Zanoni — Edward Bulwer-Lytton
Nicot, left alone, seemed for a few moments buried in thought. “Oho,” he muttered to himself, “can I not turn all this to my account? Can I not avenge myself on thee, Zanoni, as I have so often sworn, — through thy wife and child? Can I not possess myself of thy gold, thy passports, and thy Fillide, hot Englishman, who wouldst humble me with thy loathed benefits, and who hast chucked me thine alms as to a beggar? And Fillide, I love her: and thy gold, I love that more! Puppets, I move your strings! ” He passed slowly into the chamber where Fillide yet sat, with gloomy thought on her brow and tears standing in her dark eyes. She looked up eagerly as the door opened, and turned from the rugged face of Nicot with an impatient movement of disappointment. “Glyndon,” said the painter, drawing a chair to Fillide’s, “has left me to enliven your solitude, fair Italian. He is not jealous of the ugly Nicot !— ha, ha! —yet Nicot loved thee well once, when his fortunes were more fair. But enough of such past follies.” “Your friend, then, has left the house. Whither? Ah, you look away; you falter, — you cannot meet my eyes! Speak! I implore, I command thee, speak!” “ Enfant / and what dost thou fear? ” “ Fear /—yes, alas, I fear!” said the Italian; and her whole frame seemed to shrink into itself as she fell once more back into her seat. Then, after a pause, she tossed the long hair from her eyes, and, starting up abruptly, paced the room with disordered strides, At length she stopped opposite to Nicot, laid her hand on his arm, drew him towards an escritoire, which she unlocked, and, opening a well,. pointed to the gold that lay within, and said, “Thou art poor, — thou lovest money; take what thou wilt, but
ZANONI, 429
undeceive me. Who is this woman whom thy friend visits, — and does he love her?” Nicot’s eyes sparkled, and his hands opened and clenched, and clenched and opened, as he gazed upon the coins. But reluctantly resisting the impulse, he said, with an affected bitterness, “Thinkest thou to bribe me? — if so, it cannot be with gold. But what if he does love a rival; what if he betrays thee; what if, wearied by thy jealousies, he designs in his flight to leave thee behind, — would such knowledge make thee happier? ” “Yes!” exclaimed the Italian, fiercely; “yes, for it would be happiness to hate and to be avenged! Oh, thou knowest not how sweet is hatred to those who have really loved!” “But wilt thou swear, if I reveal to thee the secret, that thou wilt not betray me, —that thou wilt not fall, as women do, into weak tears and fond reproaches, when thy betrayer returns? ” “Tears, reproaches! Revenge hides itself in smiles! ” “Thou art a brave creature!” said Nicot, almost admiringly. “One condition more: thy lover designs to fly with his new love, to leave thee to thy fate; if I prove this to thee, and if I give thee revenge against thy rival, wilt thou fly with me? I love thee! —I will wed thee! ” Fillide’s eyes flashed fire; she looked at him with unutterable disdain, and was silent. Nicot felt he had gone too far; and with that knowledge of the evil part of our nature which his own heart and association with crime had taught him, he resolved to trust the rest to the passions of the Italian, when raised to the height to which he was prepared to lead them. “Pardon me,” he said; “my love made me too pre
p. 430
sumptuous; and yet it is only that love, — my sympathy for thee, beautiful and betrayed, that can induce me to wrong, with my revelations, one whom I have regarded as a brother. JI can depend upon thine oath to conceal all from Glyndon ? ” “On my oath and my wrongs and my mountain blood! ” “Enough! get thy hat and mantle, and follow me.” As Fillide left the room, Nicot’s eyes again rested on the gold; it was much, — much more than he had dared to hope for; and as he peered into the well and opened the drawers, he perceived a packet of letters in the wellknown hand of Camille Desmoulins. He seized — he opened the packet; his looks brightened as he glanced over a few sentences. “This would give fifty Glyndons to the guillotine! ” he muttered, and thrust the packet into his bosom. O artist! —O haunted one! —O erring genius! — behold the two worst foes, — the False Ideal that knows no God, and the False Love that burns from the corruption of the se»ses, and takes no lustre from the soul!
p. 431
CHAPTER III.
Liebe sonnt das Reich der Nacht. Der Triumph der Liebe.
Nicot, left alone, seemed for a few moments buried in thought. “Oho,” he muttered to himself, “can I not turn all this to my account? Can I not avenge myself on you, Zanoni, as I have so often sworn, — through your wife and child? Can I not possess myself of your gold, your passports, and your Fillide, hot Englishman, who would humble me with your loathed benefits, and who have chucked me your alms as to a beggar? And Fillide, I love her: and your gold, I love that more! Puppets, I move your strings! ” He passed slowly into the chamber where Fillide yet sat, with gloomy thought on her brow and tears standing in her dark eyes. She looked up eagerly as the door opened, and turned from the rugged face of Nicot with an impatient movement of disappointment. “Glyndon,” said the painter, drawing a chair to Fillide’s, “has left me to enliven your solitude, fair Italian. He is not jealous of the ugly Nicot !— ha, ha! —yet Nicot loved you well once, when his fortunes were more fair. But enough of such past follies.” “Your friend, then, has left the house. Whither? Ah, you look away; you falter, — you cannot meet my eyes! Speak! I implore, I command you, speak!” “ Enfant / and what do you fear? ” “ Fear /—yes, alas, I fear!” said the Italian; and her whole frame seemed to shrink into itself as she fell once more back into her seat. Then, after a pause, she tossed the long hair from her eyes, and, starting up abruptly, paced the room with disordered strides, At length she stopped opposite to Nicot, laid her hand on his arm, drew him towards an escritoire, which she unlocked, and, opening a well,. pointed to the gold that lay within, and said, “You are poor, — you lovest money; take what you will, but
p. 429
undeceive me. Who is this woman whom your friend visits, — and does he love her?” Nicot’s eyes sparkled, and his hands opened and clenched, and clenched and opened, as he gazed upon the coins. But reluctantly resisting the impulse, he said, with an affected bitterness, “Thinkest you to bribe me? — if so, it cannot be with gold. But what if he does love a rival; what if he betrays you; what if, wearied by your jealousies, he designs in his flight to leave you behind, — would such knowledge make you happier? ” “Yes!” exclaimed the Italian, fiercely; “yes, for it would be happiness to hate and to be avenged! Oh, you know not how sweet is hatred to those who have really loved!” “But will you swear, if I reveal to you the secret, that you will not betray me, —that you will not fall, as women do, into weak tears and fond reproaches, when your betrayer returns? ” “Tears, reproaches! Revenge hides itself in smiles! ” “You are a brave creature!” said Nicot, almost admiringly. “One condition more: your lover designs to fly with his new love, to leave you to your fate; if I prove this to you, and if I give you revenge against your rival, will you fly with me? I love you! —I will wed you! ” Fillide’s eyes flashed fire; she looked at him with unutterable disdain, and was silent. Nicot felt he had gone too far; and with that knowledge of the evil part of our nature which his own heart and association with crime had taught him, he resolved to trust the rest to the passions of the Italian, when raised to the height to which he was prepared to lead them. “Pardon me,” he said; “my love made me too pre
p. 430
sumptuous; and yet it is only that love, — my sympathy for you, beautiful and betrayed, that can induce me to wrong, with my revelations, one whom I have regarded as a brother. JI can depend upon your oath to conceal all from Glyndon ? ” “On my oath and my wrongs and my mountain blood! ” “Enough! get your hat and mantle, and follow me.” As Fillide left the room, Nicot’s eyes again rested on the gold; it was much, — much more than he had dared to hope for; and as he peered into the well and opened the drawers, he perceived a packet of letters in the wellknown hand of Camille Desmoulins. He seized — he opened the packet; his looks brightened as he glanced over a few sentences. “This would give fifty Glyndons to the guillotine! ” he muttered, and thrust the packet into his bosom. O artist! —O haunted one! —O erring genius! — behold the two worst foes, — the False Ideal that knows no God, and the False Love that burns from the corruption of the se»ses, and takes no lustre from the soul!
p. 431
CHAPTER III.
Liebe sonnt das Reich der Nacht. Der Triumph der Liebe.
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