“Ah! is it you, Captain Bruges?” said the smiling and blushing maiden3 who answered to his summons. “We have not seen you for a long time.”
“Well, you look as kind and as pretty as ever, Jenny,” said the captain, “and how is my friend?”
“Well,” said the damsel, and she shrugged4 her shoulders, “he mopes. I’m very glad you have come back, captain, for he sees very few now, and is always writing. I cannot bear that writing; if he would only go and take a good walk, I am sure he would be better.”
“There is something in that,” said Captain Bruges. “And is he at home, and will he see me?”
“Oh! he is always at home to you, captain; but I will just run up and tell him you are here. You know it is long since we have seen you, captain—coming on half a year, I think.”
“Time flies, Jenny. Go, my good girl, and I will wait below.”
“In the parlor5, if you please, Captain Bruges. It is to let now. It is more than a mouth since the doctor left us. That was a loss, for, as long as the doctor was here, he always had some one to speak with.”
So Captain Bruges entered the little dining-room with its mahogany table, and half a dozen chairs, and cellaret, and over the fireplace a portrait of Garibaldi, which had been left as a legacy6 to the landlady7 by her late lodger8, Dr. Tresorio.
The captain threw a quick glance at the print, and then, falling into reverie, with his hands crossed behind him, paced the little chamber9, and was soon lost in thoughts which made him unconscious how long had elapsed when the maiden summoned him.
Following her, and ascending10 the stair-case, he was ushered11 into the front room of the first floor, and there came forward to meet him a man rather below the middle height, but of a symmetrical and imposing12 mien13. His face was grave, not to say sad; thought, not time, had partially14 silvered the clustering of his raven15 hair; but intellectual power reigned16 in his wide brow, while determination was the character of the rest of his countenance17, under great control, yet apparently18, from the dark flashing of his eye, not incompatible19 with fanaticism20.
“General,” he exclaimed, “your presence always reanimates me. I shall at least have some news on which I rely. Your visit is sudden—sudden things are often happy ones. Is there any thing stirring in the promised land? Speak, speak! You have a thousand things to say, and I have a thousand ears.”
“My dear Mirandola,” replied the visitor, “I will take leave to call into council a friend whose presence is always profitable.”
So saying, he took out a cigar-case, and offered it to his companion.
“We have smoked together in palaces,” said Mirandola, accepting the proffer21 with a delicate white hand.
“But not these cigars,” replied the general. “They are superb, my only reward for all my transatlantic work, and sometimes I think a sufficient one.”
“And Jenny shall give us a capital cup of coffee,” said Mirandola; “it is the only hospitality that I can offer my friends. Give me a light, my general; and now, how are things?”
“Well, at the first glance, very bad; the French have left Rome, and we are not in it.”
“Well, that is an infamy22 not of today or yesterday,” replied Mirandola, “though not less an infamy. We talked over this six months ago, when you were over here about something else, and from that moment unto the present I have with unceasing effort labored23 to erase24 this stigma25 from the human consciousness, but with no success. Men are changed; public spirit is extinct; the deeds of ‘48 are to the present generations as incomprehensible as the Punic wars, or the feats26 of Marius against the Cimbri. What we want are the most natural things in the world, and easy of attainment27 because they are natural. We want our metropolis28, our native frontiers, and true liberty. Instead of these, we have compromises, conventions, provincial29 jealousies30, and French prefects. It is disgusting, heart-rending; sometimes I fear my own energies are waning31. My health is wretched; writing and speaking are decidedly bad for me, and I pass my life in writing and speaking. Toward evening I feel utterly32 exhausted33, and am sometimes, which I thought I never could be, the victim of despondency. The loss of the doctor was a severe blow, but they hurried him out of the place. The man of Paris would never rest till he was gone. I was myself thinking of once more trying Switzerland, but the obstacles are great; and, in truth, I was at the darkest moment when Jenny brought me the light of your name.”
The general, who had bivouacked on a group of small chairs, his leg on one, his elbow on another, took his cigar from his mouth and delivered himself of a volume of smoke, and then said dryly: “Things may not be so bad as they seem, comrade. Your efforts have not been without fruit. I have traced them in many quarters, and, indeed, it is about their possible consequences that I have come over to consult with you.”
“Idle words, I know, never escape those lips,” said Mirandola; “speak on.”
“Well,” said the general, “you see that people are a little exhausted by the efforts of last year; and it must be confessed that no slight results were accomplished34. The freedom of Venice—”
“A French intrigue,” exclaimed Mirandola. “The freedom of Venice is the price of the slavery of Rome. I heard of it with disgust.”
“Well, we do not differ much on that head,” said the general. “I am not a Roman as you are, but I view Rome, with reference to the object of my life, with feelings not less ardent35 and absorbing than yourself, who would wish to see it again the empress of the world. I am a soldier, and love war, and, left to myself, would care little perhaps for what form of government I combated, provided the army was constituted on the principles of fraternity and equality; but the passion of my life, to which I have sacrificed military position, and perhaps,” he added in a lower tone, “perhaps even military fame, has been to destroy priestcraft, and, so long as the pope rules in Rome, it will be supreme36.”
“We have struck him down once,” said Mirandola.
“And I hope we shall again, and forever,” said the general, “and it is about that I would speak. You are in error in supposing that your friends do not sympathize with you, or that their answers are dilatory37 or evasive. There is much astir; the old spirit is not extinct, but the difficulties are greater than in former days when we had only the Austrians to encounter, and we cannot afford to make another failure.”
“There could be no failure if we were clear and determined38. There must be a hundred thousand men who would die for our metropolis, our natural frontiers, and true liberty. The mass of the pseudo-Italian army must be with us. As for foreign interference, its repetition seems to me impossible. The brotherhood39 in the different countries, if well guided, could alone prevent it. There should be at once a manifesto40 addressed to the peoples. They have become absorbed in money-grubbing and what they call industry. The external life of a nation is its most important one. A nation, as an individual, has duties to fulfil appointed by God and His moral law; the individual toward his family, his town, his country; the nation toward the country of countries, humanity—the outward world. I firmly believe that we fail and renounce41 the religious and divine element of our life whenever we betray or neglect those duties. The internal activity of a nation is important and sacred because it prepares the instrument for its appointed task. It is mere42 egotism if it converges43 toward itself, degrading and doomed44 to expiation—as will be the fate of this country in which we now dwell,” added Mirandola in a hushed voice. “England had a mission; it had belief, and it had power. It announced itself the representative of religious, commercial, and political freedom, and yet, when it came to action, it allowed Denmark to be crushed by Austria and Prussia, and, in the most nefarious45 transaction of modern times, uttered the approving shriek46 of ‘Perish Savoy!’”
“My dear Mirandola,” said the general, trimming his cigar, “there is no living man who appreciates your genius and your worth more than myself; perhaps I might say there is no living man who has had equal opportunities of estimating them. You formed the mind of our country; you kindled47 and kept alive the sacred flame when all was gloom, and all were without heart. Such prodigious48 devotion, so much resource and pertinacity49 and patience, such unbroken spirit, were never before exhibited by man; and, whatever may be said by your enemies, I know that in the greatest hour of action you proved equal to it; and yet at this moment, when your friends are again stirring, and there is a hope of spring, I am bound to tell you that there are only two persons in the world who can effect the revolution, and you are not one of them.”
“I am ardent, my general, perhaps too sanguine50, but I have no self-love, at least none when the interests of the great cause are at stake. Tell me, then, their names, and count, if required, on my cooperation.”
“Garibaldi and Mary–Anne.”
“A Polchinello and a Bayadere!” exclaimed Mirandola, and, springing from his seat, he impatiently paced the room.
“And yet,” continued the general calmly, “there is no manner of doubt that Garibaldi is the only name that could collect ten thousand men at any given point in Italy; while in France, though her influence is mythical51, the name of Mary–Anne is a name of magic. Though never mentioned, it is never forgotten. And the slightest allusion52 to it among the initiated53 will open every heart. There are more secret societies in France at this moment than at any period since ‘85, though you hear nothing of them; and they believe in Mary–Anne, and in nothing else.”
“You have been at Caprera?” said Mirandola.
“I have been at Caprera.”
“And what did he say?”
“He will do nothing without the sanction of the Savoyard.”
“He wants to get wounded in his other foot,” said Mirandola, with savage54 sarcasm55. “Will he never weary of being betrayed?”
“I found him calm and sanguine,” said the general.
“What of the woman?”
“Garibaldi will not move without the Savoyard, and Mary–Anne will not move without Garibaldi; that is the situation.”
“Have you seen her?”
“Not yet; I have been to Caprera, and I have come over to see her and you. Italy is ready for the move, and is only waiting for the great man. He will not act without the Savoyard; he believes in him. I will not be skeptical56. There are difficulties enough without imagining any. We have no money, and all our sources of supply are drained; but we have the inspiration of a sacred cause, we have you—we may gain others—and, at any rate, the French are no longer at Rome.”
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1
opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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erase
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| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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manifesto
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| n.宣言，声明 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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converges
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| v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的第三人称单数 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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nefarious
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| adj.恶毒的，极坏的 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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51
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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52
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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53
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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54
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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55
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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skeptical
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| adj.怀疑的，多疑的 | |
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