Vittoria. Complete - George Meredith 4 стр.

The signorina put her hand out for the scroll he was unfolding, and cast her eyes along bars of music, while Agostino called a Silenzio tutti! She sang one verse, and stopped for breath.

Between her dismayed breathings she said to the Chief:Believe me, signore, I can be trusted to sing when the time comes.

Sing on, my blackbirdmy viola! said Agostino. We all trust you. Look at Colonel Corte, and take him for Count Orso. Take me for pretty Camillo. Take Marco for Michiela; Giulio for Leonardo; Carlo for Cupid. Take the Chief for the audience. Take him for a frivolous public. Ah, 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 Ill 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 Cortes eyebrows, which said, Well, heres 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:

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.

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.

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.

CHAPTER IV

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 cant 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 cant 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 its 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 veterans 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.

Its 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 Carlos 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. Then aloud: My opera, young man!well, its my libretto, and you know we writers always say my opera when we have put the pegs for the voice; you are certainly aware that we do. How dare you to make calumnious observations upon my opera? Is it not the ripe and admirable fruit of five years of confinement? Are not the lines sharp, the stanzas solid? and the stuff, is it not good? Is not the subject simple, pure from offence to sensitive authority, constitutionally harmless? Reply!

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 Carlos 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. Then aloud: My opera, young man!well, its my libretto, and you know we writers always say my opera when we have put the pegs for the voice; you are certainly aware that we do. How dare you to make calumnious observations upon my opera? Is it not the ripe and admirable fruit of five years of confinement? Are not the lines sharp, the stanzas solid? and the stuff, is it not good? Is not the subject simple, pure from offence to sensitive authority, constitutionally harmless? Reply!

Its transparent to any but asses, said Carlo.

But if it has passed the censorship? You are guilty, my boy, of bestowing upon those highly disciplined gentlemen who govern your famous citywhat title? I trust a prophetic one, since that it comes from an animal whose custom is to turn its back before it delivers a blow, and is, they remark, fonder of encountering dead lions than live ones. Still, it is you who are indiscreet,eminently so, I must add, if you will look lofty. If my opera has passed the censorship! eh, what have you to say?

Carlo endured this banter till the end of it came.

And youyou encourage her! he cried wrathfully. You know what the danger is for her, if they once lay hands on her. They will have her in Verona in four-and-twenty hours; through the gates of the Adige in a couple of days, and at Spielberg, or some other of their infernal dens of groans, within a week. Where is the chance of a rescue then? They torture, too, they torture! Its a woman; and insult will be one mode of torturing her. They can use rods

The excited Southern youth was about to cover his face, but caught back his hands, clenching them.

All this, said Agostino, is an evasion, manifestly, of the question concerning my opera, on which you have thought proper to cast a slur. The phrase, transparent to any but asses, may not be absolutely objectionable, for transparency is, as the critics rightly insist, meritorious in a composition. And, according to the other view, if we desire our clever opponents to see nothing in something, it is notably skilful to let them see through it. You perceive, my Carlo. Transparency, then, deserves favourable comment. So, I do not complain of your phrase, but I had the unfortunate privilege of hearing it uttered. The method of delivery scarcely conveyed a compliment. Will you apologize?

Carlo burst from him with a vehement question to the Chief: Is it decided?

It is, my friend, was the reply.

Decided! She is doomed! Signorina! what can you know of this frightful risk? You are going to the slaughter. You will be seized before the first verse is out of your lips, and once in their clutches, you will never breathe free air again. Its madness!ah, forgive me!yes, madness! For you shut your eyes; you rush into the trap blindfolded. And that is how you serve our Italy! She sees you an instant, and you are caught away;and you who might serve her, if you would, do you think you can move dungeon walls?

Perhaps, if I have been once seen, I shall not be forgotten, said the signorina smoothly, and then cast her eyes down, as if she felt the burden of a little possible accusation of vanity in this remark. She raised them with fire.

No; never! exclaimed Carlo. But, now you are ours. Andsurely it is not quite decided?

He had spoken imploringly to the Chief. Not irrevocably? he added.

Irrevocably!

Then she is lost!

For shame, Carlo Ammiani; said old Agostino, casting his sententious humours aside. Do you not hear? It is decided! Do you wish to rob her of her courage, and see her tremble? Its her scheme and mine: a case where an old head approves a young one. The Chief says Yes! and you bellow still! Is it a Milanese trick? Be silent.

Be silent! echoed Carlo. Do you remember the beast Marschatskas bet? The allusion was to a black incident concerning a young Italian ballet girl who had been carried off by an Austrian officer, under the pretext of her complicity in one of the antecedent conspiracies.

He rendered payment for it, said Agostino.

He perished; yes! as we shake dust to the winds; but she!its terrible! You place women in the front ranksgirls! What can defenceless creatures do? Would you let the van-regiment in battle be the one without weapons? Its slaughter. Shes like a lamb to them. You hold up your jewel to the enemy, and cry, Come and take it. Think of the insults! think of the rough hands, and foul mouths! She will be seized on the boards

Not if you keep your tongue from wagging, interposed Ugo Corte, fevered by this unseasonable exhibition of what was to him manifestly a lovers frenzied selfishness. He moved off, indifferent to Carlos retort. Marco Sana and Giulio Bandinelli were already talking aside with the Chief.

Signor Carlo, not a hand shall touch me, said the signorina. And I am not a lamb, though it is good of you to think me one. I passed through the streets of Milan in the last rising. I was unharmed. You must have some confidence in me.

Signorina, theres the danger, rejoined Carlo. You trust to your good angels once, twicethe third time they fail you! What are you among a host of armed savages? You would be tossed like weed on the sea. In pity, do not look so scornfully! No, there is no unjust meaning in it; but you despise me for seeing danger. Can nothing persuade you? And, besides, he addressed the Chief, who alone betrayed no signs of weariness; listen, I beg of you. Milan wants no more than a signal. She does not require to be excited. I came charged with several proposals for giving the alarm. Attend, you others! The night of the Fifteenth comes; it is passing like an ordinary night. At twelve a fire-balloon is seen in the sky. Listen, in the name of saints and devils!

But even the Chief was observed to show signs of amusement, and the gravity of the rest forsook them altogether at the display of this profound and original conspiratorial notion.

Excellent! excellent! my Carlo, said old Agostino, cheerfully. You have thought. You must have thought, or whence such a conception? But, you really mistake. It is not the garrison whom we desire to put on their guard. By no means. We are not in the Imperial pay. Probably your balloon is to burst in due time, and, wind permitting, disperse printed papers all over the city?

What if it is? cried Carlo fiercely.

Exactly. I have divined your idea. You have thought, or, to correct the tense, are thinking, which is more hopeful, though it may chance not to seem so meritorious. But, if yours are the ideas of full-blown jackets, bear in mind that our enemies are coated and breeched. It may be creditable to you that your cunning is not the cunning of the serpent; to us it would be more valuable if it were. Continue.

Oh! there are a thousand ways. Carlo controlled himself with a sharp screw of all his muscles. I simply wish to save the signorina from an annoyance.

Very mildly put, Agostino murmured assentingly.