Mademoiselle Mori : a tale of modern Rome

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Preface

The words of an accomplished singer, * D'abord je suis femmej avec les devoirs, les affections, les sentiments d'lme femme ; et puis je suis artiste^^ may be taken as the text on which the following tale has been composed. Irene Mori is an ideal who arose before the mind of the writer among fair scenes and on classic ground, at a time when recent events in the'history of Rome had a vivid interest for the spectator.

The beauty and interest of Ancient Rome have been long the theme of travellers, poets, and historians, and it is an interest that can never be forgotten ; but now a new one is springing up theflr. Besides the dead Past, there is a living Present, and the aijp of the following pages is to give some description of the thoughts and feelings that stir Modem Rome ; and some pictiHk of that every-day life in the Eternal Ciiy, which would not be more wonderful, more beautiful, or more interesting than every-day life elsewhere, if it were not that it has been of Istte years marked by some touch of heroism, and that it may ere long be so distinguished again.

It is matter of history, that when once a race has fallen below a certain point it can rise no more. Whether the Italian people have sunk to this point is a question that, in

VI PREFACE.

the course of a few years, must have its answer. A new spirit has gradually risen among them ; they have dared and suffered, and they are ready to dare and suffer again, if so they may purchase liberty. They are not like the Spaniards, willing to acquiesce in insignificance, and content to have no place among the nations. They are gasping and struggling for life.

We, in our island home, are, as a people, brought little * in contact with other nations. We have a strong, busy, national life, which fills our heads and hearts, and gives full scope to our activities. Our sympathies are apt to be naiv rowed to the measure of our own concerns, and it has been truly said of the EngHshman that ^ foreign affiiirs, in his normal state, he views with indifference.' Now and then this indifference is thawed, and our sympathies are roused by the course of events to take a wider range. The Italian revolution of 1848-9 awakened an interest amongst us that has not died away, and drew our earnest attention to Italian politics. The best historical account of those revolutions, Farini's Stato MomanOj has been translated into our Ian* guage, by the accomplished pen of an English statesman ; and time has enabled us to appreciate the truthfuhiess of a work which we were at first inclined J^ cHl in question. At the present epoch, the scenes in which the following tale is laid may give it a peculiar interest. It was written among those who had taken an active share in them. Some of the incidents described in it will be recognised as real occurrences, such as the murder of the two supposed spies by the populace ; the attendance of the Roman ladies at the hospitals during the siege ; the existence of the child regiment called la Sperama, the flight and pursuit of the traitor, and

PREFACE. VU

his rescue by the eloquence of a priest. But the "writer is far from presenting this slight work of fiction as a picture of all that Rome did and suffered in 1849. It is but a sketch of the way in which private lives are affected by convulsions in the whole body politic, and private hopes made shipwreck in the tempests that shake the State.

K the fortunes of the dramatis personca of this story should awaken some feelings of pity for those who have been much oppressed, some admiration for those who have fallen in a good cause, and some sympathy for the future fortunes of the Boman people, the writer's end will have been accomplished.

MADEMOISELLE MOEL

Chapter I

Thon art in Rome ! the city that so long Beigned absolute, the mistress of the world.

BoO£RS.

One Sunday evening in October, the English congregation were pouring out of the room which served them as a church, outside the Porta del Popolo. The English season at Rome had just begun. A long file of carriages was waiting, and they successively came up to the door, and drove off, either to various residences, or to the Pincian Hill. The walkers turned into the gardens of Villa Borghese, the gates of which stood invitingly open close at hand; or crossed the Piazza, and fell into the crowd in the three streets branching from it Some ascended the Pincian Hill, which the Italians, ever dreading the unhealthy liour of sunset, were already leaving ; so that there was a double stream of vehicles and foot-passengers, one descending and the other ascending, the winding way. Ample as the road was, it hardly contained the crowds tempted out by the fine afternoon to this charming place, once the CoUis ffortuiorum, and still a region of gardens, as much as in the days of Sallust and Lucretius.

If the piazzas and streets below had not been equally crowded, all Rome might have been supposed on the Pincio. Languages from all parts of the world were heard there ; foreigners and natives were blended together. Here, a^Bgi^ificent Armeiiian prelate walked, with stately air and flowing Ifbard, beside a white-robed Dominican. There, a group of Americans, of English, of Germans, passed by. Here, again, a Frenchman exchaDged no very friendly glances with a slender, dark Italian. Now, all the crowd pressed hastily together into the angles of the road, as a carriage, containing two Italian ladies reclining luxuriously in it, dashed along. Nurses, distinguished by their cix>wns of bright ribbon and long silver pins ; priests in their various habits, were conspicuous and abundant ; but in the whole throng there was hardly a Roman from the country ; all on the Pincio were inhabitants of the city, and no particular fesia had called the dwellers in the Campagna into Rome. It was only such a crowd and such a scene as may be witnessed on the Pincian Hill on any fine Sunday in autumn.

Amongst those of the English congregation who made it their way home from church were a young brother and sister, followed by a spaniel, which had been waiting for them at the door. As they mingled with the crowd, their appearance was so foreign and their Italian so pure, that no one would have supposed them to be English, though the boy's tall, slender figure and bright complexion were unlike those of a Roman. They paused for a few moments in an angle of the wall, looking down into the gardens below, whence the warm, perfumed breath of the China roses came up in gusts, and where lizards and butterflies coquetted together. A carriage passed, and a lady in it remarked them, and asked her companion who they were, saying, ' If I had not seen them in our church, I should have taken them for Italians.'

' So they are, in fact I do not know much about them, biJt I believe the father was a yomig English artist, who married a Neapolitan girl. I suppose he met with her in some expedition into il Regno^ as they call Naples. I remember seeing a portrait of her once when we went to his studio, and a beautiful creature she must have been — with one of those pure Greek faces which you see at Sora or Capri. She died, and left him this girl and boy ; and some one said the other day that he was dead too.'

* How do they live ? *

' I do not know f pp the boy's earnings, probably. Oh, you do not know how little people can live on here, or you would not' look incredulous. Yet I sometimes think that poverty is worse here than in England ; there are so many families who once were

MADEMdiSBLLS MOBI. 11

better off, and are going steadily down hill. And it is so hopeleas. Wl^t can one do ? ' ,

' Ah, the priests dislike the English helping or visiting their people ? '

' Oh, some do, and some do not. Some ai'e glad to let their peonle get part of the alms at the English church ; others would not hear of it'

* Do yo»«ee fnything of the poor here ? '

^ I did, when I first came here, with my English notions ; bat it is so disheartening, the cases are so endless and so hopeless. And it is inmost unfortunate thing to get the name of being charitable, one has no peace — and then one gets so shockingly imposed up>on.^ I do assure you, Mrs. Dalzell, you would not believe me, if I told you the frauds that people, as weU off as you or I, will practise to get a few pauls. I am quite in earnest ; the spirit o£ independence, or honesty either, is entirely wanting here. And then I know that the people take what one gives, and bate one all the time as something worse than a pagan. They call converts from our Church to theirs Ntum Cristiani^ New Christians. Religion is, of course, a forbidden subject, and I have lost all heart, and feel sure I am being taken in when an Italian talks me into being charitable. I have learnt to resist their pathetic entreaties at last. Ah, you look dissatisfied; but if ever you live here, you will find philanthropy to be all very well in theory but mightily disagreeable in practice at Rome.'

Mrs. Dalzell made no reply, and bent forward to look at the road, some turns of which now lay below them. She distinguished the brother and sister again, slowly ascending in the throng, and asked if they had been brought up as Frotest- «ants«

*• I suppose so. Xes, they must be Protestants, for Italian Romanists are strictly prohibited from setting foot within our church. The boy is a handsome fellow, is he not ? I should like to know if they have any friends here. Well, we must drive down, or you will miss the taUe cThdte, I wonder why Italian women will wear white bonnets ! Did you see that one ? Frightful, is it not ? Have you decided on going into lodgings ? '

^ My old friend, Madame Marriotti, recommends me to do so.'

Meanwhile, the boy and girl "had reached the door of the French Academy, and instead oft following the streams of promenaders to the gardens above, thej went in, and asked the porter for the key of the Bosco, which was given, and they entered a grove of ilexes, whose gloomy shade effectually shut out the radiant sunshine that still illuminated the western sky. ^ ' Now the bread, Yincenzo,! said the girl, in Italian ; ' see, see, Aer^ he is,' and she held out her hands caressingly to a white golitf which was browsing amid the rank herbage, and feigning to take no notice of them. * Come ! vtcn, vien qua / Oh, see the creature ! ' as the spaniel, which had been racing in another part of the wood, came into sight, and the goat, startled out of coquettish indifference, gave an extraordinary caper, and* rushed upon him. Yincenzo and his sister were too much overcome with laughter to interfere in the duel, which ended with the dog's taking refuge between his owners, while the goat pirouetted indignantly at a little distance.

* Come, if we are to see the sunset we must make haste, Irene,' said Yincenzo ; * Nanna will certainly think we 'are lost, and eat Ihe ricotta all herself. What are we going to have for supper ? ^me, tell me ! '

* You greedy boy ! Don't suppose I shall tell you. Nanna would ne^er forgive me if I spoiled her treat in that way.'

* How she must rack her good old head eyerjfesta to get the something to make us a surprise,' said Yincenzo, as they advanced towards a long and exceedingly steep flight of steps, leading up a high mound clothed with ilexes. *I believe it is what she thinks of from one holiday to another.'

* And I think of what you are doing in the studio. Ah, Yincenzino, when you are a great sculptor ! '

* Ah, when ! ' repeated her brother. * Do you remember the sculptor who sold nothing for fourteen years ? Fourteen years of working and waiting, and hoping and despairing, Irene ! '

* And we can work, and wait, and hope too, but not despair,' said Irene, eagerly. * Fortune came at last to him, and so it will to us — and any way, you must be a sculptor.'

* Ay,' said Yincenzo, looking out on the magnificent view which now lay before them as they attained the miniature temple on the top of the mound Und above the wood, ^ it is not for the fame or the fortune ; it is for itself, Irene I '

Both stood still, side by side, gazing silently on the city, where dome and bell-tower stood out against a sky of gold ; the desolate Monte Mario and its stone pines rising dark to the right. Behind, close at hand, were sombre ilex woods, amid which rose here and there the spire of a cypress or a ruined arch, and on the highest point, the white Villa Ludovisi ; beyond, H^trAtdhed the Campagna, girdled by hills melting into light under the evening sky.

^ It is something to be a Roman,' said Yincenzo, at last.

^ And a Roman sculptor,' added his sister.

* You must come to the studio some day, Irene ; I want to show you my copy of the Flora. I can tell you, it was a great honor to be chosen to make it. Alberti had no time, or else I don't suppose Signer Trajano would have chosen me. Ah ! the light is going.'

^Ave Maria when you hear, look you that your house be near,' said Irene, quoting a familiar Roman proverb ; ' but before we go, can you get me that bit of smilace f See,' she added, pointing to a graceful plant wreathed round a neighboring ilex. *' There, see that bough ; it will look beautiful round Santa Lucia, and you could copy it for a frame.' ^

' I see ; stand out of the way,' said Yincenzo, advancing to the side of the flight of steps which was undefended by railing or balustrade. He leant lightly forward, stretching his lithe figure as fiu* as he could, and reaching after the plant, while Irene ran down the steps so rapidly, that she came headlong into the arms of a stranger, as he turned a comer of the mound, and was about to ascend. Her exclamation made Yincenzo start upright to see what had occurred. He set his foot on a pebble which chanced to be on the step, slipped, lost his balance, strove in vain to recover himself, and fell down the whole flight of steps with frightful violence. He lay as if dead for some minutes, and when Irene wildly implored him to speak — to look at her — and the stranger, who had innocently caused the disaster, raised him, he only answered by faint moans of pain. Presently he recognised his sister, uttered her name, and tried to rise with f

14 MADEMOISm.B MORI.

the help of the stranger ; but the suffering caused by the movement showed that serious injury had occurred. The stranger asked, first in French and then in tolerable Italian, where he felt hurt.

' My back/ he answered in a faint whisper ; then, perceiving Irene's terror, ' Don't be frightened, only I cannot walk home yet'

Nor could he endure to be carried when they tried to lifl him.

* You are Italian ! Where do you live ? Let me get a car^ riage for you ; I fear you must wait here awhile, but I will make all possible speed. My name is De Crillon, Colonel de Crillon,' said the stranger, laying the poor boy's head tenderly upon Irene's lap.

She thanked him by a look. He hastened away, and she sat waiting while the weaiy time passed on. The gloom of the ilexes deepened ; the sun had set, and the rapid Italian night was come. The bell of the neighboring convent rang for the Ave Maria, but still no one came to the help of the two poor children. Yincenzo was too much exhausted l)y pain to continue the comforting words which he had at first tried to speak ; his breath came feeble and fluttering ; Irene was dumb with fear and grief, and sat with tears rolling down her cheeks, and one arm passed closely round the neck of her dog, as if even hb presence was a comfort, and the other hand on Yincenzo's damp forehead. A rustle gave her hope, but no one came ; it was but the white goat come to peer inquisitively at them. Jt seemed as if hours had passed $ all was still again — surely all the world had forgotten them ; yet it was not so very long in reality before voices and steps came near, and Colonel de Crillon hurried up.

^ My poor friend ! Have you been in much pain ? Every carriage was engaged ; I could not find one. Here is something, at last, and these good men will carry you very carefully. Here, my men, lift him gently, gently — that's it,' as by his gesture rather than by his foreign Italian they comprehended, and laid the boy in a sheet which they had brought with them. But no tenderness could save Yincenzo from anguish which wrung irrepressible moans from him even while he gasped out, ' It's nothing ; don't mind, Irene/ and the transit over the rough pavements was a trial that ended in actual fainting.

Colonel de Crillon accompanied them to their dwelling, and bade Irene hasten up-stairs to warn her iriends and prepare a bed to receive Vincenzo at once. There was no one to warn except the old servant who had nursed them, and who, as Irene ran up to the rooms thej occupied, on a third floor, came to the top of the staircase, with indignant voice uplifted to a shrill shriek —

* Oh ! terrible children ! Do you wish to kill me with sorrow ? Is this ^n hour ? Child ! what has happened ? ' suddenly perceiving Irene's frightened aspect

* Oh ! Vincenzo has fallen down the steps of the Bosco,* answered Irene, amid choking tears ; * they are carrying him up-stairs now.'

Quite overpowered, she hid her face and gave way to her sobs, while old Nanna hastened down scolding and lamenting. The sight of Vincenzo, carried up senseless, called forth a new outburst, as she stood on the stairs, with vehement gestures and tones, preventing any one from passing, and quite unconscious of fl being in the way. The men who carried him did not know what had caused the accident. Colonel de Crillon could not muster* Italian enough to explain, nor could he comprehend the local Italian spoken by Nanna.

' My good woman,' he exclaimed, at last, ' you really must let us pass by. Where is the boy's father or mother ? *

^ Father or mother, did the Signor say ? They have none but me ; orphans are they, the blessed children ! '

Without further ceremony he pushed by her and ran up-stairs till he reached an open door, where sounds of sobbing directed him to Irene. He was getting thoroughly annoyed, and spoke sharply —

^ Signorina, are you aware that we are losing a great deal of time ? Be so kind as to speak to your servant, and request her not to stand wailing over your brother as if she were a weeping willow, but to fetch a doctor.'

Irene stood up, looking so scared and wretched that his heart smote him as if he had been cruel to a child.

* Pardon, if I speak like a savage, but indeed it is most important to waste no more time. Our first thought must be how to relieve him.'

* Yes/ she answered, coUecting herself with eflfort, and still shaken by repressed sobs. ^ I am sorry. Papa used to be angry when I cried. What ought I to do?'

<Ah! she has let him pass/ muttered Colonel de Crillon. *Now we must have him put to bed directly, and then — here, lay him down softly. I'll fetch a doctor myself. The old hag ! can't she keep herself quiet ? '

* He opens his eyes ! — he knows us ! ' exclaimed Irene, springing towards him, but stopped by Colonel de Crillon. ^ I will not talk ; I will do just what you tell me. Vincenzo — oh, dear Yincenzo ! Nanna, let me see his face. This good gentleman says he will go for a doctor.'

M. de Crillon, however, thought that the boy would never be safely laid in bed without his superintendence, though Irene now showed more self-control and helpfulness than he had imagined she could possess. He gave the men something and got rid of them, and returned to help in undressing Yincenzo, growing meanwhile more exasperated every moment by Nanna's incessant chattering. Yincenzo had revived to entire consciousness, and when M. de Crillon had laid him tenderly in bed, the boy clasped his hand and feebly murmured thanks, and Irene's liquid eyes were even more eloquent. ^ It is nothing ; let me seek a doctor,' said he, with a smile ; and Nanna, looking from the window, saw him the next minute hurrying down the street with what she, from their rapidity, called, inappropriately enough, passi Inglesi.

He returned with the French doctor whose name he had the most often heard since he had been in Rome, consequently the one most fashionable and busy. An Italian household of the middle class was new to the foreign physician, and when, afler his examination of Yincenzo, Colonel de Crillon privately asked him if he supposed they were badly off, he knew as little of the matter as the inquirer. They looked round, and judged that that there was no poverty here, deceived by the picturesque air of everything ; the frilled sheets, the damask couch, the silver cu^s for holy water hung over the bed, the paintings in carved frames, and the gay painted celling. A native would have per^

MADEMOISfiLLB MORI. 17

ceived directly that the rooms bore traces of past competency and present poverty; but the two foreigners understood none of these indications, and did not even think that the bare brick floors looked uncomfortable. M. de Crillon was not rich, but he paid the doctor's fee, told him to let him know if the children wanted anything, and gave him his address at Naples, whither he was obliged to go the next day.

' Is it possible they have no one to look after them but that old witch ? ' said he, looking to a little outer room, where the wrinkled face of old Nanna, her head covered by nothing bat rough and scanty grey hair, was bending over a pot set on a morsel of glowing charcoal, which she was exciting by means of a large veniolaio^ or feather fan, while she murmured to herself something about having foreseen misfortune since she had dreamed of water the night before.

^ No one else ?• Impossible ! Such nice-looking children 1 '

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

* What do you really think of the boy ? '

^I shall be better able to tell to-morro^. My impression is that the spine is injured, and that it is a surgical case.'

M. de Crillon returned to the bedside to bid Vincenzo farewelL The boy was lying with closed eyes and brow knit with pain ; the face, so blooming and full of life a few hours before, now wan as if with long illness. He opened his eyes as M. d^ Crillon took his hand and looked compassionately at him, seemed to recall what had happened, and thanked him, looking round for Irene as if to bid her join him. She came to his side, and looked earnestly at the stranger, almost as if asking for pardon.

* Farewell, my dear boy ; Dr. will let me know how you

go on,' said he, with more cheerfulness than he felt. ' Signorina, I have alarmed you twice to-day ; what will your recollections of me be ? ' •

Irene colored with a pretty look of consciousness, held out her hand, and whispered —

* Addioy signor ! '

The physician made his appearance again next day, and found Yincenzo 'in ess pain, and in a feverish state of excitement about his work at the studio, though unable to sit up. When

18 MADEHOISELLB MORI.

assured that absolute rest was imperative, he answered by an impatient gesture, and beckoning Irene to approach, whispered —

' Make Nanna get the truth from him ; I must know.'

Accordingly, when the doctor had written his prescription, and was retiring, the old woman followed him, and asked mysteriously what he thought was amiss with Vincenzo. He seemed slightly reluctant to answer, but at last said —

f I may as well tell you the truth ; I can do very little for him, and he had better be under a surgeon. I shall not come again unless you send for me. His back is injured.'

' Santa Vergine ! and when will he be able to work again ? '

^ I cannot say. If these children are poor, why not let him go to Santo Spirito ? '

*• The hospital 1 Better die ! The hospital ! Let him die of hunger here rather than there I The signor knows nothing of these things. I am Romana; I had a relation once in Santo Spirito, and I know what it is. I will starve, I will beg sooner than the boy shall go to the hospital 1 '

The fashionable physician had little knowledge of Roman charities, and was inclined to believe the popular prejudice against Santo Spirito to be unfounded. He was provoked, and said, drily —

* Do as you please ; but I warn you, the boy is very likely to "be a cripple for life.'

Thereupon Nanna burst into a perfect howl of grief, mingled with uproarious exclamations and adjurations, which entirely drowned the doctor's emphatic remonstrance. Every word reached Irene and Yinoenzo in the inner room, including her last —

^ Then may Madonna take us to Paradise, for we shall starve before the week's end ! '

* You hear, Irene ? ' said Vincenio.

* It is not true,' was her instinctive reply.

He made no answer, but drew the bedclothes over his face, lying thus for a long while, to the extreme terror of Irene, whose own truly southern nature always sought relief in unrestrained and visible emotion. At last he put out his hand, and drew her wet cheek close to his.

'Don't cry so, my own dearest — I can't bear that Irene, darling, do yon remember our father's last words ? '

^ God hath never &iled them that seek Him/ answered Irene in English.

The words came again and again to her mind as she sat by her brother, while Nanna was gone to the druggist's with the prescription. She thought over her past life, for the most part too happy to be easily recalled, but one event stood out prominently— her mother's death. That one long past sorrow was dearer than all the peaceful pleasant days before and after. Then came recollections of her father*s teaching ; walks with him onfeste^ when he would describe his own childhood in that England of which his children had so little idea — then she recalled his pride in his handsome and talented boy — then a dark vision of the sudden fever that had snatched him away, leaving them little but his memory as a legacy. The brother and sister were then eighteen and sixteen. A few months had passed since they had been left orphans, and all they had to depend on was Vincenzo's earnings, which, for his age, were very considerable. Friends they had none, except his master, the sculptor Trajano, who had treated him with great kindness and liberality. Yincenzo had acquaintances and companions of his own age and position, but no one to whom he could look in time of trouble. They had been but a short time in their present abode ; and the children of a Protestant were necessarily singularly isolated in Bome. Their creed must have been a very undeiined one, for Nanna and their mother were devout Roman Catholics, but their father had always taken them with him to the English Church, where, unlike too many of the English artists in Rome, he never failed to attend once at least on a Sunday. It was dear to them for his sake, and all old Nanna's horror of the Protestants could not induce them to discontinue the habit of going there. They felt as if they found their father again there more than in the gorgeous worship of the Church of the mother who had been dead so long that their affection for her was vague and dreamy, while the memory of the dear father just lost was fresh as the flowers they strewed on his grave in the lonely burial ground where he was laid. The English Protestant might not lie by his Roman Catholic wife. Had both lived, the different religions must have caused disunion or confusion : it was well that their children had only peace and love to remember.