Vittoria — Complete - George Meredith

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my Pippo!” (Agostino laughed aside to him). “Let us lead off with a lighter piece; a trifle-tra-la-la! and then let the frisky piccolo be drowned in deep organ notes, as on some occasions in history the people overrun certain puling characters. But that, I confess, is an illustration altogether out of place, and I'll simply jot it down in my notebook.”

      Agostino had talked on to let her gain confidence. When he was silent she sang from memory. It was a song of flourishes: one of those be-flowered arias in which the notes flicker and leap like young flames. Others might have sung it; and though it spoke favourably of her aptitude and musical education, and was of a quality to enrapture easy, merely critical audiences, it won no applause from these men. The effect produced by it was exhibited in the placid tolerance shown by the uplifting of Ugo Corte's eyebrows, which said, “Well, here's a voice, certainly.” His subsequent look added, “Is this what we have come hither to hear?”

      Vittoria saw the look. “Am I on my trial before you?” she thought; and the thought nerved her throat. She sang in strong and grave contralto tones, at first with shut eyes. The sense of hostility left her, and left her soul free, and she raised them. The song was of Camilla dying. She pardons the treacherous hand, commending her memory and the strength of her faith to her husband:—

      “Beloved, I am quickly out of sight:

       I pray that you will love more than my dust.

       Were death defeat, much weeping would be right;

       'Tis victory when it leaves surviving trust.

       You will not find me save when you forget

       Earth's feebleness, and come to faith, my friend,

       For all Humanity doth owe a debt

       To all Humanity, until the end.”

      Agostino glanced at the Chief to see whether his ear had caught note of his own language.

      The melancholy severity of that song of death changed to a song of prophetic triumph. The signorina stood up. Camilla has thrown off the mask, and has sung the name “Italia!” At the recurrence of it the men rose likewise.

      “Italia, Italia, shall be free!”

      Vittoria gave the inspiration of a dying voice: the conquest of death by an eternal truth seemed to radiate from her. Voice and features were as one expression of a rapture of belief built upon pathetic trustfulness.

      “Italia, Italia shall be free!”

      She seized the hearts of those hard and serious men as a wind takes the strong oak-trees, and rocks them on their knotted roots, and leaves them with the song of soaring among their branches. Italy shone about her; the lake, the plains, the peaks, and the shouldering flushed snowridges. Carlo Ammiani breathed as one who draws in fire. Grizzled Agostino glittered with suppressed emotion, like a frosted thorn-bush in the sunlight. Ugo Corte had his thick brows down, as a man who is reading iron matter. The Chief alone showed no sign beyond a half lifting of the hand, and a most luminous fixed observation of the fair young woman, from whom power was an emanation, free of effort. The gaze was sad in its thoughtfulness, such as our feelings translate of the light of evening.

      She ceased, and he said, “You sing on the night of the fifteenth?”

      “I do, signore.”

      “It is your first appearance?”

      She bent her head.

      “And you will be prepared on that night to sing this song?”

      “Yes, signore.”

      “Save in the event of your being forbidden?”

      “Unless you shall forbid me, I will sing it, signore.”

      “Should they imprison you?—”

      “If they shoot me I shall be satisfied to know that I have sung a song that cannot be forgotten.”

      The Chief took her hand in a gentle grasp.

      “Such as you will help to give our Italy freedom. You hold the sacred flame, and know you hold it in trust.”

      “Friends,”—he turned to his companions—“you have heard what will be the signal for Milan.”

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      It was a surprise to all of them, save to Agostino Balderini, who passed his inspecting glance from face to face, marking the effect of the announcement. Corte gazed at her heavily, but not altogether disapprovingly. Giulio Bandinelli and Marco Sana, though evidently astonished, and to some extent incredulous, listened like the perfectly trusty lieutenants in an enterprise which they were. But Carlo Ammiani stood horror-stricken. The blood had left his handsome young olive-hued face, and his eyes were on the signorina, large with amazement, from which they deepened to piteousness of entreaty.

      “Signorina!—you! Can it be true? Do you know?—do you mean it?”

      “What, signor Carlo?”

      “This; will you venture to do such a thing?”

      “Oh, will I venture? What can you think of me? It is my own request.”

      “But, signorina, in mercy, listen and consider.”

      Carlo turned impetuously to the Chief. “The signorina can't know the danger she is running. She will be seized on the boards, and shut up between four walls before a man of us will be ready—or more than one,” he added softly. “The house is sure to be packed for a first night; and the Polizia have a suspicion of her. She has been off her guard in the Conservatorio; she has talked of a country called Italy; she has been indiscreet;—pardon, pardon, signorina! but it is true that she has spoken out from her noble heart. And this opera! Are they fools?—they must see through it. It will never—it can't possibly be reckoned on to appear. I knew that the signorina was heart and soul with us; but who could guess that her object was to sacrifice herself in the front rank—to lead a forlorn hope! I tell you it's like a Pagan rite. You are positively slaying a victim. I beg you all to look at the case calmly!”

      A burst of laughter checked him; for his seniors by many years could not hear such veteran's counsel from a hurried boy without being shrewdly touched by the humour of it, while one or two threw a particular irony into their tones.

      “When we do slay a victim, we will come to you as our augur, my Carlo,” said Agostino.

      Corte was less gentle. As a Milanese and a mere youth Ammiani was antipathetic to Corte, who closed his laughter with a windy rattle of his lips, and a “pish!” of some emphasis.

      Carlo was quick to give him a challenging frown.

      “What is it?” Corte bent his head back, as if inquiringly.

      “It's I who claim that question by right,” said Carlo.

      “You are a boy.”

      “I have studied war.”

      “In books.”

      “With brains, Colonel Corte.”

      “War is a matter of blows, my little lad.”

      “Let me inform you, signor Colonel, that war is not a game between bulls, to be played with the horns of the head.”

      “You are prepared to instruct me?” The fiery Bergamasc lifted his eyebrows.

      “Nay, nay!” said Agostino. “Between us two first;” and he grasped Carlo's arm, saying in an underbreath, “Your last retort was too long-winded. In these conflicts you must be quick, sharp as a rifle-crack that hits echo on the breast-bone and makes her cry out. I correct a student in the art of war.”

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