In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes.
Shakespeare.
The next day, at noon, Zanoni visited Viola; and the next day and the
next and again the next,--days that to her seemed like a special time
set apart from the rest of life. And yet he never spoke to her in the
language of flattery, and almost of adoration, to which she had been
accustomed. Perhaps his very coldness, so gentle as it was, assisted to
this mysterious charm. He talked to her much of her past life, and she
was scarcely surprised (she now never thought of TERROR) to perceive how
much of that past seemed known to him.
He made her speak to him of her father; he made her recall some of the
airs of Pisani’s wild music. And those airs seemed to charm and lull him
into reverie.
“As music was to the musician,” said he, “may science be to the wise.
Your father looked abroad in the world; all was discord to the fine
sympathies that he felt with the harmonies that daily and nightly float
to the throne of Heaven. Life, with its noisy ambition and its mean
passions, is so poor and base! Out of his soul he created the life and
the world for which his soul was fitted. Viola, thou art the daughter of
that life, and wilt be the denizen of that world.”
In his earlier visits he did not speak of Glyndon. The day soon came on
which he renewed the subject. And so trustful, obedient, and entire was
the allegiance that Viola now owned to his dominion, that, unwelcome
as that subject was, she restrained her heart, and listened to him in
silence.
At last he said, “Thou hast promised thou wilt obey my counsels, and if,
Viola, I should ask thee, nay adjure, to accept this stranger’s hand,
and share his fate, should he offer to thee such a lot,--wouldst thou
refuse?”
And then she pressed back the tears that gushed to her eyes; and with
a strange pleasure in the midst of pain,--the pleasure of one who
sacrifices heart itself to the one who commands that heart,--she
answered falteringly, “If thou CANST ordain it, why--”
“Speak on.”
“Dispose of me as thou wilt!”
Zanoni stood in silence for some moments: he saw the struggle which
the girl thought she concealed so well; he made an involuntary movement
towards her, and pressed her hand to his lips; it was the first time
he had ever departed even so far from a certain austerity which perhaps
made her fear him and her own thoughts the less.
“Viola,” said he, and his voice trembled, “the danger that I can avert
no more, if thou linger still in Naples, comes hourly near and near to
thee! On the third day from this thy fate must be decided. I accept thy
promise. Before the last hour of that day, come what may, I shall see
thee again, HERE, at thine own house. Till then, farewell!”