CHAPTER 2.II.
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."
