Vittoria — Volume 1 — Reading Notes

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In Category - Modern History Fiction

Authors: Meredith, George, 1828-1909 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2003 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Historical fiction; War stories; Italy -- History -- Revolution of 1848 -- Fiction Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 27,422

Reading time 120 min

Text sections 3

The source record for Vittoria — Volume 1 — Reading Notes measures this digital text at 27,422 words, 2 hr estimated reading time, and 3 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 15.9 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Historical fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #4435

George Meredith's 'Vittoria — Volume 1' opens with a panoramic view from Monte Motterone, then shifts to a tense encounter where the heroine confronts a spy, revealing layers of conspiracy and personal loyalty amid the Italian Revolution of 1848.

Editorial Edition Score 4.5/5

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Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

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Edition quality

File: pg4435

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They were men who had sworn to set a nation free,--free from the foreigner, to begin with.

(He who tells this tale is not a partisan; he would deal equally toward all. Of strong devotion, of stout nobility, of unswerving faith and self-sacrifice, he must approve; and when these qualities are displayed in a contest of forces, the wisdom of means employed, or of ultimate views entertained, may be questioned and condemned; but the men themselves may not be.)

These men had sworn their oath, knowing the meaning of it, and the nature of the Fury against whom men who stand voluntarily pledged to any great resolve must thenceforward match themselves. Many of the original brotherhood had fallen, on the battle-field, on the glacis, or in the dungeon. All present, save the youthfuller Carlo, had suffered. Imprisonment and exile marked the Chief. Ugo Corte, of Bergamo, had seen his family swept away by the executioner and pecuniary penalties. Thick scars of wounds covered the body and disfigured the face of Giulio Bandinelli. Agostino had crawled but half-a-year previously out of his Piedmontese cell, and Marco Sana, the Brescian, had in such a place tasted of veritable torture. But if the calamity of a great oath was upon them, they had now in their faithful prosecution of it the support which it gives. They were unwearied; they had one object; the mortal anguish they had gone through had left them no sense for regrets. Life had become the field of an endless engagement to them; and as in battle one sees beloved comrades struck down, and casts but a glance at their prostrate forms, they heard the mention of a name, perchance, and with a word or a sign told what was to be said of a passionate glorious heart at rest, thanks to Austrian or vassal-Sardinian mercy.

So they lay there and discussed their plans.

"From what quarter do you apprehend the surprise?" Ugo Corte glanced up from the maps and papers spread along the grass to question Carlo ironically, while the latter appeared to be keeping rigid watch over the safety of the position. Carlo puffed the smoke of a cigarette rapidly, and Agostino replied for him:--

"From the quarter where the best donkeys are to be had."

It was supposed that Agostino had resumed the habit usually laid aside by him for the discussion of serious matters, and had condescended to father a coarse joke; but his eyes showed no spark of their well-known twinkling solicitation for laughter, and Carlo spoke in answer gravely:--

"From Baveno it will be."

"From Baveno! They might as well think to surprise hawks from Baveno. Keep watch, dear Ammiani; a good start in a race is a kick from the Gods."

With that, Corte turned to the point of his finger on the map. He conceived it possible that Carlo Ammiani, a Milanese, had reason to anticipate the approach of people by whom he, or they, might not wish to be seen. Had he studied Carlo's face he would have been reassured. The brows of the youth were open, and his eyes eager with expectation, that showed the flying forward of the mind, and nothing of knotted distrust or wary watchfulness. Now and then he would move to the other side of the mountain, and look over upon Orta; or with the opera-glass clasped in one hand beneath an arm, he stopped in his sentinel-march, frowning reflectively at a word put to him, as if debating within upon all the bearings of it; but the only answer that came was a sharp assent, given after the manner of one who dealt conscientiously in definite affirmatives; and again the glass was in requisition. Marco Sana was a fighting soldier, who stated what he knew, listened, and took his orders. Giulio Bandinelli was also little better than the lieutenant in an enterprise. Corte, on the other hand, had the conspirator's head,--a head like a walnut, bulging above the ears,--and the man was of a sallying temper. He lay there putting bit by bit of his plot before the Chief for his approval, with a careful construction, that upon the expression of any doubt of its working smoothly in the streets of Milan, caused him to shout a defensive, "But Carlo says yes!"

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The novel begins not with a character but with a mountain: Monte Motterone, described as a 'towering dome of green' that surveys the Lombard plain. The prose is dense, sensory, and almost geological, with mists that 'engulph' the landscape and peaks that resemble 'a solitary monster of old seas.' This opening establishes a panoramic, historically charged setting before any human figure appears.

When the narrative moves to human action, it does so through a confrontation. Vittoria, the heroine, identifies a spy named Luigi not by accusation but by a simple, mellow utterance of the word 'spy.' The scene is layered with coded loyalties, secret knowledge, and the threat of betrayal, all rendered in Meredith's characteristic blend of psychological nuance and political tension.

A Mountain as a Character

The first chapter, 'Up Monte Motterone,' devotes its opening paragraphs to the mountain itself, treating it almost as a sentient observer. The prose is rich with visual detail: 'at dawn the summit of the mountain has an eagle eye for the far Venetian boundary,' but with sunrise come mists that narrow the view. This geological description is not mere scene-setting; it mirrors the political obscurity and shifting perspectives that pervade the novel. The mountain's 'eagle eye' suggests a vantage point that is quickly lost, much like the clarity of purpose in a revolutionary movement. Meredith's language here is deliberately archaic and poetic, with phrases like 'urn-like valleys' and 'ashen-faced peaks,' which may slow a first-time reader but reward attention to the symbolic weight of the landscape.

The Spy and the Web of Loyalties

The encounter with Luigi the spy is the first extended dialogue in the excerpts, and it reveals the novel's intricate social fabric. Vittoria does not denounce Luigi; she speaks 'the word very simply in a mellow soft tone,' and his response is physical—'blood shot purple'—before he confesses. The scene introduces a network of surveillance: Luigi spies on Vittoria for Signor Antonio-Pericles, but Beppo spies on Luigi, and Vittoria herself is aware of being watched. This layering of watchers and watched creates a tense, paranoid atmosphere. The mention of Barto Rizzo, a name that recurs in the chapter titles, hints at a deeper conspiracy. Meredith uses this moment to establish that trust is provisional and that every character operates within a system of hidden allegiances.

Voice as a Weapon and a Vulnerability

Vittoria's voice is central to her identity and her danger. Luigi admits he is 'a sort of guardian of your voice,' and he knows she sings 'Italia, Italia shall be free!' under the maestro's windows. Her voice is both a political tool and a liability: it attracts the attention of the Austrian-friendly Signor Antonio-Pericles, who 'worships' it, and it marks her as a revolutionary. The excerpts show that her singing is not merely artistic but a form of resistance. When she speaks, her tone can sway men—'Vittoria had not always to lift her voice in music for it to sway the hearts of men.' This duality—voice as art and as act of defiance—is a thread that runs through the narrative, and readers should attend to how Meredith describes its effects on different listeners.

The Rhythm of Suspense and Disclosure

Meredith structures his scenes around delayed revelation. The opening chapter builds from a static landscape to a dynamic confrontation; the spy scene moves from accusation to confession to a surprising leniency. Information is parceled out in fragments: Luigi's confession reveals Antonio-Pericles's obsession, but the full extent of the plot is only hinted at. The chapter titles themselves—'The Spy,' 'The Warning,' 'Barto Rizzo'—function as signposts, but the narrative resists straightforward exposition. A first-time reader should expect to piece together motives and alliances gradually. The prose style, with its long sentences and elevated diction, mirrors this slow unfolding; it rewards patience but may frustrate those seeking rapid plot advancement. The excerpts suggest that the novel's tension lies less in action than in the accumulation of whispered secrets and half-revealed plans.

For readers beginning 'Vittoria — Volume 1,' the key is to let the landscape and the layered dialogue set the pace. Meredith does not offer easy entry points; instead, he immerses the reader in a world where every glance and every word carries political weight. Pay attention to the names that recur—Barto Rizzo, Antonio-Pericles, Carlo Ammiani—as they form the nodes of a conspiracy that will unfold across the volume. The novel rewards those who read slowly, noting how the mountain's 'eagle eye' gives way to mist, just as certainty gives way to intrigue.

Sitting here, I remembered standing on a hillside once, watching clouds shift over a valley, much like that opening on Motterone. That feeling of vastness before a personal storm returned with Vittoria’s tense confrontation. It reminded me of the quiet weight in The Lion's Brood — Background and Themes, where loyalty also felt like a held breath, a private ache beneath history’s noise.