Zanoni — Chapter 13
(But leave me, I solemnly conjure thee, signor, to speak of wrath, and to sing of death.
) The young actress was led to, and left alone in a chamber adorned with all the luxurious and half-Eastern taste that at one time characterised the palaces of the great seigneurs of Italy.
Her first thought was for Zanoni.
Was he yet living?
Had he escaped unscathed the blades of the foe,--her new treasure, the new light of her life, her lord, at last her lover?
She had short time for reflection.
She heard steps approaching the chamber; she drew back, but trembled not.
A courage not of herself, never known before, sparkled in her eyes, and dilated her stature.
Living or dead, she would be faithful still to Zanoni!
There was a new motive to the preservation of honour.
The door opened, and the prince entered in the gorgeous and gaudy custume still worn at that time in Naples.
“Fair and cruel one,” said he, advancing with a half-sneer upon his lip, “thou wilt not too harshly blame the violence of love.
” He attempted to take her hand as he spoke.
“Nay,” said he, as she recoiled, “reflect that thou art now in the power of one that never faltered in the pursuit of an object less dear to him than thou art.
Thy lover, presumptuous though he be, is not by to save thee.
Mine thou art; but instead of thy master, suffer me to be thy slave.
” “Prince,” said Viola, with a stern gravity, “your boast is in vain.
Your power!
I am NOT in your power.
Life and death are in my own hands.
I
will not defy; but I do not fear you.
I feel--and in some feelings,” added Viola, with a solemnity almost thrilling, “there is all the strength, and all the divinity of knowledge--I feel that I am safe even here; but you--you, Prince di --, have brought danger to your home and hearth!
” The Neapolitan seemed startled by an earnestness and boldness he was but little prepared for.
He was not, however, a man easily intimidated or deterred from any purpose he had formed; and, approaching Viola, he was about to reply with much warmth, real or affected, when a knock was heard at the door of the chamber.
The sound was repeated, and the prince, chafed at the interruption, opened the door and demanded impatiently who had ventured to disobey his orders, and invade his leisure.
Mascari presented himself, pale and agitated: “My lord,” said he, in a whisper, “pardon me; but a stranger is below, who insists on seeing you; and, from some words he let fall, I judged it advisable even to infringe your commands.
” “A stranger!
--and at this hour!
What business can he pretend?
Why was he even admitted?
” “He asserts that your life is in imminent danger.
The source whence it proceeds he will relate to your Excellency alone.
” The prince frowned; but his colour changed.
He mused a moment, and then, re-entering the chamber and advancing towards Viola, he said,-- “Believe me, fair creature, I have no wish to take advantage of my power.
I would fain trust alone to the gentler authorities of affection.
Hold yourself queen within these walls more absolutely than you have ever enacted that part on the stage.
To-night, farewell!
May your sleep be calm, and your dreams propitious to my hopes.
” With these words he retired, and in a few moments Viola was surrounded by officious attendants, whom she at length, with some difficulty, dismissed; and, refusing to retire to rest, she spent the night in examining the chamber, which she found was secured, and in thoughts of Zanoni, in whose power she felt an almost preternatural confidence.
Meanwhile the prince descended the stairs and sought the room into which the stranger had been shown.
He found the visitor wrapped from head to foot in a long robe, half-gown, half-mantle, such as was sometimes worn by ecclesiastics.
The face of this stranger was remarkable.
So sunburnt and swarthy were his hues, that he must, apparently, have derived his origin amongst the races of the farthest East.
His forehead was lofty, and his eyes so penetrating yet so calm in their gaze that the prince shrank from them as we shrink from a questioner who is drawing forth the guiltiest secret of our hearts.
“What would you with me?
” asked the prince, motioning his visitor to a seat.
“Prince of --,” said the stranger, in a voice deep and sweet, but foreign in its accent,--“son of the most energetic and masculine race that ever applied godlike genius to the service of Human Will, with its winding wickedness and its stubborn grandeur; descendant of the great Visconti in whose chronicles lies the history of Italy in her palmy day, and in whose rise was the development of the mightiest intellect, ripened by the most restless ambition,--I come to gaze upon the last star in a darkening firmament.
By this hour to-morrow space shall know it not.
Man, unless thy whole nature change, thy days are numbered!
” “What means this jargon?
” said the prince, in visible astonishment and secret awe.
“Comest thou to menace me in my own halls, or wouldst thou warn me of a danger?
Art thou some itinerant mountebank, or some unguessed-of friend?
Speak out, and plainly.
What danger threatens me?
” “Zanoni and thy ancestor’s sword,” replied the stranger.
“Ha!
ha!
” said the prince, laughing scournfully; “I half-suspected thee from the first.
Thou art then the accomplice or the tool of that most dexterous, but, at present, defeated charlatan?
And I suppose thou wilt tell me that if I were to release a certain captive I have made, the danger would vanish, and the hand of the dial would be put back?
” “Judge of me as thou wilt, Prince di --.
I confess my knowledge of Zanoni.
Thou, too, wilt know his power, but not till it consume thee.
I would save, therefore I warn thee.
Dost thou ask me why?
I will tell thee.
Canst thou remember to have heard wild tales of thy grandsire;
of his desire for a knowledge that passes that of the schools and cloisters; of a strange man from the East who was his familiar and master in lore against which the Vatican has, from age to age, launched its mimic thunder?
Dost thou call to mind the fortunes of thy ancestor?
--how he succeeded in youth to little but a name; how, after a career wild and dissolute as thine, he disappeared from Milan, a pauper, and a self-exile; how, after years spent, none knew in what climes or in what pursuits, he again revisited the city where his progenitors had reigned; how with him came the wise man of the East, the mystic Mejnour;
how they who beheld him, beheld with amaze and fear that time had ploughed no furrow on his brow; that youth seemed fixed, as by a spell, upon his face and form?
Dost thou not know that from that hour his fortunes rose?
Kinsmen the most remote died; estate upon estate fell into the hands of the ruined noble.
He became the guide of princes, the first magnate of Italy.
He founded anew the house of which thou art the last lineal upholder, and transferred his splendour from Milan to the Sicilian realms.
Visions of high ambition were then present with him nightly and daily.
Had he lived, Italy would have known a new dynasty, and the Visconti would have reigned over Magna-Graecia.
He was a man such as the world rarely sees; but his ends, too earthly, were at war with the means he sought.
Had his ambition been more or less, he had been worthy of a realm mightier than the Caesars swayed; worthy of our solemn order; worthy of the fellowship of Mejnour, whom you now behold before you.
” The prince, who had listened with deep and breathless attention to the words of his singular guest, started from his seat at his last words.
“Imposter!
” he cried, “can you dare thus to play with my credulity?
Sixty years have flown since my grandsire died; were he living, he had passed his hundred and twentieth year; and you, whose old age is erect and vigorous, have the assurance to pretend to have been his contemporary!
But you have imperfectly learned your tale.
You know not, it seems, that my grandsire, wise and illustrious indeed, in all save his faith in a charlatan, was found dead in his bed, in the very hour when his colossal plans were ripe for execution, and that Mejnour was guilty of his murder.
” “Alas!
” answered the stranger, in a voice of great sadness, “had he but listened to Mejnour,--had he but delayed the last and most perilous ordeal of daring wisdom until the requisite training and initiation had been completed,--your ancestor would have stood with me upon an eminence which the waters of Death itself wash everlastingly, but cannot overflow.
Your grandsire resisted my fervent prayers, disobeyed my most absolute commands, and in the sublime rashness of a soul that panted for secrets, which he who desires orbs and sceptres never can obtain, perished, the victim of his own frenzy.
” “He was poisoned, and Mejnour fled.
” “Mejnour fled not,” answered the stranger, proudly--“Mejnour could not fly from danger; for to him danger is a thing long left behind.
It was the day before the duke took the fatal draft which he believed was to confer on the mortal the immortal boon, that, finding my power over him was gone, I abandoned him to his doom.
But a truce with this: I loved your grandsire!
I would save the last of his race.
Oppose not thyself to Zanoni.
Yield not thy soul to thine evil passions.
Draw back from the precipice while there is yet time.
In thy front, and in thine eyes, I detect some of that diviner glory which belonged to thy race.
Thou hast in thee some germs of their hereditary genius, but they are choked up by worse than thy hereditary vices.
Recollect that by genius thy house rose; by vice it ever failed to perpetuate its power.
In the laws which regulate the universe, it is decreed that nothing wicked can long endure.
Be wise, and let history warn thee.
Thou standest on the verge of two worlds, the past and the future; and voices from either shriek omen in thy ear.
I have done.
I bid thee farewell!
” “Not so; thou shalt not quit these walls.
I will make experiment of thy boasted power.
What, ho there!
--ho!
” The prince shouted; the room was filled with his minions.
“Seize that man!
” he cried, pointing to the spot which had been filled by the form of Mejnour.
To his inconceivable amaze and horror, the spot was vacant.
The mysterious stranger had vanished like a dream; but a thin and fragrant mist undulated, in pale volumes, round the walls of the chamber.
“Look to my lord,” cried Mascari.
The prince had fallen to the floor insensible.
For many hours he seemed in a kind of trance.
When he recovered, he dismissed his attendants, and his step was heard in his chamber, pacing to and fro, with heavy and disordered strides.
Not till an hour before his banquet the next day did he seem restored to his wonted self.
CHAPTER 3. XV.
Oime!
come poss’ io Altri trovar, se me trovar non posso.
“Amint.
,” At.
i.
Sc.
ii.
(Alas!
how can I find another when I cannot find myself?
) The sleep of Glyndon, the night after his last interview with Zanoni, was unusually profound; and the sun streamed full upon his eyes as he opened them to the day.
He rose refreshed, and with a strange sentiment of calmness that seemed more the result of resolution than exhaustion.
The incidents and emotions of the past night had settled into distinct and clear impressions.
He thought of them but slightly,--he thought rather of the future.
He was as one of the initiated in the old Egyptian mysteries who have crossed the gate only to long more ardently for the penetralia.
He dressed himself, and was relieved to find that Mervale had joined a party of his countrymen on an excursion to Ischia.
He spent the heat of noon in thoughtful solitude, and gradually the image of Viola returned to his heart.
It was a holy--for it was a HUMAN--image.
He had resigned her; and though he repented not, he was troubled at the thought that repentance would have come too late.
He started impatiently from his seat, and strode with rapid steps to the humble abode of the actress.
The distance was considerable, and the air oppressive.
Glyndon arrived at the door breathless and heated.
He knocked; no answer came.
He lifted the latch and entered.
He ascended the stairs; no sound, no sight of life met his ear and eye.
In the front chamber, on a table, lay the guitar of the actress, and some manuscript parts in the favourite operas.
He paused, and, summoning courage, tapped at the door which seemed to lead into the inner apartment.
The door was ajar; and, hearing no sound within, he pushed it open.
It was the sleeping-chamber of the young actress, that holiest ground to a lover; and well did the place become the presiding deity: none of the tawdry finery of the profession was visible, on the one hand; none of the slovenly disorder common to the humbler classes of the South, on the other.
All was pure and simple;
even the ornaments were those of an innocent refinement,--a few books, placed carefully on shelves, a few half-faded flowers in an earthen vase, which was modelled and painted in the Etruscan fashion.
The sunlight streamed over the snowy draperies of the bed, and a few articles of clothing on the chair beside it.
Viola was not there; but the nurse!
--was she gone also?
He made the house resound with the name of Gionetta, but there was not even an echo to reply.
At last, as he reluctantly quitted the desolate abode, he perceived Gionetta coming towards him from the street.
The poor old woman uttered an exclamation of joy on seeing him; but, to their mutual disappointment, neither had any cheerful tidings or satisfactory explanation to afford the other.
Gionetta had been aroused from her slumber the night before by the noise in the rooms below; but ere she could muster courage to descend, Viola was gone!
She found the marks of violence on the door without; and all she had since been able to learn in the neighbourhood was, that a Lazzarone, from his nocturnal resting-place on the Chiaja, had seen by the moonlight a carriage, which he recognised as belonging to the Prince di --, pass and repass that road about the first hour of morning.
Glyndon, on gathering from the confused words and broken sobs of the old nurse the heads of this account, abruptly left her, and repaired to the palace of Zanoni.
There he was informed that the signor was gone to the banquet of the Prince di --, and would not return till late.
Glyndon stood motionless with perplexity and dismay; he knew not what to believe, or how to act.
Even Mervale was not at hand to advise him.
His conscience smote him bitterly.
He had had the power to save the woman he had loved, and had foregone that power; but how was it that in this Zanoni himself had failed?
How was it that he was gone to the very banquet of the ravisher?
Could Zanoni be aware of what had passed?
If not, should he lose a moment in apprising him?
Though mentally irresolute, no man was more physically brave.
He would repair at once to the palace of the prince himself; and if Zanoni failed in the trust he had half-appeared to arrogate, he, the humble foreigner, would demand the captive of fraud and force, in the very halls and before the assembled guests of the Prince di --.
CHAPTER 3. XVI.
Ardua vallatur duris sapientia scrupis.
Hadr.
Jun.
, “Emblem.
” xxxvii.
(Lofty wisdom is circled round with rugged rocks.
) We must go back some hours in the progress of this narrative.
It was the first faint and gradual break of the summer dawn; and two men stood in a balcony overhanging a garden fragrant with the scents of the awakening flowers.
The stars had not yet left the sky,--the birds were yet silent on the boughs: all was still, hushed, and tranquil; but how different the tranquillity of reviving day from the solemn repose of night!
In the music of silence there are a thousand variations.
These men, who alone seemed awake in Naples, were Zanoni and the mysterious stranger who had but an hour or two ago startled the Prince di -- in his voluptuous palace.
“No,” said the latter; “hadst thou delayed the acceptance of the Arch-gift until thou hadst attained to the years, and passed through all the desolate bereavements that chilled and seared myself ere my researches had made it mine, thou wouldst have escaped the curse of which thou complainest now,--thou wouldst not have mourned over the brevity of human affection as compared to the duration of thine own existence; for thou wouldst have survived the very desire and dream of the love of woman.
Brightest, and, but for that error, perhaps the loftiest, of the secret and solemn race that fills up the interval in creation between mankind and the children of the Empyreal, age after age wilt thou rue the splendid folly which made thee ask to carry the beauty and the passions of youth into the dreary grandeur of earthly immortality.
” “I do not repent, nor shall I,” answered Zanoni.
“The transport and the sorrow, so wildly blended, which have at intervals diversified my doom, are better than the calm and bloodless tenor of thy solitary way--thou, who lovest nothing, hatest nothing, feelest nothing, and walkest the world with the noiseless and joyless footsteps of a dream!
” “You mistake,” replied he who had owned the name of Mejnour,--“though I care not for love, and am dead to every PASSION that agitates the sons of clay, I am not dead to their more serene enjoyments.
I carry down the stream of the countless years, not the turbulent desires of youth, but the calm and spiritual delights of age.
Wisely and deliberately I abandoned youth forever when I separated my lot from men.
Let us not envy or reproach each other.
I would have saved this Neapolitan, Zanoni (since so it now pleases thee to be called), partly because his grandsire was but divided by the last airy barrier from our own brotherhood, partly because I know that in the man himself lurk the elements of ancestral courage and power, which in earlier life would have fitted him for one of us.
Earth holds but few to whom Nature has given the qualities that can bear the ordeal.
But time and excess, that have quickened his grosser senses, have blunted his imagination.
I
relinquish him to his doom.
” “And still, then, Mejnour, you cherish the desire to revive our order, limited now to ourselves alone, by new converts and allies.
Surely--surely--thy experience might have taught thee, that scarcely once in a thousand years is born the being who can pass through the horrible gates that lead into the worlds without!
Is not thy path already strewed with thy victims?
Do not their ghastly faces of agony and fear--the blood-stained suicide, the raving maniac--rise before thee, and warn what is yet left to thee of human sympathy from thy insane ambition?
” “Nay,” answered Mejnour; “have I not had success to counterbalance failure?
And can I forego this lofty and august hope, worthy alone of our high condition,--the hope to form a mighty and numerous race with a force and power sufficient to permit them to acknowledge to mankind their majestic conquests and dominion, to become the true lords of this planet, invaders, perchance, of others, masters of the inimical and malignant tribes by which at this moment we are surrounded: a race that may proceed, in their deathless destinies, from stage to stage of celestial glory, and rank at last amongst the nearest ministrants and agents gathered round the Throne of Thrones?
What matter a thousand victims for one convert to our band?
And you, Zanoni,” continued Mejnour, after a pause,--“you, even you, should this affection for a mortal beauty that you have dared, despite yourself, to cherish, be more than a passing fancy; should it, once admitted into your inmost nature, partake of its bright and enduring essence,--even you may brave all things to raise the beloved one into your equal.
Nay, interrupt me not.
Can you see sickness menace her; danger hover around; years creep on;
the eyes grow dim; the beauty fade, while the heart, youthful still, clings and fastens round your own,--can you see this, and know it is yours to--” “Cease!
” cried Zanoni, fiercely.
“What is all other fate as compared to the death of terror?
What, when the coldest sage, the most heated enthusiast, the hardiest warrior with his nerves of iron, have been found dead in their beds, with straining eyeballs and horrent hair, at the first step of the Dread Progress,--thinkest thou that this weak woman--from whose cheek a sound at the window, the screech of the night-owl, the sight of a drop of blood on a man’s sword, would start the colour--could brave one glance of--Away!
the very thought of such sights for her makes even myself a coward!
” “When you told her you loved her,--when you clasped her to your breast, you renounced all power to foresee her future lot, or protect her from harm.
Henceforth to her you are human, and human only.
How know you, then, to what you may be tempted; how know you what her curiosity may learn and her courage brave?
But enough of this,--you are bent on your pursuit?
” “The fiat has gone forth.
” “And to-morrow?
” “To-morrow, at this hour, our bark will be bounding over yonder ocean, and the weight of ages will have fallen from my heart!
I compassionate thee, O foolish sage,--THOU hast given up THY youth!
” CHAPTER 3. XVII.
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.
