A Love Story
The brothers were detained a few days at Storta; while the Roman police,
who, to do them justice, were active on the occasion, and showed every
anxiety to give the travellers as little trouble as possible--were
investigating the occurrences we have described. It appeared that some
suspicion had previously attached itself to Vittore Santado, and that the
eyes of the police had been on him for some time.
It now became evident, both from his own confession, and subsequent
discoveries, that this man had for years trafficked in the lives and
property of others;--and that the charge connected with George, was one of
the least grave, that would be brought against him.
It was shown that he was an active agent, in aiding the infamous designs
of that inn, on the Italian frontier, whose enormities have given rise to
more than one thrilling tale of fiction, far out-done by the
reality--that inn--where the traveller retired to rest--but rose not
refreshed to prosecute his journey:--where--if he slumbered but once,
that sleep was his last.
Until now, his career had been more than usually successful.
The crafty vetturino had had the art to glean a fair reputation even from
his crimes.
More than once, had he induced a solitary traveller to leave the high road
and his carriage, for the purpose of visiting some ruin, or viewing some
famous prospect.
On such occasions, Vittore's accomplices were in waiting; and the
unsuspecting stranger--pillaged and alarmed, would return to the vettura
penniless.
Vittore would be foremost in his commiseration; and with an air of blunt
sincerity, would proffer the use of his purse; such conduct ensuring the
gratitude, and the after recommendations of his dupe.
It is supposed that the vetturino had contemplated rifling the carriage in
the inn yard; but some suspicion as to the servant's not leaving the
luggage, and the sort of dog fidelity displayed by Thompson towards the
brothers; had induced him rather to sanction an attempt on George during
his imprudent excursion to Barberini.
Vittore Santado was executed near the Piazza del Popolo, and to this day,
over the chimney-piece of many a Roman peasant, may be seen the tale of
his crimes--his confessions--and his death; which perused by casual
neighbour guests--calls up many a sign of the cross--and devout look of
rustic terror.
After the incident we have related in the last chapter, George Delmé,
contrary to Sir Henry's previous misgivings, enjoyed a good night's rest,
and arose tolerably calm and refreshed.
The following night he was attacked with palpitation of the heart.
His brother and Thompson felt greatly alarmed; but after an hour's severe
suffering, the paroxysm left him.
Nothing further occurred at Storta, to induce them to attach very great
importance to the shock George's nerves had experienced; but in after
life, Sir Henry always thought, he could date many fatal symptoms from
that hour of intense excitement.
Delmé was in Rome two days; during which period, his depositions, as
connected with Santado, were taken down; and he was informed that his
presence during the trial would not be insisted on.
Delmé took that opportunity again to consult his medical friend; who
accompanied him to Storta, to visit George; and prescribed a regimen
calculated to invigorate the general system.
He directed Delmé not to be alarmed, should the paroxysm return; and
recommended, that during the attack, George should lie down quietly--and
take twenty drops of Battley's solution of opium in a wine glass of water.
As his friend did not appear alarmed, Delmé's mind was once more
assured; and he prepared to continue their journey to Florence, by the
way of Perugia.
Punctual to his time, the new vetturino--as to whose selection Sir Henry
had been very particular--arrived at Storta; and the whole party, with
great willingness left the wretched inn, and its suspicious inmates.
There certainly could not be a greater contrast, than between the two
Vetturini.
Vittore Santado was a Roman; young--inclined to corpulency---oily
faced--plausible--and a most consummate rascal.
Pietro Molini was a Milanese;--elderly--with hardly an ounce of flesh on
his body--with face scored and furrowed like the surface of the hedge
pippin--rough in his manners--and the most honest of his tribe.
Poor Pietro Molini! never did driver give more cheering halloo to
four-footed beast! or with spirit more elate, deliver in the drawling
patois of his native paesi, some ditty commemorative of Northern liberty!
Honest Pietro! thy wishes were contained within a small compass! thy
little brown cur, snarling and bandy-legged--thy raw-boned steeds--these
were thy first care;--the safety of thy conveyance, and its various
inmates, the second.
To thee--the most delightful melody in this wide world, was the jingling
of thy horses' bells, as all cautiously and slowly they jogged on their
way:--the most discordant sound in nature, the short husky cough, emitted
from the carcase of one of these, as disease and continued fatigue made
their sure inroads.
Poor simple Pietro! his only pride was encased in his breeches pocket, and
it lay in a few scraps of paper--remembrances of his passengers.
One and all lavished praise on Pietro!
Yes! we have him again before us as we write--his ill-looking, but easy
carriage--his three steeds--the rude harness, eked out with clustering
knots of rope--and the happy driver, seated on a narrow bench, jutting
over the backs of his wheelers, as he contentedly whiffs from his small
red clay pipe--at intervals dropping off in a dose, with his cur on his
lap. At such a time, with what perfect nonchalance would he open his large
grey eyes, when recalled to the sense of his duties, by the volubly
breathed execration of some rival whip--and with what a silent look of
ineffable contempt, would he direct his horses to the side of the road,
and again steep his senses in quiescent repose.
At night, Pietro's importance would sensibly increase, as after rubbing
down the hides of his favourites, and dropping into the capacious manger
the variegated oats; he would wait on his passengers to arrange the hour
of departure--would accept the proffered glass of wine, and give utterance
to his ready joke.
A King might have envied Pietro Molini, as---the straw rustling beneath
him--he laid down in his hairy capote, almost between the legs of his
favourite horse.
To do so will be to anticipate some years!
Yet we would fain relate the end of the Vetturino.
Crossing from Basle to Strasbourg, in the depth of winter, and descending
an undulated valley, Pietro slept as usual.
Implicitly relying on the sure footedness of his horses, a fond dream of
German beer, German tobacco, and German sauerkraut, soothed his slumbers.
A fragment of rock had been loosened from its ancient bed, and lay
across the road.
Against this the leader tripped and fell.
The shock threw Pietro and his dog from their exalted station.
The pipe, which--whether he were sleeping or waking--had long decked the
cheek of the honest driver, now fell from it, and was dashed into a
thousand pieces.
It was an evil omen.
When the carriage was stopped, Pietro Molini was found quite lifeless. He
had received a kick from the ungrateful heel of his friend Bruno, and the
wheel of the carriage, it had been his delight to clean, had passed over
the body of the hapless vetturino.
Ah! as that news spread! many an ostler of many a nation, shook his head
mournfully, and with saddened voice, wondered that the same thing had not
occurred years before.
At the time, however, to which we allude--viz., the commencement of the
acquaintance between our English travellers, and Pietro; the latter
thought of anything rather than of leaving a world for which he had an
uncommon affection.
He and Thompson soon became staunch allies; and the want of a common
language seemed only to cement their union.
Not Noblet, in her inimitable performance of the Muette, threw more
expression into her sweet face--than did Pietro, into the furrowed lines
of his bronzed visage, as he endeavoured to explain to his friend some
Italian custom, or the reason why he had selected another dish, or
other wine; rather than that, to which they had done such justice the
previous day.
Thompson's gestures and countenance in reply, partook of a more stoical
character; but he was never found wanting, when a companion was needed for
a bottle or a pipe.
Their friendship was not an uninstructive one.
It would have edified him, who prides himself on his deep knowledge of
human nature, or who seizes with avidity on the minuter traits of a
nation, to note with what attention the English valet, would listen to a
Milanese arietta; whose love notes, delivered by the unmusical Pietro,
were about as effectively pathetic as the croak of the bull frog in a
marsh, or screech of owl sentimentalising in ivied ruin; and to mark
with what gravity, the Italian driver would beat his hand against the
table; in tune to "Ben Baxter," or "The British Grenadiers," roared out
more Anglico.
There are two grand routes from Home to Florence:--the one is by Perugia,
the other passes through Sienna. The former, which is the one Sir Henry
selected, is the most attractive to the ordinary traveller; who is enabled
to visit the fall of Terni, Thrasymene, and the temple of Clitumnuss The
first, despite its being artificial, is equal in our opinion, to the
vaunted Schaffhausen;--the second is hallowed in story;--and the third has
been illustrated by Byron.
"Pass not unblest the genius of the place!
If through the air a zephyr more serene
Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace
Along the margin a more eloquent green,
If on the heart, the freshness of the scene
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust
Of weary life a moment lave it clean
With nature's baptism,--'tis to him ye must
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust."
Poor George Delmé showed little interest in anything connected with
this journey. Sir Henry embarked on the lake above, in order to see the
cascade of Terni in every point of view; and afterwards took his
station with George, on various ledges of rock below the fall--whence
the eye looks upward, on that mystic scene of havoc, turbulence, and
mighty rush of water.
But the cataract fell in snowy sheet--the waves hissed round the sable
rocks--and the rainbow played on the torrent's foam;--but these
possessed not a charm, to rouse to a sense of their beauty, the sad
heart of the invalid.
Near the lake of Thrasymene, they passed some hours; allowing Pietro to
put up his horses at Casa di Piano. Sir Henry, with a Livy in his hand,
first proceeded to the small eminence, looking down on the round tower of
Borghetto; and on that insidious pass, which his fancy peopled once more,
with the advancing troops of the Consul.
The soldier felt much interested, and attempted to impart that interest to
George; but the widowed husband shook his head mournfully; and it was
evident, that his thoughts were not with Flaminius and his entrapped
soldiers, but with the gentle Acmé, mouldering in her lonely grave.
From Borghetto, they proceeded to the village of Torre, where Delmé was
glad to accept the hospitable offer of its Priest, and procure seats for
himself and George, in the balcony of his little cottage. From this
point, they looked down on the arena of war.
There it lay, serene and basking in the rays of the meridian sun.
On either side, were the purple summits of the Gualandra hills.
Beneath flowed the little rivulet, once choked by the bodies of the
combatants; but which now sparkled gaily through the valley, although at
intervals, almost dried up by the fierce heat of summer.