Chapter 183

A woman rises to her husband. But a man is what he is A share of pity for the objects she despised A sixpence kindly meant is worth any crown-piece that's grudged A youth who is engaged in the occupation of eating his heart A man who rejected medicine in extremity A lover must have his delusions, just as a man must have a skin A madman gets madder when you talk reason to him A man to be trusted with the keys of anything Abject sense of the lack of a circumference Accustomed to be paid for by his country Adept in the lie implied Admirable scruples of an inveterate borrower After a big blow, a very little one scarcely counts Ah! how sweet to waltz through life with the right partner Amiable mirror as being wilfully ruffled to confuse An obedient creature enough where he must be And not any of your grand ladies can match my wife at home Any man is in love with any woman Because you loved something better than me Because men can't abide praise of another man Because he stood so high with her now he feared the fall Believed in her love, and judged it by the strength of his own Bitten hard at experience, and know the value of a tooth Bound to assure everybody at table he was perfectly happy Brief negatives are not re-assuring to a lover's uneasy mind British hunger for news; second only to that for beef Brotherhood among the select who wear masks instead of faces But a woman must now and then ingratiate herself By forbearance, put it in the wrong Can you not be told you are perfect without seeking to improve Cheerful martyr Command of countenance the Countess possessed Commencement of a speech proves that you have made the plunge Common voice of praise in the mouths of his creditors Confident serenity inspired by evil prognostications Damsel who has lost the third volume of an exciting novel Eating, like scratching, only wants a beginning Embarrassments of an uncongenial employment Empty stomachs are foul counsellors Enamoured young men have these notions English maids are domesticated savage animals Equally acceptable salted when it cannot be had fresh Every woman that's married isn't in love with her husband Eyes of a lover are not his own; but his hands and lips are Far higher quality is the will that can subdue itself to wait Feel no shame that I do not feel! Feel they are not up to the people they are mixing with Few feelings are single on this globe Forty seconds too fast, as if it were a capital offence Found it difficult to forgive her his own folly Friend he would not shake off, but could not well link with From head to foot nothing better than a moan made visible Gentlefolks like straight-forwardness in their inferiors Glimpse of her whole life in the horrid tomb of his embrace Good nature, and means no more harm than he can help Good and evil work together in this world Gossip always has some solid foundation, however small Graduated naturally enough the finer stages of self-deception Gratuitous insult Habit, what a sacred and admirable thing it is Hated one thing alone--which was 'bother' Have her profile very frequently while I am conversing with her He has been tolerably honest, Tom, for a man and a lover He grunted that a lying clock was hateful to him He was in love, and subtle love will not be shamed and smothered He kept saying to himself, 'to-morrow I will tell' He had his character to maintain He squandered the guineas, she patiently picked up the pence His wife alone, had, as they termed it, kept him together Hope which lies in giving men a dose of hysterics How many degrees from love gratitude may be I 'm a bachelor, and a person--you're married, and an object I cannot live a life of deceit. A life of misery--not deceit I take off my hat, Nan, when I see a cobbler's stall I always wait for a thing to happen first I never see anything, my dear I did, replied Evan. 'I told a lie.' I'll come as straight as I can If we are to please you rightly, always allow us to play First If I love you, need you care what anybody else thinks In truth she sighed to feel as he did, above everybody Incapable of putting the screw upon weak excited nature Informed him that he never played jokes with money, or on men Is he jealous? 'Only when I make him, he is.' It 's us hard ones that get on best in the world It is better for us both, of course It was in a time before our joyful era of universal equality It is no insignificant contest when love has to crush self-love It's no use trying to be a gentleman if you can't pay for it It's a fool that hopes for peace anywhere Lay no petty traps for opportunity Listened to one another, and blinded the world Looked as proud as if he had just clapped down the full amount Love is a contagious disease Make no effort to amuse him. He is always occupied Man without a penny in his pocket, and a gizzard full of pride Married a wealthy manufacturer--bartered her blood for his money Maxims of her own on the subject of rising and getting the worm Men they regard as their natural prey Men do not play truant from home at sixty years of age Most youths are like Pope's women; they have no character My belief is, you do it on purpose. Can't be such rank idiots Never intended that we should play with flesh and blood Never to despise the good opinion of the nonentities No great harm done when you're silent No conversation coming of it, her curiosity was violent Notoriously been above the honours of grammar Occasional instalments--just to freshen the account Oh! I can't bear that class of people One fool makes many, and so, no doubt, does one goose One seed of a piece of folly will lurk and sprout to confound us Our comedies are frequently youth's tragedies Partake of a morning draught Patronizing woman Play second fiddle without looking foolish Pride is the God of Pagans Propitiate common sense on behalf of what seems tolerably absurd Rare as epic song is the man who is thorough in what he does Read one another perfectly in their mutual hypocrisies Rebukes which give immeasurable rebounds Recalling her to the subject-matter with all the patience Refuge in the Castle of Negation against the whole army of facts Remarked that the young men must fight it out together Requiring natural services from her in the button department Rose was much behind her age Rose! what have I done? 'Nothing at all,' she said Said she was what she would have given her hand not to be Says you're so clever you ought to be a man Second fiddle; he could only mean what she meant Secrets throw on the outsiders the onus of raising a scandal Sense, even if they can't understand it, flatters them so She did not detest the Countess because she could not like her She was unworthy to be the wife of a tailor She, not disinclined to dilute her grief She believed friendship practicable between men and women She was at liberty to weep if she pleased Sincere as far as she knew: as far as one who loves may be Small beginnings, which are in reality the mighty barriers Speech is poor where emotion is extreme Speech that has to be hauled from the depths usually betrays Spiritualism, and on the balm that it was Such a man was banned by the world, which was to be despised? Taking oath, as it were, by their lower nature Tears that dried as soon as they had served their end Tenderness which Mrs. Mel permitted rather than encouraged That plain confession of a lack of wit; he offered combat That beautiful trust which habit gives The ass eats at my table, and treats me with contempt The Countess dieted the vanity according to the nationality The letter had a smack of crabbed age hardly counterfeit The commonest things are the worst done The thrust sinned in its shrewdness The power to give and take flattery to any amount The grey furniture of Time for his natural wear Those numerous women who always know themselves to be right Thus does Love avenge himself on the unsatisfactory Past To be both generally blamed, and generally liked To let people speak was a maxim of Mrs. Mel's, and a wise one Took care to be late, so that all eyes beheld her Touching a nerve Toyed with little flowers of palest memory Tradesman, and he never was known to have sent in a bill Tried to be honest, and was as much so as his disease permitted True enjoyment of the princely disposition Two people love, there is no such thing as owing between them Unfeminine of any woman to speak continuously anywhere Virtuously zealous in an instant on behalf of the lovely dame Vulgarity in others evoked vulgarity in her Waited serenely for the certain disasters to enthrone her We deprive all renegades of their spiritual titles What a stock of axioms young people have handy What will be thought of me? not a small matter to any of us What he did, she took among other inevitable matters What's an eccentric? a child grown grey! When testy old gentlemen could commit slaughter with ecstasy When you run away, you don't live to fight another day When Love is hurt, it is self-love that requires the opiate Whose bounty was worse to him than his abuse Why, he'll snap your head off for a word With good wine to wash it down, one can swallow anything With a proud humility Wrapped in the comfort of his cowardice You do want polish You talk your mother with a vengeance You accuse or you exonerate--Nobody can be half guilty You rides when you can, and you walks when you must You're the puppet of your women! Youth is not alarmed by the sound of big sums

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.