Amours de Voyage | Page 8

to-day is their day,
of the Campidoglio Marbles;
Caffe-latte! I call to the waiter,--and
Non c'e latte,
This is the answer he makes me, and this is the sign of a
battle.
So I sit: and truly they seem to think any one else more

Worthy than me of attention. I wait for my milkless nero,
Free to
observe undistracted all sorts and sizes of persons,
Blending civilian
and soldier in strangest costume, coming in, and
Gulping in hottest

haste, still standing, their coffee,--withdrawing
Eagerly, jangling a
sword on the steps, or jogging a musket
Slung to the shoulder behind.
They are 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