. Well, but?I am thankful they fought, and glad that the Frenchmen were beaten.
VII. Claude to Eustace.
So, I have seen a man killed! An experience that, among others!?Yes, I suppose I have; although I can hardly be certain,?And in a court of justice could never declare I had seen it.?But a man was killed, I am told, in a place where I saw?Something; a man was killed, I am told, and I saw something.?I was returning home from St. Peter's; Murray, as usual,?Under my arm, I remember; had crossed the St. Angelo bridge; and?Moving towards the Condotti, had got to the first barricade, when?Gradually, thinking still of St. Peter's, I became conscious?Of a sensation of movement opposing me,--tendency this way?(Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave of the tide is?Coming and not yet come,--a sort of noise and retention);?So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of stragglers?Heading a crowd, it is plain, that is coming behind that corner.?Looking up, I see windows filled with heads; the Piazza,?Into which you remember the Ponte St. Angelo enters,?Since I passed, has thickened with curious groups; and now the?Crowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last barricade, is?Here at my side. In the middle they drag at something. What is it??Ha! bare swords in the air, held up? There seem to be voices?Pleading and hands putting back; official, perhaps; but the swords are?Many, and bare in the air. In the air? they descend; they are smiting,?Hewing, chopping--At what? In the air once more upstretched? And--?Is it blood that's on them? Yes, certainly blood! Of whom, then??Over whom is the cry of this furor of exultation??While they are skipping and screaming, and dancing their caps on the points of Swords and bayonets, I to the