Zanoni — Edward Bulwer-Lytton
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
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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 favor 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,
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and carriages were both less expensive and more neces sary. 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 recognized no familiar countenance. While pausing irresolute, he heard Mervale’s voice calling on him, and, to his great relief, discovered his friend mat his way through the throng. “T 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? ” “T met Zanoni in.the passage,— ‘Your friend is at the door of the theatre,’ said he; ‘do not let him ga
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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 you! —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
p. 84
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 you, 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 favor 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,
p. 85
and carriages were both less expensive and more neces sary. 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 recognized no familiar countenance. While pausing irresolute, he heard Mervale’s voice calling on him, and, to his great relief, discovered his friend mat his way through the throng. “T 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? ” “T met Zanoni in.the passage,— ‘Your friend is at the door of the theatre,’ said he; ‘do not let him ga
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