CHAPTER III

The old man had introduced her with much of the pride of a father

displaying some noble child of his for the first time to admiring

friends.

"She is one of us," he pursued; "a daughter of Italy! My daughter also;

is it not so?"

He turned to her as for a confirmation. The signorina pressed his

fingers. She was a little intimidated, and for the moment seemed shy and

girlish. The shade of her broad straw hat partly concealed her vivid

features.

"Now, gentlemen, if you please, the number is complete, and we may

proceed to business," said Agostino, formally but as he conducted the

signorina to place her at the feet of the Chief, she beckoned to her

servant, who was holding the animal she had ridden. He came up to her,

and presented himself in something of a military posture of attention to

her commands. These were that he should take the poor brute to water, and

then lead him back to Baveno, and do duty in waiting upon her mother. The

first injunction was received in a decidedly acquiescent manner. On

hearing the second, which directed his abandonment of his post of

immediate watchfulness over her safety, the man flatly objected with a

"Signorina, no."

He was a handsome bright-eyed fellow, with a soldier's frame and a smile

as broad and beaming as laughter, indicating much of that mixture of

acuteness, and simplicity which is a characteristic of the South, and

means no more than that the extreme vivacity of the blood exceeds at

times that of the brain.

A curious frown of half-amused astonishment hung on the signorina's face.

"When I tell you to go, Beppo!"

At once the man threw out his fingers, accompanied by an amazingly

voluble delivery of his reasons for this revolt against her authority.

Among other things, he spoke of an oath sworn by him to a foreign

gentleman, his patron,--for whom, and for whomsoever he loved, he was

ready to pour forth his heart's blood,--to the effect that he would never

quit her side when she left the roof of her house.

"You see, Beppo," she remonstrated, "I am among friends."

Beppo gave a sweeping bow, but remained firm where he stood. Ammiani cast

a sharp hard look at the man.

"Do you hear the signorina's orders?"

"I hear them, signore."

"Will you obey them?"

She interposed. "He must not hear quick words. Beppo is only showing his

love for his master and for me. But you are wrong in this case, my Beppo.

You shall give me your protection when I require it; and now, you are

sensible, and must understand that it is not wanted. I tell you to go."

Beppo read the eyes of his young mistress.

"Signorina,"--he stooped forward mysteriously,--"signorina, that fellow

is in Baveno. I saw him this morning."

"Good, good. And now go, my friend."

"The signor Agostino," he remarked loudly, to attract the old man; "the

signor Agostino may think proper to advise you."

"The signor Agostino will laugh at nothing that you say to-day, Beppo.

You will obey me. Go at once," she repeated, seeing him on tiptoe to gain

Agostino's attention.

Beppo knew by her eyes that her ears were locked against him; and, though

she spoke softly, there was an imperiousness in her voice not to be

disregarded. He showed plainly by the lost rigidity of his attitude that

he was beaten and perplexed. Further expostulations being disregarded, he

turned his head to look at the poor panting beast under his charge, and

went slowly up to him: they walked off together, a crest-fallen pair.

"You have gained the victory, signorina," said Ugo Corte.

She replied, smiling, "My poor Beppo! it's not difficult to get the best

of those who love us."

"Ha!" cried Agostino; "here is one of their secrets, Carlo. Take heed of

it, my boy. We shall have queens when kings are fossils, mark me!"

Ammiani muttered a courtly phrase, whereat Corte yawned in very grim

fashion.

The signorina had dropped to the grass, at a short step from the Chief,

to whom her face was now seriously given. In Ammiani's sight she looked a

dark Madonna, with the sun shining bright gold through the edges of the

summer hat, thrown back from her head. The full and steady contemplative

eyes had taken their fixed expression, after a vanishing affectionate

gaze of an instant cast upon Agostino. Attentive as they were, light

played in them like water. The countenance was vivid in repose. She

leaned slightly forward, clasping the wrist of one hand about her knee,

and the sole of one little foot showed from under her dress.

Deliberately, but with no attempt at dramatic impressiveness, the Chief

began to speak. He touched upon the condition of Italy, and the new lilt

animating her young men and women. "I have heard many good men jeer," he

said, "at our taking women to our counsel, accepting their help, and

putting a great stake upon their devotion. You have read history, and you

know what women can accomplish. They may be trained, equally as we are,

to venerate the abstract idea of country, and be a sacrifice to it.

Without their aid, and the fire of a fresh life being kindled in their

bosoms, no country that has lain like ours in the death-trance can

revive. In the death-trance, I say, for Italy does not die!"

"True," said other voices.

"We have this belief in the eternal life of our country, and the belief

is the life itself. But let no strong man among us despise the help of

women. I have seen our cause lie desperate, and those who despaired of it

were not women. Women kept the flame alive. They worship in the temple of

the cause."

Ammiani's eyes dwelt fervidly upon the signorina. Her look, which was

fastened upon the Chief, expressed a mind that listened to strange matter

concerning her very little. But when the plans for the rising of the

Bergamascs and Brescians, the Venetians, the Bolognese, the Milanese, all

the principal Northern cities, were recited, with a practical emphasis

thrown upon numbers, upon the readiness of the organized bands, the

dispositions of the leaders, and the amount of resistance to be expected

at the various points indicated for the outbreak, her hands disjoined,

and she stretched her fingers to the grass, supporting herself so, while

her extended chin and animated features told how eagerly her spirit drank

at positive springs, and thirsted for assurance of the coming storm.

"It is decided that Milan gives the signal," said the Chief; and a light,

like the reflection of a beacon-fire upon the night, flashed over her.

He was pursuing, when Ugo Corte smote the air with his nervous fingers,

crying out passionately, "Bunglers! are we again to wait for them, and

hear that fifteen patriots have stabbed a Croat corporal, and wrestled

hotly with a lieutenant of the guard? I say they are bunglers. They never

mean the thing. Fifteen! There were just three Milanese among the last

lot--the pick of the city; and the rest were made up of Trentini, and our

lads from Bergamo and Brescia; and the order from the Council was, 'Go

and do the business!' which means, 'Go and earn your ounce of Austrian

lead.' They went, and we gave fifteen true men for one poor devil of a

curst tight blue-leg. They can play the game on if we give them odds like

that. Milan burns bad powder, and goes off like a drugged pistol. It's a

nest of bunglers, and may it be razed! We could do without it, and well!

If it were a family failing, should not I too be trusting them? My

brother was one of the fifteen who marched out as targets to try the

skill of those hell-plumed Tyrolese: and they did it thoroughly--shot him

straight here." Corte struck his chest. "He gave a jump and a cry. Was it

a viva for Milan? They swear that it was, and they can't translate from a

living mouth, much more from a dead one; but I know my Niccolo better. I

have kissed his lips a thousand times, and I know the poor boy meant,

'Scorn and eternal distrust of such peddling conspirators as these!' I

can deal with traitors, but these flash-in-the-pan plotters--these

shaking, jelly-bodied patriots!--trust to them again? Rather draw lots

for another fifteen to bare their breasts and bandage their eyes, and

march out in the grey morning, while the stupid Croat corporal goes on

smoking his lumpy pipe! We shall hear that Milan is moving; we shall

rise; we shall be hot at it; and the news will come that Milan has merely

yawned and turned over to sleep on the other side. Twice she has done

this trick, and the garrison there has sent five regiments to finish

us--teach us to sleep soundly likewise! I say, let it be Bergamo; or be

it Brescia, if you like; or Venice: she is ready. You trust to Milan, and

you are fore-doomed. I would swear it with this hand in the flames. She

give the signal? Shut your eyes, cross your hands flat on your breasts:

you are dead men if you move. She lead the way? Spin on your heels, and

you have followed her!"

Corte had spoken in a thick difficult voice, that seemed to require the

aid of his vehement gestures to pour out as it did like a water-pipe in a

hurricane of rain. He ceased, red almost to blackness, and knotted his

arms, that were big as the cable of a vessel. Not a murmur followed his

speech. The word was, given to the Chief, and he resumed:--"You have a

personal feeling in this case, Ugo. You have not heard me. I came through

Paris. A rocket will soon shoot up from Paris that will be a signal for

Christendom. The keen French wit is sick of its compromise-king. All

Europe is in convulsions in a few months: to-morrow it may be. The

elements are in the hearts of the people, and nothing will contain them.

We have sown them to reap them. The sowing asks for persistency; but the

reaping demands skill and absolute truthfulness. We have now one of those

occasions coming which are the flowers to be plucked by resolute and

worthy hands: they are the tests of our sincerity. This time now rapidly

approaching will try us all, and we must be ready for it. If we have

believed in it, we stand prepared. If we have conceived our plan of

action in purity of heart, we shall be guided to discern the means which

may serve us. You will know speedily what it is that has prompted you to

move. If passion blindfolds you, if you are foiled by a prejudice, I also

shall know. My friend, the nursing of a single antipathy is a presumption

that your motive force is personal--whether the thirst for vengeance or

some internal union of a hundred indistinct little fits of egoism. I have

seen brave and even noble men fail at the ordeal of such an hour: not

fail in courage, not fail in the strength of their desire; that was the

misery for them! They failed because midway they lost the vision to

select the right instruments put in our way by heaven. That vision

belongs solely to such as have clean and disciplined hearts. The hope in

the bosom of a man whose fixed star is Humanity becomes a part of his

blood, and is extinguished when his blood flows no more. To conquer him,

the principle of life must be conquered. And he, my friend, will use all,

because he serves all. I need not touch on Milan."

The signorina drew in her breath quickly, as if in this abrupt close she

had a revelation of the Chief's whole meaning, and was startled by the

sudden unveiling of his mastery. Her hands hung loose; her figure was

tremulous. A murmur from Corte jarred within her like a furious discord,

but he had not offended by refusing to disclaim his error, and had simply

said in a gruff acquiescent way, "Proceed." Her sensations of surprise at

the singular triumph of the Chief made her look curiously into the faces

of the other men; but the pronouncing of her name engaged her attention.

"Your first night is the night of the fifteenth of next month?"

"It is, signore," she replied, abashed to find herself speaking with him

who had so moved her.

"There is no likelihood of a postponement?"

"I am certain, signore, that I shall be ready."

"There are no squabbles of any serious kind among the singers?"

A soft dimple played for a moment on her lips. "I have heard something."

"Among the women?"

"Yes, and the men."

"But the men do not concern you?"

"No, signore. Except that the women twist them."

Agostino chuckled audibly. The Chief resumed:

"You believe, notwithstanding, that all will go well? The opera will be

acted; and you will appear in it?"

"Yes, signore. I know one who has determined on it, and can do it."

"Good. The opera is Camilla?"

She was answering with an affirmative, when Agostino broke in,--"Camilla!

And honour to whom honour is due! Let Caesar claim the writing of the

libretto, if it be Caesar's! It has passed the censorship, signed

Agostino Balderini--a disaffected person out of Piedmont, rendered tame

and fangless by a rigorous imprisonment. The sources of the tale, O ye

grave Signori Tedeschi? The sources are partly to be traced to a neat

little French vaudeville, very sparkling--Camille, or the Husband

Asserted; and again to a certain Chronicle that may be mediaeval, may be

modern, and is just, as the great Shakespeare would say, 'as you like

it.'"

Agostino recited some mock verses, burlesquing the ordinary libretti, and

provoked loud laughter from Carlo Ammiani, who was familiar enough with

the run of their nonsense.

"Camilla is the bride of Camillo. I give to her all the brains, which is

a modern idea, quite! He does all the mischief, which is possibly

mediaeval. They have both an enemy, which is mediaeval and modern. None

of them know exactly what they are about; so there you have the modern,

the mediaeval, and the antique, all in one. Finally, my friends, Camilla

is something for you to digest at leisure. The censorship swallowed it at

a gulp. Never was bait so handsomely taken! At present I have the joy of

playing my fish. On the night of the fifteenth I land him. Camilla has a

mother. Do you see? That mother is reported, is generally conceived, as

dead. Do you see further? Camilla's first song treats of a dream she has

had of that mother. Our signorina shall not be troubled to favour you

with a taste of it, or, by Bacchus and his Indian nymphs, I should

speedily behold you jumping like peas in a pan, like trout on a bank! The

earth would be hot under you, verily! As I was remarking, or meant to be,

Camilla and her husband disagree, having agreed to. 'Tis a plot to

deceive Count Orso--aha? You are acquainted with Count Orso! He is

Camilla's antenuptial guardian. Now you warm to it! In that condition I

leave you. Perhaps my child here will give you a taste of her voice. The

poetry does much upon reflection, but it has to ripen within you--a

matter of time. Wed this voice to the poetry, and it finds passage 'twixt

your ribs, as on the point of a driven blade. Do I cry the sweetness and

the coolness of my melons? Not I! Try them."

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 blackbird--my 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 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."