The Italians | Page 5

to the ladies. They can trot a
well-broken horse--not too fresh, on a hard road, and are wonderful in
ruining his legs. A very few can drive what they call a stage (_Anglicè_,
drag) with grave and well-educated wheelers, on a very straight
road--such as do this are looked upon as heroes--shoot a hare sitting,
also tom-tits and sparrows. But they can neither hunt, nor fish, nor row.
They are ready of tongue and easy of offense. They can fight duels
(with swords), generally a harmless exercise. They can dance. They can
hold strong opinions on subjects on which they are crassly ignorant,
and yield neither to fact nor argument where their mediaeval usages are
concerned. All this the golden youths of Young Italy can do, and do it
well.
Yet from such stuff as this are to come the future ministers, prefects,
deputies, financiers, diplomatists, and senators, who are to regenerate
the world's old mistress! Alas, poor Italy!

The Guinigi Palace opposite forms a striking contrast to Count Nobili's
abode. It is as silent as the grave. Every shutter is closed. The great
wooden door to the street is locked; a heavy chain is drawn across it.
The Marchesa Guinigi has strictly commanded that it should be so. She
will have nothing to do with the festival of the Holy Countenance. She
will take no part in it whatever. Indeed, she has come to Lucca on
purpose to see that her orders are obeyed to the very letter, else that
rascal of a secretary might have hung out something in spite of her. The
marchesa, who has been for many years a widow, and is absolute
possessor of the palace and lands, calls herself a liberal. But she is in
practice the most thorough-going aristocrat alive. In one respect she is a
liberal. She despises priests, laughs at miracles, and detests festivals.
"A loss of time, and, if of time, of money," she says. If the peasants and
the people complain of the taxes, and won't work six days in the week,
"Let them starve," says the marchesa--"let them starve; so much the
better!"
In her opinion, the legend of the Holy Countenance is a lie, got up by
priests for money; so she comes into the city from Corellia, and shuts
up her palace, publicly to show her opinion. As far as she is concerned,
she believes neither in St. Nicodemus nor in idleness.
A good deal of this, be it said, en passant, is sheer obstinacy. The
marchesa is obstinate to folly, and full of contradictions. Besides, there
is another powerful motive that influences her--she hates Count Nobili.
Not that he has ever done any thing personally to offend her; of this he
is incapable--indeed, he has his own reasons for desiring passionately
to be on good terms with her--but he has, in her opinion, injured her by
purchasing the second Guinigi Palace. That she should have been
obliged to sell one of her ancestral palaces at all is to her a bitter
misfortune; but that any one connected with trade should possess what
had been inherited generation after generation by the Guinigi, is
intolerable.
That a parvenu, the son of a banker, should live opposite to her, that he
should abound in money, which he flings about recklessly, while she
can with difficulty eke out the slender rents from the greatly-reduced

patrimony of the Guinigi, is more than she can bear. His popularity and
his liberality (and she cannot come to Lucca without hearing of both),
even that comely young face of his, which she sees when she passes the
club on the way to her afternoon drive on the ramparts, are dire
offenses in her eyes. Whatever Count Nobili does, she (the Marchesa
Guinigi) will do the reverse. He has opened his house for the festival.
Hers shall be closed. She is thoroughly exceptional, however, in such
conduct. Every one in Lucca save herself, rich and poor, noble and
villain, join heart and soul in the national festival. Every one lays aside
on this auspicious day differences of politics, family feuds, and social
animosities. Even enemies join hands and kneel side by side at the
same altar. It is the mediaeval "God's truce" celebrated in the
nineteenth century.
* * * * *
It is now eleven o'clock. A great deal of sausage and garlic, washed
down by new wine and light beer, has been by this time consumed in
eating-shops and on street tables; much coffee, liqueurs, cake, and
bonbons, inside the palaces.
Suddenly all the church-bells, which have rung out since daybreak like
mad, stop; only the deep-toned cathedral-bell booms out from its
snowy campanile in half-minute strokes. There is an instant lull, the din
and clatter of the streets cease, the crowd surges, separates,