Vittoria — Complete

  Produced by David Widger

  VITTORIA

  By George Meredith

  CONTENTS:

  BOOK 1. I. UP MONTE MOTTERONE II. ON THE HEIGHTS III. SIGNORINA VITTORIA IV. AMMIANI'S INTERCESSION V. THE SPY VI. THE WARNING VII. BARTO RIZZO VIII. THE LETTER

  BOOK 2. IX. IN VERONA X. THE POPE'S MOUTH XI. LAURA PIAVENI XII. THE BRONZE BUTTERFLY XIII. THE PLOT OF THE SIGNOR ANTONIO

  BOOK 3. XIV. AT THE MAESTRO'S DOOR XV. AMMIANI THROUGH THE MIDNIGHT XVI. COUNTESS AMMIANI XVII. IN THE PIAZZA D'ARMI XVIII. THE NIGHT OF THE FIFTEENTH XIX. THE PRIMA DONNA

  BOOK 4. XX. THE OPERA OF CAMILLA XXI. THE THIRD ACT XXII. WILFRID COMES FORWARD XXIII. FIRST HOURS OF THE FLIGHT XXIV. ADVENTURES OF VITTORIA AND ANGELO XXV. ACROSS THE MOUNTAINS

  BOOK 5. XXVI. THE DUEL IN THE PASS XXVII. A NEW ORDEAL XXVIII. THE ESCAPE OF ANGELO

  BOOK 6. XXIX. EPISODES OF THE REVOLT AND THE WAR--THE TOBACCO RIOTS --RINALDO GUIDASCARPI XXX. EPISODES OF THE REVOLT AND THE WAR--THE FIVE DAYS OF MILAN XXXI. EPISODES OF THE REVOLT AND THE WAR--VITTORIA DISOBEYS HER LOVER XXXII. EPISODES OF THE REVOLT AND THE WAR--THE TREACHERY OF PERICLES-THE WRITE UMBRELLA--THE DEATH OF RINALDO GUIDASCARPI

  BOOK 7. XXXIII. EPISODES OF THE REVOLT AND THE WAR--COUNT KARL LENKENSTEIN-- THE STORY OF THE GUIDASCARPI--THE VICTORY OF THE VOLUNTEERS XXXIV. EPISODES OF THE REVOLT AND THE WAR--THE DEEDS OF BARTO RIZZO-- THE MEETING AT ROVEREDO XXXV. CLOSE OF THE LOMBARD CAMPAIGN--VITTORIA'S PERPLEXITY XXXVI. A FRESH ENTANGLEMENT XXXVII. ON LAGO MAGGIORE XXXVIII. VIOLETTA D'ISORELLA XXXIX. ANNA OF LENKENSTEIN

  BOOK 8. XL. THROUGH THE WINTER XLI. THE INTERVIEW XLII. THE SHADOW OF CONSPIRACY XLIII. THE LAST MEETING IN MILAN XLIV. THE WIFE AND THE HUSBAND XLV. SHOWS MANY PATHS CONVERGING TO THE END XLVI. THE LAST EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER I

  From Monte Motterone you survey the Lombard plain. It is a towering domeof green among a hundred pinnacles of grey and rust-red crags. Atdawn the summit of the mountain has an eagle eye for the far Venetianboundary and the barrier of the Apennines; but with sunrise come themists. The vast brown level is seen narrowing in; the Ticino and theSesia waters, nearest, quiver on the air like sleepy lakes; the plain isengulphed up to the high ridges of the distant Southern mountain range,which lie stretched to a faint cloud-like line, in shape like a solitarymonster of old seas crossing the Deluge. Long arms of vapour stretchacross the urn-like valleys, and gradually thickening and swellingupward, enwrap the scored bodies of the ashen-faced peaks and thepastures of the green mountain, till the heights become islands overa forgotten earth. Bells of herds down the hidden run of the sweetgrasses, and a continuous leaping of its rivulets, give the Motteronea voice of youth and homeliness amid that stern company of Titan-heads,for whom the hawk and the vulture cry. The storm has beaten at themuntil they have got the aspect of the storm. They take colour fromsunlight, and are joyless in colour as in shade. When the lower worldis under pushing steam, they wear the look of the revolted sons of Time,fast chained before scornful heaven in an iron peace. Day at last bringsvigorous fire; arrows of light pierce the mist-wreaths, the dancingdraperies, the floors of vapour; and the mountain of piled pasturages isseen with its foot on the shore of Lago Maggiore. Down an extreme gulfthe full sunlight, as if darting on a jewel in the deeps, seizes theblue-green lake with its isles. The villages along the darkly-woodedborders of the lake show white as clustered swans; here and there atented boat is visible, shooting from terraces of vines, or hanging onits shadow. Monte Boscero is unveiled; the semicircle of the Piedmonteseand the Swiss peaks, covering Lake Orta, behind, on along the Ticineseand the Grisons, leftward toward and beyond the Lugano hills, stand barein black and grey and rust-red and purple. You behold a burnished realmof mountain and plain beneath the royal sun of Italy. In the foregroundit shines hard as the lines of an irradiated Cellini shield. Fartheraway, over middle ranges that are soft and clear, it melts, confusingthe waters with hot rays, and the forests with darkness, to where,wavering in and out of view like flying wings, and shadowed like wingsof archangels with rose and with orange and with violet, silverwhiteAlps are seen. You might take them for mystical streaming torches on theborder-ground between vision and fancy. They lean as in a great flightforward upon Lombardy.

  The curtain of an early autumnal morning was everywhere lifted aroundthe Motterone, save for one milky strip of cloud that lay lizard-likeacross the throat of Monte Boscero facing it, when a party of fivefootfarers, who had met from different points of ascent some way below,and were climbing the mountain together, stood upon the cropped herbageof the second plateau, and stopped to eye the landscape; possibly alsoto get their breath. They were Italians. Two were fair-haired muscularmen, bronzed by the sun and roughly bearded, bearing the stamp of breedof one or other of the hill-cities under the Alps. A third looked asturdy soldier, squareset and hard of feature, for whom beauties ofscenery had few awakening charms. The remaining couple were an oldman and a youth, upon whose shoulder the veteran leaned, and with awhimsical turn of head and eye, indicative of some playful cast ofmind, poured out his remarks upon the objects in sight, and chuckledto himself, like one who has learnt the necessity to appreciate his ownhumour if he is disposed to indulge it. He was carelessly wrapped aboutin long loose woollen stuff, but the youth was dressed like a Milanesecavalier of the first quality, and was evidently one who would have beenat home in the fashionable Corso. His face was of the sweetest virileItalian beauty. The head was long, like a hawk's, not too lean, and notsharply ridged from a rapacious beak, but enough to show characteristicsof eagerness and promptitude. His eyes were darkest blue, the eyebrowsand long disjoining eyelashes being very dark over them, which madetheir colour precious. The nose was straight and forward from the brows;a fluent black moustache ran with the curve of the upper lip, and lostits line upon a smooth olive cheek. The upper lip was firmly supportedby the under, and the chin stood freely out from a fine neck and throat.

  After a space an Austrian war-steamer was discerned puffing out of theharbour of Laveno.

  "That will do," said the old man. "Carlo, thou son of Paolo, we willstump upward once more. Tell me, hulloa, sir! are the best peachesdoomed to entertain vile, domiciliary, parasitical insects? I ask you,does nature exhibit motherly regard, or none, for the regions of thepicturesque? None, I say. It is an arbitrary distinction of our day. Tocomplain of the intrusion of that black-yellow flag and foul smoke-lineon the lake underneath us is preposterous, since, as you behold, theheavens make no protestation. Let us up. There is comfort in exercise,even for an ancient creature such as I am. This mountain is my brother,and flatters me not--I am old."

  "Take my arm, dear Agostino," said the youth.

  "Never, my lad, until I need it. On, ahead of me, goat! chamois! andteach me how the thing used to be done in my time. Old legs must bethe pupils of young ones mark that piece of humility, and listen withrespectfulness to an old head by-and-by."

  It was the autumn antecedent to that memorable Spring of the greatItalian uprising, when, though for a tragic issue, the people of Italyfirst felt and acted as a nation, and Charles Albert, called the Swordof Italy, aspired, without comprehension of the passion of patriotismby which it was animated, to lead it quietly into the fold of hisPiedmontese kingship.

  There is not an easier or a pleasanter height to climb than theMotterone, if, in Italian heat, you can endure the disappointment ofseeing the summit, as you ascend, constantly flit away to a fartherstation. It seems to throw its head back, like a laughin
g senior whenchildren struggle up for kissings. The party of five had come throughthe vines from Stresa and from Baveno. The mountain was strange to them,and they had already reckoned twice on having the topmost eminencein view, when reaching it they found themselves on a fresh plateau,traversed by wild water-courses, and browsed by Alpine herds; and againthe green dome was distant. They came to the highest chalet, where ahearty wiry young fellow, busily employed in making cheese, invitedthem to the enjoyment of shade and fresh milk. "For the sake of theseadolescents, who lose much and require much, let it be so," saidAgostino gravely, and not without some belief that he consented to reston behalf of his companions. They allowed the young mountaineer to closethe door, and sat about his fire like sagacious men. When cooled andrefreshed, Agostino gave the signal for departure, and returned thanksfor hospitality. Money was not offered and not expected. As theywere going forth the mountaineer accompanied them to the step on thethreshold, and with a mysterious eagerness in his eyes, addressedAgostino.

  "Signore, is it true?--the king marches?"

  "Who is the king, my friend?" returned Agostino. "If he marches out ofhis dominions, the king confers a blessing on his people perchance."

  "Our king, signore!" The mountaineer waved his finger as from Novaratoward Milan.

  Agostino seemed to awaken swiftly from his disguise of an absolutegravity. A red light stood in his eyeballs, as if upon a fiery answer.The intemperate fit subsided. Smoothing dawn his mottled grey beard withquieting hands, he took refuge in his habitual sententious irony.

  "My friend, I am not a hare in front of the king, nor am I a ram in therear of him: I fly him not, neither do I propel him. So, therefore, Icannot predict the movements of the king. Will the wind blow from thenorth to-morrow, think you?"

  The mountaineer sent a quick gaze up the air, as to descry signs.

  "Who knows?" Agostino continued, though not playing into the smiles ofhis companions; "the wind will blow straight thither where there isa vacuum; and all that we can state of the king is, that there isa positive vacuum here. It would be difficult to predict the king'smovements save by such weighty indications."

  He laid two fingers hard against the rib which shields the heart. It hadbecome apparently necessary for the speaker to relieve a mind surchargedwith bile at the mention of the king; for, having done, he rebukedwith an amazed frown the indiscretion of Carlo, who had shouted, "TheCarbonaro king!"

  "Carlo, my son, I will lean on your arm. On your mouth were better,"Agostino added, under his voice, as they moved on.

  "Oh, but," Carlo remonstrated, "let us trust somebody. Milan has made mesick of late. I like the look of that fellow."

  "You allow yourself, my Carlo, an immense indulgence in permittingyourself to like the look of anything. Now, listen--Viva Carlo Alberto!"

  The old man rang out the loyal salutation spiritedly, and awoke a promptresponse from the mountaineer, who sounded his voice wide in the keenupper air.

  "There's the heart of that fellow!" said Agostino. "He has but oneidea--his king! If you confound it, he takes you for an enemy. Thesefree mountain breezes intoxicate you. You would embrace the king himselfif you met him here."

  "I swear I would never be guilty of the bad joke of crying a 'Viva'to him anywhere upon earth," Carlo replied. "I offend you," he saidquickly.

  The old man was smiling.

  "Agostino Balderini is too notoriously a bad joker to be offended by thecomments of the perfectly sensible, boy of mine! My limbs were stiff,and the first three steps from a place of rest reminded me acutely ofthe king's five years of hospitality. He has saved me from all fatigueso long, that the necessity to exercise these old joints of mine touchedme with a grateful sense of his royal bounty. I had from him a chair,a bed, and a table: shelter from sun and from all silly chatter. Now Iwant a chair or a bed. I should like to sit at a table; the sun burnsme; my ears are afflicted. I cry 'Viva!' to him that I may be in harmonywith the coming chorus of Italy, which I prophetically hear. That youngfellow, in whom you confide so much, speaks for his country. We poorunits must not be discordant. No! Individual opinion, my Carlo, isdiscord when there is a general delirium. The tide arriving, let us makethe best of the tide. My voice is wisdom. We shall have to follow thisking!"

  "Shall we!" uttered one behind them gruffly. "When I see this kingswallow one ounce of Austrian lead, I shall not be sorry to follow him!"

  "Right, my dear Ugo," said Agostino, turning round to him; "and I willthen compose his hymn of praise. He has swallowed enough of Austrianbread. He took an Austrian wife to his bed. Who knows? he may some daydeclare a preference for Austrian lead. But we shall have to follow him,or stay at home drivelling."

  Agostino raised his eyes, that were glazed with the great heat of hisframe.

  "Oh, that, like our Dante, I had lived in the days when souls weredamned! Then would I uplift another shout, believe me! As things gonow, we must allow the traitor to hope for his own future, and we simplyshrug. We cannot plant him neck-deep for everlasting in a burning marl,and hear him howling. We have no weapons in these times--none! Ourcurses come back to roost. This is one of the serious facts of thecentury, and controls violent language. What! are you all gathered aboutme? Oracles must be moving, too. There's no rest even for them, whenthey have got a mountain to scale."

  A cry, "He is there!" and "Do you see him?" burst from the throats ofmen surrounding Agostino.

  Looking up to the mountain's top, they had perceived the figure ofone who stood with folded arms, sufficiently near for the person of anexpected friend to be descried. They waved their hats, and Carloshot ahead. The others trod after him more deliberately, but in gladexcitement, speculating on the time which this sixth member of theparty, who were engaged to assemble at a certain hour of the morningupon yonder height, had taken to reach the spot from Omegna, or Orta,or Pella, and rejoicing that his health should be so stout in despite ofhis wasting labours under city smoke.

  "Yes, health!" said Agostino. "Is it health, do you think? It's theheart of the man! and a heart with a mill-stone about it--a heart tobreed a country from! There stands the man who has faith in Italy,though she has been lying like a corpse for centuries. God bless him! Hehas no other comfort. Viva l'Italia!"

  The exclamation went up, and was acknowledged by him on the eminenceoverhanging them; but at a repetition of it his hand smote the airsideways. They understood the motion, and were silent; while he, untilCarlo breathed his name in his hearing, eyed the great scene stedfastly,with the absorbing simple passion of one who has endured long exile,and finds his clustered visions of it confronting the strange,beloved, visible life:--the lake in the arms of giant mountains: thefar-spreading hazy plain; the hanging forests; the pointed crags; thegleam of the distant rose-shadowed snows that stretch for ever like anairy host, mystically clad, and baffling the eye as with the motions ofa flight toward the underlying purple land.