Zanoni — Edward Bulwer-Lytton

“Blessed Maria! do not talk of this terrible Zanoni. You may be sure that his beautiful face, like his yet more beautiful pistoles, is only witchcraft. I look at the money he gave me the other night, every quarter of an hour, to see whether it has not turned into pebbles.” “Do you then really believe,” said Viola, with timid earnestness, “that sorcery still exists? ” “Believe! Do I believe in the blessed San Gennaro? How do you think he cured old Filippo the fisherman, when the doctor gave him up?) How do you think he has managed himself to live at least these three hundred years? How do you think he fascinates every one to his bidding with a look, as the vampires do? ” “ Ah, is this only witchcraft? Itis like it, — it must be!” murmured Viola, turning very pale. Gionetta herself was scarcely more superstitious than the daughter of the musician. And her very innocence, chilled at the strangeness of virgin passion, might well ascribe to magic what hearts more experienced would have resolved to love. “ And then, why has this great Prince di been so terrified by him? Why has he ceased to persecute us? Why has he been so quiet and still? Is there no sorcery in all that? ” “Think you, then,” said Viola, with sweet inconsistency, “ that I owe that happiness and safety to his protection? Oh, let me so believe! Be silent, Gionetta! Why have I only thee and my own terrors to consult? O beautiful sun!” and the girl pressed her hand to her heart with wild energy; “thou lightest every spot but this. Go, Gionetta! leave me alone, — leave me! ” “ And indeed it is time I should leave you; for the polenta will be spoiled, and you have eat nothing all

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day. If you don’t eat you will lose your beauty, my darling, and then nobody will care fir you. Nobody cares for us when we grow ugly,— I know that; and then you must, like old Gionetta, get some Viola of your own to spoil. I’ll go and see to the polenta,” “Since I have known this man,” said the girl, half aloud, —“ since his dark eyes have haunted me, I am no longer the same. I long to escape from myself, —to glide with the sunbeam over the hill-tops; to become something that is not of earth. Phantoms float before me at night; and a fluttering, like the wing of a bird, within my heart, seems as if the spirit were terrified, and would break its cage.” While murmuring these incoherent rhapsodies, a step that she did not hear approached the actress, and a light hand touched her arm. “ Viola! — bellissima ! — Viola She turned, and saw Glyndon. The sight of his fair young face calmed her at once. His presence gave her pleasure. “Viola,” said the Englishman, taking her hand, and drawing her again to the bench from which she had risen, as he seated himself beside her, “ you shall hear me speak! You must know already that I love thee! It has not been pity or admiration alone that has led me ever and ever to thy dear side; reasons there may have been why I have not spoken, save by my eyes, before; but this day —I know not how it is —I feel a more sustained and settled courage to address thee, and learn the happiest or the worst. I have rivals, I know, —rivals who are more powerful than the poor artist; are they also more favored ? ” Viola blushed faintly ; but her countenance was grave and distressed. Looking down, and marking some

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hieroglyphical figures in the dust with the point of her slipper, she said, with some hesitation, and a vain attempt to be gay, “ Signor, whoever wastes his thoughts on an actress must submit to have rivals. It is our unhappy destiny not to be sacred even to ourselves.” “But you do not love this destiny, glittering though it seem; your heart is not in the vocation which your gifts adorn.” “Ah, no!” said the actress, her eyes filling with tears. “Once I loved to be the priestess of song and music; now I feel only that it is a miserable lot to be slave to a multitude.” “Fly, then, with me,” said the artist, passionately ; “ait forever the calling that divides that heart I would have all my own. Share my fate now and forever, — my pride, my delight, my ideal! Thou shalt inspire my canvas and my song; thy beauty shall be made at once holy and renowned. In the galleries of princes, crowds shall gather round the effigy of a Venus or a Saint, and a whisper shall break forth, ‘It is Viola Pisani!’ Ah! Viola, I adore thee; tell me that I do not worship in vain.” “Thou art good and fair,” said Viola, gazing on her lover, as he pressed nearer to her, and clasped her hand in his; “ but what should I give thee in return? ” “ Love, love, — only love! ” “A sister’s love? ” “ Ah, speak not with such cruel coldness! ” “Tt is all I have for thee. Listen to me, signor: when I look on your face, when I hear your voice, a certain serene and tranquil calm creeps over and lulls thoughts, — oh, how feverish, how wild! When thou art gone, the day seems a shade more dark; but the shadow soon flies. I miss thee not; I think not of thee:

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