This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
By George Meredith
She was dressed like a noble damsel from the hands of Titian. An Italianaudience cannot but be critical in their first glance at a prima donna,for they are asked to do homage to a queen who is to be taken on hermerits: all that they have heard and have been taught to expect of her iscompared swiftly with the observation of her appearance and her manner.She is crucially examined to discover defects. There is no boisterousloyalty at the outset. And as it was now evident that Vittoria hadchosen to impersonate a significant character, her indications of methodwere jealously watched for a sign of inequality, either in her, motion,or the force of her eyes. So silent a reception might have seemed cruelin any other case; though in all cases the candidate for laurels must, incommon with the criminal, go through the ordeal of justification. Men donot heartily bow their heads until they have subjected the aspirant tosome personal contest, and find themselves overmatched. The senses,ready to become so slavish in adulation and delight, are at the beginningmore exacting than the judgement, more imperious than the will. A figurein amber and pale blue silk was seen, such as the great Venetian mighthave sketched from his windows on a day when the Doge went forth to wedthe Adriatic a superb Italian head, with dark banded hair-braid, and darkstrong eyes under unabashed soft eyelids! She moved as, after longgazing at a painting of a fair woman, we may have the vision of hermoving from the frame. It was an animated picture of ideal Italia.The sea of heads right up to the highest walls fronted her glistening,and she was mute as moonrise. A virgin who loosens a dove from her bosomdoes it with no greater effort than Vittoria gave out her voice. Thewhite bird flutters rapidly; it circles and takes its flight. The voiceseemed to be as little the singer's own.
The theme was as follows:—Camilla has dreamed overnight that her lostmother came to her bedside to bless her nuptials. Her mother was foldedin a black shroud, looking formless as death, like very death, save thatdeath sheds no tears. She wept, without change of voice, or mortalshuddering, like one whose nature weeps: 'And with the forth-flowing ofher tears the knowledge of her features was revealed to me.' Behold theAdige, the Mincio, Tiber, and the Po!—such great rivers were the tearspouring from her eyes. She threw apart the shroud: her breasts and herlimbs were smooth and firm as those of an immortal Goddess: but breastsand limbs showed the cruel handwriting of base men upon the body of amartyred saint. The blood from those deep gashes sprang out atintervals, mingling with her tears. She said:
'My child! were I a Goddess, my wounds would heal. Were I a Saint, Ishould be in Paradise. I am no Goddess, and no Saint: yet I cannot die.My wounds flow and my tears. My tears flow because of no fleshlyanguish: I pardon my enemies. My blood flows from my body, my tears frommy soul. They flow to wash out my shame. I have to expiate my soul'sshame by my body's shame. Oh! how shall I tell you what it is to walkamong my children unknown of them, though each day I bear the sun abroadlike my beating heart; each night the moon, like a heart with no blood init. Sun