E cosi i pigri e timidi desiri
Sprona.
“Gerusal. Lib.,” cant. iv. lxxxviii.
(And thus the slow and timid passions urged.)
It was the custom of Pisani, except when the duties of his profession
made special demand on his time, to devote a certain portion of the
mid-day to sleep,--a habit not so much a luxury as a necessity to a man
who slept very little during the night. In fact, whether to compose
or to practice, the hours of noon were precisely those in which Pisani
could not have been active if he would. His genius resembled those
fountains full at dawn and evening, overflowing at night, and perfectly
dry at the meridian. During this time, consecrated by her husband to
repose, the signora generally stole out to make the purchases necessary
for the little household, or to enjoy (as what woman does not?) a little
relaxation in gossip with some of her own sex. And the day following
this brilliant triumph, how many congratulations would she have to
receive!
At these times it was Viola’s habit to seat herself without the door
of the house, under an awning which sheltered from the sun without
obstructing the view; and there now, with the prompt-book on her knee,
on which her eye roves listlessly from time to time, you may behold
her, the vine-leaves clustering from their arching trellis over the
door behind, and the lazy white-sailed boats skimming along the sea that
stretched before.
As she thus sat, rather in reverie than thought, a man coming from the
direction of Posilipo, with a slow step and downcast eyes, passed close
by the house, and Viola, looking up abruptly, started in a kind of
terror as she recognised the stranger. She uttered an involuntary
exclamation, and the cavalier turning, saw, and paused.
He stood a moment or two between her and the sunlit ocean, contemplating
in a silence too serious and gentle for the boldness of gallantry, the
blushing face and the young slight form before him; at length he spoke.
“Are you happy, my child,” he said, in almost a paternal tone, “at the
career that lies before you? From sixteen to thirty, the music in the
breath of applause is sweeter than all the music your voice can utter!”
“I know not,” replied Viola, falteringly, but encouraged by the liquid
softness of the accents that addressed her,--“I know not whether I am
happy now, but I was last night. And I feel, too, Excellency, that I
have you to thank, though, perhaps, you scarce know why!”
“You deceive yourself,” said the cavalier, with a smile. “I am aware
that I assisted to your merited success, and it is you who scarce know
how. The WHY I will tell you: because I saw in your heart a nobler
ambition than that of the woman’s vanity; it was the daughter that
interested me. Perhaps you would rather I should have admired the
singer?”
“No; oh, no!”
“Well, I believe you. And now, since we have thus met, I will pause to
counsel you. When next you go to the theatre, you will have at your feet
all the young gallants of Naples. Poor infant! the flame that dazzles
the eye can scorch the wing. Remember that the only homage that does not
sully must be that which these gallants will not give thee. And whatever
thy dreams of the future,--and I see, while I speak to thee, how
wandering they are, and wild,--may only those be fulfilled which centre
round the hearth of home.”
He paused, as Viola’s breast heaved beneath its robe. And with a burst
of natural and innocent emotions, scarcely comprehending, though an
Italian, the grave nature of his advice, she exclaimed,--
“Ah, Excellency, you cannot know how dear to me that home is already.
And my father,--there would be no home, signor, without him!”
A deep and melancholy shade settled over the face of the cavalier. He
looked up at the quiet house buried amidst the vine-leaves, and turned
again to the vivid, animated face of the young actress.
“It is well,” said he. “A simple heart may be its own best guide, and
so, go on, and prosper. Adieu, fair singer.”
“Adieu, Excellency; but,” and something she could not resist--an
anxious, sickening feeling of fear and hope,--impelled her to the
question, “I shall see you again, shall I not, at San Carlo?”
“Not, at least, for some time. I leave Naples to-day.”
“Indeed!” and Viola’s heart sank within her; the poetry of the stage was
gone.
“And,” said the cavalier, turning back, and gently laying his hand on
hers,--“and, perhaps, before we meet, you may have suffered: known the
first sharp griefs of human life,--known how little what fame can gain,
repays what the heart can lose; but be brave and yield not,--not even to
what may seem the piety of sorrow. Observe yon tree in your neighbour’s
garden. Look how it grows up, crooked and distorted. Some wind scattered
the germ from which it sprang, in the clefts of the rock; choked up and
walled round by crags and buildings, by Nature and man, its life has
been one struggle for the light,--light which makes to that life the
necessity and the principle: you see how it has writhed and twisted;
how, meeting the barrier in one spot, it has laboured and worked, stem
and branches, towards the clear skies at last. What has preserved it
through each disfavour of birth and circumstances,--why are its leaves
as green and fair as those of the vine behind you, which, with all
its arms, can embrace the open sunshine? My child, because of the very
instinct that impelled the struggle,--because the labour for the light
won to the light at length. So with a gallant heart, through every
adverse accident of sorrow and of fate to turn to the sun, to strive for
the heaven; this it is that gives knowledge to the strong and happiness
to the weak. Ere we meet again, you will turn sad and heavy eyes to
those quiet boughs, and when you hear the birds sing from them, and see
the sunshine come aslant from crag and housetop to be the playfellow
of their leaves, learn the lesson that Nature teaches you, and strive
through darkness to the light!”
As he spoke he moved on slowly, and left Viola wondering, silent,
saddened with his dim prophecy of coming evil, and yet, through sadness,
charmed. Involuntarily her eyes followed him,--involuntarily she
stretched forth her arms, as if by a gesture to call him back; she would
have given worlds to have seen him turn,--to have heard once more his
low, calm, silvery voice; to have felt again the light touch of his hand
on hers. As moonlight that softens into beauty every angle on which it
falls, seemed his presence,--as moonlight vanishes, and things assume
their common aspect of the rugged and the mean, he receded from her
eyes, and the outward scene was commonplace once more.
The stranger passed on, through that long and lovely road which reaches
at last the palaces that face the public gardens, and conducts to the
more populous quarters of the city.
A group of young, dissipated courtiers, loitering by the gateway of a
house which was open for the favourite pastime of the day,--the resort
of the wealthier and more high-born gamesters,--made way for him, as
with a courteous inclination he passed them by.
“Per fede,” said one, “is not that the rich Zanoni, of whom the town
talks?”
“Ay; they say his wealth is incalculable!”
“THEY say,--who are THEY?--what is the authority? He has not been many
days at Naples, and I cannot yet find any one who knows aught of his
birthplace, his parentage, or, what is more important, his estates!”
“That is true; but he arrived in a goodly vessel, which THEY SAY is his
own. See,--no, you cannot see it here; but it rides yonder in the bay.
The bankers he deals with speak with awe of the sums placed in their
hands.”
“Whence came he?”
“From some seaport in the East. My valet learned from some of the
sailors on the Mole that he had resided many years in the interior of
India.”
“Ah, I am told that in India men pick up gold like pebbles, and that
there are valleys where the birds build their nests with emeralds to
attract the moths. Here comes our prince of gamesters, Cetoxa; be sure
that he already must have made acquaintance with so wealthy a cavalier;
he has that attraction to gold which the magnet has to steel. Well,
Cetoxa, what fresh news of the ducats of Signor Zanoni?”
“Oh,” said Cetoxa, carelessly, “my friend--”
“Ha! ha! hear him; his friend--”
“Yes; my friend Zanoni is going to Rome for a short time; when he
returns, he has promised me to fix a day to sup with me, and I will then
introduce him to you, and to the best society of Naples! Diavolo! but he
is a most agreeable and witty gentleman!”
“Pray tell us how you came so suddenly to be his friend.”
“My dear Belgioso, nothing more natural. He desired a box at San Carlo;
but I need not tell you that the expectation of a new opera (ah, how
superb it is,--that poor devil, Pisani; who would have thought it?) and
a new singer (what a face,--what a voice!--ah!) had engaged every corner
of the house. I heard of Zanoni’s desire to honour the talent of Naples,
and, with my usual courtesy to distinguished strangers, I sent to place
my box at his disposal. He accepts it,--I wait on him between the acts;
he is most charming; he invites me to supper. Cospetto, what a retinue!
We sit late,--I tell him all the news of Naples; we grow bosom friends;
he presses on me this diamond before we part,--is a trifle, he tells me:
the jewellers value it at 5000 pistoles!--the merriest evening I have
passed these ten years.”
The cavaliers crowded round to admire the diamond.
“Signor Count Cetoxa,” said one grave-looking sombre man, who had
crossed himself two or three times during the Neapolitan’s narrative,
“are you not aware of the strange reports about this person; and are you
not afraid to receive from him a gift which may carry with it the most
fatal consequences? Do you not know that he is said to be a sorcerer; to
possess the mal-occhio; to--”
“Prithee, spare us your antiquated superstitions,” interrupted Cetoxa,
contemptuously. “They are out of fashion; nothing now goes down but
scepticism and philosophy. And what, after all, do these rumours, when
sifted, amount to? They have no origin but this,--a silly old man of
eighty-six, quite in his dotage, solemnly avers that he saw this same
Zanoni seventy years ago (he himself, the narrator, then a mere boy) at
Milan; when this very Zanoni, as you all see, is at least as young as
you or I, Belgioso.”
“But that,” said the grave gentleman,--“THAT is the mystery. Old Avelli
declares that Zanoni does not seem a day older than when they met at
Milan. He says that even then at Milan--mark this--where, though
under another name, this Zanoni appeared in the same splendour, he was
attended also by the same mystery. And that an old man THERE remembered
to have seen him sixty years before, in Sweden.”
“Tush,” returned Cetoxa, “the same thing has been said of the quack
Cagliostro,--mere fables. I will believe them when I see this diamond
turn to a wisp of hay. For the rest,” he added gravely, “I consider this
illustrious gentleman my friend; and a whisper against his honour and
repute will in future be equivalent to an affront to myself.”
Cetoxa was a redoubted swordsman, and excelled in a peculiarly awkward
manoeuvre, which he himself had added to the variations of the stoccata.
The grave gentleman, however anxious for the spiritual weal of the
count, had an equal regard for his own corporeal safety. He contented
himself with a look of compassion, and, turning through the gateway,
ascended the stairs to the gaming-tables.
“Ha, ha!” said Cetoxa, laughing, “our good Loredano is envious of my
diamond. Gentlemen, you sup with me to-night. I assure you I never met a
more delightful, sociable, entertaining person, than my dear friend the
Signor Zanoni.”