The last of those games, at which I happened to be present, took place during the short-lived existence of the kingdom of Etruria.[76] They had been abolished long ago on account of the accidents to which they gave rise. The queen’s consent to their revival was obtained with great difficulty. The origin of this struggle cannot be fixed with any degree of certainty, for though it was called ‘a game’ it was in reality a battle. It is more than probable that they dated from the long distant past; according to some, they were Greek and almost as old as the Olympic Games. The Pisans maintain that in the ancient chronicles of their town there is a mention of the names of some champions of Sainte-Marie who formed part of the contingent despatched by their republic to the Crusades. In our days Alfieri has given us a poetical picture of those chivalric contests, with all their perils and the passions they aroused.
Pisa is traversed by the Arno; and a handsome marble bridge connects the two quarters of the town. One quarter has its patroness in the Virgin Mary, the other is placed under the protection of St. Anthony. When they celebrated those games in days of old, each side chose three hundred champions to proclaim and maintain the pre-eminence of their patron’s banner against all comers. Those improvised defenders were always selected from among the strongest, the bravest, and most agile young fellows of their quarter.
They were clad in armour similar to that worn by their ancestors in the palmy days of the republic. Trained and drilled long beforehand by experienced leaders, they stoutly prepared themselves both for attack and defence. A massive breastplate, a helmet, armlets, and cuish of steel constituted their means of defence; their weapon of offence consisted of a kind of club of hard wood, three feet long; one blow dealt with force and precision was sufficient to disable an adversary.
A lowered barrier in the centre of the bridge separated the combatants. At the stroke of three from the cathedral towers, a cannon shot gave the signal, and immediately the barrier was raised. Amidst a furious blast of trumpets, the struggle began, and the blows from the heavy clubs rang on the steel of the breastplates and helmets. That game, almost as barbarous as the times that gave it birth, lasted for three-quarters of an hour. At the discharge of a second shot, the barrier was lowered, and the party which had driven back the other from its position, if but the length of a foot, was proclaimed the victor. Cries of joy rang on the bank that had gained the victory, while a mournful silence attested the defeat and the disgrace of the opposite bank.
In 1805 I happened to be in Pisa, and thanks to some friends and the kindness of M. Aubusson de la Feuillade, the French ambassador, I was enabled to witness that extraordinary fête. It had been announced throughout the length and breadth of Italy some weeks before its celebration. At the news of the forthcoming contest offered to strength and dexterity, there was a rush from all parts of combatants who had acquired a reputation for bravery or herculean strength. There was, according to report, one from Calabria, others from Ancona and Geneva; Rome had sent a couple of Transteverinos, and, wonderful to relate, the learned University of Padua added to the contingent with a professor reputed to be the strongest man of Italy. Personages belonging to the highest classes of Italian society had inscribed themselves under the name of some of their retainers: assured of preserving their incognito, thanks to the visors of their helmets, they intended taking part in the struggle, the pugilistic fever having become general. Constant practice had familiarised the athletes with the use of their clubs to such a degree as to enable them to handle these as their forefathers handled the double-edged sword in the Middle Ages. The professor from Padua talked of challenging four men armed with sabres and swords, and of vanquishing them with the sole aid of his club. The enthusiasm had turned all heads. No doubt it is a very extraordinary thing that, in an enlightened age like ours, such an amusement, with all its inevitable and perhaps fatal consequences, should have been allowed. It is, moreover, most probable that the danger involved in the whole affair added to people’s curiosity. Certain is it, however, that Pisa was invaded by more than a hundred thousand strangers—an enormous number for a town the population of which did not exceed twelve thousand inhabitants.
The week preceding the struggle was spent in warlike exercises, and the eve of the day itself in pious practices and meditation. All the combatants scrupulously kept their vigil in prayers like the knights of old, went to confession, and took the Sacrament. The bishop publicly blessed the standards, richly embroidered by the ladies of the foremost families of the land. In short, everything calculated to sustain the combatants’ courage was resorted to in honour of either the patron or patroness whose banner they defended. Those who had laid wagers on the event—and their number and the amount of their bets were considerable—spared neither promises nor encouragement. During that week, each combatant was fed like a podesta; but the use of strong liquors was strictly forbidden: like Richelieu at the siege of Mahon, the chiefs intimated in the ‘orders for the day’ that any champion guilty of inebriety should not have the honour of competing.
From six in the morning, all the windows overlooking the Arno at that point were occupied by elegantly dressed women; these windows had been let at enormous prices. There were, moreover, stands on both banks of the river intended for spectators. The quays were absolutely black with people from the rural districts. The excursion, in their minds, was invested with the solemnity of a pilgrimage. Their varied and picturesque dresses offered a unique sight. A large stand, richly draped, had been erected for the queen, the court, the corps diplomatique, and foreigners of distinction who had come from all the Italian Courts.
Craft of all dimensions, displaying bunting from prow to stern, and provided with elegant tents, crowded the river. They had bands on board, and a glance showed the preparations for cold collations everywhere. This flotilla alone was a delightful sight. On both sides of the bridge there were other craft: they, as it were, constituted the riparian police, and were charged with keeping both boats and spectators at a distance. Their second mission consisted in affording aid to the combatants who from some cause or other might tumble into the stream. Such accidents, to judge from a picture at the town hall, painted more than two centuries before, were by no means improbable. The canvas represented, among other phases of the struggle, two knights clinging tightly to each other, and continuing the contest, while dropping into the river.
The living picture that day was scarcely less curious, with the noise, bustle, and stir of the spectators, the constant movement on both banks of the stream, the diversity of Italian dialects, and the innumerable incidents of that outdoor life which in this sunny clime seems the most natural.
At twelve o’clock the combatants donned their armour; their trainers and chiefs crowd around them and renew their counsels and instructions. To watch the excitement of their wives and their womankind one might have taken them for so many Spartan matrons handing their bucklers to their sons and saying: ‘With it or on it.’