David Rossi stood by his desk at the farther end of the room. This was
the last night of his editorship of the Sunrise, and by various silent
artifices the staff were showing their sympathy with the man who had
made the paper and was forced to leave it.
The excitement within the office of the Sunrise corresponded to the
commotion outside. The city was in a ferment, and from time to time
unknown persons, the spontaneous reporters of tumultuous days, were
brought in from the outer office to give the editor the latest news of
the night. Another trainful of people had arrived from Milan! Still
another from Bologna and Carrara! The storm was growing! Soon would be
heard the crash of war! Their faces were eager and their tone was one of
triumph. They pitched their voices high, so as to be heard above the
reverberation of the machines, whose deep thud in the rooms below made
the walls vibrate like the side of a ship at sea.
David Rossi did not catch the contagion of their joy. At every fresh
announcement his face clouded. The unofficial head of the surging and
straining democracy, which was filling itself hourly with hopes and
dreams, was unhappy and perplexed. He was trying to write his last
message to his people, and he could not get it clear because his own
mind was confused.
"Romans," he wrote first, "your rulers are preparing to resist your
right of meeting, and you will have nothing to oppose to the muskets and
bayonets of their soldiers but the bare breasts of a brave but peaceful
people. No matter. Fifty, a hundred, five hundred of you killed at the
first volley, and the day is won! The reactionary Government of
Italy--all the reactionary Governments of Europe--will be borne down lay
the righteous indignation of the world."
It would not do! He had no right to lead the people to certain
slaughter, and he tore up his manifesto and began again.
"Romans," he wrote the second time, "when reforms cannot be effected
without the spilling of blood, the time for them has not yet come, and
it is the duty of a brave and peaceful people to wait for the silent
operation of natural law and the mighty help of moral forces. Therefore
at the eleventh hour I call upon you, in the names of your wives and
children...."
It was impossible! The people would think he was afraid, and the
opportune moment would be lost.
One man in the office of the Sunrise was entirely outside the circle
of its electric currents. This was the former day-editor, who had been
appointed by the proprietors to take Rossi's place, and was now walking
about with a silk hat on his head, taking note of everything and
exercising a premature and gratuitous supervision.