Vittoria — Complete

  CHAPTER II

  He was a man of middle stature, thin, and even frail, as he stooddefined against the sky; with the complexion of the student, and thestudent's aspect. The attentive droop of his shoulders and head, thestraining of the buttoned coat across his chest, the air as of one whowaited and listened, which distinguished his figure, detracted from thepromise of other than contemplative energy, until his eyes were fairlyseen and felt. That is, until the observer became aware that those softand large dark meditative eyes had taken hold of him. In them lay noabstracted student's languor, no reflex burning of a solitary lamp; buta quiet grappling force engaged the penetrating look. Gazing upon them,you were drawn in suddenly among the thousand whirring wheels of acapacious and a vigorous mind, that was both reasoning and prompt, keenof intellect, acting throughout all its machinery, and having all underfull command: an orbed mind, supplying its own philosophy, and arrivingat the sword-stroke by logical steps,--a mind much less supple than asoldier's; anything but the mind of a Hamlet. The eyes were dark as theforest's border is dark; not as night is dark. Under favourable lightstheir colour was seen to be a deep rich brown, like the chestnut, ormore like the hazel-edged sunset brown which lies upon our western riversin the winter floods, when night begins to shadow them.

  The side-view of his face was an expression of classic beauty rarely nowto be beheld, either in classic lands or elsewhere. It was severe; thetender serenity of the full bow of the eyes relieved it. In profile theyshowed little of their intellectual quality, but what some might havethought a playful luminousness, and some a quick pulse of feeling. Thechin was firm; on it, and on the upper lip, there was a clipped growthof black hair. The whole visage widened upward from the chin, though notvery markedly before it reached the broad-lying brows. The temples werestrongly indented by the swelling of the forehead above them: andon both sides of the head there ran a pregnant ridge, such as willsometimes lift men a deplorable half inch above the earth we tread.If this man was a problem to others, he was none to himself; and whenothers called him an idealist, he accepted the title, reading himself,notwithstanding, as one who was less flighty than many philosophers andprofessedly practical teachers of his generation. He saw far, and hegrasped ends beyond obstacles: he was nourished by sovereign principles;he despised material present interests; and, as I have said, he was lesssupple than a soldier. If the title of idealist belonged to him, we willnot immediately decide that it was opprobrious. The idealized conceptionof stern truths played about his head certainly for those who knew andwho loved it. Such a man, perceiving a devout end to be reached, mightprove less scrupulous in his course, possibly, and less remorseful, thanrevolutionary Generals. His smile was quite unclouded, and came softlyas a curve in water. It seemed to flow with, and to pass in and out of,his thoughts, to be a part of his emotion and his meaning when itshone transiently full. For as he had an orbed mind, so had he an orbednature. The passions were absolutely in harmony with the intelligence.He had the English manner; a remarkable simplicity contrasting withthe demonstrative outcries and gesticulations of his friends when theyjoined him on the height. Calling them each by name, he received theircaresses and took their hands; after which he touched the old man'sshoulder.

  "Agostino, this has breathed you?"

  "It has; it has, my dear and best one!" Agostino replied. "But here is agood market-place for air. Down below we have to scramble for it in themire. The spies are stifling down below. I don't know my own shadow. Ibegin to think that I am important. Footing up a mountain corrects thenotion somewhat. Yonder, I believe, I see the Grisons, where Freedomsits. And there's the Monte della Disgrazia. Carlo Alberto should be onthe top of it, but he is invisible. I do not see that Unfortunate."

  "No," said Carlo Ammiani, who chimed to his humour more readily thanthe rest, and affected to inspect the Grisons' peak through a diminutiveopera-glass. "No, he is not there."

  "Perhaps, my son, he is like a squirrel, and is careful to run upt'other side of the stem. For he is on that mountain; no doubt of itcan exist even in the Boeotian mind of one of his subjects; myself, forexample. It will be an effulgent fact when he gains the summit."

  The others meantime had thrown themselves on the grass at the feet oftheir manifestly acknowledged leader, and looked up for Agostino toexplode the last of his train of conceits. He became aware that themoment for serious talk had arrived, and bent his body, groaning loudly,and uttering imprecations against him whom he accused of being thepromoter of its excruciating stiffness, until the ground relieved him ofits weight. Carlo continued standing, while his eyes examined restlesslythe slopes just surmounted by them, and occasionally the deep descentover the green-glowing Orta Lake. It was still early morning. The heatwas tempered by a cool breeze that came with scents of thyme. They hadno sight of human creature anywhere, but companionship of Alps and birdsof upper air; and though not one of them seasoned the converse withan exclamation of joy and of blessings upon a place of free speech andsafety, the thought was in their hunted bosoms, delicious as a woodlandrivulet that sings only to the leaves overshadowing it.

  They were men who had sworn to set a nation free,--free from theforeigner, to begin with.

  (He who tells this tale is not a partisan; he would deal equally towardall. Of strong devotion, of stout nobility, of unswerving faith andself-sacrifice, he must approve; and when these qualities are displayedin a contest of forces, the wisdom of means employed, or of ultimateviews entertained, may be questioned and condemned; but the menthemselves may not be.)

  These men had sworn their oath, knowing the meaning of it, and thenature of the Fury against whom men who stand voluntarily pledged to anygreat resolve must thenceforward match themselves. Many of the originalbrotherhood had fallen, on the battle-field, on the glacis, or inthe dungeon. All present, save the youthfuller Carlo, had suffered.Imprisonment and exile marked the Chief. Ugo Corte, of Bergamo, had seenhis family swept away by the executioner and pecuniary penalties. Thickscars of wounds covered the body and disfigured the face of GiulioBandinelli. Agostino had crawled but half-a-year previously out of hisPiedmontese cell, and Marco Sana, the Brescian, had in such a placetasted of veritable torture. But if the calamity of a great oath wasupon them, they had now in their faithful prosecution of it the supportwhich it gives. They were unwearied; they had one object; the mortalanguish they had gone through had left them no sense for regrets. Lifehad become the field of an endless engagement to them; and as in battleone sees beloved comrades struck down, and casts but a glance at theirprostrate forms, they heard the mention of a name, perchance, and witha word or a sign told what was to be said of a passionate glorious heartat rest, thanks to Austrian or vassal-Sardinian mercy.

  So they lay there and discussed their plans.

  "From what quarter do you apprehend the surprise?" Ugo Corte glancedup from the maps and papers spread along the grass to question Carloironically, while the latter appeared to be keeping rigid watch over thesafety of the position. Carlo puffed the smoke of a cigarette rapidly,and Agostino replied for him:--"From the quarter where the best donkeysare to be had."

  It was supposed that Agostino had resumed the habit usually laid asideby him for the discussion of serious matters, and had condescended tofather a coarse joke; but his eyes showed no spark of their well-knowntwinkling solicitation for laughter, and Carlo spoke in answergravely:--"From Baveno it will be."

  "From Baveno! They might as well think to surprise hawks from Baveno.Keep watch, dear Ammiani; a good start in a race is a kick from theGods."

  With that, Corte turned to the point of his finger on the map. Heconceived it possible that Carlo Ammiani, a Milanese, had reason toanticipate the approach of people by whom he, or they, might not wish tobe seen. Had he studied Carlo's face he would have been reassured. Thebrows of the youth were open, and his eyes eager with expectation, thatshowed the flying forward of the mind, and nothing of knotted distrustor wary watchfulness. Now and then he would move to the other side ofthe mountain, and look over upon
Orta; or with the opera-glass claspedin one hand beneath an arm, he stopped in his sentinel-march, frowningreflectively at a word put to him, as if debating within upon all thebearings of it; but the only answer that came was a sharp assent,given after the manner of one who dealt conscientiously in definiteaffirmatives; and again the glass was in requisition. Marco Sana wasa fighting soldier, who stated what he knew, listened, and took hisorders. Giulio Bandinelli was also little better than the lieutenant inan enterprise. Corte, on the other hand, had the conspirator's head,--ahead like a walnut, bulging above the ears,--and the man was of asallying temper. He lay there putting bit by bit of his plot beforethe Chief for his approval, with a careful construction, that upon theexpression of any doubt of its working smoothly in the streets of Milan,caused him to shout a defensive, "But Carlo says yes!"

  This uniform character of Ammiani's replies, and the smile of Agostinoon hearing them, had begun to strike the attention of the soldierlyMarco Sana. He ran his hand across his shorn head, and puffed his burntred mole-spotted cheeks, with a sidelong stare at the abstracted youth,"Said yes!" he remarked. "He might say no, for a diversion. He hasyeses enough in his pay to earn a Cardinal's hat. 'Is Milan preparing torise?' 'Yes.'--'Is she ready for the work?' 'Yes.'--'Is the garrisonon its guard?' 'Yes.'--'Have you seen Barto Rizzo?' 'Yes.'--'Have thepeople got the last batch of arms?' 'Yes.'--And 'Yes,' the secret iswell kept; 'Yes,' Barto Rizzo is steadily getting them together. We mayrely on him: Carlo is his intimate friend: Yes, Yes:--There's a regimentof them at your service, and you may shuffle them as you will. This isthe help we get from Milan: a specimen of what we may expect!"

  Sana had puffed himself hot, and now blew for coolness.

  "You are,"--Agostino addressed him,--"philosophically totally wrong, myMarco. Those affirmatives are fat worms for the catching of fish. Theyare the real pretty fruit of the Hesperides. Personally, you or I may beirritated by them: but I'm not sure they don't please us. Were Carloa woman, of course he should learn to say no;--as he will now if Iask him, Is she in sight? I won't do it, you know; but as a man and adiplomatist, it strikes me that he can't say yes too often."

  "Answer me, Count Ammiani, and do me the favour to attend to thesetrifles for the space of two minutes," said Corte. "Have you seen BartoRizzo? Is he acting for Medole?"

  "As mole, as reindeer, and as bloody northern Raven!" ejaculatedAgostino: "perhaps to be jackal, by-and-by. But I do not care to abuseour Barto Rizzo, who is a prodigy of nature, and has, luckily forhimself, embraced a good cause, for he is certain to be hanged if he isnot shot. He has the prophetic owl's face. I have always a fancy of hishooting his own death-scrip. I wrong our Barto:--Medole would be thejackal, if it lay between the two."

  Carlo Ammiani had corrected Corte's manner to him by a complacentreadiness to give him distinct replies. He then turned and set off atfull speed down the mountain.

  "She is sighted at last," Agostino murmured, and added rapidly somespirited words under his breath to the Chief, whose chin was resting onhis doubled hand.

  Corte, Marco, and Giulio were full of denunciations against Milan andthe Milanese, who had sent a boy to their councils. It was Brescia andBergamo speaking in their jealousy, but Carlo's behaviour was odd,and called for reproof. He had come as the deputy of Milan to meet theChief, and he had not spoken a serious word on the great business ofthe hour, though the plot had been unfolded, the numbers sworn to, andBrescia, and Bergamo, and Cremona, and Venice had spoken upon all pointsthrough their emissaries, the two latter cities being represented bySana and Corte.

  "We've had enough of this lad," said Corte. "His laundress is followinghim with a change of linen, I suppose, or it's a scent-bottle. He's anadmirable representative of the Lombard metropolis!" Corte drawled outthe words in prodigious mimicry. "If Milan has nothing better to sendthan such a fellow, we'll finish without her, and shame the beast thatshe is. She has been always a treacherous beast!"

  "Poor Milan!" sighed the Chief; "she lies under the beak of the vulture,and has twice been devoured; but she has a soul: she proves it. Ammiani,too, will prove his value. I have no doubt of him. As to boys, or evengirls, you know my faith is in the young. Through them Italy lives. Whatpower can teach devotion to the old?"

  "I thank you, signore," Agostino gesticulated.

  "But, tell me, when did you learn it, my friend?"

  In answer, Agostino lifted his hand a little boy's height from theearth.

  The old man then said: "I am afraid, my dear Corte, you must accept thefellowship of a girl as well as of a boy upon this occasion. See! ourCarlo! You recognize that dancing speck below there?--he has joinedhimself--the poor lad wishes he could, I dare swear!--to another biggerspeck, which is verily a lady: who has joined herself to a donkey--acommon habit of the sex, I am told; but I know them not. That lady,signor Ugo, is the signorina Vittoria. You stare? But, I tell you, thegame cannot go on without her; and that is why I have permitted you toknock the ball about at your own pleasure for these forty minutes."

  Corte drew his under-lip on his reddish stubble moustache. "Are we tohave women in a conference?" he asked from eye to eye.

  "Keep to the number, Ugo; and moreover, she is not a woman, but a noblevirgin. I discern a distinction, though you may not. The Vestal's fireburns straight."

  "Who is she?"

  "It rejoices me that she should be so little known. All the greaterthe illumination when her light shines out! The signorina Vittoria is acantatrice who is about to appear upon the boards."

  "Ah! that completes it." Corte rose to his feet with an air ofdesperation. "We require to be refreshed with quavers and crescendosand trillets! Who ever knew a singer that cared an inch of flesh forher country? Money, flowers, flattery, vivas! but, money! money!and Austrian as good as Italian. I've seen the accursed wenches bowgratefully for Austrian bouquets:--bow? ay, and more; and when theAustrian came to them red with our blood. I spit upon their pollutedcheeks! They get us an ill name wherever they go. These singers have nocountry. One--I knew her--betrayed Filippo Mastalone, and sang the nightof the day he was shot. I heard the white demon myself. I could havetaken her long neck till she twisted like a serpent and hissed. Mayheaven forgive me for not levelling a pistol at her head! If God, myfriends, had put the thought into my brain that night!"

  A flush had deadened Corte's face to the hue of nightshade.

  "You thunder in a clear atmosphere, my Ugo," returned the old man, as hefell back calmly at full length.

  "And who is this signorina Vittoria?" cried Corte.

  "A cantatrice who is about to appear upon the boards, as I have alreadyremarked: of La Scala, let me add, if you hold it necessary."

  "And what does she do here?"

  "Her object in coming, my friend? Her object in coming is, first, tomake her reverence to one who happens to be among us this day; andsecondly, but principally, to submit a proposition to him and to us."

  "What's her age?" Corte sneered.

  "According to what calendar would you have it reckoned? Wisdom would saysixty: Father Chronos might divide that by three, and would get scarce amonth in addition, hungry as he is for her, and all of us! But Minerva'shandmaiden has no age. And now, dear Ugo, you have your opportunity todenounce her as a convicted screecher by night. Do so."

  Corte turned his face to the Chief, and they spoke together for someminutes: after which, having had names of noble devoted women, dead andliving, cited to him, in answer to brutal bellowings against that sex,and hearing of the damsel under debate as one who was expected and waswelcome, he flung himself upon the ground again, inviting calamity bypremature resignation. Giulio Bandinelli stretched his hand for Carlo'sglass, and spied the approach of the signorina.

  "Dark," he said.

  "A jewel of that complexion," added Agostino, by way of comment.

  "She has scorching eyes."

  "She may do mischief; she may do mischief; let it be only on the rightSide!"

  "She looks fat."

  "She sits do
ubled up and forward, don't you see, to relieve the poordonkey. You, my Giulio, would call a swan fat if the neck were notalways on the stretch."

  "By Bacchus! what a throat she has!"

  "And well interjected, Giulio! It runs down like wine, like wine, to thelittle ebbing and flowing wave! Away with the glass, my boy! You musttrust to all that's best about you to spy what's within. She makes meyoung--young!"

  Agostino waved his hand in the form of a salute to her on the last shortascent. She acknowledged it gracefully; and talking at intervals toCarlo Ammiani, who footed briskly by her side, she drew by degrees amongthe eyes fixed on her, some of which were not gentle; but hers were forthe Chief, at whose feet, when dismounted by Ammiani's solicitous aid,she would have knelt, had he not seized her by her elbows, and put hislips to her cheek.

  "The signorina Vittoria, gentlemen," said Agostino.