Clarence Glyndon was a young man of small but independent fortune. He
had, early in life, evinced considerable promise in the art of painting,
and rather from enthusiasm than the want of a profession, he had
resolved to devote himself to a career which in England has been seldom
entered upon by persons who can live on their own means. Without being
a poet, Glyndon had also manifested a graceful faculty for verse, which
had contributed to win his entry into society above his birth. Spoiled
and flattered from his youth upward, his natural talents were in some
measure relaxed by indolence and that worldly and selfish habit of
thought which frivolous companionship often engenders, and which is
withering alike to stern virtue and high genius. The luxuriance of his
fancy was unabated; but the affections, which are the life of fancy, had
grown languid and inactive. His youth, his vanity, and a restless daring
and thirst of adventure had from time to time involved him in dangers
and dilemmas, out of which, of late, he had always extricated himself
with the ingenious felicity of a clever head and cool heart. He had
left England for Rome with the avowed purpose and sincere resolution of
studying the divine masterpieces of art; but pleasure had soon allured
him from ambition, and he quitted the gloomy palaces of Rome for the
gay shores and animated revelries of Naples. Here he had fallen in
love--deeply in love, as he said and thought--with a young person
celebrated at Naples, Isabel di Pisani. She was the only daughter of an
Italian by an English mother. The father had known better days; in his
prosperity he had travelled, and won in England the affections of a lady
of some fortune. He had been induced to speculate; he lost his all; he
settled at Naples, and taught languages and music. His wife died when
Isabel, christened from her mother, was ten years old. At sixteen she
came out on the stage; two years afterwards her father departed this
life, and Isabel was an orphan.
Glyndon, a man of pleasure and a regular attendant at the theatre, had
remarked the young actress behind the scenes; he fell in love with
her, and he told her so. The girl listened to him, perhaps from vanity,
perhaps from ambition, perhaps from coquetry; she listened, and allowed
but few stolen interviews, in which she permitted no favor to the
Englishman it was one reason why he loved her so much.
The day following that on which our story opens, Glyndon was riding
alone by the shores of the Neapolitan sea, on the other side of the
Cavern of Pausilippo. It was past noon; the sun had lost its early
fervor, and a cool breeze sprang 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 recognized Zicci.
The Englishman saluted him courteously. “Have you discovered some
antique?” said he, with a smile; “they are as common as pebbles on this
road.”
“No,” replied Zicci; “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. But,” continued Zicci, looking
up with a slight and cold smile, “why do you linger on your way to
converse with me on matters in which you neither have knowledge nor
desire to obtain it? I read your heart, young Englishman: your curiosity
is excited; you wish to know me, and not this humble herb. Pass on; your
desire never can 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 Zicci. “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?”
“Some have found me so; 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
amused me.”
“I know it; minds like yours are attracted by mystery.”
Glyndon was piqued at those 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.”
Zicci 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 Isabel, 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 rapt in delicious revery, a slight touch upon his
shoulder; he turned, and beheld Zicci. “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, Zicci disappeared; and when
the Englishman saw him again, he was in the box of one of the Neapolitan
ministers, where Glyndon could not follow him.
Isabel now left the stage, and Glyndon accosted her with impassioned
gallantry. The actress was surprisingly beautiful; of fair complexion
and golden hair, her countenance was relieved from the tame and gentle
loveliness which the Italians suppose to be the characteristics of
English beauty, by the contrast of dark eyes and lashes, by a forehead
of great height, to which the dark outline of the eyebrows gave some
thing of majesty and command. In spite of the slightness of virgin
youth, her proportions had the nobleness, blent with the delicacy,
that belongs to the masterpieces of ancient sculpture; and there was
a conscious pride in her step, and in the swanlike bend of her stately
head, as she turned with an evident impatience from the address of her
lover. Taking aside an old woman, who was her constant and confidential
attendant at the theatre, she said, in an earnest whisper,--
“Oh, Gionetta, he is here again! I have seen him again! And again, he
alone of the whole theatre withholds from me his applause. He scarcely
seems to notice me; his indifference mortifies me to the soul,--I could
weep for rage and sorrow.”
“Which is he, my darling?” said the old woman, with fondness in her
voice. “He must be dull,--not worth thy thoughts.”
The actress drew Gionetta nearer to the stage, and pointed out to her
a man in one of the nearer boxes, conspicuous amongst all else by the
simplicity of his dress and the extraordinary beauty of his features.
“Not worth a thought, Gionetta,” repeated Isabel,--“not worth a thought!
Saw you ever one so noble, so godlike?”
“By the Holy Mother!” answered Gionetta, “he is a proper man, and has
the air of a prince.”
The prompter summoned the Signora Pisani. “Find out his name, Gionetta,”
said she, sweeping on 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 Isabel sought only those of one calm and
unmoved spectator; she exerted herself as if inspired. The stranger
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. Isabel, who was in the character of a jealous
and abandoned mistress, 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 if this young Englishman should accompany her home?”
“The presuming barbarian! At all events let him bleed for his folly. I
hear that she admits him to secret interviews. 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,--let him
be watched, and the fitting occasion taken. I trust him to you,--robbers
murder him; you understand: the country swarms with them. Plunder and
strip him. Take three men; the rest shall be my escort.”
Mascari shrugged his shoulders, and bowed submissively. Meanwhile
Glyndon besought Isabel, who recovered but slowly, to return home in his
carriage. (1) She had done so once or twice before, though she had never
permitted him to accompany her. This time she refused, and with some
petulance. 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 Isabel, the offer was
accepted; the actress, with a mixture of naivete and coquetry, gave her
handy to her lover, who kissed it with delight. 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 Zicci then suddenly
occurred to him; he had forgotten it in the interest of his lover’s
quarrel with Isabel. 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, who hustled and jostled and
pressed upon him; but he recognized no familiar countenances. While
pausing irresolute, he heard Merton’s voice calling on him, and to his
great relief discovered his friend making his way through the throng.
“I have secured you a place in the Count Cetoxa’s carriage,” said he.
“Come along, he is waiting for us.”
“How kind in you! How did you find me out?”
“I met Zicci in the passage. ‘Your friend is at the door of the
theatre,’ said he; ‘do not let him go home alone 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
asked Cetoxa, who was with me, to accompany you.”
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; “ecco Inglese!” Glyndon imperfectly heard the
exclamation as the carriage drove on. He reached home in safety.
“Have you discovered who he is?” asked the actress, as she was now alone
in the carriage with Gionetta.
“Yes, he is the celebrated Signor Zicci, about whom the court has
run mad. They say he is so rich,--oh, so much richer than any of the
Inglese! But a bird in the hand, my angel, is better than--”
“Cease,” interrupted the young actress. “Zicci! Speak of the Englishman
no more.”
The carriage was now entering that more lonely and remote part of the
city in which Isabel’s house was situated, when it suddenly stopped.
Gionetta, in alarm, thrust her head out of 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 arms round the form of the fair actress, and
endeavored to lift her from the carriage. But the Signora Pisani was not
an ordinary person; she had been before exposed to all the dangers to
which the beauty of the low-born was subjected amongst a lawless and
profligate nobility. She thrust back the assailant with a power that
surprised him, and in the next moment the blade of a dagger gleamed
before his eyes. “Touch me,” said she, drawing herself to the farther
end of the carriage, “and I strike!”
The mask drew back.
“By the body of Bacchus, a bold spirit!” said he, half laughing and half
alarmed. “Here, Luigi, Giovanni! disarm and seize her. Harm her not.”
The mask retired from the door, and another and yet taller form
presented itself. “Be calm, Isabel di 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 Zicci. “Be calm, be hushed; I can save
you.” He vanished, leaving Isabel 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 third guarded the
well-trained steeds of the party; three others, besides Zicci and the
one who had first accosted Isabel, stood apart by a carriage drawn to
the side of the road. To these Zicci 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, shoot him!” said Zicci,
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 Zicci, as he
entered the vehicle containing Isabel, and 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 Zicci. “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, for I showed them
his signet-ring, and accordingly dispersed; I then joined my own band,
whom I had left in the rear. You know all. We are at your door.”
(1) At that time in Naples carriages were both cheaper to hire, and more
necessary for strangers than they are now.