Prende, giovine audace e impaziente,
L’occasione offerta avidamente.
“Ger. Lib.,” c. vi. xxix.
(Take, youth, bold and impatient, the offered occasion eagerly.)
Clarence Glyndon was a young man of fortune, not large, but easy and
independent. His parents were dead, and his nearest relation was an
only sister, left in England under the care of her aunt, and many years
younger than himself. Early in life he had evinced considerable promise
in the art of painting, and rather from enthusiasm than any pecuniary
necessity for a profession, he determined to devote himself to a
career in which the English artist generally commences with rapture
and historical composition, to conclude with avaricious calculation and
portraits of Alderman Simpkins. Glyndon was supposed by his friends to
possess no inconsiderable genius; but it was of a rash and presumptuous
order. He was averse from continuous and steady labour, and his ambition
rather sought to gather the fruit than to plant the tree. In common with
many artists in their youth, he was fond of pleasure and excitement,
yielding with little forethought to whatever impressed his fancy or
appealed to his passions. He had travelled through the more celebrated
cities of Europe, with the avowed purpose and sincere resolution of
studying the divine masterpieces of his art. But in each, pleasure had
too often allured him from ambition, and living beauty distracted his
worship from the senseless canvas. Brave, adventurous, vain, restless,
inquisitive, he was ever involved in wild projects and pleasant
dangers,--the creature of impulse and the slave of imagination.
It was then the period when a feverish spirit of change was working
its way to that hideous mockery of human aspirations, the Revolution
of France; and from the chaos into which were already jarring the
sanctities of the World’s Venerable Belief, arose many shapeless and
unformed chimeras. Need I remind the reader that, while that was the day
for polished scepticism and affected wisdom, it was the day also for the
most egregious credulity and the most mystical superstitions,--the day
in which magnetism and magic found converts amongst the disciples of
Diderot; when prophecies were current in every mouth; when the salon
of a philosophical deist was converted into an Heraclea, in which
necromancy professed to conjure up the shadows of the dead; when the
Crosier and the Book were ridiculed, and Mesmer and Cagliostro were
believed. In that Heliacal Rising, heralding the new sun before which
all vapours were to vanish, stalked from their graves in the feudal
ages all the phantoms that had flitted before the eyes of Paracelsus
and Agrippa. Dazzled by the dawn of the Revolution, Glyndon was yet more
attracted by its strange accompaniments; and natural it was with him, as
with others, that the fancy which ran riot amidst the hopes of a social
Utopia, should grasp with avidity all that promised, out of the dusty
tracks of the beaten science, the bold discoveries of some marvellous
Elysium.
In his travels he had listened with vivid interest, at least, if
not with implicit belief, to the wonders told of each more renowned
Ghost-seer, and his mind was therefore prepared for the impression which
the mysterious Zanoni at first sight had produced upon it.
There might be another cause for this disposition to credulity. A
remote ancestor of Glyndon’s on the mother’s side, had achieved no
inconsiderable reputation as a philosopher and alchemist. Strange
stories were afloat concerning this wise progenitor. He was said to
have lived to an age far exceeding the allotted boundaries of mortal
existence, and to have preserved to the last the appearance of middle
life. He had died at length, it was supposed, of grief for the sudden
death of a great-grandchild, the only creature he had ever appeared to
love. The works of this philosopher, though rare, were extant, and found
in the library of Glyndon’s home. Their Platonic mysticism, their bold
assertions, the high promises that might be detected through their
figurative and typical phraseology, had early made a deep impression on
the young imagination of Clarence Glyndon. His parents, not alive to the
consequences of encouraging fancies which the very enlightenment of the
age appeared to them sufficient to prevent or dispel, were fond, in the
long winter nights, of conversing on the traditional history of this
distinguished progenitor. And Clarence thrilled with a fearful pleasure
when his mother playfully detected a striking likeness between the
features of the young heir and the faded portrait of the alchemist that
overhung their mantelpiece, and was the boast of their household and the
admiration of their friends,--the child is, indeed, more often than we
think for, “the father of the man.”
I have said that Glyndon was fond of pleasure. Facile, as genius
ever must be, to cheerful impression, his careless artist-life, ere
artist-life settles down to labour, had wandered from flower to flower.
He had enjoyed, almost to the reaction of satiety, the gay revelries of
Naples, when he fell in love with the face and voice of Viola Pisani.
But his love, like his ambition, was vague and desultory. It did not
satisfy his whole heart and fill up his whole nature; not from want of
strong and noble passions, but because his mind was not yet matured and
settled enough for their development. As there is one season for the
blossom, another for the fruit; so it is not till the bloom of fancy
begins to fade, that the heart ripens to the passions that the bloom
precedes and foretells. Joyous alike at his lonely easel or amidst his
boon companions, he had not yet known enough of sorrow to love deeply.
For man must be disappointed with the lesser things of life before
he can comprehend the full value of the greatest. It is the shallow
sensualists of France, who, in their salon-language, call love “a
folly,”--love, better understood, is wisdom. Besides, the world was too
much with Clarence Glyndon. His ambition of art was associated with the
applause and estimation of that miserable minority of the surface that
we call the Public.
Like those who deceive, he was ever fearful of being himself the dupe.
He distrusted the sweet innocence of Viola. He could not venture the
hazard of seriously proposing marriage to an Italian actress; but the
modest dignity of the girl, and something good and generous in his own
nature, had hitherto made him shrink from any more worldly but less
honourable designs. Thus the familiarity between them seemed rather that
of kindness and regard than passion. He attended the theatre; he stole
behind the scenes to converse with her; he filled his portfolio with
countless sketches of a beauty that charmed him as an artist as well as
lover; and day after day he floated on through a changing sea of
doubt and irresolution, of affection and distrust. The last, indeed,
constantly sustained against his better reason by the sober admonitions
of Mervale, a matter-of-fact man!
The day following that eve on which this section of my story opens,
Glyndon was riding alone by the shores of the Neapolitan sea, on the
other side of the Cavern of Posilipo. It was past noon; the sun had lost
its early fervour, and a cool breeze sprung up voluptuously from the
sparkling sea. Bending over a fragment of stone near the roadside,
he perceived the form of a man; and when he approached, he recognised
Zanoni.
The Englishman saluted him courteously. “Have you discovered some
antique?” said he, with a smile; “they are common as pebbles on this
road.”
“No,” replied Zanoni; “it was but one of those antiques that have
their date, indeed, from the beginning of the world, but which Nature
eternally withers and renews.” So saying, he showed Glyndon a small herb
with a pale-blue flower, and then placed it carefully in his bosom.
“You are an herbalist?”
“I am.”
“It is, I am told, a study full of interest.”
“To those who understand it, doubtless.”
“Is the knowledge, then, so rare?”
“Rare! The deeper knowledge is perhaps rather, among the arts, LOST to
the modern philosophy of commonplace and surface! Do you imagine there
was no foundation for those traditions which come dimly down from
remoter ages,--as shells now found on the mountain-tops inform us where
the seas have been? What was the old Colchian magic, but the minute
study of Nature in her lowliest works? What the fable of Medea, but a
proof of the powers that may be extracted from the germ and leaf? The
most gifted of all the Priestcrafts, the mysterious sisterhoods of Cuth,
concerning whose incantations Learning vainly bewilders itself amidst
the maze of legends, sought in the meanest herbs what, perhaps, the
Babylonian Sages explored in vain amidst the loftiest stars. Tradition
yet tells you that there existed a race (“Plut. Symp.” l. 5. c. 7.) who
could slay their enemies from afar, without weapon, without movement.
The herb that ye tread on may have deadlier powers than your engineers
can give to their mightiest instruments of war. Can you guess that to
these Italian shores, to the old Circaean Promontory, came the Wise
from the farthest East, to search for plants and simples which your
Pharmacists of the Counter would fling from them as weeds? The first
herbalists--the master chemists of the world--were the tribe that
the ancient reverence called by the name of Titans. (Syncellus, page
14.--“Chemistry the Invention of the Giants.”) I remember once, by the
Hebrus, in the reign of -- But this talk,” said Zanoni, checking himself
abruptly, and with a cold smile, “serves only to waste your time and my
own.” He paused, looked steadily at Glyndon, and continued, “Young man,
think you that vague curiosity will supply the place of earnest labour?
I read your heart. You wish to know me, and not this humble herb: but
pass on; your desire cannot be satisfied.”
“You have not the politeness of your countrymen,” said Glyndon, somewhat
discomposed. “Suppose I were desirous to cultivate your acquaintance,
why should you reject my advances?”
“I reject no man’s advances,” answered Zanoni; “I must know them if they
so desire; but ME, in return, they can never comprehend. If you ask my
acquaintance, it is yours; but I would warn you to shun me.”
“And why are you, then, so dangerous?”
“On this earth, men are often, without their own agency, fated to be
dangerous to others. If I were to predict your fortune by the vain
calculations of the astrologer, I should tell you, in their despicable
jargon, that my planet sat darkly in your house of life. Cross me not,
if you can avoid it. I warn you now for the first time and last.”
“You despise the astrologers, yet you utter a jargon as mysterious as
theirs. I neither gamble nor quarrel; why, then, should I fear you?”
“As you will; I have done.”
“Let me speak frankly,--your conversation last night interested and
perplexed me.”
“I know it: minds like yours are attracted by mystery.”
Glyndon was piqued at these words, though in the tone in which they were
spoken there was no contempt.
“I see you do not consider me worthy of your friendship. Be it so.
Good-day!”
Zanoni coldly replied to the salutation; and as the Englishman rode on,
returned to his botanical employment.
The same night, Glyndon went, as usual, to the theatre. He was standing
behind the scenes watching Viola, who was on the stage in one of her
most brilliant parts. The house resounded with applause. Glyndon was
transported with a young man’s passion and a young man’s pride: “This
glorious creature,” thought he, “may yet be mine.”
He felt, while thus wrapped in delicious reverie, a slight touch upon
his shoulder; he turned, and beheld Zanoni. “You are in danger,” said
the latter. “Do not walk home to-night; or if you do, go not alone.”
Before Glyndon recovered from his surprise, Zanoni disappeared; and when
the Englishman saw him again, he was in the box of one of the Neapolitan
nobles, where Glyndon could not follow him.
Viola now left the stage, and Glyndon accosted her with an unaccustomed
warmth of gallantry. But Viola, contrary to her gentle habit, turned
with an evident impatience from the address of her lover. Taking aside
Gionetta, who was her constant attendant at the theatre, she said, in an
earnest whisper,--
“Oh, Gionetta! He is here again!--the stranger of whom I spoke to
thee!--and again, he alone, of the whole theatre, withholds from me his
applause.”
“Which is he, my darling?” said the old woman, with fondness in her
voice. “He must indeed be dull--not worth a thought.”
The actress drew Gionetta nearer to the stage, and pointed out to her a
man in one of the boxes, conspicuous amongst all else by the simplicity
of his dress, and the extraordinary beauty of his features.
“Not worth a thought, Gionetta!” repeated Viola,--“Not worth a thought!
Alas, not to think of him, seems the absence of thought itself!”
The prompter summoned the Signora Pisani. “Find out his name, Gionetta,”
said she, moving slowly to the stage, and passing by Glyndon, who gazed
at her with a look of sorrowful reproach.
The scene on which the actress now entered was that of the final
catastrophe, wherein all her remarkable powers of voice and art were
pre-eminently called forth. The house hung on every word with breathless
worship; but the eyes of Viola sought only those of one calm and unmoved
spectator; she exerted herself as if inspired. Zanoni listened, and
observed her with an attentive gaze, but no approval escaped his lips;
no emotion changed the expression of his cold and half-disdainful
aspect. Viola, who was in the character of one who loved, but without
return, never felt so acutely the part she played. Her tears were
truthful; her passion that of nature: it was almost too terrible to
behold. She was borne from the stage exhausted and insensible, amidst
such a tempest of admiring rapture as Continental audiences alone can
raise. The crowd stood up, handkerchiefs waved, garlands and flowers
were thrown on the stage,--men wiped their eyes, and women sobbed aloud.
“By heavens!” said a Neapolitan of great rank, “She has fired me beyond
endurance. To-night--this very night--she shall be mine! You have
arranged all, Mascari?”
“All, signor. And the young Englishman?”
“The presuming barbarian! As I before told thee, let him bleed for his
folly. I will have no rival.”
“But an Englishman! There is always a search after the bodies of the
English.”
“Fool! is not the sea deep enough, or the earth secret enough, to hide
one dead man? Our ruffians are silent as the grave itself; and I!--who
would dare to suspect, to arraign the Prince di --? See to it,--this
night. I trust him to you. Robbers murder him, you understand,--the
country swarms with them; plunder and strip him, the better to favour
such report. Take three men; the rest shall be my escort.”
Mascari shrugged his shoulders, and bowed submissively.
The streets of Naples were not then so safe as now, and carriages were
both less expensive and more necessary. The vehicle which was regularly
engaged by the young actress was not to be found. Gionetta, too aware of
the beauty of her mistress and the number of her admirers to contemplate
without alarm the idea of their return on foot, communicated her
distress to Glyndon, and he besought Viola, who recovered but slowly,
to accept his own carriage. Perhaps before that night she would not
have rejected so slight a service. Now, for some reason or other, she
refused. Glyndon, offended, was retiring sullenly, when Gionetta stopped
him. “Stay, signor,” said she, coaxingly: “the dear signora is not
well,--do not be angry with her; I will make her accept your offer.”
Glyndon stayed, and after a few moments spent in expostulation on
the part of Gionetta, and resistance on that of Viola, the offer was
accepted. Gionetta and her charge entered the carriage, and Glyndon was
left at the door of the theatre to return home on foot. The mysterious
warning of Zanoni then suddenly occurred to him; he had forgotten it
in the interest of his lover’s quarrel with Viola. He thought it now
advisable to guard against danger foretold by lips so mysterious.
He looked round for some one he knew: the theatre was disgorging
its crowds; they hustled, and jostled, and pressed upon him; but he
recognised no familiar countenance. While pausing irresolute, he heard
Mervale’s voice calling on him, and, to his great relief, discovered his
friend making his way through the throng.
“I have secured you,” said he, “a place in the Count Cetoxa’s carriage.
Come along, he is waiting for us.”
“How kind in you! how did you find me out?”
“I met Zanoni in the passage,--‘Your friend is at the door of the
theatre,’ said he; ‘do not let him go home on foot to-night; the streets
of Naples are not always safe.’ I immediately remembered that some of
the Calabrian bravos had been busy within the city the last few weeks,
and suddenly meeting Cetoxa--but here he is.”
Further explanation was forbidden, for they now joined the count. As
Glyndon entered the carriage and drew up the glass, he saw four men
standing apart by the pavement, who seemed to eye him with attention.
“Cospetto!” cried one; “that is the Englishman!” Glyndon imperfectly
heard the exclamation as the carriage drove on. He reached home in
safety.
The familiar and endearing intimacy which always exists in Italy between
the nurse and the child she has reared, and which the “Romeo and Juliet”
of Shakespeare in no way exaggerates, could not but be drawn yet closer
than usual, in a situation so friendless as that of the orphan-actress.
In all that concerned the weaknesses of the heart, Gionetta had large
experience; and when, three nights before, Viola, on returning from the
theatre, had wept bitterly, the nurse had succeeded in extracting from
her a confession that she had seen one,--not seen for two weary and
eventful years,--but never forgotten, and who, alas! had not evinced the
slightest recognition of herself. Gionetta could not comprehend all the
vague and innocent emotions that swelled this sorrow; but she resolved
them all, with her plain, blunt understanding, to the one sentiment
of love. And here, she was well fitted to sympathise and console.
Confidante to Viola’s entire and deep heart she never could be,--for
that heart never could have words for all its secrets. But such
confidence as she could obtain, she was ready to repay by the most
unreproving pity and the most ready service.
“Have you discovered who he is?” asked Viola, as she was now alone in
the carriage with Gionetta.
“Yes; he is the celebrated Signor Zanoni, about whom all the great
ladies have gone mad. They say he is so rich!--oh! so much richer than
any of the Inglesi!--not but what the Signor Glyndon--”
“Cease!” interrupted the young actress. “Zanoni! Speak of the Englishman
no more.”
The carriage was now entering that more lonely and remote part of the
city in which Viola’s house was situated, when it suddenly stopped.
Gionetta, in alarm, thrust her head out of the window, and perceived,
by the pale light of the moon, that the driver, torn from his seat, was
already pinioned in the arms of two men; the next moment the door was
opened violently, and a tall figure, masked and mantled, appeared.
“Fear not, fairest Pisani,” said he, gently; “no ill shall befall you.”
As he spoke, he wound his arm round the form of the fair actress, and
endeavoured to lift her from the carriage. But Gionetta was no ordinary
ally,--she thrust back the assailant with a force that astonished him,
and followed the shock by a volley of the most energetic reprobation.
The mask drew back, and composed his disordered mantle.
“By the body of Bacchus!” said he, half laughing, “she is well
protected. Here, Luigi, Giovanni! seize the hag!--quick!--why loiter
ye?”
The mask retired from the door, and another and yet taller form
presented itself. “Be calm, Viola Pisani,” said he, in a low voice;
“with me you are indeed safe!” He lifted his mask as he spoke, and
showed the noble features of Zanoni.
“Be calm, be hushed,--I can save you.” He vanished, leaving Viola lost
in surprise, agitation, and delight. There were, in all, nine masks:
two were engaged with the driver; one stood at the head of the
carriage-horses; a fourth guarded the well-trained steeds of the party;
three others (besides Zanoni and the one who had first accosted Viola)
stood apart by a carriage drawn to the side of the road. To these three
Zanoni motioned; they advanced; he pointed towards the first mask, who
was in fact the Prince di --, and to his unspeakable astonishment the
prince was suddenly seized from behind.
“Treason!” he cried. “Treason among my own men! What means this?”
“Place him in his carriage! If he resist, his blood be on his own head!”
said Zanoni, calmly.
He approached the men who had detained the coachman.
“You are outnumbered and outwitted,” said he; “join your lord; you are
three men,--we six, armed to the teeth. Thank our mercy that we spare
your lives. Go!”
The men gave way, dismayed. The driver remounted.
“Cut the traces of their carriage and the bridles of their horses,” said
Zanoni, as he entered the vehicle containing Viola, which now drove on
rapidly, leaving the discomfited ravisher in a state of rage and stupor
impossible to describe.
“Allow me to explain this mystery to you,” said Zanoni. “I discovered
the plot against you,--no matter how; I frustrated it thus: The head of
this design is a nobleman, who has long persecuted you in vain. He
and two of his creatures watched you from the entrance of the theatre,
having directed six others to await him on the spot where you were
attacked; myself and five of my servants supplied their place, and were
mistaken for his own followers. I had previously ridden alone to the
spot where the men were waiting, and informed them that their master
would not require their services that night. They believed me, and
accordingly dispersed. I then joined my own band, whom I had left in the
rear; you know all. We are at your door.”