Before leaving this chapter on prize-fighting and cruelty, I wish to record the most tragic story I have ever heard or read of. When one thinks of tragedy, one recalls unconsciously the tragedy of Socrates, or the still more terrible tragedy of Jesus on the Cross; but once many years ago, while spending a holiday in Venice, an old Venetian told me a story which seemed to me more terrible than these. I have often wanted to use it and have been afraid to, and with the passing of the years the memory became a little vague. But the other day I came across the tale again, told at full length and in its proper historical setting.
It belongs to the time of the five months' siege of Venice by the Austrians, half a century ago now. The story is already passing into oblivion, even among Venetians, but it surely deserves to be revived today. Here it is, word for word:
"The Venetian commanders determined to sever the single link with the mainland, and to blow up the two-and-a-half miles of uniform roading-the work of the oppressors-which bridged the lagoon.
"For some reason the mine did not explode; whereupon a certain Agostino Stefani volunteered to row out in his sandolo and set the matter right.
"General Cosenza accepted the bold offer, and in the face of a double fire from the forts of Malghera and San Giuliano, Agostino set out in his light craft.
"He accomplished his task unscathed, but on the return passage over the wide unsheltered stretch of water, the sandolo was hit and sunk.
"Agostino was a strong swimmer, but the current was against him, and when a patrol boat at length picked him up, he was exhausted beyond power of articulation.
"Excited crowds on the bank watched his rescue, and suddenly, 'A spy! A spy!
A traitor!' was shouted. The reported capture of an Austrian was spread from mouth to mouth. Stones and execrations were hurled at the patrol boat, and suspicion seemed to fly with them and infect the crew, who threw the speechless man back into the water and struck at him with oars and stones.
He sank just before General Cosenza's aide-de-camp proclaimed his identity and told of his heroic courage."
What he must have thought before he sank, poor Agostino, with shouts of "Spione; spione; traditore!" sounding in his ears!
The benefactor of his fellows-a brave soldier if ever there was one- murdered by those he had fought for, and murdered as a spy and a traitor- "Spione! traditore!" ringing as a curse in his death-agony.
CHAPTER XIV
It is impossible to paint a complete picture of my time without saying something about Queen Victoria and Prince Edward, afterwards King Edward VII. In the preceding volume I have given some personal anecdotes about him and described how his introduction of cigarette smoking after lunch and dinner, immediately the last course was finished, put an end to the custom of heavy drinking which had been usual till his advent. As soon as the upper classes stopped guzzling, the middle classes followed suit, and ever since the revenue from drink has diminished in Britain in curious proportion to the increase of population.
Prince Edward reaped only a small part of the benefit of this change. He had a reputation for loose living and no one wished to think of him as a reformer.
Some few knew that he had all the social duties of a sovereign to perform and state to keep up on a small income and with no real power.
It was Edward who changed the traditional policy of Great Britain, which was one of friendly alliance with Germany, into a policy of antagonism to Germany and alliance with France. He was the founder of the Entente Cordiale between England and France, and accordingly the first cause, so to speak, of the World War. But in order to exhibit this change of policy in its true light as a complete right-about-face, I must first speak of his mother, Queen Victoria, and describe her influence.
It is difficult to paint a pen portrait of Queen Victoria. First of all, it must be done chiefly from the outside, and secondly, she changed with the years in an astonishing degree. Lord Melbourne, the Prime Minister of her early life, the guide and mentor of her first decisions as a monarch-in fact, the man who trained her-always spoke of her as eminently teachable and docile.
After she married Albert of Saxe-Gotha, she took her husband as mentor.
Her early English education was swallowed up in a German education. She had learnt German as a girl; but now, out of passionate love for her husband, she spoke nothing but German in her home; read chiefly German; took her ideas from her husband; saw life and men through his eyes. She did not love him merely; she grew to idolize him.
A story is told of her early married life which illustrates her devotion. I cannot say how it originated or who was the authority for it; but it became a tradition, one of those stories which are truer than truth, symbol as well as fact.
The husband and wife did not agree about a certain policy. Victoria, still English, was backed up by the Minister whom she was accustomed to trust: at length she said gently to her husband:
"Don't let's argue, dear. I am Queen; I mean the responsibility is mine. You see, don't you?"
"Yes, I see," said Albert, and left the room quietly.
In half an hour she wanted him and was chilled to hear that he had gone out.
In an hour she sent again; he was still out.
He did not appear at dinner, and the Queen could not even pretend to eat.
Late in the evening she was told he had returned and she waited expectantly; but he kept to his apartment.
At length the Queen could stand it no longer. She went to his room; but the door was locked. She knocked and knocked.
"Albert, Albert!"
"What is it?"
"Oh, let me in; I want to come in."
"I'm sorry, but I've letters to write."
"Let me in, I say; you can do your letters later."
"I want to do them now; please leave me alone."
After begging and begging in vain, the Queen burst into tears.
"Oh, forgive me, I'm so unhappy. I can't bear to quarrel with you. I can't bear it."
That was the literal truth; she could not bear a momentary coldness in the man she worshiped. When two love, the one who loves the least is master; so the Queen became her husband's slave and echo.
Prince Albert's death widowed Victoria-maimed her. For years she found it impossible to take up life without him. Even her duty to her children and the Crown could not draw her from the absorbing anguish of grief; her very reason tottered, for her love was rooted in reverence. Albert was her divinity.
To the very end of her life she bowed to his authority.
And when, after many years, she took up life again without him, she seemed changed to everyone. She met her English ministers and advisers from a different standpoint. She felt herself their superior. She not only knew the English view of matters, but also the German view, and this gave her a singular authority. Her confidence in herself, her dignity, her sense of her own importance grew with the years, till she became authoritative. In every difficulty she was accustomed to ask: "How would he have acted?" It is on record that on more than one occasion she left her minister and went over to a bust of her husband and asked the stone effigy what she was to do.
Such devotion did not seem ridiculous to her, for love is never contemptible.
Besides, there was a great deal of common human nature in her, and it may be well to bring her ordinary qualities first into prominence.
Two stories that can both be vouched for throw, it seems to me, a high light on Queen Victoria's character.
She was a great friend of old Lady Hardwicke's, and used often to go and have tea with her. Lord Hardwicke told me once that as a boy he was very curious to know what the two old ladies talked about, and once listened at the door when the Queen was paying an unusually long visit.