Alch: Thou always speakest riddles. Tell me if thou art that
fountain of which Bernard Lord Trevizan writ?
Merc: I am not that fountain, but I am the water. The fountain
compasseth me about.
Sandivogius, “New Light of Alchymy.”
The Prince di -- was not a man whom Naples could suppose to be addicted
to superstitious fancies. Still, in the South of Italy, there was then,
and there still lingers a certain spirit of credulity, which may, ever
and anon, be visible amidst the boldest dogmas of their philosophers and
sceptics. In his childhood, the prince had learned strange tales of the
ambition, the genius, and the career of his grandsire,--and secretly,
perhaps influenced by ancestral example, in earlier youth he himself
had followed science, not only through her legitimate course, but her
antiquated and erratic windings. I have, indeed, been shown in Naples a
little volume, blazoned with the arms of the Visconti, and ascribed
to the nobleman I refer to, which treats of alchemy in a spirit
half-mocking and half-reverential.
Pleasure soon distracted him from such speculations, and his talents,
which were unquestionably great, were wholly perverted to extravagant
intrigues, or to the embellishment of a gorgeous ostentation with
something of classic grace. His immense wealth, his imperious pride,
his unscrupulous and daring character, made him an object of no
inconsiderable fear to a feeble and timid court; and the ministers of
the indolent government willingly connived at excesses which allured him
at least from ambition. The strange visit and yet more strange departure
of Mejnour filled the breast of the Neapolitan with awe and wonder,
against which all the haughty arrogance and learned scepticism of his
maturer manhood combated in vain. The apparition of Mejnour served,
indeed, to invest Zanoni with a character in which the prince had not
hitherto regarded him. He felt a strange alarm at the rival he had
braved,--at the foe he had provoked. When, a little before his banquet,
he had resumed his self-possession, it was with a fell and gloomy
resolution that he brooded over the perfidious schemes he had previously
formed. He felt as if the death of the mysterious Zanoni were necessary
for the preservation of his own life; and if at an earlier period of
their rivalry he had determined on the fate of Zanoni, the warnings of
Mejnour only served to confirm his resolve.
“We will try if his magic can invent an antidote to the bane,” said
he, half-aloud, and with a stern smile, as he summoned Mascari to his
presence. The poison which the prince, with his own hands, mixed into
the wine intended for his guest, was compounded from materials, the
secret of which had been one of the proudest heir-looms of that able
and evil race which gave to Italy her wisest and guiltiest tyrants. Its
operation was quick yet not sudden: it produced no pain,--it left on
the form no grim convulsion, on the skin no purpling spot, to arouse
suspicion; you might have cut and carved every membrane and fibre of the
corpse, but the sharpest eyes of the leech would not have detected the
presence of the subtle life-queller. For twelve hours the victim felt
nothing save a joyous and elated exhilaration of the blood; a delicious
languor followed, the sure forerunner of apoplexy. No lancet then
could save! Apoplexy had run much in the families of the enemies of the
Visconti!
The hour of the feast arrived,--the guests assembled. There were the
flower of the Neapolitan seignorie, the descendants of the Norman, the
Teuton, the Goth; for Naples had then a nobility, but derived it from
the North, which has indeed been the Nutrix Leonum,--the nurse of the
lion-hearted chivalry of the world.
Last of the guests came Zanoni; and the crowd gave way as the dazzling
foreigner moved along to the lord of the palace. The prince greeted him
with a meaning smile, to which Zanoni answered by a whisper, “He who
plays with loaded dice does not always win.”
The prince bit his lip, and Zanoni, passing on, seemed deep in
conversation with the fawning Mascari.
“Who is the prince’s heir?” asked the guest.
“A distant relation on the mother’s side; with his Excellency dies the
male line.”
“Is the heir present at our host’s banquet?”
“No; they are not friends.”
“No matter; he will be here to-morrow.”
Mascari stared in surprise; but the signal for the banquet was given,
and the guests were marshalled to the board. As was the custom then, the
feast took place not long after mid-day. It was a long, oval hall, the
whole of one side opening by a marble colonnade upon a court or garden,
in which the eye rested gratefully upon cool fountains and statues of
whitest marble, half-sheltered by orange-trees. Every art that
luxury could invent to give freshness and coolness to the languid and
breezeless heat of the day without (a day on which the breath of the
sirocco was abroad) had been called into existence. Artificial currents
of air through invisible tubes, silken blinds waving to and fro, as if
to cheat the senses into the belief of an April wind, and miniature jets
d’eau in each corner of the apartment, gave to the Italians the same
sense of exhilaration and COMFORT (if I may use the word) which the
well-drawn curtains and the blazing hearth afford to the children of
colder climes.
The conversation was somewhat more lively and intellectual than is
common amongst the languid pleasure-hunters of the South; for the
prince, himself accomplished, sought his acquaintance not only amongst
the beaux esprits of his own country, but amongst the gay foreigners who
adorned and relieved the monotony of the Neapolitan circles. There were
present two or three of the brilliant Frenchmen of the old regime, who
had already emigrated from the advancing Revolution; and their peculiar
turn of thought and wit was well calculated for the meridian of a
society that made the dolce far niente at once its philosophy and its
faith. The prince, however, was more silent than usual; and when he
sought to rouse himself, his spirits were forced and exaggerated. To the
manners of his host, those of Zanoni afforded a striking contrast. The
bearing of this singular person was at all times characterised by a calm
and polished ease, which was attributed by the courtiers to the long
habit of society. He could scarcely be called gay; yet few persons more
tended to animate the general spirits of a convivial circle. He seemed,
by a kind of intuition, to elicit from each companion the qualities in
which he most excelled; and if occasionally a certain tone of latent
mockery characterised his remarks upon the topics on which the
conversation fell, it appeared to men who took nothing in earnest to be
the language both of wit and wisdom. To the Frenchmen, in particular,
there was something startling in his intimate knowledge of the minutest
events in their own capital and country, and his profound penetration
(evinced but in epigrams and sarcasms) into the eminent characters who
were then playing a part upon the great stage of continental intrigue.
It was while this conversation grew animated, and the feast was at its
height, that Glyndon arrived at the palace. The porter, perceiving by
his dress that he was not one of the invited guests, told him that
his Excellency was engaged, and on no account could be disturbed;
and Glyndon then, for the first time, became aware how strange and
embarrassing was the duty he had taken on himself. To force an entrance
into the banquet-hall of a great and powerful noble, surrounded by the
rank of Naples, and to arraign him for what to his boon-companions would
appear but an act of gallantry, was an exploit that could not fail to be
at once ludicrous and impotent. He mused a moment, and, slipping a piece
of gold into the porter’s hand, said that he was commissioned to seek
the Signor Zanoni upon an errand of life and death, and easily won his
way across the court, and into the interior building. He passed up the
broad staircase, and the voices and merriment of the revellers smote
his ear at a distance. At the entrance of the reception-rooms he found
a page, whom he despatched with a message to Zanoni. The page did the
errand; and Zanoni, on hearing the whispered name of Glyndon, turned to
his host.
“Pardon me, my lord; an English friend of mine, the Signor Glyndon (not
unknown by name to your Excellency) waits without,--the business must
indeed be urgent on which he has sought me in such an hour. You will
forgive my momentary absence.”
“Nay, signor,” answered the prince, courteously, but with a sinister
smile on his countenance, “would it not be better for your friend
to join us? An Englishman is welcome everywhere; and even were he a
Dutchman, your friendship would invest his presence with attraction.
Pray his attendance; we would not spare you even for a moment.”
Zanoni bowed; the page was despatched with all flattering messages
to Glyndon,--a seat next to Zanoni was placed for him, and the young
Englishman entered.
“You are most welcome, sir. I trust your business to our illustrious
guest is of good omen and pleasant import. If you bring evil news, defer
it, I pray you.”
Glyndon’s brow was sullen; and he was about to startle the guests by
his reply, when Zanoni, touching his arm significantly, whispered in
English, “I know why you have sought me. Be silent, and witness what
ensues.”
“You know then that Viola, whom you boasted you had the power to save
from danger--”
“Is in this house!--yes. I know also that Murder sits at the right hand
of our host. But his fate is now separated from hers forever; and the
mirror which glasses it to my eye is clear through the streams of blood.
Be still, and learn the fate that awaits the wicked!
“My lord,” said Zanoni, speaking aloud, “the Signor Glyndon has indeed
brought me tidings not wholly unexpected. I am compelled to leave
Naples,--an additional motive to make the most of the present hour.”
“And what, if I may venture to ask, may be the cause that brings such
affliction on the fair dames of Naples?”
“It is the approaching death of one who honoured me with most loyal
friendship,” replied Zanoni, gravely. “Let us not speak of it; grief
cannot put back the dial. As we supply by new flowers those that fade
in our vases, so it is the secret of worldly wisdom to replace by fresh
friendships those that fade from our path.”
“True philosophy!” exclaimed the prince. “‘Not to admire,’ was the
Roman’s maxim; ‘Never to mourn,’ is mine. There is nothing in life to
grieve for, save, indeed, Signor Zanoni, when some young beauty, on whom
we have set our hearts, slips from our grasp. In such a moment we have
need of all our wisdom, not to succumb to despair, and shake hands with
death. What say you, signor? You smile! Such never could be your lot.
Pledge me in a sentiment, ‘Long life to the fortunate lover,--a quick
release to the baffled suitor’?”
“I pledge you,” said Zanoni; and, as the fatal wine was poured into his
glass, he repeated, fixing his eyes on the prince, “I pledge you even in
this wine!”
He lifted the glass to his lips. The prince seemed ghastly pale,
while the gaze of his guest bent upon him, with an intent and stern
brightness, beneath which the conscience-stricken host cowered and
quailed. Not till he had drained his draft, and replaced the glass upon
the board, did Zanoni turn his eyes from the prince; and he then said,
“Your wine has been kept too long; it has lost its virtues. It might
disagree with many, but do not fear: it will not harm me, prince, Signor
Mascari, you are a judge of the grape; will you favour us with your
opinion?”
“Nay,” answered Mascari, with well-affected composure, “I like not the
wines of Cyprus; they are heating. Perhaps Signor Glyndon may not have
the same distaste? The English are said to love their potations warm and
pungent.”
“Do you wish my friend also to taste the wine, prince?” said Zanoni.
“Recollect, all cannot drink it with the same impunity as myself.”
“No,” said the prince, hastily; “if you do not recommend the wine,
Heaven forbid that we should constrain our guests! My lord duke,”
turning to one of the Frenchmen, “yours is the true soil of Bacchus.
What think you of this cask from Burgundy? Has it borne the journey?”
“Ah,” said Zanoni, “let us change both the wine and the theme.”
With that, Zanoni grew yet more animated and brilliant. Never did wit
more sparkling, airy, exhilarating, flash from the lips of reveller.
His spirits fascinated all present--even the prince himself, even
Glyndon--with a strange and wild contagion. The former, indeed, whom the
words and gaze of Zanoni, when he drained the poison, had filled with
fearful misgivings, now hailed in the brilliant eloquence of his wit a
certain sign of the operation of the bane. The wine circulated fast; but
none seemed conscious of its effects. One by one the rest of the party
fell into a charmed and spellbound silence, as Zanoni continued to pour
forth sally upon sally, tale upon tale. They hung on his words, they
almost held their breath to listen. Yet, how bitter was his mirth; how
full of contempt for the triflers present, and for the trifles which
made their life!
Night came on; the room grew dim, and the feast had lasted several hours
longer than was the customary duration of similar entertainments at
that day. Still the guests stirred not, and still Zanoni continued, with
glittering eye and mocking lip, to lavish his stores of intellect
and anecdote; when suddenly the moon rose, and shed its rays over the
flowers and fountains in the court without, leaving the room itself half
in shadow, and half tinged by a quiet and ghostly light.
It was then that Zanoni rose. “Well, gentlemen,” said he, “we have not
yet wearied our host, I hope; and his garden offers a new temptation to
protract our stay. Have you no musicians among your train, prince,
that might regale our ears while we inhale the fragrance of your
orange-trees?”
“An excellent thought!” said the prince. “Mascari, see to the music.”
The party rose simultaneously to adjourn to the garden; and then, for
the first time, the effect of the wine they had drunk seemed to make
itself felt.
With flushed cheeks and unsteady steps they came into the open air,
which tended yet more to stimulate that glowing fever of the grape.
As if to make up for the silence with which the guests had hitherto
listened to Zanoni, every tongue was now loosened,--every man talked,
no man listened. There was something wild and fearful in the contrast
between the calm beauty of the night and scene, and the hubbub and
clamour of these disorderly roysters. One of the Frenchmen, in especial,
the young Duc de R--, a nobleman of the highest rank, and of all the
quick, vivacious, and irascible temperament of his countrymen, was
particularly noisy and excited. And as circumstances, the remembrance
of which is still preserved among certain circles of Naples, rendered it
afterwards necessary that the duc should himself give evidence of what
occurred, I will here translate the short account he drew up, and which
was kindly submitted to me some few years ago by my accomplished and
lively friend, Il Cavaliere di B--.
“I never remember,” writes the duc, “to have felt my spirits so excited
as on that evening; we were like so many boys released from school,
jostling each other as we reeled or ran down the flight of seven
or eight stairs that led from the colonnade into the garden,--some
laughing, some whooping, some scolding, some babbling. The wine had
brought out, as it were, each man’s inmost character. Some were loud and
quarrelsome, others sentimental and whining; some, whom we had hitherto
thought dull, most mirthful; some, whom we had ever regarded as discreet
and taciturn, most garrulous and uproarious. I remember that in the
midst of our clamorous gayety, my eye fell upon the cavalier Signor
Zanoni, whose conversation had so enchanted us all; and I felt a
certain chill come over me to perceive that he wore the same calm and
unsympathising smile upon his countenance which had characterised it
in his singular and curious stories of the court of Louis XIV. I felt,
indeed, half-inclined to seek a quarrel with one whose composure
was almost an insult to our disorder. Nor was such an effect of this
irritating and mocking tranquillity confined to myself alone. Several of
the party have told me since, that on looking at Zanoni they felt their
blood yet more heated, and gayety change to resentment. There seemed in
his icy smile a very charm to wound vanity and provoke rage. It was at
this moment that the prince came up to me, and, passing his arm into
mine, led me a little apart from the rest. He had certainly indulged in
the same excess as ourselves, but it did not produce the same effect of
noisy excitement. There was, on the contrary, a certain cold arrogance
and supercilious scorn in his bearing and language, which, even while
affecting so much caressing courtesy towards me, roused my self-love
against him. He seemed as if Zanoni had infected him; and in imitating
the manner of his guest, he surpassed the original. He rallied me on
some court gossip, which had honoured my name by associating it with a
certain beautiful and distinguished Sicilian lady, and affected to treat
with contempt that which, had it been true, I should have regarded as a
boast. He spoke, indeed, as if he himself had gathered all the flowers
of Naples, and left us foreigners only the gleanings he had scorned.
At this my natural and national gallantry was piqued, and I retorted
by some sarcasms that I should certainly have spared had my blood been
cooler. He laughed heartily, and left me in a strange fit of resentment
and anger. Perhaps (I must own the truth) the wine had produced in me a
wild disposition to take offence and provoke quarrel. As the prince left
me, I turned, and saw Zanoni at my side.
“‘The prince is a braggart,’ said he, with the same smile that
displeased me before. ‘He would monopolize all fortune and all love. Let
us take our revenge.’
“‘And how?’
“‘He has at this moment, in his house, the most enchanting singer in
Naples,--the celebrated Viola Pisani. She is here, it is true, not by
her own choice; he carried her hither by force, but he will pretend that
she adores him. Let us insist on his producing this secret treasure, and
when she enters, the Duc de R-- can have no doubt that his flatteries
and attentions will charm the lady, and provoke all the jealous fears of
our host. It would be a fair revenge upon his imperious self-conceit.’
“This suggestion delighted me. I hastened to the prince. At that instant
the musicians had just commenced; I waved my hand, ordered the music to
stop, and, addressing the prince, who was standing in the centre of one
of the gayest groups, complained of his want of hospitality in affording
to us such poor proficients in the art, while he reserved for his own
solace the lute and voice of the first performer in Naples. I demanded,
half-laughingly, half-seriously, that he should produce the Pisani. My
demand was received with shouts of applause by the rest. We drowned the
replies of our host with uproar, and would hear no denial. ‘Gentlemen,’
at last said the prince, when he could obtain an audience, ‘even were
I to assent to your proposal, I could not induce the signora to present
herself before an assemblage as riotous as they are noble. You have too
much chivalry to use compulsion with her, though the Duc de R--forgets
himself sufficiently to administer it to me.’
“I was stung by this taunt, however well deserved. ‘Prince,’ said I, ‘I
have for the indelicacy of compulsion so illustrious an example that I
cannot hesitate to pursue the path honoured by your own footsteps. All
Naples knows that the Pisani despises at once your gold and your love;
that force alone could have brought her under your roof; and that you
refuse to produce her, because you fear her complaints, and know enough
of the chivalry your vanity sneers at to feel assured that the gentlemen
of France are not more disposed to worship beauty than to defend it from
wrong.’
“‘You speak well, sir,’ said Zanoni, gravely. ‘The prince dares not
produce his prize!’
“The prince remained speechless for a few moments, as if with
indignation. At last he broke out into expressions the most injurious
and insulting against Signor Zanoni and myself. Zanoni replied not; I
was more hot and hasty. The guests appeared to delight in our dispute.
None, except Mascari, whom we pushed aside and disdained to hear, strove
to conciliate; some took one side, some another. The issue may be well
foreseen. Swords were called for and procured. Two were offered me by
one of the party. I was about to choose one, when Zanoni placed in
my hand the other, which, from its hilt, appeared of antiquated
workmanship. At the same moment, looking towards the prince, he said,
smilingly, ‘The duc takes your grandsire’s sword. Prince, you are too
brave a man for superstition; you have forgot the forfeit!’ Our host
seemed to me to recoil and turn pale at those words; nevertheless, he
returned Zanoni’s smile with a look of defiance. The next moment all was
broil and disorder. There might be some six or eight persons engaged
in a strange and confused kind of melee, but the prince and myself only
sought each other. The noise around us, the confusion of the guests,
the cries of the musicians, the clash of our own swords, only served
to stimulate our unhappy fury. We feared to be interrupted by the
attendants, and fought like madmen, without skill or method. I thrust
and parried mechanically, blind and frantic, as if a demon had entered
into me, till I saw the prince stretched at my feet, bathed in his
blood, and Zanoni bending over him, and whispering in his ear. That
sight cooled us all. The strife ceased; we gathered, in shame, remorse,
and horror, round our ill-fated host; but it was too late,--his eyes
rolled fearfully in his head. I have seen many men die, but never one
who wore such horror on his countenance. At last all was over! Zanoni
rose from the corpse, and, taking, with great composure, the sword from
my hand, said calmly, ‘Ye are witnesses, gentlemen, that the prince
brought his fate upon himself. The last of that illustrious house has
perished in a brawl.’
“I saw no more of Zanoni. I hastened to our envoy to narrate the event,
and abide the issue. I am grateful to the Neapolitan government, and to
the illustrious heir of the unfortunate nobleman, for the lenient and
generous, yet just, interpretation put upon a misfortune the memory of
which will afflict me to the last hour of my life.
(Signed) “Louis Victor, Duc de R.”
In the above memorial, the reader will find the most exact and minute
account yet given of an event which created the most lively sensation at
Naples in that day.
Glyndon had taken no part in the affray, neither had he participated
largely in the excesses of the revel. For his exemption from both he was
perhaps indebted to the whispered exhortations of Zanoni. When the last
rose from the corpse, and withdrew from that scene of confusion, Glyndon
remarked that in passing the crowd he touched Mascari on the shoulder,
and said something which the Englishman did not overhear. Glyndon
followed Zanoni into the banquet-room, which, save where the moonlight
slept on the marble floor, was wrapped in the sad and gloomy shadows of
the advancing night.
“How could you foretell this fearful event? He fell not by your arm!”
said Glyndon, in a tremulous and hollow tone.
“The general who calculates on the victory does not fight in person,”
answered Zanoni; “let the past sleep with the dead. Meet me at midnight
by the sea-shore, half a mile to the left of your hotel. You will know
the spot by a rude pillar--the only one near--to which a broken chain
is attached. There and then, if thou wouldst learn our lore, thou shalt
find the master. Go; I have business here yet. Remember, Viola is still
in the house of the dead man!”
Here Mascari approached, and Zanoni, turning to the Italian, and waving
his hand to Glyndon, drew the former aside. Glyndon slowly departed.
“Mascari,” said Zanoni, “your patron is no more; your services will
be valueless to his heir,--a sober man whom poverty has preserved
from vice. For yourself, thank me that I do not give you up to the
executioner; recollect the wine of Cyprus. Well, never tremble, man; it
could not act on me, though it might react on others; in that it is a
common type of crime. I forgive you; and if the wine should kill me,
I promise you that my ghost shall not haunt so worshipful a penitent.
Enough of this; conduct me to the chamber of Viola Pisani. You have
no further need of her. The death of the jailer opens the cell of the
captive. Be quick; I would be gone.”
Mascari muttered some inaudible words, bowed low, and led the way to the
chamber in which Viola was confined.