As he spoke he moved on slowly, and left Viola wondering, silent, saddened with his dim prophecy of coming evil, and yet, through sadness, charmed. Involuntarily her eyes followed him,involuntarily she stretched forth her arms, as if by a gesture to call him back; she would have given worlds to have seen him turn,to have heard once more his low, calm, silvery voice; to have felt again the light touch of his hand on hers. As moonlight that softens into beauty every angle on which it falls, seemed his presence,as moonlight vanishes, and things assume their common aspect of the rugged and the mean, he receded from her eyes, and the outward scene was commonplace once more.
The stranger passed on, through that long and lovely road which reaches at last the palaces that face the public gardens, and conducts to the more populous quarters of the city.
A group of young, dissipated courtiers, loitering by the gateway of a house which was open for the favourite pastime of the day,the resort of the wealthier and more high-born gamesters,made way for him, as with a courteous inclination he passed them by.
Per fede, said one, is not that the rich Zanoni, of whom the town talks?
Ay; they say his wealth is incalculable!
THEY say,who are THEY?what is the authority? He has not been many days at Naples, and I cannot yet find any one who knows aught of his birthplace, his parentage, or, what is more important, his estates!
That is true; but he arrived in a goodly vessel, which THEY SAY is his own. See,no, you cannot see it here; but it rides yonder in the bay. The bankers he deals with speak with awe of the sums placed in their hands.
Whence came he?
From some seaport in the East. My valet learned from some of the sailors on the Mole that he had resided many years in the interior of India.
Ah, I am told that in India men pick up gold like pebbles, and that there are valleys where the birds build their nests with emeralds to attract the moths. Here comes our prince of gamesters, Cetoxa; be sure that he already must have made acquaintance with so wealthy a cavalier; he has that attraction to gold which the magnet has to steel. Well, Cetoxa, what fresh news of the ducats of Signor Zanoni?
Oh, said Cetoxa, carelessly, my friend
Ha! ha! hear him; his friend
Yes; my friend Zanoni is going to Rome for a short time; when he returns, he has promised me to fix a day to sup with me, and I will then introduce him to you, and to the best society of Naples! Diavolo! but he is a most agreeable and witty gentleman!
Pray tell us how you came so suddenly to be his friend.
My dear Belgioso, nothing more natural. He desired a box at San Carlo; but I need not tell you that the expectation of a new opera (ah, how superb it is,that poor devil, Pisani; who would have thought it?) and a new singer (what a face,what a voice!ah!) had engaged every corner of the house. I heard of Zanonis desire to honour the talent of Naples, and, with my usual courtesy to distinguished strangers, I sent to place my box at his disposal. He accepts it,I wait on him between the acts; he is most charming; he invites me to supper. Cospetto, what a retinue! We sit late,I tell him all the news of Naples; we grow bosom friends; he presses on me this diamond before we part,is a trifle, he tells me: the jewellers value it at 5000 pistoles!the merriest evening I have passed these ten years.
The cavaliers crowded round to admire the diamond.
Signor Count Cetoxa, said one grave-looking sombre man, who had crossed himself two or three times during the Neapolitans narrative, are you not aware of the strange reports about this person; and are you not afraid to receive from him a gift which may carry with it the most fatal consequences? Do you not know that he is said to be a sorcerer; to possess the mal-occhio; to
Prithee, spare us your antiquated superstitions, interrupted Cetoxa, contemptuously. They are out of fashion; nothing now goes down but scepticism and philosophy. And what, after all, do these rumours, when sifted, amount to? They have no origin but this,a silly old man of eighty-six, quite in his dotage, solemnly avers that he saw this same Zanoni seventy years ago (he himself, the narrator, then a mere boy) at Milan; when this very Zanoni, as you all see, is at least as young as you or I, Belgioso.
But that, said the grave gentleman,THAT is the mystery. Old Avelli declares that Zanoni does not seem a day older than when they met at Milan. He says that even then at Milanmark thiswhere, though under another name, this Zanoni appeared in the same splendour, he was attended also by the same mystery. And that an old man THERE remembered to have seen him sixty years before, in Sweden.
Tush, returned Cetoxa, the same thing has been said of the quack Cagliostro,mere fables. I will believe them when I see this diamond turn to a wisp of hay. For the rest, he added gravely, I consider this illustrious gentleman my friend; and a whisper against his honour and repute will in future be equivalent to an affront to myself.
Cetoxa was a redoubted swordsman, and excelled in a peculiarly awkward manoeuvre, which he himself had added to the variations of the stoccata. The grave gentleman, however anxious for the spiritual weal of the count, had an equal regard for his own corporeal safety. He contented himself with a look of compassion, and, turning through the gateway, ascended the stairs to the gaming-tables.
Ha, ha! said Cetoxa, laughing, our good Loredano is envious of my diamond. Gentlemen, you sup with me to-night. I assure you I never met a more delightful, sociable, entertaining person, than my dear friend the Signor Zanoni.
CHAPTER 1.V
Quello Ippogifo, grande e strano augello
Lo porta via.
(That hippogriff, great and marvellous bird, bears him away.)
And now, accompanying this mysterious Zanoni, am I compelled to bid a short farewell to Naples. Mount behind me,mount on my hippogriff, reader; settle yourself at your ease. I bought the pillion the other day of a poet who loves his comfort; it has been newly stuffed for your special accommodation. So, so, we ascend! Look as we ride aloft,look!never fear, hippogriffs never stumble; and every hippogriff in Italy is warranted to carry elderly gentlemen,look down on the gliding landscapes! There, near the ruins of the Oscans old Atella, rises Aversa, once the stronghold of the Norman; there gleam the columns of Capua, above the Vulturnian Stream. Hail to ye, cornfields and vineyards famous for the old Falernian! Hail to ye, golden orange-groves of Mola di Gaeta! Hail to ye, sweet shrubs and wild flowers, omnis copia narium, that clothe the mountain-skirts of the silent Lautulae! Shall we rest at the Volscian Anxur,the modern Terracina,where the lofty rock stands like the giant that guards the last borders of the southern land of love? Away, away! and hold your breath as we flit above the Pontine Marshes. Dreary and desolate, their miasma is to the gardens we have passed what the rank commonplace of life is to the heart when it has left love behind.
Mournful Campagna, thou openest on us in majestic sadness. Rome, seven-hilled Rome! receive us as Memory receives the way-worn; receive us in silence, amidst ruins! Where is the traveller we pursue? Turn the hippogriff loose to graze: he loves the acanthus that wreathes round yon broken columns. Yes, that is the arch of Titus, the conqueror of Jerusalem,that the Colosseum! Through one passed the triumph of the deified invader; in one fell the butchered gladiators. Monuments of murder, how poor the thoughts, how mean the memories ye awaken, compared with those that speak to the heart of man on the heights of Phyle, or by thy lone mound, grey Marathon! We stand amidst weeds and brambles and long waving herbage. Where we stand reigned Nero,here were his tessellated floors; here,
Mighty in the heaven, a second heaven,
hung the vault of his ivory roofs; here, arch upon arch, pillar on pillar, glittered to the world the golden palace of its master,the Golden House of Nero. How the lizard watches us with his bright, timorous eye! We disturb his reign. Gather that wild flower: the Golden House is vanished, but the wild flower may have kin to those which the strangers hand scattered over the tyrants grave; see, over this soil, the grave of Rome, Nature strews the wild flowers still!
In the midst of this desolation is an old building of the middle ages. Here dwells a singular recluse. In the season of the malaria the native peasant flies the rank vegetation round; but he, a stranger and a foreigner, no associates, no companions, except books and instruments of science. He is often seen wandering over the grass-grown hills, or sauntering through the streets of the new city, not with the absent brow and incurious air of students, but with observant piercing eyes that seem to dive into the hearts of the passers-by. An old man, but not infirm,erect and stately, as if in his prime. None know whether he be rich or poor. He asks no charity, and he gives none,he does no evil, and seems to confer no good. He is a man who appears to have no world beyond himself; but appearances are deceitful, and Science, as well as Benevolence, lives in the Universe. This abode, for the first time since thus occupied, a visitor enters. It is Zanoni.
You observe those two men seated together, conversing earnestly. Years long and many have flown away since they met last,at least, bodily, and face to face. But if they are sages, thought can meet thought, and spirit spirit, though oceans divide the forms. Death itself divides not the wise. Thou meetest Plato when thine eyes moisten over the Phaedo. May Homer live with all men forever!
They converse; they confess to each other; they conjure up the past, and repeople it; but note how differently do such remembrances affect the two. On Zanonis face, despite its habitual calm, the emotions change and go. HE has acted in the past he surveys; but not a trace of the humanity that participates in joy and sorrow can be detected on the passionless visage of his companion; the past, to him, as is now the present, has been but as Nature to the sage, the volume to the student,a calm and spiritual life, a study, a contemplation.
From the past they turn to the future. Ah! at the close of the last century, the future seemed a thing tangible,it was woven up in all mens fears and hopes of the present.
At the verge of that hundred years, Man, the ripest born of Time,
(An des Jahrhunderts Neige, Der reifste Sohn der Zeit. Die Kunstler.)
stood as at the deathbed of the Old World, and beheld the New Orb, blood-red amidst cloud and vapour,uncertain if a comet or a sun. Behold the icy and profound disdain on the brow of the old man,the lofty yet touching sadness that darkens the glorious countenance of Zanoni. Is it that one views with contempt the struggle and its issue, and the other with awe or pity? Wisdom contemplating mankind leads but to the two results,compassion or disdain. He who believes in other worlds can accustom himself to look on this as the naturalist on the revolutions of an ant-hill, or of a leaf. What is the Earth to Infinity,what its duration to the Eternal? Oh, how much greater is the soul of one man than the vicissitudes of the whole globe! Child of heaven, and heir of immortality, how from some star hereafter wilt thou look back on the ant-hill and its commotions, from Clovis to Robespierre, from Noah to the Final Fire. The spirit that can contemplate, that lives only in the intellect, can ascend to its star, even from the midst of the burial-ground called Earth, and while the sarcophagus called Life immures in its clay the everlasting!
But thou, Zanoni,thou hast refused to live ONLY in the intellect; thou hast not mortified the heart; thy pulse still beats with the sweet music of mortal passion; thy kind is to thee still something warmer than an abstraction,thou wouldst look upon this Revolution in its cradle, which the storms rock; thou wouldst see the world while its elements yet struggle through the chaos!
Go!
CHAPTER 1.VI
Precepteurs ignorans de ce faible univers.Voltaire.
(Ignorant teachers of this weak world.)
Nous etions a table chez un de nos confreres a lAcademie, Grand Seigneur et homme desprit.La Harpe.
(We supped with one of our confreres of the Academy,a great nobleman and wit.)
One evening, at Paris, several months after the date of our last chapter, there was a reunion of some of the most eminent wits of the time, at the house of a personage distinguished alike by noble birth and liberal accomplishments. Nearly all present were of the views that were then the mode. For, as came afterwards a time when nothing was so unpopular as the people, so that was the time when nothing was so vulgar as aristocracy. The airiest fine gentleman and the haughtiest noble prated of equality, and lisped enlightenment.
Among the more remarkable guests were Condorcet, then in the prime of his reputation, the correspondent of the king of Prussia, the intimate of Voltaire, the member of half the academies of Europe,noble by birth, polished in manners, republican in opinions. There, too, was the venerable Malesherbes, lamour et les delices de la Nation. (The idol and delight of the nation (so-called by his historian, Gaillard).) There Jean Silvain Bailly, the accomplished scholar,the aspiring politician. It was one of those petits soupers for which the capital of all social pleasures was so renowned. The conversation, as might be expected, was literary and intellectual, enlivened by graceful pleasantry. Many of the ladies of that ancient and proud noblessefor the noblesse yet existed, though its hours were already numberedadded to the charm of the society; and theirs were the boldest criticisms, and often the most liberal sentiments.
Vain labour for mevain labour almost for the grave English languageto do justice to the sparkling paradoxes that flew from lip to lip. The favourite theme was the superiority of the moderns to the ancients. Condorcet on this head was eloquent, and to some, at least, of his audience, most convincing. That Voltaire was greater than Homer few there were disposed to deny. Keen was the ridicule lavished on the dull pedantry which finds everything ancient necessarily sublime.
Yet, said the graceful Marquis de , as the champagne danced to his glass, more ridiculous still is the superstition that finds everything incomprehensible holy! But intelligence circulates, Condorcet; like water, it finds its level. My hairdresser said to me this morning, Though I am but a poor fellow, I believe as little as the finest gentleman! Unquestionably, the great Revolution draws near to its final completion,a pas de geant, as Montesquieu said of his own immortal work.
Then there rushed from allwit and noble, courtier and republicana confused chorus, harmonious only in its anticipation of the brilliant things to which the great Revolution was to give birth. Here Condrocet is more eloquent than before.
Il faut absolument que la Superstition et le Fanatisme fassent place a la Philosophie. (It must necessarily happen that superstition and fanaticism give place to philosophy.) Kings persecute persons, priests opinion. Without kings, men must be safe; and without priests, minds must be free.
Ah, murmured the marquis, and as ce cher Diderot has so well sung,
Et des boyaux du dernier pretre Serrez le cou du dernier roi.