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 dome
of green among a hundred pinnacles of grey and rust-red crags. At
dawn the summit of the mountain has an eagle eye for the far Venetian
boundary and the barrier of the Apennines; but with sunrise come the
mists. The vast brown level is seen narrowing in; the Ticino and the
Sesia waters, nearest, quiver on the air like sleepy lakes; the plain is
engulphed up to the high ridges of the distant Southern mountain range,
which lie stretched to a faint cloud-like line, in shape like a solitary
monster of old seas crossing the Deluge. Long arms of vapour stretch
across the urn-like valleys, and gradually thickening and swelling
upward, enwrap the scored bodies of the ashen-faced peaks and the
pastures of the green mountain, till the heights become islands over
a forgotten earth. Bells of herds down the hidden run of the sweet
grasses, and a continuous leaping of its rivulets, give the Motterone
a 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 them
until they have got the aspect of the storm. They take colour from
sunlight, and are joyless in colour as in shade. When the lower world
is 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 brings
vigorous fire; arrows of light pierce the mist-wreaths, the dancing
draperies, the floors of vapour; and the mountain of piled pasturages is
seen with its foot on the shore of Lago Maggiore. Down an extreme gulf
the full sunlight, as if darting on a jewel in the deeps, seizes the
blue-green lake with its isles. The villages along the darkly-wooded
borders of the lake show white as clustered swans; here and there a
tented boat is visible, shooting from terraces of vines, or hanging on
its shadow. Monte Boscero is unveiled; the semicircle of the Piedmontese
and the Swiss peaks, covering Lake Orta, behind, on along the Ticinese
and the Grisons, leftward toward and beyond the Lugano hills, stand bare
in black and grey and rust-red and purple. You behold a burnished realm
of mountain and plain beneath the royal sun of Italy. In the foreground
it shines hard as the lines of an irradiated Cellini shield. Farther
away, over middle ranges that are soft and clear, it melts, confusing
the waters with hot rays, and the forests with darkness, to where,
wavering in and out of view like flying wings, and shadowed like wings
of archangels with rose and with orange and with violet, silverwhite
Alps are seen. You might take them for mystical streaming torches on the
border-ground between vision and fancy. They lean as in a great flight
forward upon Lombardy.
The curtain of an early autumnal morning was everywhere lifted around
the Motterone, save for one milky strip of cloud that lay lizard-like
across the throat of Monte Boscero facing it, when a party of five
footfarers, who had met from different points of ascent some way below,
and were climbing the mountain together, stood upon the cropped herbage
of the second plateau, and stopped to eye the landscape; possibly also
to get their breath. They were Italians. Two were fair-haired muscular
men, bronzed by the sun and roughly bearded, bearing the stamp of breed
of one or other of the hill-cities under the Alps. A third looked a
sturdy soldier, squareset and hard of feature, for whom beauties of
scenery had few awakening charms. The remaining couple were an old
man and a youth, upon whose shoulder the veteran leaned, and with a
whimsical turn of head and eye, indicative of some playful cast of
mind, poured out his remarks upon the objects in sight, and chuckled
to himself, like one who has learnt the necessity to appreciate his own
humour if he is disposed to indulge it. He was carelessly wrapped about
in long loose woollen stuff, but the youth was dressed like a Milanese
cavalier of the first quality, and was evidently one who would have been
at home in the fashionable Corso. His face was of the sweetest virile
Italian beauty. The head was long, like a hawk's, not too lean, and not
sharply ridged from a rapacious beak, but enough to show characteristics
of eagerness and promptitude. His eyes were darkest blue, the eyebrows
and long disjoining eyelashes being very dark over them, which made
their colour precious. The nose was straight and forward from the brows;
a fluent black moustache ran with the curve of the upper lip, and lost
its line upon a smooth olive cheek. The upper lip was firmly supported
by 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 the
harbour of Laveno.
“That will do,” said the old man. “Carlo, thou son of Paolo, we will
stump upward once more. Tell me, hulloa, sir! are the best peaches
doomed to entertain vile, domiciliary, parasitical insects? I ask you,
does nature exhibit motherly regard, or none, for the regions of the
picturesque? None, I say. It is an arbitrary distinction of our day. To
complain of the intrusion of that black-yellow flag and foul smoke-line
on the lake underneath us is preposterous, since, as you behold, the
heavens 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! and
teach me how the thing used to be done in my time. Old legs must be
the pupils of young ones mark that piece of humility, and listen with
respectfulness to an old head by-and-by.”
It was the autumn antecedent to that memorable Spring of the great
Italian uprising, when, though for a tragic issue, the people of Italy
first felt and acted as a nation, and Charles Albert, called the Sword
of Italy, aspired, without comprehension of the passion of patriotism
by which it was animated, to lead it quietly into the fold of his
Piedmontese kingship.
There is not an easier or a pleasanter height to climb than the
Motterone, if, in Italian heat, you can endure the disappointment of
seeing the summit, as you ascend, constantly flit away to a farther
station. It seems to throw its head back, like a laughing senior when
children struggle up for kissings. The party of five had come through
the vines from Stresa and from Baveno. The mountain was strange to them,
and they had already reckoned twice on having the topmost eminence
in view, when reaching it they found themselves on a fresh plateau,
traversed by wild water-courses, and browsed by Alpine herds; and again
the green dome was distant. They came to the highest chalet, where a
hearty wiry young fellow, busily employed in making cheese, invited
them to the enjoyment of shade and fresh milk. “For the sake of these
adolescents, who lose much and require much, let it be so,” said
Agostino gravely, and not without some belief that he consented to rest
on behalf of his companions. They allowed the young mountaineer to close
the door, and sat about his fire like sagacious men. When cooled and
refreshed, Agostino gave the signal for departure, and returned thanks
for hospitality. Money was not offered and not expected. As they
were going forth the mountaineer accompanied them to the step on the
threshold, and with a mysterious eagerness in his eyes, addressed
Agostino.
“Signore, is it true?--the king marches?”
“Who is the king, my friend?” returned Agostino. “If he marches out of
his dominions, the king confers a blessing on his people perchance.”
“Our king, signore!” The mountaineer waved his finger as from Novara
toward Milan.
Agostino seemed to awaken swiftly from his disguise of an absolute
gravity. A red light stood in his eyeballs, as if upon a fiery answer.
The intemperate fit subsided. Smoothing dawn his mottled grey beard with
quieting 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 the
rear of him: I fly him not, neither do I propel him. So, therefore, I
cannot predict the movements of the king. Will the wind blow from the
north 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 of
his companions; “the wind will blow straight thither where there is
a vacuum; and all that we can state of the king is, that there is
a positive vacuum here. It would be difficult to predict the king's
movements save by such weighty indications.”
He laid two fingers hard against the rib which shields the heart. It had
become apparently necessary for the speaker to relieve a mind surcharged
with bile at the mention of the king; for, having done, he rebuked
with an amazed frown the indiscretion of Carlo, who had shouted, “The
Carbonaro 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 me
sick of late. I like the look of that fellow.”
“You allow yourself, my Carlo, an immense indulgence in permitting
yourself to like the look of anything. Now, listen--Viva Carlo Alberto!”
The old man rang out the loyal salutation spiritedly, and awoke a prompt
response from the mountaineer, who sounded his voice wide in the keen
upper air.
“There's the heart of that fellow!” said Agostino. “He has but one
idea--his king! If you confound it, he takes you for an enemy. These
free mountain breezes intoxicate you. You would embrace the king himself
if 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 said
quickly.
The old man was smiling.
“Agostino Balderini is too notoriously a bad joker to be offended by the
comments of the perfectly sensible, boy of mine! My limbs were stiff,
and the first three steps from a place of rest reminded me acutely of
the king's five years of hospitality. He has saved me from all fatigue
so long, that the necessity to exercise these old joints of mine touched
me 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 I
want a chair or a bed. I should like to sit at a table; the sun burns
me; my ears are afflicted. I cry 'Viva!' to him that I may be in harmony
with the coming chorus of Italy, which I prophetically hear. That young
fellow, in whom you confide so much, speaks for his country. We poor
units must not be discordant. No! Individual opinion, my Carlo, is
discord when there is a general delirium. The tide arriving, let us make
the best of the tide. My voice is wisdom. We shall have to follow this
king!”
“Shall we!” uttered one behind them gruffly. “When I see this king
swallow 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 will
then compose his hymn of praise. He has swallowed enough of Austrian
bread. He took an Austrian wife to his bed. Who knows? he may some day
declare 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 his
frame.
“Oh, that, like our Dante, I had lived in the days when souls were
damned! Then would I uplift another shout, believe me! As things go
now, we must allow the traitor to hope for his own future, and we simply
shrug. We cannot plant him neck-deep for everlasting in a burning marl,
and hear him howling. We have no weapons in these times--none! Our
curses come back to roost. This is one of the serious facts of the
century, and controls violent language. What! are you all gathered about
me? Oracles must be moving, too. There's no rest even for them, when
they have got a mountain to scale.”
A cry, “He is there!” and “Do you see him?” burst from the throats of
men surrounding Agostino.
Looking up to the mountain's top, they had perceived the figure of
one who stood with folded arms, sufficiently near for the person of an
expected friend to be descried. They waved their hats, and Carlo
shot ahead. The others trod after him more deliberately, but in glad
excitement, speculating on the time which this sixth member of the
party, who were engaged to assemble at a certain hour of the morning
upon 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 of
his wasting labours under city smoke.
“Yes, health!” said Agostino. “Is it health, do you think? It's the
heart of the man! and a heart with a mill-stone about it--a heart to
breed 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! He
has no other comfort. Viva l'Italia!”
The exclamation went up, and was acknowledged by him on the eminence
overhanging them; but at a repetition of it his hand smote the air
sideways. They understood the motion, and were silent; while he, until
Carlo 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: the
far-spreading hazy plain; the hanging forests; the pointed crags; the
gleam of the distant rose-shadowed snows that stretch for ever like an
airy host, mystically clad, and baffling the eye as with the motions of
a flight toward the underlying purple land.