GIUSEPPE GARIBALDI
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Gayle and Paolo visiting Caprera - Garibaldi's tomb and the house
Eleonora remembered
the steamboat to
Staten Island; she remembered the crossing; she remembered every
moment spent
in that white house in Clifton. The candle molds, the crew
lunches, her efforts
to catch every word that Garibaldi thought to utter. She knocked
rather timidly
on the front door, as if she might shatter this precious past
with her fist
somehow.
No one came to the door at first. She exchanged glances with Sandor, then knocked harder. Meucci just had to be here. He would have some idea of what she should do. Margaret and Laura couldn’t have disappeared into thin air.
Finally the door opened just wide enough for her to see a large grey eye arched by an unruly brow and underlined with wrinkles.
“Me-eucci?”
“Eleonora!” The door swung to and the old inventor, with his thick white beard of always, gave her a hug. “I thought it was an officer come to foreclose on the property.”
“Whatever for?” she asked, as he and Sandor shook hands and nodded at each other.
“It seems that they’re putting this house up for auction. I don’t have the money to pay the taxes. But come in, people, come in. Ester will be happy you’re here, Eleonora. She can’t leave her bed.”
“Is she suffering terribly, Antonio?”
“This rheumatism is the Devil. I keep experimenting ways to help ease her pain. Even Garibaldi is suffering atrociously from it these days—he wrote me from his Caprera. My word, what a letter.”
Shaking his head, he took her arm and led the way down the hallway into the small green parlor, with the same sofa and book-covered tables that she remembered. From the sofa Meucci picked up what almost looked like a teacher’s desk bell, a sort of wooden handle inserted in an upside down wooden mortar, from which ran a wire.
“Here,” he said. “Talk into it.”
She took it from him, not understanding. “And Garibaldi’s letter?”
“The letter,” he repeated, with the chagrin of an old man who fought a battle with distraction. He retrieved an envelope from the top book on one of the tables. “It arrived just the other day.”
Handing the odd little contraption to Sandor, Eleonora read the General’s words in his flowing, lightly-inked handwriting. The American ambassador to Belgium, Henry Sanford, had made his way to Garibaldi’s island on September 8th. “I knew why he was here;” wrote Garibaldi, wryly. “His colleague Quiggle in Belgium had contacted me in June, telling me that the newspapers in America and Europe were reporting that I was en route to the United States to lead the Army of the North and that he wanted with all his heart to fight under me. But I had no plans to travel at present, I said. Naturally, I still had a great desire to serve a country for which I feel so much affection, should the American government find my services of some use, but I wanted to know exactly what it is fighting for. Is this agitation regarding the emancipation of the Negroes or not? Quiggle, who made no answer in this regard, nevertheless had sent our exchange of letters to Washington, Sanford informed me, and after the terrible defeat of the North at the first battle of Bull Run, President Lincoln and Secretary of State Sewell authorized him to visit me with an offer. I listened to stirring words, Antonio: Tell the distinguished Soldier of Freedom that the fall of the American union would be a disastrous blow to the cause of Human Freedom equally here, in Europe, and throughout the world. It was my full expectation to be offered supreme command of all armed forces, so what Sanford told me next surprised me immensely. Lincoln wanted me only as a major general. But I must have complete control like the captain of a ship, I told Sanford. I would be worthless as a subordinate. For hours, in his good French, Sanford tried to convince me that the rank of major general “would carry with it the command of a large ‘corps d’armée’ to conduct in my own way” but I was not swayed. I offered the pleasant man supper and we had further discussions before we retired for the night. It was very much to my regret that in our last conversation in the morning he still could not give a clear answer to my question on slavery, Antonio.”
Eleonora looked up from the letter, first at Sandor, who’d been reading along over her shoulder, and then at Meucci. “And that decided it.”
“You know Giuseppe,” the inventor said.
They could sense each other’s satisfaction with the way the General had handled things. She passed the letter to Sandor to re-study and took Meucci’s strange cylinder in hand again. “Talk into this?” she said with a smile. “But I want to talk to Ester.”
“I know. Talk into the handle.”
“The handle’s not Ester.” She rattled the object and Meucci laughed.
“Do as I say,” Meucci gestured at her encouragingly and winked at Sandor. “The electricity will carry your voice…I call it a telettrofono. It’s what I’m working on now.”
“Ester? Ester?”
If it weren’t a miracle. She actually heard Ester’s voice come from the cylinder three times in answer to her own. Sandor raised his eyebrows at her in equal wonderment. Yes, it was lovely, Meucci was a genius, but her mind could not fathom where Ester was.
No one came to the door at first. She exchanged glances with Sandor, then knocked harder. Meucci just had to be here. He would have some idea of what she should do. Margaret and Laura couldn’t have disappeared into thin air.
Finally the door opened just wide enough for her to see a large grey eye arched by an unruly brow and underlined with wrinkles.
“Me-eucci?”
“Eleonora!” The door swung to and the old inventor, with his thick white beard of always, gave her a hug. “I thought it was an officer come to foreclose on the property.”
“Whatever for?” she asked, as he and Sandor shook hands and nodded at each other.
“It seems that they’re putting this house up for auction. I don’t have the money to pay the taxes. But come in, people, come in. Ester will be happy you’re here, Eleonora. She can’t leave her bed.”
“Is she suffering terribly, Antonio?”
“This rheumatism is the Devil. I keep experimenting ways to help ease her pain. Even Garibaldi is suffering atrociously from it these days—he wrote me from his Caprera. My word, what a letter.”
Shaking his head, he took her arm and led the way down the hallway into the small green parlor, with the same sofa and book-covered tables that she remembered. From the sofa Meucci picked up what almost looked like a teacher’s desk bell, a sort of wooden handle inserted in an upside down wooden mortar, from which ran a wire.
“Here,” he said. “Talk into it.”
She took it from him, not understanding. “And Garibaldi’s letter?”
“The letter,” he repeated, with the chagrin of an old man who fought a battle with distraction. He retrieved an envelope from the top book on one of the tables. “It arrived just the other day.”
Handing the odd little contraption to Sandor, Eleonora read the General’s words in his flowing, lightly-inked handwriting. The American ambassador to Belgium, Henry Sanford, had made his way to Garibaldi’s island on September 8th. “I knew why he was here;” wrote Garibaldi, wryly. “His colleague Quiggle in Belgium had contacted me in June, telling me that the newspapers in America and Europe were reporting that I was en route to the United States to lead the Army of the North and that he wanted with all his heart to fight under me. But I had no plans to travel at present, I said. Naturally, I still had a great desire to serve a country for which I feel so much affection, should the American government find my services of some use, but I wanted to know exactly what it is fighting for. Is this agitation regarding the emancipation of the Negroes or not? Quiggle, who made no answer in this regard, nevertheless had sent our exchange of letters to Washington, Sanford informed me, and after the terrible defeat of the North at the first battle of Bull Run, President Lincoln and Secretary of State Sewell authorized him to visit me with an offer. I listened to stirring words, Antonio: Tell the distinguished Soldier of Freedom that the fall of the American union would be a disastrous blow to the cause of Human Freedom equally here, in Europe, and throughout the world. It was my full expectation to be offered supreme command of all armed forces, so what Sanford told me next surprised me immensely. Lincoln wanted me only as a major general. But I must have complete control like the captain of a ship, I told Sanford. I would be worthless as a subordinate. For hours, in his good French, Sanford tried to convince me that the rank of major general “would carry with it the command of a large ‘corps d’armée’ to conduct in my own way” but I was not swayed. I offered the pleasant man supper and we had further discussions before we retired for the night. It was very much to my regret that in our last conversation in the morning he still could not give a clear answer to my question on slavery, Antonio.”
Eleonora looked up from the letter, first at Sandor, who’d been reading along over her shoulder, and then at Meucci. “And that decided it.”
“You know Giuseppe,” the inventor said.
They could sense each other’s satisfaction with the way the General had handled things. She passed the letter to Sandor to re-study and took Meucci’s strange cylinder in hand again. “Talk into this?” she said with a smile. “But I want to talk to Ester.”
“I know. Talk into the handle.”
“The handle’s not Ester.” She rattled the object and Meucci laughed.
“Do as I say,” Meucci gestured at her encouragingly and winked at Sandor. “The electricity will carry your voice…I call it a telettrofono. It’s what I’m working on now.”
“Ester? Ester?”
If it weren’t a miracle. She actually heard Ester’s voice come from the cylinder three times in answer to her own. Sandor raised his eyebrows at her in equal wonderment. Yes, it was lovely, Meucci was a genius, but her mind could not fathom where Ester was.
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