Centauri, e Sfingi, e pallide Gorgoni.
“Ger. Lib.,” c. iv. v.
(Centaurs and Sphinxes and pallid Gorgons.)
One moonlit night, in the Gardens at Naples, some four or five gentleman
were seated under a tree, drinking their sherbet, and listening, in the
intervals of conversation, to the music which enlivened that gay and
favourite resort of an indolent population. One of this little party was
a young Englishman, who had been the life of the whole group, but who,
for the last few moments, had sunk into a gloomy and abstracted reverie.
One of his countrymen observed this sudden gloom, and, tapping him on
the back, said, “What ails you, Glyndon? Are you ill? You have grown
quite pale,--you tremble. Is it a sudden chill? You had better go home:
these Italian nights are often dangerous to our English constitutions.”
“No, I am well now; it was a passing shudder. I cannot account for it
myself.”
A man, apparently of about thirty years of age, and of a mien and
countenance strikingly superior to those around him, turned abruptly,
and looked steadfastly at Glyndon.
“I think I understand what you mean,” said he; “and perhaps,” he added,
with a grave smile, “I could explain it better than yourself.” Here,
turning to the others, he added, “You must often have felt, gentlemen,
each and all of you, especially when sitting alone at night, a strange
and unaccountable sensation of coldness and awe creep over you; your
blood curdles, and the heart stands still; the limbs shiver; the hair
bristles; you are afraid to look up, to turn your eyes to the darker
corners of the room; you have a horrible fancy that something unearthly
is at hand; presently the whole spell, if I may so call it, passes away,
and you are ready to laugh at your own weakness. Have you not often felt
what I have thus imperfectly described?--if so, you can understand what
our young friend has just experienced, even amidst the delights of this
magical scene, and amidst the balmy whispers of a July night.”
“Sir,” replied Glyndon, evidently much surprised, “you have defined
exactly the nature of that shudder which came over me. But how could my
manner be so faithful an index to my impressions?”
“I know the signs of the visitation,” returned the stranger, gravely;
“they are not to be mistaken by one of my experience.”
All the gentleman present then declared that they could comprehend, and
had felt, what the stranger had described.
“According to one of our national superstitions,” said Mervale, the
Englishman who had first addressed Glyndon, “the moment you so feel your
blood creep, and your hair stand on end, some one is walking over the
spot which shall be your grave.”
“There are in all lands different superstitions to account for so common
an occurrence,” replied the stranger: “one sect among the Arabians holds
that at that instant God is deciding the hour either of your death,
or of some one dear to you. The African savage, whose imagination is
darkened by the hideous rites of his gloomy idolatry, believes that the
Evil Spirit is pulling you towards him by the hair: so do the Grotesque
and the Terrible mingle with each other.”
“It is evidently a mere physical accident,--a derangement of the
stomach, a chill of the blood,” said a young Neapolitan, with whom
Glyndon had formed a slight acquaintance.
“Then why is it always coupled in all nations with some superstitious
presentiment or terror,--some connection between the material frame and
the supposed world without us? For my part, I think--”
“Ay, what do you think, sir?” asked Glyndon, curiously.
“I think,” continued the stranger, “that it is the repugnance and
horror with which our more human elements recoil from something, indeed,
invisible, but antipathetic to our own nature; and from a knowledge of
which we are happily secured by the imperfection of our senses.”
“You are a believer in spirits, then?” said Mervale, with an incredulous
smile.
“Nay, it was not precisely of spirits that I spoke; but there may be
forms of matter as invisible and impalpable to us as the animalculae
in the air we breathe,--in the water that plays in yonder basin. Such
beings may have passions and powers like our own--as the animalculae to
which I have compared them. The monster that lives and dies in a drop of
water--carnivorous, insatiable, subsisting on the creatures minuter than
himself--is not less deadly in his wrath, less ferocious in his nature,
than the tiger of the desert. There may be things around us that would
be dangerous and hostile to men, if Providence had not placed a wall
between them and us, merely by different modifications of matter.”
“And think you that wall never can be removed?” asked young Glyndon,
abruptly. “Are the traditions of sorcerer and wizard, universal and
immemorial as they are, merely fables?”
“Perhaps yes,--perhaps no,” answered the stranger, indifferently. “But
who, in an age in which the reason has chosen its proper bounds, would
be mad enough to break the partition that divides him from the boa and
the lion,--to repine at and rebel against the law which confines the
shark to the great deep? Enough of these idle speculations.”
Here the stranger rose, summoned the attendant, paid for his sherbet,
and, bowing slightly to the company, soon disappeared among the trees.
“Who is that gentleman?” asked Glyndon, eagerly.
The rest looked at each other, without replying, for some moments.
“I never saw him before,” said Mervale, at last.
“Nor I.”
“Nor I.”
“I know him well,” said the Neapolitan, who was, indeed, the Count
Cetoxa. “If you remember, it was as my companion that he joined you.
He visited Naples about two years ago, and has recently returned; he is
very rich,--indeed, enormously so. A most agreeable person. I am sorry
to hear him talk so strangely to-night; it serves to encourage the
various foolish reports that are circulated concerning him.”
“And surely,” said another Neapolitan, “the circumstance that occurred
but the other day, so well known to yourself, Cetoxa, justifies the
reports you pretend to deprecate.”
“Myself and my countryman,” said Glyndon, “mix so little in Neapolitan
society, that we lose much that appears well worthy of lively interest.
May I enquire what are the reports, and what is the circumstance you
refer to?”
“As to the reports, gentlemen,” said Cetoxa, courteously, addressing
himself to the two Englishmen, “it may suffice to observe, that they
attribute to the Signor Zanoni certain qualities which everybody desires
for himself, but damns any one else for possessing. The incident Signor
Belgioso alludes to, illustrates these qualities, and is, I must own,
somewhat startling. You probably play, gentlemen?” (Here Cetoxa paused;
and as both Englishmen had occasionally staked a few scudi at the public
gaming-tables, they bowed assent to the conjecture.) Cetoxa continued.
“Well, then, not many days since, and on the very day that Zanoni
returned to Naples, it so happened that I had been playing pretty high,
and had lost considerably. I rose from the table, resolved no longer to
tempt fortune, when I suddenly perceived Zanoni, whose acquaintance I
had before made (and who, I may say, was under some slight obligation to
me), standing by, a spectator. Ere I could express my gratification at
this unexpected recognition, he laid his hand on my arm. ‘You have lost
much,’ said he; ‘more than you can afford. For my part, I dislike play;
yet I wish to have some interest in what is going on. Will you play this
sum for me? the risk is mine,--the half profits yours.’ I was startled,
as you may suppose, at such an address; but Zanoni had an air and tone
with him it was impossible to resist; besides, I was burning to recover
my losses, and should not have risen had I had any money left about me.
I told him I would accept his offer, provided we shared the risk as well
as profits. ‘As you will,’ said he, smiling; ‘we need have no scruple,
for you will be sure to win.’ I sat down; Zanoni stood behind me; my
luck rose,--I invariably won. In fact, I rose from the table a rich
man.”
“There can be no foul play at the public tables, especially when foul
play would make against the bank?” This question was put by Glyndon.
“Certainly not,” replied the count. “But our good fortune was, indeed,
marvellous,--so extraordinary that a Sicilian (the Sicilians are all
ill-bred, bad-tempered fellows) grew angry and insolent. ‘Sir,’ said he,
turning to my new friend, ‘you have no business to stand so near to
the table. I do not understand this; you have not acted fairly.’ Zanoni
replied, with great composure, that he had done nothing against the
rules,--that he was very sorry that one man could not win without
another man losing; and that he could not act unfairly, even if disposed
to do so. The Sicilian took the stranger’s mildness for apprehension,
and blustered more loudly. In fact, he rose from the table, and
confronted Zanoni in a manner that, to say the least of it, was
provoking to any gentleman who has some quickness of temper, or some
skill with the small-sword.”
“And,” interrupted Belgioso, “the most singular part of the whole to me
was, that this Zanoni, who stood opposite to where I sat, and whose face
I distinctly saw, made no remark, showed no resentment. He fixed his
eyes steadfastly on the Sicilian; never shall I forget that look! it is
impossible to describe it,--it froze the blood in my veins. The Sicilian
staggered back as if struck. I saw him tremble; he sank on the bench.
And then--”
“Yes, then,” said Cetoxa, “to my infinite surprise, our gentleman, thus
disarmed by a look from Zanoni, turned his whole anger upon me, THE--but
perhaps you do not know, gentlemen, that I have some repute with my
weapon?”
“The best swordsman in Italy,” said Belgioso.
“Before I could guess why or wherefore,” resumed Cetoxa, “I found myself
in the garden behind the house, with Ughelli (that was the Sicilian’s
name) facing me, and five or six gentlemen, the witnesses of the duel
about to take place, around. Zanoni beckoned me aside. ‘This man will
fall,’ said he. ‘When he is on the ground, go to him, and ask whether he
will be buried by the side of his father in the church of San Gennaro?’
‘Do you then know his family?’ I asked with great surprise. Zanoni made
me no answer, and the next moment I was engaged with the Sicilian. To
do him justice, his imbrogliato was magnificent, and a swifter lounger
never crossed a sword; nevertheless,” added Cetoxa, with a pleasing
modesty, “he was run through the body. I went up to him; he could
scarcely speak. ‘Have you any request to make,--any affairs to settle?’
He shook his head. ‘Where would you wish to be interred?’ He pointed
towards the Sicilian coast. ‘What!’ said I, in surprise, ‘NOT by the
side of your father, in the church of San Gennaro?’ As I spoke, his face
altered terribly; he uttered a piercing shriek,--the blood gushed from
his mouth, and he fell dead. The most strange part of the story is to
come. We buried him in the church of San Gennaro. In doing so, we took
up his father’s coffin; the lid came off in moving it, and the skeleton
was visible. In the hollow of the skull we found a very slender wire of
sharp steel; this caused surprise and inquiry. The father, who was rich
and a miser, had died suddenly, and been buried in haste, owing, it
was said, to the heat of the weather. Suspicion once awakened, the
examination became minute. The old man’s servant was questioned, and at
last confessed that the son had murdered the sire. The contrivance was
ingenious: the wire was so slender that it pierced to the brain,
and drew but one drop of blood, which the grey hairs concealed. The
accomplice will be executed.”
“And Zanoni,--did he give evidence, did he account for--”
“No,” interrupted the count: “he declared that he had by accident
visited the church that morning; that he had observed the tombstone of
the Count Ughelli; that his guide had told him the count’s son was in
Naples,--a spendthrift and a gambler. While we were at play, he had
heard the count mentioned by name at the table; and when the challenge
was given and accepted, it had occurred to him to name the place of
burial, by an instinct which he either could not or would not account
for.”
“A very lame story,” said Mervale.
“Yes! but we Italians are superstitious,--the alleged instinct was
regarded by many as the whisper of Providence. The next day the stranger
became an object of universal interest and curiosity. His wealth, his
manner of living, his extraordinary personal beauty, have assisted also
to make him the rage; besides, I have had the pleasure in introducing so
eminent a person to our gayest cavaliers and our fairest ladies.”
“A most interesting narrative,” said Mervale, rising. “Come, Glyndon;
shall we seek our hotel? It is almost daylight. Adieu, signor!”
“What think you of this story?” said Glyndon, as the young men walked
homeward.
“Why, it is very clear that this Zanoni is some imposter,--some clever
rogue; and the Neapolitan shares the booty, and puffs him off with all
the hackneyed charlatanism of the marvellous. An unknown adventurer gets
into society by being made an object of awe and curiosity; he is more
than ordinarily handsome, and the women are quite content to receive him
without any other recommendation than his own face and Cetoxa’s fables.”
“I cannot agree with you. Cetoxa, though a gambler and a rake, is a
nobleman of birth and high repute for courage and honour. Besides,
this stranger, with his noble presence and lofty air,--so calm, so
unobtrusive,--has nothing in common with the forward garrulity of an
imposter.”
“My dear Glyndon, pardon me; but you have not yet acquired any knowledge
of the world! The stranger makes the best of a fine person, and his
grand air is but a trick of the trade. But to change the subject,--how
advances the love affair?”
“Oh, Viola could not see me to-day.”
“You must not marry her. What would they all say at home?”
“Let us enjoy the present,” said Glyndon, with vivacity; “we are young,
rich, good-looking; let us not think of to-morrow.”
“Bravo, Glyndon! Here we are at the hotel. Sleep sound, and don’t dream
of Signor Zanoni.”