A Tale.
by the Baroness Blaze de Bury.
Originally published in Bentley's Miscellany (Richard Bentley) vol.28 #165 (Sep 1850).
Carlo and Pepina had been brought up together. He was some five years older than her; she was barely nineteen. Carlo had one sister, Teresina, and they were orphans. Pepina, with her brother Gaëtano, rejoiced still in their mother ; their father had died whilst they were children. These two families inhabited Vignall, a small town, or village rather, not far from what a distinguished female writer of our times calls the "gloomy and truly antique town of Novara."[1] Neither of them was rich. Childhood had passed away, and Carlo and Pepina had "grown up side by side," like Allan Ramsay's "twa oaks," without counting the years that had turned infancy into youth, or the change that had been made by those years in themselves. Carlo was one of the handsomest among the young men of the canton, and no contadina of all Lombardy, Piedmont, and Savoy to boot, was more lovely than Pepina.
"How very beautiful she is, Carlo!" said Teresina one day to her brother, as they met on their road home from church, Pepina leaning on Gaëtano's arm (Gaëtano was a soldier, and was for the moment en congé on account of ill health).
Carlo looked up at his sister's words, and for the first time seemed struck by their truth.
"Well!" said he, in a thoughtful tone, "I believe she is beautiful."
Teresina stared at her brother. "Did you never remark it before?" asked she.
"I am not sure that I ever did," was the reply, and Carlo was a little pensive all the way till they reached home.
The winter of 1848 was a troublesome one in the North of Italy. The old opposition of the Lombard aristocracy began to show itself once more in Milan, and the greatest, highest names were again inscribed upon the banner of revolt. The conduct of the King of Sardinia had, within the last few months, attracted the attention of his neighbours, and there were not wanting many who began to conceive hopes of possible aid from Piedmont in the event of an open struggle with Austria.
The Revolution of February in 1848 broke out in Paris, and the downfall of Louis Philippe's throne echoed through every land of Continental Europe. By the side of the nobles of Milan rose now another party, till this period kept almost entirely in the background—the ultra democrats, represented here, as in every other country, by the noisy and the needy. The alliance that would alone have been a cause of ultimate failure, was made between the class, which, once victorious, was from its very nature, conservative, and the overthrowers; and Milan beheld its streets bristling with barricades. Towards the last days of the month of March, the Imperialists were driven from the capital of Lombardy, and the insurgents solicited aid from their neighbours of the Peninsula, to right and to left. Charles Albert answered the appeal, and putting himself at the head of his army, marched into the Lombard territory, sending forth, on the 23rd of March, the famous proclamation to the Lombardo-Venetian populations, in which he repeated l'Italia farà da se.
Politics did not much preoccupy our villagers of Vignall, and the question of mere Italian independence left them pretty indifferent; but when their own king, Charles Albert, joined the Lombard cause, then indeed they began to speculate upon what might be the end of the war which was likely to ensue; and some there were among them—above all, Pepina's mother—who did not think the sovereign's conduct quite commendable, and who, in the vain-glory of the name of Spada d'Italia, did not exactly find a compensation for what looked to her marvellously like an ungenerous advantage taken of a very ancient ally's embarassments. Monna Lucia would shake her head when her son tried to awaken her patriotic pride at the behaviour of the King; and, to say the least, she persisted in it that a great imprudence had been committed, and that Charles Albert might be made to repent of it all, Spada d'Italia though he was.
Gaëtano was furious at the idea of being prevented from joining his regiment, for he was still very ailing, and altogether unfit for service; and the joy of his mother at finding herself possessed of her son, under any pretext, joined to her contentment at his not fighting for a cause which she could not be brought to regard as honest, found no echo in the young soldier's breast.
"We have nothing to gain from a victory of the Lombards," Monna Lucia used to say. "They are troublesome neighbours at best; and if the ambition of our king lead him to the project of uniting us all together, Piedmontese and Lombards, under one crown, he will find himself mistaken, and we shall see what it will cost us. I am old enough to remember all the different foreigners whom our country has seen, and from whom it has suffered; and I tell you, children, a Croat or a Frenchman is better than an Italian any day."
It was one evening in the month of May. Pepina had gone to fetch in her goats. The sun was spreading a last golden glow over the earth as she climbed the hill where she was used to lead forth her dumb companions to their daily pasture. Of the three she had left there, two only were to be found. Pepina's favourite, a white goat which she had fondled from its birth, and which followed her about like a dog, was missing. To the trunk of the tree where she had bound it, there still hung a piece of cord that seemed to have been violently torn in twain.
"Ciola! Ciola!" called Pepina—it was the abbreviation of Picciola, the name of her favourite. At first the call was unanswered, but, at the end of a few moments a distant and dismal bleating caught her ear. Leaving the other two, she hurried on in the direction whence the sound came, and soon was made aware of the danger that threatened Ciola. At about the distance of three or four hundred yards, a deep crevice in the hill-side gave passage to a little stream that came dancing down the declivity, and making as much noise as though it were ten times bigger. On the side of the chasm opposite to that on which stood Pepina, was the goat, but in a position that sent despair to the heart of its mistress. It had contrived so to entangle the long end of the cord it dragged after it amongst the underwood upon the brow of the crag, that (at the first step it had taken downwards towards the stream) it had found itself in danger of being strangled. Every effort it made to remount only pulled the cord tighter, and its sole resource was to bleat, which it did lustily.
"Oh, Ciola! Ciola!" exclaimed Pepina, wringing her hands; "what am I to do? Ciola, carina, how can I save you?"
A rustling was heard in the trees behind the girl, but her grief and her preoccupation for her goat were too great to allow her to remark it. The crag, at the side where she stood, was too steep to allow of any one descending it so as to reach, in that way, the opposite side; and, higher up, to the right hand, the little ravine was almost choked up with chestnut trees.
"Pepina!" suddenly cried a voice, as it appeared almost from the clouds. "Pepina!" She looked up, and from the flowering branches of a chestnut tree, the face of Carlo looked down upon her.
"Don't be afraid for Ciola," cried he; "I will let her loose," and, with these words he disappeared amongst the boughs.
Pepina's heart beat—she did not herself know why; and, as she watched Carlo's passage from branch to branch, until he at length let himself drop upon the opposite side of the ravine, close to the goat, she did not quite understand why all of a sudden Ciola's safety seemed to her of comparatively small importance. Still, she was very happy when she saw her loosened favourite bound down the side of the rock, jump over the stream, and clamber up the crag whereon she herself stood. Pepina stooped down to caress the goat, and snatched from her mouth a large bunch of rose-coloured chestnut blossoms, which she had seen Carlo give her, and which the goat had not yet had time to eat. Ciola, loth to be deprived of what she thought her right, clamoured for the flowers, and plucked persistingly at the sleeve of her mistress' arm wherewith the latter held what she refused to restore.
Pepina seated herself upon the edge of the rock, and putting one arm round her favourite's neck, rested her own delicate brown cheek against the long silky-white hairs of the goat. Why did not Pepina go home? what was she waiting for? why did her heart still beat, and why, over her brown cheek, was there suffused a glow as brightly rose-coloured as the flowers she held in her hand? The sun had sunk behind the hill, and the short twilight would soon be over. Pepina rose. "Naughty Ciola! for shame!" said she, as the goat, ever on the watch, succeeded at last in snatching one flower from the branch, which now the girl brought nearer to her bosom.
"I can gather you another," said, behind her, a voice which trembled imperceptibly.
"Is that you, Carlo?" asked Pepina, dropping the chestnut flowers from her hand, and blushing still more deeply; "how could you?—it was so dangerous!—it was—"
"Let me put them in your hair, Pepina," said he, picking up the fallen branch, and unable, from his own emotion, to rejoice in her evident confusion.
Timidly did his hand approach her pretty head, which bent forwards, as it were, involuntarily to his touch. Very awkward was Carlo. "I cannot fix them," murmured he.
"Not so," objected, gently, Pepina; "not so!" and she raised her hand—it met his. The eyes of both were cast downwards, but the hands of both were joined, and, in a second, Pepina was clasped to Carlo's breast.
"T'amo tanto!" It was all he could say.
"Ed io!" It was all she could answer.
The moon had risen and was shining brightly when Carlo and Pepina thought of returning home. At their feet lay Ciola, eating complacently the last of the rose-coloured chestnut blossoms, which had dropped from her mistress' head.
Monna Lucia wondered where her daughter had staid so long. Gaëtano knit his brow thoughtfully as he saw his sister enter the house, followed by Carlo. The latter walked up to the spinning-wheel of Pepina's mother, and taking his beloved by the hand—"Madonna," said he, as he knelt down upon a low stool at the feet of the aged dame, "I will have no other wife than Pepina; Pepina will take no other husband but me; give us your blessing."
The blushing girl threw her arms round her mother's waist, and hid her face in her mother's lap. Monna Lucia gave up her spinning, crossed her hands upon her daughter's bending head, and, whilst two large tears rolled over her furrowed cheeks, she breathed a loud and fervent benison on the youthful pair.
"A brother's and a soldier's benediction go with you, Carlo," said Gaëtano, holding out his hand to his new brother-in-law; "but in such times as these, I would rather be betrothed to a good sword, than to the fairest maid in all Italy."
And thus were Pepina and her Carlo affianced.
Ten months went by, and it was once more spring. Many causes had prevented the marriage of Carlo and his beloved, but the event was now fixed to take place upon the 25th of April, the day on which Monna Lucia herself had, in by-gone years, espoused her own husband. Early in March there was again a talk of war, and fresh levies of troops were raised. One evening Gaëtano entered his mother's abode as the frugal board was spread for supper. His step was more elastic, his look gayer than usual. Carlo and Teresina were of the party.
"Mother," said the young soldier, "I am come to say good-bye to you all. I start to-night."
Surprise and alarm were the characteristics of every exclamation to which this announcement gave birth.
"But, my son," argued his mother, "in your state of health you will not be received into your regiment."
"All that is settled, mother, I go as a volunteer—they are received at all times. This is no moment," he continued, with kindling eye, "to leave the King's service, and if I, too, should one day take a wife to myself" (here was a half glance at Teresina) "she will have the satisfaction of feeling that I shrank from no duty when it came to the push."
Carlo bit his lip and passed his hand gloomily over his brow, as he marked how Pepina, through her tears, looked with involuntary pride at her brave brother.
When Gaëtano took a definitive leave of his family, Carlo announced his intention of accompanying him a short way. He returned late to his own home, whither Teresina had gone hours before. Pepina hardly closed her eyes all night for wondering what had become of her affianced, and from a vague presentiment that would not let her rest.
When, on the 12th of March, 1849, Charles Albert denounced the armistice at Milan, amongst the volunteers who had obeyed the King's call to arms were Gaëtano and Carlo.
On the 23rd of March, the day rose dull and dim, grey clouds veiled the horizon, as though to hide from heaven's face the dread work that was so soon to ensue. The dark walls of Novara looked darker and more grim than they were wont, and the very birds of the air, as they flew by, seemed anxious to gain some distant home, far from the scene of strife.
At ten o'clock the first sound of the cannon announced to the veteran commander of the Austrian forces that the attack had commenced. Radetsky, with his staff, was at Lavezzaro. At one o'clock his horse was brought, and the grey-headed marshal, surrounded by his captains and chiefs, took the way towards the field where the fate of the empire was pending. For long, long hours did that fearful mêlée last, and when the shades of evening sank upon earth, the work of death was still going on, and its fearful echoes were still filling space.
As the marshal and his staff rode on, ever and ever were they met by the dismal aspect of the wounded, who came in crowds, and formed a ghastly procession along the road.
"They do not yet give in," cried some.
"Our brave gallant officers, how we are losing them!" said others.
"Never fear, comrades! we'll pay them with interest!" exclaimed the fresh troops, as they encountered their bleeding companions.
And so they did, in truth; for history has few examples in her annals of a more complete defeat and rout than that of the Piedmontese. Early in the morning General Hess had observed to the marshal, that if Charles Albert's arms gave the meeting to the Austrians at Novara, things were so settled that a miracle only could save the Sardinian king, and that miracle came not. The double eagle of Hapsburg was spreading its wide wings over the battle-plain, whilst Charles Albert fled from land and crown, homeless and overcome. Where the din of battle raged loudest, where the hailstorm of balls fell thickest, there might be seen the figure of the king, desperately seeking for death that never came. At the storming of Novara he stood, affronting the fire of countless guns, until absolutely torn from the spot by one of his own generals. The only words he uttered were:—"Let me die, general; it is the last day of my life."
When the last sounds of the monster struggle had faded away, and silence reigned with her sister night over the world, shortly after midnight a travelling berline came rolling down the road to Nice, and stayed its course before a dwelling of no vast appearance, inhabited by Count Thurn, the commandant of the fourth corps-d'armée. It was at some six or eight miles from Novara, and the berline was escorted b Austrian hussars. A tall dark man stepped from the carriage. His face was of ashy paleness. He asked to see Count Thurn, to whom he was immediately led. To him he announced himself as Count Bargas, a Piedmontese colonel, who had left the Sardinian service, and wished to retire to Nice. The army, he added, had been. entirely defeated, and was very generally in revolt against its own officers, who had much ado to prevent the pillage and massacre of their own country people.
"Does Novara still resist?" enquired the Austrian commander.
"No," rejoined the Piedmontese officer; "the fortress was in bad condition, and has had no repairs. The citadel was barely fortified—Novara, too, has fallen."
After these few questions, hastily made and answered, the stranger asked to pass on freely upon his road. The night was cold, the rain poured down in torrents, Count Thurn looked at his visitor in silence for an instant, and then begged him, before pursuing his journey, to accept of some refreshment. A cup of coffee was handed to him which he took, and, as he re-entered his carriage, Count Thurn, with uncovered head, approached the door of the berline saying respectfully, and in a low tone:—"Sire, let me wish you a good journey." The carriage rolled off, and the unfortunate monarch sped towards his destiny—an obscure death in a foreign land.
Whilst emperors and kings were warring, humbler hearts were beating fast and suffering sore. At every booming gun which shook the air the heart of Pepina sank within her, and with Teresina and Monna Lucia ceaseless prayers were breathed to heaven for Carlo and Gaëtano. Towards evening the latter returned, and ere the first words he uttered had been heard, Pepina was far upon the road towards Novara, running distractedly, and stopping but when, from moment to moment, breath absolutely failed her.
It was between three and four o'clock in the morning when she reached Novara. The traces of death and suffering were everywhere, even in the streets. She entered the precincts of the great hospital. Upon their couch of straw lay all around the more lightly wounded, waiting until a place should be vacant in the interior of the building; and even while she stayed, many a one was borne away to fill the room of a comrade whose future place was now the grave alone. A priest, whom she met, conducted Pepina to the upper portion of the hospital, and she walked hurriedly from bed to bed, gazing anxiously at each wounded inmate.
Many were the different degrees and forms of suffering in that dread dwelling, but few were the outward signs of pain. Those whose wounds were slight hoped for a speedy return to health; some who, after the horrors of amputation, were told that life might yet be spared, thanked the Divine mercy; many begged for the aid of a comrade's hand, in order to send news to those at home; some spoke, even here, of the glory that had been gained, and of the enemy's defeat; but almost all found strength to enquire after the officers who had led them on to battle, and to hope that they had escaped unhurt.
Pepina wandered on, but found not what she sought.
"There is another spot," remarked the priest; "you must go to Santa Rosalia," and he prepared to show her the way.
The rain was pouring down heavily from the black sky, and the wind sighed and soughed through the lonely and dimly-lighted streets, as though it too were mourning for the slain. As Pepina crossed the threshold of the hospital, four men entered it, carrying a sort of bier, on which lay a human form." Lightning-like, the girl darted forwards, and before the bearers could prevent her, she had snatched the sheet from off the hidden countenance, and let it fall again from her hand, as she gazed upon a strange face, apparently stiffening beneath the grasp of death.
"Santa Rosalia!" murmured she, leaning upon the arm of the priest for support.
"I must leave you here, for I am wanted," said her conductor, as he led her to the door of the chapel of a Capuchin convent. "Go in there, my poor child, and the Almighty speed you and give you comfort!"
The stone figures in the niches around the entrance-door looked mysteriously alive by the faint light. The snow, which had so unexpectedly fallen a few hours before, remained still in the folds of their draperies, and that which had been melted by the ensuing rain dissolved into dew, dropping and trickling over their faces, as though the wept over all the misery that was contained in the walls they guarded. Before the door lay masses of straw, dirty with having been much trodden, and here and there were assembled groups of attendants of the Sanitá, most of them Piedmontese, mixed with some medical officers belonging to the Imperial army.
Pepina for an instant stayed her course, and looked timidly at the strange faces round her, then advancing, she laid her hand upon the heavy curtain which masked the entrance, lifted it, and went into the church.
After the chilling damps of the rainy night without, it felt warm. The odour of incense, so inseparable from a Catholic church, seemed to hang round the walls, and give warmth and comfort, recalling perhaps even more irresistibly than either organ-tone or song, the holy practices of religion, the merciful miracles of piety. Here and there a lamp had been placed to guide the steps of those, who, in the melancholy service to which the sacred aisles had been newly consecrated, might need to see their sad work clearly. From these small luminaries flickering rays fell, upon the mild faces of saints and virgins, who all seemed to speak of consolation, even to the most unhappy. But most of all the soft warm perfume of the incense diffused a kind of nameless comfort all around, wrapping, as it were, everything, animate or inanimate, in a heaven-breathing cloud. At the high altar which, unless for the candles that illumined it, would have been in total darkness, an aged Capuchin friar was celebrating mass—the earliest morning mass; and as he stood upon the highest step, near to the holy table, and turned round to pronounce a Dominus vobiscum, a ray of light fell upon his shorn head and long white beard, giving to him an air singularly venerable.
Pepina felt, too, the softening influence. Raising her streaming eyes to the fair face of a Madonna, which hung upon a pillar close to her, she joined her hands in prayer, and sinking involuntarily upon her knees, remained during the whole time that mass lasted, with brow inclined towards the earth, prostrate in the presence of Him who alone can console, when he has not been pleased to save.
The pavement of the church was strewed with straw, on which were thrown cushions and coverings for the use of the wounded. The latter were of both parties, Austrians and Piedmontese, and of every description, horse, foot, and artillery. Here lay remnants of a broken saddle, there a musket, beside it a snapped sabre. Against the pillars were piled arms of every different kind, and by the side of the sufferers themselves were heaps of clothes and linen, red with the fearful evidence of strife. Germans, Bohemians, Croats, Hungarians, Savoyards, Italians, Piedmontese, each nation might be distinguished by complexion and feature. Many there were who, from their couch of pain, turned their heads towards the high altar, where now a younger Friarhad replaced the white-bearded Capuchin, and was saying mass, and on many a pale lip hung the trembling murmurs of a faint but fervent prayer.
Pepina went from bed to bed, here, as in the hospital, and still she found not what she sought. She scarcely knew whether to hope or fear, when suddenly, in a corner of the church, her eye rested upon a object towards which she instantaneously sprang. A mattress had been thrown down upon the ground, and the pillow which supported the head of him who occupied it, rested upon the low wooden step of a confessional.
"Carlo!" cried the girl, and in an instant she was kneeling by her lover's side.
The first greeting was a mute one. The young soldier was much changed. There was something horrid in the way in which the features seemed to have shrunk, leaving the upper jaw to protrude in a strange unnatural manner. The skin, habitually sallow, was now waxy pale, like ancient ivory, and the large eyes looked larger still, and glared more darkly than ever. Every now and then the face was convulsed by an unmistakeable agony, and a quiver passed over the frame. He was enveloped in woollen coverings up to the very throat.[2]
When Pepina could speak—"Carlo," said she, with a look such as they only who are accustomed to such scenes have watched in human eyes—a look of such terror and such determined self-delusion; "you will soon be well; where are you wounded?"
He shook his head, and tried to kiss her cheek as she bent over him. "Give me your hand, Carlo," she continued through her tears. He stretched the right hand forth to meet her grasp.
"And now," she added, breathlessly, "the other, Carlo—the left one;" and he gave her the left hand too.
"Oh! blessed virgin, thanks!" sobbed Pepina, as she covered the two hands with passionate kisses. "I was so frightened lest they should have shot off a hand, an arm. The Lord be praised," she added, fervently, and again she kissed the fingers she held in hers. "But how cold your hands are, Carlo!" she resumed, after a pause of a few seconds; "they are quite damp, and so cold that my kisses even do not warm them (a ghastly smile broke over Carlo's countenance); yet it is not so very cold here, inside the church."
And then she came nearer to him, and as she pressed one of his hands to her bosom, with her own other hand she smoothed his pillow, and parted upon his forehead the hair which hung matted over it.
"If you could but know, my own Carlo," said she, "what we suffered yesterday, as we listened to every shot that was fired, and every shot seemed to strike on our own hearts! All day long we lay upon our knees, Teresina and I, and we prayed, and listened, and cried, and then prayed again; and last evening, when Gaëtano came home, and said you had been wounded, I was afraid lest they would not let me come; and I ran, and ran, and even now I do not know how they did not catch me and try to stop me: but Gaëtano, poor fellow! was very weak, and could hardly walk, he looked so pale—oh! much paler than you, my own Carlo; for you are not so very, very pale," she added, interrupting herself; "you will soon get well, will you not, my own, dear, best beloved, my only Carlo?" and she gently laid her head upon his forehead and kissed his eyes. "But your forehead is damp and cold as your hands, Carlo," she suddenly resumed; "what can be done to warm you?"
"Nothing!" muttered he, in an almost inaudible tone, and unable from emotion to say more, he made signs with his hands as though he wished Pepina would leave him.
"Oh, Carlo!" she softly answered, "you would not surely send me from you?"
The wounded man averted his head, as though to hide from Pepina's sight the tears that fell down his cheeks.
"You have been better cared for than many others," recommenced the fond girl; "how I should like to thank those who have attended to you so well when I was not there! You have a bed, whilst almost all the rest are lying upon straw; but perhaps you have not covering sufficient;" and, leaving her reclining position at his pillow, she felt the bed-covers to judge of their thickness. Suddenly the paleness of death overspread her whole countenance. "Carlo!" she exclaimed, in hoarse accents; "Carlo! stretch out your feet; lie straight—you must not draw yourself up so together . . . Carlo!"
"I cannot, Madonna mia," was his answer; "a cannon ball struck me, and—"
"And carried off your foot—your left foot?" stammered Pepina, staring at her lover with eyes in which fear had dried up the tears, and speaking as though an iron hand were on her throat and impeded utterance.
Carlo's first look was for her—it was one of absolute despair; and then, raising his eyes to heaven—"Yes!" said he, in stifled tone, "my left foot, and my right foot—both! both!"
The low, quivering cry that came from Pepina's lips, as she sank forwards upon her wounded lover's couch, would have rent any heart to hear. The aged Capuchin friar, who had said mass an hour before, was standing close to the confessional, and had for the last few moments been a witness of the melancholy scene. Stooping down, he raised the unhappy girl, and tried to speak words of comfort. "Be strong, my daughter," whispered he; "be resigned—God is merciful."
"We were to have been married in four weeks!" murmured she, with an accent of desolation no words can render.
The friar passed his rough sleeve over his eyes, and gently drawing Pepina towards him, he induced her to sit down upon the step of the confessional, which was broad enough to admit of her being seated beside her lover's pillow.
After a silence of a few minutes.
"Do you remember, Pepina," said Carlo, "the day when I set Ciola loose upon the hill? Poor Ciola! she must take care and not do such things again, for I cannot now climb over tree-tops to prevent her from being strangled."
Pepina slid down from the step of the confessional, and burying her face in her lover's bosom. "Oh! Carlo mio!" sobbed she, "Can I not care for you always? will you not be able to walk when you can lean upon my arm? we may yet be very happy! I shall always say to you what you said to me then: t'amo tanto! you do not, cannot know how much, Carlo!" and thus she went on, murmuring of love, and cheating herself into the belief that what was but the life of her own heart, was met by life as warm in his. At length, from sheer fatigue, and the exhaustion of too-powerful emotion, the girl's eyes closed as children's do, who cry themselves to sleep. Half an hour passed, and Pepina knew not what had awoke her. "Carlo!" she exclaimed wildly, and started to her feet. The venerable Capuchin friar was standing at the foot of the bed, and in Carlo's hands, which were folded on his breast, lay a crucifix. Pepina staggered forwards, and, with arms outstretched, as in a mute appeal for help, sank senseless at the friar's feet. "Coraggio! figlia mia," said he, with faltering voice, as he stooped down towards her—"Dio è grande!"
1. Lady Morgan.
2. As a corroboration of the absolute truth of all these details, it would only be necessary to refer to Hackländer's work on the Italian campaign of 1849, called "A Soldier's Life in Times of War."