V
Claude to Eustace
Yes, we are fighting at last, it appears. This morning as usual,Murray, as usual, in hand, I enter the Caffe Nuovo;Seating myself with a sense as it were of a change in the weather,Not understanding, however, but thinking mostly of Murray,And, for to-day is their day, of the Campidoglio Marbles;Caffe-latte! I call to the waiter,—and Non c’e latte,This is the answer he makes me, and this is the sign of a battle.So I sit: and truly they seem to think any one else moreWorthy than me of attention. I wait for my milkless nero,Free to observe undistracted all sorts and sizes of persons,Blending civilian and soldier in strangest costume, coming in, andGulping in hottest haste, still standing, their coffee,—withdrawingEagerly, jangling a sword on the steps, or jogging a musketSlung to the shoulder behind. They are fewer, moreover, than usual,Much and silenter far; and so I begin to imagineSomething is really afloat. Ere I leave, the Caffe is empty,Empty too the streets, in all its length the CorsoEmpty, and empty I see to my right and left the Condotti.Twelve o’clock, on the Pincian Hill, with lots of English,Germans, Americans, French,—the Frenchmen, too, are protected,—So we stand in the sun, but afraid of a probable shower;So we stand and stare, and see, to the left of St. Peter’s,Smoke, from the cannon, white,—but that is at intervals only,—Black, from a burning house, we suppose, by the Cavalleggieri;And we believe we discern some lines of men descendingDown through the vineyard-slopes, and catch a bayonet gleaming.Every ten minutes, however,—in this there is no misconception,—Comes a great white puff from behind Michel Angelo’s dome, andAfter a space the report of a real big gun,—not the Frenchman’s!—That must be doing some work. And so we watch and conjecture.Shortly, an Englishman comes, who says he has been to St. Peter’s,Seen the Piazza and troops, but that is all he can tell us;So we watch and sit, and, indeed, it begins to be tiresome.—All this smoke is outside; when it has come to the inside,It will be time, perhaps, to descend and retreat to our houses.Half-past one, or two. The report of small arms frequent,Sharp and savage indeed; that cannot all be for nothing:So we watch and wonder; but guessing is tiresome, very.Weary of wondering, watching, and guessing, and gossiping idly,Down I go, and pass through the quiet streets with the knots ofNational Guards patrolling, and flags hanging out at the windows,English, American, Danish,—and, after offering to help anIrish family moving en masse to the Maison Serny,After endeavouring idly to minister balm to the tremblingQuinquagenarian fears of two lone British spinsters,Go to make sure of my dinner before the enemy enter.But by this there are signs of stragglers returning; and voicesTalk, though you don’t believe it, of guns and prisoners taken;And on the walls you read the first bulletin of the morning.—This is all that I saw, and all that I know of the battle.