A GREAT DAY.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF EDMONDO DE AMICIS.

The G—— family were at their villa, a few miles out of Florence, when the Italian army was preparing to march on Rome. The enterprise was not favorably regarded by them. The father, the mother and the two grown-up daughters, ardent Catholics and mild patriots, desired "moral measures." "We do not understand politics," said Madame G—— to her friends, "and I least of all; and if I had to tell you quite clearly and distinctly why I think as I do, I should be puzzled. But what can I do? I have a presentiment; I hear a voice within me; I feel a thrill—something which tells me they must not go, they ought not to go, they cannot go, to Rome in such a manner. I remember '48; I remember '59; I remember '60. Well, in those days I had no fear; I never felt at heart the anxiety that I have now: I always thought things would come right. But this time, my friends, there is no use in talking, I see trouble in the air, and a great deal of it. You smile. Pray to Heaven that some day or other you may not have cause to weep. That day does not seem to me far off."

The only one of the whole family who did not think thus was the son, a young man of twenty, who was just now reading Roman history, and was in a state of ferment. The mere mention of Rome in his presence was the signal for a battle: there had already been one of the liveliest kind, and it was agreed never to broach the subject again.

One evening early in September they received an official journal in which the news was authoritatively announced that the Italian soldiers had passed the frontier. The young man leapt for joy. The father read the article, remained thoughtful for some time, and then, shaking his head, muttered, "No!" and again, "No!" and a third time, "No, no, no!"

"But excuse me, papa," exclaimed the son, firing up.

"There! there!" interrupted the mother tenderly.

And during the rest of the evening no more was said about it. But serious trouble occurred the following evening, when, shortly before going to bed, the young man frankly and without preamble, as if he were doing the most natural thing in the world, announced his intention of going to Rome with the army.

There was a general cry of surprise and indignation, followed by a tempest of reproaches and threats. "It was not a thing one could honorably desire to see; already part of the guilt attached to each of them as an Italian, without having to add the responsibility of being an eye-witness; and this, that and the other; and, in fine, that anything might be conceded or pardoned in a well-born young man except the madness of going to see" (these were the mother's words) "a poor old man bombarded. A fine war! Fine glory, indeed!"

When she had finished the young man gnashed his teeth, tore the journal to pieces, jumped up from his seat, lighted a lamp and went to shut himself up in his room, stamping his feet like an Italian actor playing the part of a furious king.

But in half an hour softly, softly, on tiptoe, he returned to the dining-room. There was no one there but the father and mother, silent and sad. He asked pardon of his father, who growled, but suffered him to press his hand, and then returned to his room, followed by his mother. "Now we shall have no more of such ideas, shall we?" she said to him tenderly, laying her hands on his shoulders.

The son answered with a kiss.

The next day he crossed the frontier of the Pontifical States.

As soon as they became aware of it at home there were tears, outbursts, invectives, suggestions of never receiving him again, of not even rising from their seats when he returned, of allowing a month to pass without addressing a word to him, of striking out the item "pocket-money" from the family budget, and a hundred other things. On the mother's part these were words, but on the father's serious intentions. He was not a man to waver; he was good, but stern, and at times, when he was angry, even terrible: his son knew this, and feared him. How he had ever been able, therefore, to offer him such an outrage was inexplicable. The accounts of the 20th of September only served to embitter the parents more. "He shall feel it," said they between their teeth. "Let him come!" Their words, their gestures, their plan of action, had all been thought over and prepared. It would be a severe lesson.

On the morning of the 22d they were all seated at table when suddenly a loud knock was heard at the door, and immediately after the son appeared, red in the face, out of breath, bronzed by the sun, standing erect and motionless on the threshold. No one moved.

"What!" exclaimed the young man, folding his arms with an air of astonishment, "you do not know the news?"

No one answered.

"Have you been told nothing? Has no one been here from Florence? Are you still in the dark about everything?"

No one breathed.

"The taking of Rome," one of the girls ventured to say presently, after having consulted her papa with a glance—"we know of it."

"What! Nothing else?"

"Nothing else."

"But what a taking of Rome!" burst out the young man with a cry that made them all tremble—"what a taking of Rome! Then I bring you the account of it."

They all rose and gathered around him.

"But how is it possible," he went on crying, waving his hands—"how is it possible that you know nothing of it? Has not the news spread through the country? Have not the country-people assembled? What is the city government doing? Listen, then—listen; seat yourselves around me; I will relate all to you. My heart beats so that I can hardly speak."

"But what has happened?"

"Nothing: I will tell you nothing. I wish to relate everything in order: give me breathing-time. I wish you to hear the facts one by one as I saw them."

"Oh, you mean the Roman feasts?"

"The plébiscite?"

"The arrival of the king?"

"No, indeed, no: something quite different."

"Well, tell us."

"But sit down."

"Oh, how is it that we have heard nothing about it here?"

"How can I tell? All I know is, that to be the first who brings you this news is the greatest pleasure I have experienced in my whole life. I arrived this morning at Florence: they knew all about it. I left immediately. Who knows? thought I, perhaps the news has not yet reached home. I am out of breath."

"Tell us! tell quickly!"

They all seated themselves around him.

"You shall hear, mamma—things to make one wild! Come nearer: so! You know all about the morning of the 21st, do you not? The other regiments entered: crowds, noise, music, as on the previous day, until twelve o'clock. At twelve o'clock, as if by common consent, the confusion ceased—first in the Corso, then in the other main streets, and gradually everywhere. The crowds of citizens stood still, formed groups and chatted in an undertone; then they dispersed in all directions, nodding to each other like people who expect to meet soon again. It seemed as if the order had circulated to prepare for some great event. People meeting in the street spoke to each other hastily, and then each one went his own way. From one end to the other of the Corso there was a general bustle, some going home, others going out; some calling from the street, others answering from the windows; the soldiers rushing to and fro as if they had heard a call; officers on horseback trotting by; men and boys passing with bundles of flags on their shoulders and in their arms; all active and hurrying as if they were being pursued. I, who knew nothing and no one, looked now at this face, now at that, to try and discover something. They all seemed happy, but did not exhibit their former boisterous, unrestrained joy: all betrayed a disturbing thought, a misgiving, almost an uneasiness: one could see that they were people concocting something. I turned into one of the smaller streets; went farther on; stopped at two or three crossways: everywhere was the same sight—great crowds, a great stir, great haste and an indescribable manner of speaking and gesticulating, which I had already remarked in the Corso, as if the whole mass of people wished to conceal something from some one, although it was visible to every one. Knots of people passed by me, troops, hundreds of men and women together, and not a cry was to be heard. All were going in the same direction, as if to a place of rendezvous."

"Where were they going?" asked the mother and father.

"Wait. I returned to the Corso. The nearer I approached, the more distinctly I heard a dull, continuous roar, like that of an immense crowd. I reached it: the Corso was full of people, who had all stopped and turned toward the Campidoglio, as if they were waiting for something from that quarter. From the Piazza del Popolo to the Piazza di Venezia there was such a press that it was impossible to move. There was a whispering here and there, 'They will be here in a little while;' 'They are coming yonder,'—'Who are coming yonder?'—'The main column.'—'The main column is coming.'—'Here it is!'—'No.'—'Yes.'—All at once the crowd began to move turbulently. Everybody cried on all sides, 'There they are!' And in less time than I can say it the street was cleared in the middle, as if to make way for a procession. All heads were uncovered. I, who had remained behind, elbowed my way across the street and looked. I seem to feel now a thrill that ran through me from head to foot. First advanced generals in full uniform and noblemen in black coats with tri-colored scarfs: in the midst of the nobles and generals came men, women and children with tattered, unbuttoned shirts; behind, work-people, country-people, women with babies on their backs, soldiers of all arms, grand ladies, students, whole families holding each other by the hands so as not to get lost; all crowded and pressed, so that it seemed strange they were able to walk; and yet only a monotonous murmur like a buzz was to be heard—not a sound on either side of the street, not a sound from the windows. It was a solemn sight: what with surprise and awe I was in a trance."

"But where were they going?" asked the father, mother and sisters eagerly.

"Let me finish," resumed the young man. "I was turned off in the mean while, and with me gradually all those who were leaning against the wall right and left were turned off also. Fancy what a tight squeeze! The crowd was just like a torrent, filling both pavements, pouring people like rushing waves into the shops, to the gates, wherever an inch of room could be found. As the procession advanced more swarms of people streamed into the Corso from the side streets, which were also thronged from end to end; and the procession continued to ascend from the Campidoglio, and the rumor spread that thousands more were coming from Campo Vaccino. Numbers of people arrived from the Piazza di Spagna, from the Via del Babbuino, from the Piazza del Popolo. All had something in their hands—some garlands of flowers, some olive and laurel branches, some banners, some rags tied on the top of sticks; some carried in both hands sacred images over their heads—inscriptions, emblems, portraits of the pope, of the king, of the princes and of Garibaldi. It was a mixture, a medley, a confusion of persons and things, such as I believe has never been seen under the sun; and always and everywhere that subdued murmur, that slow pace, that repose, that dignity, so singular and astonishing in such a multitude that I thought I must be dreaming."

The whole family pressed closer round the young man without speaking a word.

"At a certain point I perceived that the crowd had turned to the left: all fell back. Slowly, slowly, with great difficulty, trampled upon, crushed, jostled on all sides, unable to move their arms, panting for breath, they pressed on from street to street to the piazza in front of the bridge of St. Angelo. The bridge was overflowing with people: the crowd disappeared across the river in the direction of St. Peter's. The whole right bank was swarming. The passage of the bridge was a serious matter: it took more than a quarter of an hour. The unfortunate creatures who were at the sides, pressed by those in the middle, clung desperately to the railings for fear of being thrown over, and uttered cries of terror. It was said that some accidents occurred. By degrees all passed over. All the streets leading to the square filled up. When the crowd reached the entrance of one of the streets which lead directly to the Basilica, suddenly a low, hollow sound was heard, like a sea in a storm, now far off, now near, and coming toward us in waves. It was the multitude assembled in the Piazza di San Pietro. The crowd pressed forward more eagerly, one on top of another, carried forward, overturned—on, on, until it reached the piazza. Almighty God! if you had seen it! What an astounding spectacle!—all this immense square tightly packed, black, and all in motion: it was no longer a square—it was a sea. On all sides—between the four rows of columns, on the church-steps, under the portico, on the great terrace in front, in the galleries of the cupola, on the capitals of the pillars, on the pillars themselves; and behind—at the windows of the houses, on the balconies, on the roofs, above, below, right and left, wherever a human creature could plant his foot or clutch hold or hang on; everywhere heads, arms and legs dangling, banners, gestures, voices! All Rome was there!"

"Heavens! But the Vatican?" they all cried in great agitation.

"Closed. You know that one wing of the Vatican opens on the square, and in that is the pope's apartment. All the windows belonging to it were closed: it seemed like a deserted palace. At that moment it had the appearance of a cold, stern, impassive person looking down with fixed, wide-open eyes. The multitude looked up with a murmuring noise. On one side, toward the terrace, could be seen a great body of officers and noblemen, who appeared to give orders which were repeated from mouth to mouth. The agitation continued to increase. All heads were uncovered—white heads of old men, dark heads of soldiers, blond heads of children. A bright sun was shining; a thousand movements, a thousand noises, a thousand colors, were waving and mingling on this immense surface. Banners and rags fluttered, tossed back here and there as if they were floating on the water. The seething was such it seemed as if fire were burning under the earth. Suddenly, from all sides was heard and spread a cry, 'The boys! the children! Bring forward the children!' It was evidently a concerted plan. In a moment on all parts of the square people were seen holding up the children above their heads, and the men and women who were carrying them broke through the mass, all going in the direction of the Vatican: the bigger boys forced their own way, holding hands, rushing between the people's legs, ten and twenty at a time. In a few minutes hundreds of children—a whole population of creatures concealed until now—some by means of their own legs, some pushed, some carried, were crowded into one corner of the square, and in the mean while arose a deafening cry from the women, 'Take care! Slowly! My child!' Soon after another louder and more imperative call, 'The women! the women!' Another disturbance, another breaking through the crowd in all directions. Then a third and more formidable cry, 'The army! the soldiers! Forward!' And once more an indescribable upheaving, but simultaneous, resolute, rapid. There were none of the difficulties and delays usually seen in similar cases: all worked and helped to accomplish the end. There was an impetuosity, a fervor, and yet an astonishing accord: this innumerable crowd seemed ruled and controlled. By degrees the bustle ceased, all cries were hushed, arms were dropped, everybody looked around, and it seemed as if by enchantment the children, the women and the soldiers had disappeared. They all stood on the right side of the square, divided into three great masses, from the door of St. Peter's to the middle of the Colonnade, facing the Vatican, dense and compact. The multitude burst forth into boisterous applause."

"But the Vatican?" asked the family for the third time, all in the same breath.

"Still closed and quiet as a convent."

"Oh! great Heavens!" they exclaimed, confounded.

"Wait! All at once the applause ceased, and all heads were seen turning around slowly and whispering, 'Silence! silence!' The murmur ran from the beginning to the end of the two streets which open into the square. The whisper soon died away entirely, and there was such a stillness, such silence, as I should never have believed possible among so many people. It was something super-human. In the midst of this silence I seemed suddenly to hear a faint voice that I could not understand, a vague sound coming from a distance. Gradually, insensibly, it increased—first an uplifting of voices, now far, now near, uncertain and discordant; soon more distinct, more decided, finally blending as if by magic, till a single voice, tremulous, silvery, suave, rose to heaven, echoing like the voice of a legion of angels. It was that of thousands of children singing the hymn to Pius IX. of 1847."

"Oh!" exclaimed the mother and daughters, clasping their hands.

"That song re-echoed in every one's heart; it ascended in such a way as to touch the most tender chords of the soul; a thrill seemed to pass through the crowd; there was a great moving of arms and hands, as if they wished to speak and could not. Nothing but a confused murmur was heard. 'Holy Father'—this is what they wished to say—'look! listen! These are our children; they are your sons who seek you, who invoke you, who implore your benediction; they are innocent souls. Hear their prayer; bless them; grant that their country and their religion shall be united in their hearts. Holy Father, one word from you, one sign, one glance from you declaring pardon and peace, and we are with you, for you—all of us, now, always, for ever! They are our children, your sons.' Thousands of banners waved in the air. The song ceased: a profound silence ensued."

"Well?" they all asked eagerly.

"No response. Then arose the women's song. There was a deep tremor in that immense voice: you could hear a something which only issues from the hearts of mothers; it seemed more like a cry than a song; it was sweet and solemn. The people, from the first note, remained motionless: suddenly, after a while, they became agitated as if moved by an irresistible ardor; the exclamations almost overpowered the song. 'These are our mothers,' they said, 'our wives, our sisters. Holy Father, hear them. They have never cherished hatred or anger in their breasts; they have always loved and hoped; they believe and pray; they implore the privilege of teaching their children your name together with that of Italy. Holy Father, one word from you will save them many mournful doubts and many bitter tears. Bless our families, Holy Father.'"

The listeners questioned with their eyes and gestures.

"Nothing! Then burst forth a tumultuous, rapid song, followed by a more violent agitation: it was the soldiers. 'These are our soldiers,' all said together—'they will be yours: they are the sons of the field and the shops. Holy Father, they will guard your gates and escort your steps: they, born on your soil, they who heard as children your sublime cry of liberty, will fight against the foreign enemy with your name and that of the king on their lips and in their hearts. Bless them. You will see them congregated around your throne in your hour of need, ready to die: one word, Holy Father, and these swords, these breasts, this blood, are yours. They implore your blessing upon the country. Remember, Holy Father, your sublime cry.'—A window of the Vatican opened."

All seized the young man by the arm without saying a word.

"The song ceased, the cries were hushed: there was silence. There was not a living soul at the window. During a few moments the very breath of the multitude seemed suspended. Something like a shadow moved past the window, but inside, far back, and then disappeared. There seemed to be people passing to and fro, and a confusion within. All faces, all eyes, were fixed motionless on the spot. Suddenly the whole multitude, as if inspired at the same moment, pointed to the palace; thousands of women held up the children; the soldiers swung their caps on their bayonets; all banners were waved; a hundred thousand voices burst forth in one tremendous shout: 'Viva! viva! viva!' At the window of the Vatican something was seen fluttering, moving, shining, all at once floating in the air.—Great Heavens!" exclaimed the young man, throwing himself on his mother's neck, "it was the Italian flag!"

It would be impossible to describe the delight, the joy, the enthusiasm of those worthy people. The young man had spoken with so much fervor, he had become so enamored of his own deception, that by degrees he had finally ceased to be aware of the fact that he was inventing, and truly his eyes were moist and his voice trembled. However, not the shadow of a suspicion had crossed the minds of his parents and sisters. They embraced each other, laughed and wept. From how many scruples, how many grievous conflicts between Italian hearts and Catholic consciences, did they find themselves released! The reconciliation between Church and State! The dream of so many years! What peace of mind henceforward! What a beautiful life of love and concord! What free, secure repose!

"Heaven be praised!" exclaimed the mother, dropping into a low chair, exhausted by excitement.

And then again they all rushed around the young man, one seizing his hand, another pulling him by the coat: "Is it really true?"—"Is it not a dream?"—"Speak!"—"Go on: tell us about everything—the pope—the crowd—what happened."

"What followed?" resumed the young man in a fatigued voice. "To tell you the truth, I don't know myself: I don't remember. There was such a shouting, an upheaving, a frenzy, a delirium, that the very thought of it even now makes my head whirl. I no longer saw anything around me but upraised arms and banners, which concealed everything. An elbow-knock that I received in my breast in a terrible commotion of the crowd almost took my breath away. After a few moments I seemed to have a little more space, and I escaped into one of the streets leading to the bridge, determined to get out of the confusion. From all the streets of the Borgo Pio the people dashed with loud cries toward the square. It was said afterward that the crowd rushed to the doors of the Vatican to force an entrance: the soldiers had to keep them back, first with their breasts, then with their hands, finally with their weapons. I heard of people suffocated in the press. It is not known what happened in the interior of the Vatican: they said that the pope had given his blessing from the window. I did not see him. Weary, exhausted, I arrived at the bridge, and crossed it. People were still running from all sides, attracted by the news of the great event, which had spread like wildfire. Large troops of cavalry coursed by at full speed. Guides, aides-de-camp, carbiniers, sent to carry orders hither and thither, ran through the streets screaming. The people answered from the windows: decrepit old men, invalids, women with children in their arms, stood on the terraces, came down into the deserted streets, asked questions, wondered and kissed each other. I reached the Corso. Suddenly a terrific explosion was heard from the direction of the Pincio, then another from the Porta Pia, then a third from the Porta San Pancrazio: it was all the batteries of artillery belonging to the Italian army greeting the Pontiff with a tumultuous salute. Presently the chiming of the bell of the Campidoglio resounded: then gradually the bells of hundreds of churches blending into one magnificent concert. The crowd from the Borgo Pio rushed back impetuously to the left bank of the Tiber, invading in a very short time the streets, the squares and the houses; displayed the papal coat-of-arms, which had remained covered; carried in triumph busts of Pius IX., portraits and banners; thousands of people assembled in front of the palaces of the nobles most noted for their devotion to the pope and burst into applause, and these nobles appeared on their balconies and hung out the national colors. One moment: let me take breath."

As soon as he had breathed they immediately beset him with more questions: "And after that? and the Vatican? and the pope?"

"I don't know. I cannot tell you how beautiful, how grand, how wonderful, Rome was that evening. The night was transcendent, and there was an illumination such as never was seen or imagined since the creation of the world: the Corso appeared to be on fire. The churches were full of people, and priests preaching; in the streets were music, singing, dancing, citizens speaking to the people in the cafés and theatres. I wished to see the Piazza di San Pietro once more. The rumor had spread that His Holiness needed rest: Borgo Pio was as quiet as on the quietest nights; the square was lit up by the moon; a silent crowd was collected around the two fountains and on the steps: some were seated on the ground, some lying down; a great many of them, those most overcome by the fatigue and excitement of the day, were asleep—women, soldiers and children promiscuously; hundreds of people kneeling, and here and there sentinels of every corps with little flags and crosses tied to the barrels of their guns. The ground was strewn with banners, with leaves and flowers, and hats that had been lost in the tumult. The windows of the Vatican were illuminated; not a voice was to be heard; all these people seemed to be holding their breath. I left there excited, exalted, thinking over everything I had seen—of the effect that the news would produce on Italy, on the world, on all of you—more particularly on you, papa. I found myself at the station almost before I was aware: there was a confusion, a deafening noise. I stepped into a train, started off, and here I am. The news had arrived last evening in Florence: they told me it created a furore; the king had left; the news is already spread over the whole world."

At this point he sank into a low chair and stopped short, as if he had no more breath in his body.

The newspapers, which should have arrived at the villa by noon, did not come, so that the family retained their pleasant illusion until evening. The dinner was animated, the young man continued to jumble detail on detail, and the mother and family rapture on rapture, blessing on blessing, when suddenly they heard a hasty foot on the steps, and then a noisy ring at the bell. Presently the door opened, and a tall, dried-up priest, with a livid face and crooked mouth, appeared on the threshold. It was a priest whom the family had known only a short time, and of whom they were not particularly fond, but whom they received and welcomed at their house—more, however, out of respect for his garb than for his person. All except the young man grouped around him, crying out, "Well! have you heard the news? It is all over, thank Heaven! Tell us! speak!"

"But what news?" asked the priest, looking in the face of each one in turn with a pair of rolling eyes.

They all told him at once, hastily and eagerly, of the festival, the pardon, the reconciliation.

The priest looked at all of them with the air of a man who fears that he has fallen into the midst of a set of lunatics: then flashing a fiery glance upon the young man, he exclaimed with a sinister smile, "There is not a shadow of truth in it, fortunately."

"Oh!" they all exclaimed, turning toward the son.

The latter, without seeming disconcerted, looked fixedly at the priest, and said to him, in a half-sorrowful, half-contemptuous voice, "Only, reverend father, do not say 'fortunately.' You are an Italian: say, 'What a pity that it is not so!'"

And all the others flew once more at the priest, and, as is generally the case, more incensed against the one who had destroyed the illusion than against him who had created it, they repeated almost involuntarily, "Decidedly! Say rather, 'What a pity!'"

"I?" answered the priest, turning toward his breast a long knotty finger: then, in a bitter vibrant voice, "Never!"

The old man, thus suddenly wounded and so rudely deprived of the delightful emotion which had agitated him, lost his wits as usual, and stretching out his arm toward the door framed with his lips the word "Begone!"

The priest disappeared, slamming the door behind him. The son threw his arms around his father's neck: the latter, looking toward the door, muttered in a feeble voice, "Heartless man!"