A few nights later Garibaldi carried Anita off to his ship, clandestinely as it appears, and they were wedded when they reached another port. She was a companion matching his ideal: she shared his wild fortunes and hardships; she was an indefatigable horsewoman, a dead-shot, and upon occasion she could touch off a cannon.
After years of fighting, Garibaldi obtained a furlough, gathered a drove of cattle, and journeyed across Uruguay to Montevideo. There he was reduced to teach the rudiments of arithmetic in a private school, picking up whatever other precarious pennies he could, until civil war broke out in Uruguay, and he enlisted on the side of the people, struggling to free themselves from a blood-thirsty dictator. Garibaldi’s exploits as a guerrilla and corsair had made him famous, and now he repeated at Montevideo his amazing feats. From among his countrymen he organized an “Italian Legion,” which proved throughout a long service that Italians could and would fight,—two facts which scornful Europe was loth then to believe. He also illustrated his perfect disinterestedness by refusing all rewards beyond a bare means of subsistence. At a time when he held the fate of Montevideo in his hand, he had not money to buy candles to light the poor room where he and his family were dwelling.
Thus, giving his utmost for liberty and the welfare of strangers, he saw the years pass without bringing the one thing he desired most of all,—the chance to consecrate himself to the redemption of Italy. That desire, the ruling passion of his life, had followed him everywhere. I marvel that any materialists exist; for where, in the material world, shall we find anything comparable to the tenacity of ideas? Think not to preserve them by locking them in an iron safe; write them not on stone, which crumbles, but on the human soul, and they shall be indestructible. Have we not daily proof that against remorse, love, hate, ambition, all the powers of the material world—fire or frost, hunger, disease, persecution—dash as harmless as vapor against adamant? By the moral precepts, by which Moses awed his people three thousand years ago, we are awed. They are permanent, being graven on something more durable than tables of stone; and it matters not how many times old Nile is renewed, or whether Sinai itself wear in dust away.
On Garibaldi’s heart of hearts “Italy” was written,—an ideal which nothing could cancel. At length, in the early autumn of 1846 news came to Montevideo that a Liberal Pope had been elected at Rome, that the word “amnesty” had been uttered, and that the Peninsula was throbbing with splendid hopes. Each succeeding message confirmed the presentiment that the longed-for day of action was nigh. Garibaldi, subordinating his hatred of priestcraft to his patriotism, wrote to offer his sword to the new Pope, to whom all Italians were looking as the leader of their crusade for freedom, but Pius never acknowledged the offer. Then Garibaldi and some threescore of the Legion hired a brigantine, which they named La Speranza (Hope), and on April 15, 1848, bade the Montevideans farewell. They had to touch at Santa Pola, on the coast of Spain, for water, where they learned that all Europe was in revolution, and then they dropped anchor at Nice on June 23. Over Garibaldi’s head the death-sentence still hung, but he had nothing to fear, as the events of the past six months had wiped out old memories. Those six months had had no parallel in modern European history. They had witnessed the triumph of revolution from the Douro to the Don.
Not even during the Napoleonic upheaval had modern Europe felt a convulsion like that of 1848: for government and order were as necessary to Napoleon as to his victims, and his revolution was the effort of one lion to devour foxes and wolves,—of one preponderant tyranny to absorb many smaller tyrannies; but the catastrophe of 1848 seemed, to anxious observers, to endanger civilization itself. Society was dissolving into its elements. The many-headed beast had risen, ubiquitous, terrific. Lop off one head, and others grew from the trunk. What substitute could possibly be found in that chaos for the tottering system? Nothing seemed certain but anarchy.
That was the year when sovereigns were suddenly made acquainted with their lackeys’ staircases and the back doors of their palaces. The Pope escaped from Rome in the livery of a footman. Ferdinand, Emperor of Austria, fled twice from Vienna. Louis Philippe, the “citizen king” of the French, put on a disguise, and slipped away to England. Metternich, rudely interrupted in his diplomatic game of chess, barely escaped with his life to London. The Crown Prince of Prussia, subsequently Emperor of Germany, eluded the angry Berliners, a trusty noble driving the carriage in which he escaped. There was a scampering of petty German princes, as of prairie-dogs at the sportsman’s approach. Nobility, whose ambition hitherto had been to display itself, was now wondrously fond of burrows. And just as the frightened upholders of absolutism went into hiding, the apostles of democracy emerged from prisons and exile.
Paper constitutions, grandiloquent manifestoes, patriotic resolutions, doctrinaire pamphlets, were whirled hither and thither as thick as autumn leaves. Every man who had a tongue spoke; speaking, so furious was the din, soon loudened into shouting. But the Old Régime was encamped in no Jericho whose walls would tumble at mere sound. There must be deeds as well as words; in truth, more action and less Babel had been wiser. Committees of national safety, workingmen’s unions, civic guards, armies of the people, sprang into existence, and it is wonderful to note with what quickness officers and leaders were found to command them. Universities were turned into recruiting stations and barracks; students and professors became soldiers. There were heroic combats, excesses, reverses bravely borne. Gradually the fatal lack of centre and organization could not be concealed. The leaders disputed as to measures; then followed misunderstandings, jealousies, desertions. Each doctrinaire cared that his plan, rather than the general cause, should prevail. Each sect, each race, feared that it would lose should its rival take the lead. But the purpose of monarchy was everywhere the same,—to recover its footing; and the agents of monarchy, cautiously creeping out of their retreats, began to profit by the divisions among their enemies. Within a year the European revolt was crushed. Nevertheless its lessons abide. It taught that despots cannot be permanently abolished so long as a large majority of a nation require despotic government, and the proof that they require it is the fact that they submit to it; whence it follows that real democracy cannot conquer until a people be educated up to the capacity of governing themselves. It taught that without unity among the heads and obedience among the members no reform can succeed. It taught, finally, that no society which has once attained a certain level of civilization can exist in a state of anarchy; for when anarchy is reached, the opportunity of the strongest man, the tyrant, offers, and the process of reconstruction from the basis of absolutism begins.
To Liberals, in June, 1848, however, the days of tyranny seemed at an end; the Golden Age of liberty, constitutional government, and the brotherhood of nations seemed to have dawned. Garibaldi learned that Lombardy had expelled the Austrians; that Charles Albert, the Piedmontese King, had drawn his sword as the champion of Italian independence; and that the Pope and the other princes, including even Bomba of Naples, had espoused the national cause. The rapid victories of the spring had been succeeded by military inertia; frantic enthusiasm had given place to a chatter of criticism; but not even those who grumbled loudest believed as yet that the cause was in danger.
Garibaldi hurried to the King’s headquarters, near Mantua. He was no lover of royalty, but he would support any king honestly fighting in behalf of Italy. Charles Albert granted him an audience, but avoided accepting his offered services, telling him that he had better consult the Minister of War, at Turin. To Turin, accordingly, Garibaldi posted back, saw that official, received further evasive replies, and departed angry. To have traveled seven thousand miles over sea to fight for his country’s redemption, only to be treated in this fashion, might well astound a blunt soldier who had supposed that every volunteer would be welcomed. In his own case the rebuff was peculiarly astonishing, for he was, presumably, an ally whom any commander would be glad to secure. Europe had rung with the fame of his South American career, and already regarded him as a legendary hero. Imagine Charlemagne refusing Roland’s aid in his campaign against the Paynims, or the old Romans turning coldly away from one of the great Twin Brethren!
Although Garibaldi would have despised reasons of state which deprived him of the right of volunteering against Austria, yet the King had to be governed by them. For his excuse in declaring war had been that, unless he interfered, anarchy, followed by a republic, would prevail in Lombardy. To be consistent, therefore, he had to keep clear of even an apparent league with republicanism as embodied in Garibaldi.