others from entering; he had been cast up on the
Daphne,
and yearned only to leave it. But I would say, rather, that while he lived a life of shadows, he recalled a story of violent deeds performed in broad daylight, so that the sun-filled days of the siege, which his memory restored to him, would compensate for this dim roaming. And perhaps there was something more to it. In the first part of Roberto's life, there had been only two periods in which he learned something of the world and of the ways of inhabiting it; I refer to the few months of the siege and to the later years in Paris. Now he was going through his third formative period, perhaps the last, at the end of which maturity might coincide with dissolution, and he was trying to decipher its secret message, seeing the past as a figure of the present.
***
Casale, at the beginning, was a story of sorties. Roberto tells this story to the Lady, transfiguring it, as if to say that, unable as he had been to storm the castle of her intact snow, shaken but not undone by the flame of his two suns, in the flame of that earlier sun he had still been able to pit himself against those who laid siege to his Monferrato citadel.
The morning after the men from La Griva arrived, Toiras sent some single officers, carbines on their shoulder, to observe what the Neapolitans were installing on the hill conquered the previous day. The officers approached too closely, and shots were exchanged: a young lieutenant of the Pompadour regiment was killed. His comrades carried him back inside the walls, and Roberto saw the first slain man in his life. Toiras decided to have his men occupy the hovels he had mentioned the day before.
From the bastions it was easy to observe the advance of the ten musketeers, who at a certain point separated in an attempt to seize the first house, as if with pincers. Cannon fire from the walls passed above their heads and tore the roof off the house: like a swarm of insects, Spaniards dashed out and fled. The musketeers let them escape, took the house, barricaded themselves inside, and began laying down a harassing fire towards the hill.
It seemed advisable to repeat the operation against the other houses: even from the bastions it was clear that the Neapolitans had begun digging trenches, edging them with fagots and gabions. But these did not circumscribe the hill, they ran towards the plain. Roberto learned that this was how the enemy started constructing mine tunnels. Once these reached the walls, they would be packed, along their final stretch, with kegs of powder. It was thus necessary to prevent the initial digging from reaching a depth sufficient to allow further digging underground, otherwise the enemy from that point on could work under cover. This was the whole game: to anticipate from outside, in the open, the construction of the tunnels, and to dig countermine-tunnels of one's own from the other direction, until the relief army arrived and while provisions and ammunition lasted. In a siege there is nothing else to do: harry the other side, and wait.
The following morning, as promised, it was the turn of the outwork. Roberto found himself grasping his caliver in the midst of an unruly bunch of men who back in Lu or Cuccaro or Odalengo had never wanted to work. With some surly Corsicans, they were all crammed into boats to cross the Po, after two French companies had already touched the other shore. Toiras and his staff observed from the right bank, and old Pozzo saluted his son before waving him on with one hand, then put his forefinger to his cheekbone and pulled the skin down, as if to say, "Keep your eyes open!"
The three companies made camp in the outwork. Construction had not been completed, and part of the finished walls had already collapsed. The men spent the day barricading the gaps. The position was well protected by a ditch, beyond which some sentries were posted. When night fell, the sky was so bright that the sentries dozed off, and not
Daphne,
and yearned only to leave it. But I would say, rather, that while he lived a life of shadows, he recalled a story of violent deeds performed in broad daylight, so that the sun-filled days of the siege, which his memory restored to him, would compensate for this dim roaming. And perhaps there was something more to it. In the first part of Roberto's life, there had been only two periods in which he learned something of the world and of the ways of inhabiting it; I refer to the few months of the siege and to the later years in Paris. Now he was going through his third formative period, perhaps the last, at the end of which maturity might coincide with dissolution, and he was trying to decipher its secret message, seeing the past as a figure of the present.
***
Casale, at the beginning, was a story of sorties. Roberto tells this story to the Lady, transfiguring it, as if to say that, unable as he had been to storm the castle of her intact snow, shaken but not undone by the flame of his two suns, in the flame of that earlier sun he had still been able to pit himself against those who laid siege to his Monferrato citadel.
The morning after the men from La Griva arrived, Toiras sent some single officers, carbines on their shoulder, to observe what the Neapolitans were installing on the hill conquered the previous day. The officers approached too closely, and shots were exchanged: a young lieutenant of the Pompadour regiment was killed. His comrades carried him back inside the walls, and Roberto saw the first slain man in his life. Toiras decided to have his men occupy the hovels he had mentioned the day before.
From the bastions it was easy to observe the advance of the ten musketeers, who at a certain point separated in an attempt to seize the first house, as if with pincers. Cannon fire from the walls passed above their heads and tore the roof off the house: like a swarm of insects, Spaniards dashed out and fled. The musketeers let them escape, took the house, barricaded themselves inside, and began laying down a harassing fire towards the hill.
It seemed advisable to repeat the operation against the other houses: even from the bastions it was clear that the Neapolitans had begun digging trenches, edging them with fagots and gabions. But these did not circumscribe the hill, they ran towards the plain. Roberto learned that this was how the enemy started constructing mine tunnels. Once these reached the walls, they would be packed, along their final stretch, with kegs of powder. It was thus necessary to prevent the initial digging from reaching a depth sufficient to allow further digging underground, otherwise the enemy from that point on could work under cover. This was the whole game: to anticipate from outside, in the open, the construction of the tunnels, and to dig countermine-tunnels of one's own from the other direction, until the relief army arrived and while provisions and ammunition lasted. In a siege there is nothing else to do: harry the other side, and wait.
The following morning, as promised, it was the turn of the outwork. Roberto found himself grasping his caliver in the midst of an unruly bunch of men who back in Lu or Cuccaro or Odalengo had never wanted to work. With some surly Corsicans, they were all crammed into boats to cross the Po, after two French companies had already touched the other shore. Toiras and his staff observed from the right bank, and old Pozzo saluted his son before waving him on with one hand, then put his forefinger to his cheekbone and pulled the skin down, as if to say, "Keep your eyes open!"
The three companies made camp in the outwork. Construction had not been completed, and part of the finished walls had already collapsed. The men spent the day barricading the gaps. The position was well protected by a ditch, beyond which some sentries were posted. When night fell, the sky was so bright that the sentries dozed off, and not
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