Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

“Have you just come from there?” she asked the official, and, being informed that he had come from his home, she upbraided him for not having kept off the epidemic. He excused himself with polite smiles, to which the lady confusedly replied: “Never mind, then; never mind,” as she hastened her child into the vehicle.

“Did you give him the money?” she whispered to her husband as soon as she was seated beside him. He made a sign in the affirmative.

“I should like to thank her ladyship, too,” began the obsequious mayor, “for the generosity with which--”

“Oh, it was nothing--nothing!” interrupted the Count, scarcely knowing what he said.

Established in the carriage, the Countess made a rapid survey of bags and boxes, coats and shawls, umbrellas and parasols. Her husband in the mean time turned round to see if all the luggage was in its place in the barouche, which had been fastened on behind to the landau. “But,” he suddenly remarked, “what is the matter with that little boy?”

“Yes, who is that crying?” excitedly called out the Countess, leaning far out of the carriage.

“All ready!” exclaimed the peasant who had been assisting the servants with the luggage, and to whose side clung a small, ragged urchin. “Stop, can’t you?” his father bade him, sharply, then repeating the words, “All ready!”

The Count, with his eye on the boy, plunged into one of his pockets. “Don’t give way, my boy; you shall have a soldo all to yourself.”

“Mother is ill,” whined the lad sorrowfully; “mother has the cholera.”

Up jumped the Countess. Her face livid and contorted, she brought down her folded sunshade across the coachman’s back:

“Drive on!” she shrieked; “drive on--quick!”

The menial whipped up the horses. They began to prance, and then went off at a gallop. The mayor barely had time to leap out of the way, and his lordship to fling out a handful of coppers, which scattered on the ground at the peasant’s feet. He stood motionless--while the boy continued weeping--and stared after the flashing wheels of the carriage that rolled swiftly away, whirling up the dust.

“Damn those rich pigs!” he said.

Pretending not to hear, the mayor discreetly departed.

The peasant, a man of middle age and stature, pale, meagre, evil-looking, and as rugged as his offspring, made the youngster pick up the coins. Then they went home together.

They inhabited, in the yard belonging to one of the Countess’s farmhouses, a tumble-down, unplastered brick hovel, situated between a dunghill and a pigsty. Before the door gaped a dark ditch, from which issued an indescribable stench, and which was bridged by a single rough plank. Upon entering, one found one’s self in a dingy, unpaved sort of cavern. There was no flooring, either wood or stone, but there was an irregular brick fireplace, and in front of it the ground had been depressed by poor wretches kneeling to cook their mess of cornmeal. A wooden stair--three steps missing--conducted to the room, foul with dirt and rubbish, where father, mother, and son were wont to pass the night in a single bed. Standing by this article of furniture, one might look down into the kitchen below through the broken boards. The bed occupied the only spot not soaked by the rain that dripped from the roof.

Crouching on the floor, her head leaning against the edge of the bed, sat the peasant’s cholera-stricken wife. Although but thirty, she looked old; at twenty she had been a blooming girl, and even now preserved remnants of mild beauty. At the first glance her husband understood; he swallowed an imprecation. The child, frightened by his mother’s discolored face, kept in the doorway.

“For Christ’s sake, send him away,” she moaned feebly. “I have the cholera; send him away. Go to your aunt’s, dear. Take him away, and send me the priest.”

“I’ll go,” said the man to her; and to the boy, motioning toward the farmyard gate, “You go to your aunt’s.”

From the porch of the yard he fetched an armful of straw, carried it into the kitchen, and went upstairs to his wife, who by exerting all her strength had contrived to get on the bed.

“Listen,” said the man, in accents of unusual tenderness; “I am sorry, but if you die in the bed it will have to be burnt. You understand, don’t you? I have brought some straw into the kitchen--a nice lot.”

Too weak to answer, she made a mute signal of assent, and then a faint effort to rise from her couch. But the man took her up in his arms. By a gesture she begged him to reach first for a small silver crucifix hanging on the wall; she pressed it fervidly to her lips while her husband carried her down to the kitchen. Here he made her as comfortable as he could on the straw, before going for the priest.

And now she, too, this poor creature lying alone like a beast in a cage on the already infected straw--she, too, before departing to an unknown world, began to pray. She prayed for the salvation of her soul, convinced that she was guilty of many sins, and tormented by her inability to remember them.

When the timid doctor, sent by the mayor, arrived, he asked in great fright whether there was any rum or marsala in the house. There was neither; so he recommended hot bricks for her stomach, put up a notice of quarantine, and left her. The priest, who knew no fear, carelessly reeled off what he termed “the usual things,” obscuring the divine message with words of his own. Nevertheless, though benighted and ignorant, the dying woman derived comfort and serenity therefrom.

His task done, the priest went. Meanwhile the husband had put a few more handfuls of straw under her back, and lit the fire to heat the bricks. His wife went on praying--less for her child than for the man whom she had pardoned so often, and who was embarked on the road to perdition. Finally, kissing the cross, her mind turned to its giver. She had received it sixteen years back, at her confirmation, from the Countess, the mistress of the splendid manor where it was a joy to live and of the wretched hovel where it was a joy to die. At that time the Countess was a young girl, and had presented the silver crucifix to the laborer’s daughter at the suggestion of her mother, then mistress of the estate, a kind, gentle lady, long dead, but unforgotten by her humble tenants.

The dying woman acknowledged having thought ill of the new mistress, of having complained sometimes, so that _her_ husband had cursed because, despite repeated petition, neither roof, nor flooring, nor staircase had ever been repaired, and because the window frames had not been filled with linen panes. Feeling truly penitent, in her heart she implored forgiveness of his lordship and her ladyship; and she besought the Holy Virgin to bless them both.

At the moment when her husband placed the scorching bricks on her stomach, a spasm ran through her body, and she gave up the ghost. The man flung some straw over her blackening face, wrenched the little cross out of her hand, stuffed it into his pocket with a scowl at its small value, mumbling some customary pious sentiment the while.

But he did not say, for he did not know, and we do not know, how much good this poor woman’s crucifix had done, invoked and kissed by her on so many occasions. Still less can we tell how much benefit may yet spring from that charitable thought of an old lady, descending to an innocent child, and afterward reascending as a prayer from a pure heart to the Throne of Infinite Mercy.

The same evening the servants at the villa, who had been given leave of absence during the journey of the Count and Countess, got drunk in the drawing-room on rum and marsala.

THE LITTLE SARDINIAN DRUMMER
BY EDMONDO DE AMICIS

_Edmondo de Amicis, Italian publicist with a military training,
born in 1846, is principally known as the author of “Il Cuore”
(“The Heart of a Boy”), a simple classic intended for children,
and which has had an incredible influence on school life in
Italy. It pretends to be a child’s own day to day record of his
school year._

_His style has not crystallised into originality--it suggests
on one page Washington Irving, with gentle, smooth, playful
humor, broad tolerance, and on the next it suggests the
word-painters like Théophile Gautier, with their keen observation
and warm, rich coloring._

THE LITTLE SARDINIAN DRUMMER
BY EDMONDO DE AMICIS

Translated by Clou. E. Hard. Copyright, 1898, by The Current
Literature Publishing Company.

On the 24th of July, 1848, the first day of the battle of Custoza, sixty soldiers belonging to one of our regiments of infantry, ordered to garrison a lonely house on a height near by, were suddenly attacked by two companies of Austrians, who, assaulting them on several sides, scarcely gave them time to take refuge within the house, and hastily barricade the door, leaving their dead and wounded on the field.

The door being well secured, our soldiers hastened to the windows on the ground floor, as well as to those on the upper floor, and opened a deadly fire on the besiegers, who replied vigorously as they slowly approached in the form of a semicircle.

The sixty Italian soldiers were commanded by two subaltern officers, and by a tall, silent, grim old captain, with white hair and whiskers.

With them was a little Sardinian drummer, a boy scarcely more than fourteen years old, but who did not look even twelve, with his dark, olive skin, and black, deep-set eyes that flashed fire.

From a room on the upper story the captain directed the defense, every order sounding like a pistol shot, his iron countenance showing not the slightest emotion.

The little drummer, pale, but with his feet firmly planted on the table, and holding fast to the walls, stretched out his head and neck to look from the window, and saw through the smoke the Austrians steadily advancing over the fields.

The house was near the top of a very steep hillside, so that but one small high window in the upper story looked out over the crest. The Austrians did not threaten that side, nor was there anybody on the hilltop. The fire was directed against the front and the two sides.

The firing was infernal--a close, heavy hailstorm of balls rained upon the walls and through the broken roof, tearing out the ceiling, shattering the beams, doors, furniture, filling the air with fragments, plastering, and clouds of lime and dust, utensils and broken glass whizzing, clattering over their heads, rebounding from the walls with a noise and clash that made the hair stand on end.

Now and then a soldier stationed at the windows fell inward, and was pushed one side; others staggered from room to room, stanching their wounds with their hands. In the kitchen lay one soldier, pierced through the forehead. The enemy was closing in. At last the captain, until then impassible, began to show signs of uneasiness, and hurriedly left the room, followed by a sergeant. In a few moments the sergeant came rushing back, called the drummer, telling him to follow.

The boy raced up the stairs after him, and entered a dilapidated garret, in which he saw the captain with pencil and paper in hand, leaning on the window sill, and lying on the ground at his feet was a rope belonging to the well.

The captain folded the paper, and, fixing on the boy those cold, gray eyes before which every soldier trembled, said abruptly:

“Drummer!”

The little drummer’s hand went up to his cap.

The captain said:

“Thou art brave.”

The boy’s eyes flashed.

“Yes, captain,” he answered.

“Look down yonder,” said the captain, taking him to the window, “on the ground, near the house of Villafranca, where those bayonets glisten. There is our regiment, motionless. Take this paper, grasp this rope, let yourself down from the window, cross the hill like lightning, rush through the fields, reach our men, and give this paper to the first officer you see. Take off your belt and knapsack.”

The drummer took off his belt and knapsack, and hid the paper in his breast pocket; the sergeant threw out the rope, holding fast one end; the captain helped the boy jump through the window, his back toward the fields.

“Be careful,” said he, “the salvation of this detachment depends on thy valor and thy legs.”

“Trust me, captain,” said the drummer, sliding down.

“Crouch low when you drop,” again said the captain, taking hold of the rope, too.

“Have no fear.”

“God speed thee!”

In a few moments the boy was on the ground, the sergeant drew up the rope, and disappeared, while the captain hastened to the little window, and saw the drummer racing down the hill. He now hoped he would escape unseen, but five or six little clouds of dust rising from the ground warned him that the boy had been discovered by the Austrians, who were firing down from the top of the hill. Those little clouds were the earth torn up by the balls. But the drummer continued running at full speed. After a while the captain exclaimed in consternation: “Dead!” but scarcely was the word out of his mouth when he saw the little drummer rise.

“Ah, it was but a fall!” said he, and breathed again.

The drummer again ran on, but he limped.

“He has sprained his foot,” said the captain.

A little cloud of dust rose here and there around the boy, but always farther from him.

He was beyond their reach. The captain uttered a cry of triumph; but his eyes followed him, tremblingly, for it was a question of minutes. If he did not soon reach the regiment with the note, asking for immediate succor, all his soldiers would be killed, or he would be obliged to surrender, and become a prisoner of war with them.

The boy ran for a while rapidly, then he stopped to limp; again he ran on, but every few minutes he stopped to limp.

“Perhaps a ball has bruised his foot,” thought the captain, and he tremblingly noted all his movements, and in his excitement he talked to the drummer as if he could hear him. Every moment his eyes measured the distance between the boy and the bayonets that glistened below on the plain, in the midst of the golden wheat fields.

Meantime he heard the whistling and the crash of the balls in the rooms below, the voice of command, the shouts of rage of the officers and sergeants; the sharp cries of the wounded, and the noise of broken furniture and crumbling plaster.

“Courage! Valor!” he cried, his eyes following the drummer in the distance. “Forward! Run! Malediction! He stops! Ah, he is up again, forward!”

An officer out of breath comes to tell him that the enemy, without ceasing the fire, wave a white handkerchief, demanding their surrender.

“Let no one answer!” shouts the captain, without taking his eyes from the boy, who was now in the valley, but who no longer ran, and who seemed hopeless of reaching the regiment.

“Forward! Run!” cried the captain with teeth and fists clenched. “Bleed to death, die, unfortunate boy, but reach your destination!” Then he uttered a horrible oath. “Ah, the infamous idler has sat down!”

In fact, up to that moment the boy’s head, that could be seen above the wheat, now disappeared as if he had fallen. After a moment his head was again seen, then he was lost behind the wheat field, and the captain saw him no more.

Then he hastened down. The balls rained, the rooms were full of wounded, some of whom rolled over like drunken men, catching at the furniture: the walls and floors were covered with blood. Dead bodies lay across the threshold; the lieutenant’s arm was broken by a ball. Smoke and powder filled the rooms.

“Courage!” shouted the captain. “Stand to your post! Succor is coming! Courage a little longer!”

The Austrians had approached closer. Their disfigured faces could be seen through the smoke. Through the crash of balls could be heard the savage cries insulting them, demanding their surrender, and threatening to cut their throats. A soldier, terrified, withdrew from the window, and the sergeants again pushed him forward.

The fire of the besieged slackened. Discouragement showed on every face; resistance was no longer possible. The moment came when the Austrians redoubled their efforts, and a voice thundered, at first in German, then in Italian:

“Surrender!”

“No!” shouted the captain from a window. The fire became more deadly, more furious on both sides. Other soldiers fell. There were more than one window without defenders. The fatal moment was imminent. The captain’s voice died away in his throat as he exclaimed:

“They do not come! They do not come!”

And he ran furiously from side to side, brandishing his sabre convulsively, ready to die. Then a sergeant, rushing down from the garret, shouted with stentorian voice:

“They come!”

“Ah, they come!” joyfully shouted the captain.

On hearing that cry all--the well, the wounded, sergeants and officers--crowded to the windows and again the fierceness of the defense was redoubled. In a short while there was noticed among the enemy a species of vacillation and a beginning of disorder. Suddenly the captain gathered a few soldiers together on the lower floor to resist with fixed bayonets the impetuous attack on the outside. Then he went upstairs. Scarcely had he mounted when he heard the sound of hurried footsteps, accompanied by a formidable “Hurrah!” and the pointed hats of the Italian carbineers appeared through the smoke, a squadron at double-quick, a brilliant flash of swords whirled through the air above their heads, their shoulders, their backs; then out charged the little detachment, with fixed bayonets, led by the captain. The enemy wavered, rallied, and at last began to retreat. The field was evacuated, the house was saved, and shortly after two battalions of Italian infantry and two cannon occupied the height.

The captain and the surviving soldiers were incorporated with their regiment, fought again, and the captain was slightly wounded in the hand by a spent ball during the last bayonet charge. The victory on that day was won by the Italians.

But the following day the battle continued. The Italians were conquered, in spite of their heroic resistance, by superior numbers, and on the morning of the 26th they were in full retreat toward the Mincio.

The captain, though wounded, marched at the head of his company, weary and silent, arriving at sunset at Goito on the Mincio. He immediately sought his lieutenant, who, with his arm broken, had been picked up by the ambulance, and who must have arrived before he did. They pointed out to him a church in which the field hospital had been installed. He went there, the church was filled with the wounded lying in two rows of cots, and mattresses laid on the floor. Two physicians and several practitioners were busily coming and going, and nothing was heard but groans and stifled cries.

Scarcely had the captain entered when he stopped and glanced around in search of his subordinate.

At that moment he heard, near by, his name called faintly:

“Captain!”

He turned. It was the little drummer. He was stretched upon a wooden cot, covered up to the neck with a coarse old red and white check window curtain, his arms lying outside, pale and thin, but with his eyes burning like two coals of fire.

“What! is it thou?” asked the captain in a surprised, abrupt manner. “Bravo! thou hast fulfilled thy duty.”

“I did all that was possible,” replied the drummer.

“Art thou wounded?” asked the captain, glancing around at the beds, in search of his lieutenant.

“What could you expect?” replied the boy, who was eager to speak of the honor of being wounded for the first time, otherwise he would not have dared to open his lips before his captain.

“I ran as long as I could with my head down, but, though I crouched, the Austrians saw me immediately. I would have arrived twenty minutes earlier had they not wounded me. Fortunately I met a captain of the general’s staff, to whom I gave the note. But it was with great effort I got along after that. I was dying with thirst. I was afraid I could not arrive in time. I cried with rage, thinking that every minute’s delay sent one of ours to the other world. But at last I did all I could. I am content. But look, captain, and excuse me, you are bleeding!”

In fact, from the palm of the badly bandaged hand the blood was flowing.

“Do you wish me to tighten the bandage, captain? Let me have it for a moment.”

The captain gave him his left hand, and stretched out his right hand to help tie the knot; but scarcely had the little fellow risen from the pillow when he turned pale, and had to lie back again.

“Enough! enough!” said the captain, looking at him, and withdrawing his bandaged hand, which the drummer wished to retain. “Take care of yourself instead of thinking of others, for slight wounds, if neglected, may have grave consequences.”

The little drummer shook his head.

“But thou,” said the captain, looking attentively at him, “thou must have lost much blood to be so weak.”

“Lost much blood?” repeated the boy, smiling. “Something more than blood. Look!” and he threw down the coverlet The captain recoiled in horror.

The boy had but one leg; the left leg had been amputated above the knee. The stump was wrapped in bloody cloths.

Just then a small, fat army physician in shirt-sleeves passed.

“Ah, captain,” said he rapidly, pointing out the little drummer; “there is an unfortunate case. That leg could have been easily saved had he not forced it so much, caused inflammation; it was necessary to amputate it. But he is brave, I assure you. He shed not a tear, nor uttered a plaint. I was proud, while operating, to think he was an Italian boy, my word of honor. Faith, he comes of good stock.”

And he went on his way.

The captain wrinkled his bushy white eyebrows, and looked fixedly at the little drummer while covering him up with the coverlet. Then, slowly, almost unconsciously, yet still looking at him, his hand went to his képi, which he took off.

“Captain!” exclaimed the astonished boy. “What, captain, for me?”

Then that rough soldier, who had never spoken a gentle word to an inferior, replied in a soft and exceedingly affectionate voice:

“I am but a captain, thou art a hero.”

Then he threw his arms about the little drummer and kissed him with all his heart.

LULU’S TRIUMPH
BY MATILDA SERAO

_Matilda Serao was born in 1856 at Patras, Greece. She is
Italy’s foremost woman writer, adopting a career very unusual
with her countrywomen. Up to her thirtieth year she contributed
sketches to periodicals._

_In her early work she distinctly shows the influence of French
realists like Zola. Few writers know Balzac as she does. Later
she developed a liking for the psychological problem novel,
and later still, in “Christ’s Country,” she seems to have
joined that neomystic school represented in Italy by Fogazzaro,
especially in his “Saint.” Her style is slovenly, and, though
not strong-minded, more like that of a man. But her stories are
told with great spirit. The heroine of one of her very latest
stories is an American, but she does not at all sympathise with
the American reader’s “absurd wish for happy endings.” “Lulu’s
Triumph” combines the singular merits of a “happy ending”
according to the American idea, with a sad ending according to
the author’s._

LULU’S TRIUMPH
BY MATILDA SERAO

Translated by Elise Lathrop. Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier
& Son.