Vittoria — Complete






EPILOGUE

No uncontested version of the tragedy of Count Ammiani's death passed current in Milan during many years. With time it became disconnected from passion, and took form in a plain narrative. He and Angelo were captured by Major Nagen, and were, as the soldiers of the force subsequently let it be known, roughly threatened with what he termed I 'Brescian short credit.' The appearance of Major Weisspriess and his claim to the command created a violent discussion between the two officers. For Nagen, by all military rules, could well contest it. But Weisspriess had any body of the men of the army under his charm, and seeing the ascendency he gained with them over an unpopular officer, he dared the stroke for the charitable object he had in view. Having established his command, in spite of Nagen's wrathful protests and menaces, he spoke to the prisoners, telling Carlo that for his wife's sake he should be spared, and Angelo that he must expect the fate of a murderer. His address to them was deliberate, and quite courteous: he expressed himself sorry that a gallant gentleman like Angelo Guidascarpi should merit a bloody grave, but so it was. At the same time he entreated Count Ammiani to rely on his determination to save him. Major Nagen did not stand far removed from them. Carlo turned to him and repeated the words of Weisspriess; nor could Angelo restrain his cousin's vehement renunciation of hope and life in doing this. He accused Weisspriess of a long evasion of a brave man's obligation to repair an injury, charged him with cowardice, and requested Major Nagen, as a man of honour, to drag his brother officer to the duel. Nagen then said that Major Weisspriess was his superior, adding that his gallant brother officer had only of late objected to vindicate his reputation with his sword. Stung finally beyond the control of an irritable temper, Weisspriess walked out of sight of the soldiery with Carlo, to whom, at a special formal request from Weisspriess, Nagen handed his sword. Again he begged Count Ammiani to abstain from fighting; yea, to strike him and disable him, and fly, rather—than provoke the skill of his right hand. Carlo demanded his cousin's freedom. It was denied to him, and Carlo claimed his privilege. The witnesses of the duel were Jenna and another young subaltern: both declared it fair according to the laws of honour, when their stupefaction on beholding the proud swordsman of the army stretched lifeless on the brown leaves of the past year left them with power to speak. Thus did Carlo slay his old enemy who would have served as his friend. A shout of rescue was heard before Carlo had yielded up his weapon. Four haggard and desperate men, headed by Barto Rizzo, burst from an ambush on the guard encircling Angelo. There, with one thought of saving his doomed cousin and comrade, Carlo rushed, and not one Italian survived the fight.

An unarmed spectator upon the meadow-borders, Beppo, had but obscure glimpses of scenes shifting like a sky in advance of hurricane winds.

Merthyr delivered the burden of death to Vittoria. Her soul had crossed the darkness of the river of death in that quiet agony preceding the revelation of her Maker's will, and she drew her dead husband to her bosom and kissed him on the eyes and the forehead, not as one who had quite gone away from her, but as one who lay upon another shore whither she would come. The manful friend, ever by her side, saved her by his absolute trust in her fortitude to bear the burden of the great sorrow undeceived, and to walk with it to its last resting-place on earth unobstructed. Clear knowledge of her, the issue of reverent love, enabled him to read her unequalled strength of nature, and to rely on her fidelity to her highest mortal duty in a conflict with extreme despair. She lived through it as her Italy had lived through the hours which brought her face to face with her dearest in death; and she also on the day, ten years later, when an Emperor and a King stood beneath the vault of the grand Duomo, and the organ and a peal of voices rendered thanks to heaven for liberty, could show the fruit of her devotion in the dark-eyed boy, Carlo Merthyr Ammiani, standing between Merthyr and her, with old blind Agostino's hands upon his head. And then once more, and but for once, her voice was heard in Milan.






     ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

     A common age once, when he married her; now she had grown old
     A fortress face; strong and massive, and honourable in ruin
     Agostino was enjoying the smoke of paper cigarettes
     An angry woman will think the worst
     Anguish to think of having bent the knee for nothing
     Art of despising what he coveted
     As the Lord decided, so it would end! “Oh, delicious creed!”
      Be on your guard the next two minutes he gets you alone
     But is there such a thing as happiness
     By our manner of loving we are known
     Compliment of being outwitted by their own offspring
     Conduct is never a straight index where the heart's involved
     Confess no more than is necessary, but do everything you can
     Critical in their first glance at a prima donna
     Deep as a mother's, pure as a virgin's, fiery as a saint's
     Defiance of foes and (what was harder to brave) of friends
     Do I serve my hand? or, Do I serve my heart?
     English antipathy to babblers
     Every church of the city lent its iron tongue to the peal
     Fast growing to be an eccentric by profession
     Foolish trick of thinking for herself
     Forgetfulness is like a closing sea
     Fortitude leaned so much upon the irony
     Good nerve to face the scene which he is certain will be enacted
     Government of brain; not sufficient Insurrection of heart
     Grand air of pitying sadness
     Had taken refuge in their opera-glasses
     Hated tears, considering them a clog to all useful machinery
     He is in the season of faults
     He is inexorable, being the guilty one of the two
     He postponed it to the next minute and the next
     Her singing struck a note of grateful remembered delight
     I always respected her; I never liked her
     I hope I am not too hungry to discriminate
     I know nothing of imagination
     Impossible for us women to comprehend love without folly in man
     In Italy, a husband away, ze friend takes title
     Intentions are really rich possessions
     Ironical fortitude
     It rarely astonishes our ears It illumines our souls
     Italians were like women, and wanted—a real beating
     Longing for love and dependence
     Love of men and women as a toy that I have played with
     Madness that sane men enamoured can be struck by
     Morales, madame, suit ze sun
     Necessary for him to denounce somebody
     Never, never love a married woman
     No intoxication of hot blood to cheer those who sat at home
     No word is more lightly spoken than shame
     Not to be feared more than are the general race of bunglers
     O heaven! of what avail is human effort?
     Obedience oils necessity
     Our life is but a little holding, lent To do a mighty labour
     Pain is a cloak that wraps you about
     Patience is the pestilence
     People who can lose themselves in a ray of fancy at any season
     Profound belief in her partiality for him
     Question with some whether idiots should live
     Rarely exacted obedience, and she was spontaneously obeyed
     She thought that friendship was sweeter than love
     She was sick of personal freedom
     Simple obstinacy of will sustained her
     Speech was a scourge to her sense of hearing
     Taint of the hypocrisy which comes with shame
     The devil trusts nobody
     The divine afflatus of enthusiasm buoyed her no longer
     They take fever for strength, and calmness for submission
     Too weak to resist, to submit to an outrage quietly
     Too well used to defeat to believe readily in victory
     Was born on a hired bed
     Watch, and wait
     We are good friends till we quarrel again
     We can bear to fall; we cannot afford to draw back
     Went into endless invalid's laughter
     Who shrinks from an hour that is suspended in doubt
     Whole body of fanatics combined to precipitate the devotion
     Why should these men take so much killing?
     Will not admit the existence of a virtue in an opposite opinion
     Women and men are in two hostile camps
     You can master pain, but not doubt
     Youth will not believe that stupidity and beauty can go together

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