“The fellow is a clown. But how typically Italian. Conspiracy is in our blood. For the last fifty years the country has been crawling with secret societies, petty groups with poetical names, noble aims, and very little effect. The Sons of Mars, the Carbonari, and the White Pilgrims were just as absurdly theatrical as the Falcon. He is obviously ignorant of our history, or he would remember what happened to other incompetent idealists. Emilio and Attilio Bandiera, for instance.”
He paused, sipping his wine; and although I knew he had done so deliberately in order to whet out curiosity, I could not refrain from asking the question.
“Who were they?”
“Young officers who took it into their heads to liberate the peasants of Calabria,” Stefano replied. “They landed—if you can believe this—with sixteen men! They assumed, of course, that the peasants would flock to join them. The peasants did not object to being liberated, but they were not about to risk their skins for that illusory good.…”
“Pardon me, Cousin, if I object to your rhetorical style,” I said, trying to imitate Stefano’s tone of cool irony. “I think I can anticipate what you are about to say; the young idealists were caught and executed, is that right? How can you speak so callously of a noble aim, however misguided?”
My attempt at coolness failed; my voice broke on the final words. I don’t know why—at least I did not then know why—I was so moved, but my emotion silenced the others for a moment. Stefano’s fixed smile never left his face, but the look in his eyes indicated that I had touched him— probably evoked his contempt and annoyance. Surprisingly it was the Contessa who spoke first.
“The signorina is right about one thing, Stefano. You are too frivolous about serious matters.”
Stefano bowed his head without replying, and Miss Perkins hastened to break the awkward silence.
“You are unfair to our friend the Falcon, Count Stefano. There is reason in what he does. The people here are not the peasants of Calabria, and this is 1860. A rebellion at this time might well succeed; at least it might produce more lenient laws, kinder treatment.”
“Not at all,” Stefano replied. “Last year’s rebellions in Tuscany and Aemelia succeeded, to be sure, but only because they had support from Piedmont. No local uprising here can possibly succeed without outside aid, and Victor Emmanuel cannot challenge the Pope without risking war with France. Napoleon must defend Pio Nono; the clerical party in France is strong, and he needs their support, usurper that he is.”
Once again Grandfather proved that he understood the abhorred English tongue quite well. He interrupted this speech with a growl and a comment about the valor of the papal troops. Stefano’s lip curled.
“Oh, as for that, I consider De Merode’s international rabble a greater danger than your foolish Falcon. The gutter scrapings of Europe and Ireland—”
“The De Merode family is one of the best in France,” Grandfather interrupted.
“Impractical dreamers, like the other refugee nobles who fight for Pio Nono,” Stefano said curtly. “They still dream of a restoration. France has seen the last of its kings. Not that the Buonapartes are any improvement over the Bourbons.”
“Then you would support a republic?” Miss Perkins asked.
Stefano raised his eyebrows until they almost touched his exquisitely arranged curls.
“Heaven forbid, Miss P. The tyranny of the mob is as bad as the tyranny of a noble class. Look at what happened to France when she tried that solution.”
At that point Miss Rhoda let out a loud “hem!” and rose. The other ladies followed, leaving Stefano and Grandfather to their argument. The only one who was reluctant to depart was Miss Perkins.
II
I remember the following Thursday for three reasons. It was Galiana’s saint’s day, and we were to have a little party; one of my lovely new dresses was finished; and Andrea returned.
I was trying on the dress when he arrived and he made such an uproar that all of us flew downstairs to see what was happening. We followed the sound of music—the grand piano in the Salon of the Sybils, which was being played in great crashing chords. The music was more notable for volume than for beauty, but it had a fine martial ring; and somehow I was not surprised when I ran into the room, with Galiana on my heels, to see my cousin seated at the instrument pounding away at a great rate. He bowed when he saw us, but did not rise. Instead he began to sing.
“Si scopron le tombe, si levano i morti, I martri nostri son tutti risorti!…”
I needed no interpreter to understand. The ghosts of the martyrs were rising, with swords in their hands, to join in the fight for Italy’s freedom. They were thrilling words. Andrea fairly shouted them, his golden curls tossing, his eyes shining. He ended with a mighty crash and bounded to his feet. He seized my hand and planted a hearty kiss upon it; then he turned to Galiana and caught her up in his arms. She shrieked with delight, her little feet dangling.
Still the same impetuous Andrea—but there were several significant differences. The blond moustache was new, and so was the bronzed hue of his skin; but the most striking change was in his attire. The loose red shirt, and the bandanna tied rakishly around his throat—how well I knew them, from Miss Perkins’ descriptions! Not an official uniform, but as distinctive as any regimental facings, this was the costume worn by Garibaldi’s soldiers—by the Thousand (as they were called) who had set sail from Genoa for the liberation of Sicily.
I was endeavoring to assimilate this startling new development when an outraged exclamation made me turn. Miss Rhoda stood in the doorway, her lavender satin skirts filling it completely. Over her shoulder I saw the pale face of the Contessa; her eyes were fixed on her daughter, still clasped in Andrea’s red-shirted arms. And behind the Contessa was her omnipresent shadow—the maid Bianca.
Andrea lowered Galiana to the floor as Miss Rhoda swept into the room and bore down on the young pair like a battleship. The Contessa swayed, as if seized by faintness. Bianca’s muscular black-clad arms supported her mistress instantly. After a moment the Contessa recovered herself and waved the maid away, but Bianca continued to stand in the doorway, her eyes fixed on her mistress with a look of doglike devotion that was very curious to see.
Andrea grasped Miss Rhoda’s hand and pumped it so enthusiastically that her intended lecture turned into a series of stutters. His manner changed completely as he greeted the Contessa; he took her hand gingerly, as if it would break, and raised it to his lips. Then, with obvious relief, he turned to me.
“Cousin, it is good to see you. I am sorry I could not greet you on your arrival; but as you see, I had more pressing matters to attend to.”
“I do see.” I could not help smiling at the twinkle in his eyes. “But what a way to announce yourself, Cousin. Is that the new anthem of Italy?”
“It may well be that. A stirring song, eh? We call it Garibaldi’s Hymn.”
“Sing it again,” Galiana begged.
Andrea was willing to comply, but as he went to the piano the Contessa said softly, “Galiana, you forget yourself. Andrea, you must not offend your grandfather in his own house.”
Galiana drooped, as she always did when her mother reprimanded her. Andrea looked abashed.
“Where is my grandfather?” he asked.
“Here!”
He entered the room as he spoke. His face was set in a scowl that would have daunted most erring children, but not Andrea; he ran to greet his grandfather with outstretched arms, as is the Italian custom. The old gentleman received him with an arm extended, not to embrace, but to repel. He gave Andrea a hearty shove and burst into speech. I caught references to the red shirt, and words like, “traitor” and “rebel.”
Smiling, Andrea again tried to embrace the Prince, who swung his fist in a blow the younger man easily avoided. Then the old man turned and rushed out of the room. Andrea winked at us and followed.
III
They made it up, somehow, before dinner, which was a gala meal in honor of Galiana’s saint’s day. But Andrea was the center of attention. He had abandoned his red shirt in favor of formal evening attire, which was only to be expected; but I fancied that the disappearance of the uniform of insurrection was a concession on the young man’s part. As for Grandfather—well, men are very peculiar. He glowered at Andrea from his position at the head of the table, and spoke in a gruff voice, when he spoke at all; but the light in his eyes as he looked at this grandson gave him away. I suspected that in spite of his lack of sympathy with the cause of independence he thought all the more of Andrea for fighting.
The meal was a succession of elaborate dishes, including Andrea’s favorites, and it was the gayest supper I had enjoyed since my arrival. Andrea’s bubbling good spirits infected almost everyone. Even Miss Rhoda smiled now and then, and Galiana was transformed. Her eyes shone and her mouth was constantly curved in laughter. Andrea directed his wittiest jokes at her.
The Contessa was silent, but then she always was. And Stefano, at the foot of the table, watched his brother with an enigmatic smile. I wondered what he was thinking. Did he return the love and admiration his brother felt for him, or did he resent the fact that Andrea was the favorite, even with his grim English great-aunt? Did he, too, yearn for the excitement of battle? It was impossible to tell for sure; but I thought it would not be surprising if Stefano failed to relish his role as business adviser.
After dinner we retired to the Salone dei Tritoni and had an evening of music. Both brothers played; I had heard Stefano once before, and had admired his precise touch with Bach and Vivaldi. Andrea played with more bravado and less finesse; he did not repeat the stirring hymn, but sang a series of romantic ballads in a rousing baritone, rolling his eyes at me during the most sentimental passages. It was all in good fun, and I enjoyed it as such; but as the evening went on I wondered if Andrea was not becoming overexcited. His cheeks were so flushed he looked feverish.
