Il lupo
Ferito, credo, mi conobbe e ‘ncontro
Mi venne con la bocca sanguinosa.
“Aminta,” At. iv. Sc. i.
(The wounded wolf, I think, knew me, and came to meet me with its
bloody mouth.)
At Naples, the tomb of Virgil, beetling over the cave of Posilipo, is
reverenced, not with the feelings that should hallow the memory of the
poet, but the awe that wraps the memory of the magician. To his charms
they ascribe the hollowing of that mountain passage; and tradition yet
guards his tomb by the spirits he had raised to construct the cavern.
This spot, in the immediate vicinity of Viola’s home, had often
attracted her solitary footsteps. She had loved the dim and solemn
fancies that beset her as she looked into the lengthened gloom of the
grotto, or, ascending to the tomb, gazed from the rock on the dwarfed
figures of the busy crowd that seemed to creep like insects along the
windings of the soil below; and now, at noon, she bent thither her
thoughtful way. She threaded the narrow path, she passed the gloomy
vineyard that clambers up the rock, and gained the lofty spot, green
with moss and luxuriant foliage, where the dust of him who yet soothes
and elevates the minds of men is believed to rest. From afar rose the
huge fortress of St. Elmo, frowning darkly amidst spires and domes that
glittered in the sun. Lulled in its azure splendour lay the Siren’s sea;
and the grey smoke of Vesuvius, in the clear distance, soared like
a moving pillar into the lucid sky. Motionless on the brink of the
precipice, Viola looked upon the lovely and living world that stretched
below; and the sullen vapour of Vesuvius fascinated her eye yet more
than the scattered gardens, or the gleaming Caprea, smiling amidst the
smiles of the sea. She heard not a step that had followed her on her
path and started to hear a voice at hand. So sudden was the apparition
of the form that stood by her side, emerging from the bushes that clad
the crags, and so singularly did it harmonise in its uncouth ugliness
with the wild nature of the scene immediately around her, and the wizard
traditions of the place, that the colour left her cheek, and a faint cry
broke from her lips.
“Tush, pretty trembler!--do not be frightened at my face,” said the
man, with a bitter smile. “After three months’ marriage, there is no
different between ugliness and beauty. Custom is a great leveller. I was
coming to your house when I saw you leave it; so, as I have matters of
importance to communicate, I ventured to follow your footsteps. My name
is Jean Nicot, a name already favourably known as a French artist. The
art of painting and the art of music are nearly connected, and the stage
is an altar that unites the two.”
There was something frank and unembarrassed in the man’s address that
served to dispel the fear his appearance had occasioned. He seated
himself, as he spoke, on a crag beside her, and, looking up steadily
into her face, continued:--
“You are very beautiful, Viola Pisani, and I am not surprised at the
number of your admirers. If I presume to place myself in the list, it is
because I am the only one who loves thee honestly, and woos thee fairly.
Nay, look not so indignant! Listen to me. Has the Prince di -- ever
spoken to thee of marriage; or the beautiful imposter Zanoni, or the
young blue-eyed Englishman, Clarence Glyndon? It is marriage,--it is a
home, it is safety, it is reputation, that I offer to thee; and these
last when the straight form grows crooked, and the bright eyes dim. What
say you?” and he attempted to seize her hand.
Viola shrunk from him, and silently turned to depart. He rose abruptly
and placed himself on her path.
“Actress, you must hear me! Do you know what this calling of the stage
is in the eyes of prejudice,--that is, of the common opinion of mankind?
It is to be a princess before the lamps, and a Pariah before the day.
No man believes in your virtue, no man credits your vows; you are the
puppet that they consent to trick out with tinsel for their amusement,
not an idol for their worship. Are you so enamoured of this career
that you scorn even to think of security and honour? Perhaps you are
different from what you seem. Perhaps you laugh at the prejudice that
would degrade you, and would wisely turn it to advantage. Speak frankly
to me; I have no prejudice either. Sweet one, I am sure we should agree.
Now, this Prince di --, I have a message from him. Shall I deliver it?”
Never had Viola felt as she felt then, never had she so thoroughly seen
all the perils of her forelorn condition and her fearful renown. Nicot
continued:--
“Zanoni would but amuse himself with thy vanity; Glyndon would despise
himself, if he offered thee his name, and thee, if thou wouldst accept
it; but the Prince di -- is in earnest, and he is wealthy. Listen!”
And Nicot approached his lips to her, and hissed a sentence which she
did not suffer him to complete. She darted from him with one glance of
unutterable disdain. As he strove to regain his hold of her arm, he
lost his footing, and fell down the sides of the rock till, bruised and
lacerated, a pine-branch saved him from the yawning abyss below. She
heard his exclamation of rage and pain as she bounded down the path,
and, without once turning to look behind, regained her home. By the
porch stood Glyndon, conversing with Gionetta. She passed him
abruptly, entered the house, and, sinking on the floor, wept loud and
passionately.
Glyndon, who had followed her in surprise, vainly sought to soothe and
calm her. She would not reply to his questions; she did not seem to
listen to his protestations of love, till suddenly, as Nicot’s terrible
picture of the world’s judgment of that profession which to her younger
thoughts had seemed the service of Song and the Beautiful, forced itself
upon her, she raised her face from her hands, and, looking steadily upon
the Englishman, said, “False one, dost thou talk of me of love?”
“By my honour, words fail to tell thee how I love!”
“Wilt thou give me thy home, thy name? Dost thou woo me as thy wife?”
And at that moment, had Glyndon answered as his better angel would have
counselled, perhaps, in that revolution of her whole mind which the
words of Nicot had effected, which made her despise her very self,
sicken of her lofty dreams, despair of the future, and distrust her
whole ideal,--perhaps, I say, in restoring her self-esteem,--he would
have won her confidence, and ultimately secured her love. But against
the prompting of his nobler nature rose up at that sudden question all
those doubts which, as Zanoni had so well implied, made the true enemies
of his soul. Was he thus suddenly to be entangled into a snare laid for
his credulity by deceivers? Was she not instructed to seize the moment
to force him into an avowal which prudence must repent? Was not the
great actress rehearsing a premeditated part? He turned round, as these
thoughts, the children of the world, passed across him, for he literally
fancied that he heard the sarcastic laugh of Mervale without. Nor was
he deceived. Mervale was passing by the threshold, and Gionetta had told
him his friend was within. Who does not know the effect of the world’s
laugh? Mervale was the personation of the world. The whole world seemed
to shout derision in those ringing tones. He drew back,--he recoiled.
Viola followed him with her earnest, impatient eyes. At last, he
faltered forth, “Do all of thy profession, beautiful Viola, exact
marriage as the sole condition of love?” Oh, bitter question! Oh,
poisoned taunt! He repented it the moment after. He was seized with
remorse of reason, of feeling, and of conscience. He saw her form
shrink, as it were, at his cruel words. He saw the colour come and go,
to leave the writhing lips like marble; and then, with a sad, gentle
look of self-pity, rather than reproach, she pressed her hands tightly
to her bosom, and said,--
“He was right! Pardon me, Englishman; I see now, indeed, that I am the
Pariah and the outcast.”
“Hear me. I retract. Viola, Viola! it is for you to forgive!”
But Viola waved him from her, and, smiling mournfully as she passed him
by, glided from the chamber; and he did not dare to detain her.