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.With thoughts of lust and murder, he is digging his own grave; thou mayest yet daunt him fromhis doom.And I also mysteriously, by the same bond, am pledged to obey, if he so command, aless guilty descendant of a baffled but nobler student.If he reject my counsel, and insist upon thepledge, Mejnour, thou wilt have another neophyte.Beware of another victim! Come to me! This willreach thee with all speed.Answer it by the pressure of one hand that I can dare to clasp!CHAPTER 3.VIII.Il lupoFerito, credo, mi conobbe e 'ncontroMi venne con la bocca sanguinosa."Aminta," At.iv.Sc.i.(The wounded wolf, I think, knew me, and came to meet me with its bloody mouth.)At Naples, the tomb of Virgil, beetling over the cave of Posilipo, is reverenced, not with the feelingsthat should hallow the memory of the poet, but the awe that wraps the memory of the magician.Tohis charms they ascribe the hollowing of that mountain passage; and tradition yet guards his tombby the spirits he had raised to construct the cavern.This spot, in the immediate vicinity of Viola'shome, had often attracted her solitary footsteps.She had loved the dim and solemn fancies thatbeset her as she looked into the lengthened gloom of the grotto, or, ascending to the tomb, gazed from the rock on the dwarfed figures of the busy crowd that seemed to creep like insects along thewindings of the soil below; and now, at noon, she bent thither her thoughtful way.She threaded thenarrow path, she passed the gloomy vineyard that clambers up the rock, and gained the lofty spot,green with moss and luxuriant foliage, where the dust of him who yet soothes and elevates theminds of men is believed to rest.From afar rose the huge fortress of St.Elmo, frowning darklyamidst spires and domes that glittered in the sun.Lulled in its azure splendour lay the Siren's sea;and the grey smoke of Vesuvius, in the clear distance, soared like a moving pillar into the lucid sky.Motionless on the brink of the precipice, Viola looked upon the lovely and living world that stretchedbelow; and the sullen vapour of Vesuvius fascinated her eye yet more than the scattered gardens,or the gleaming Caprea, smiling amidst the smiles of the sea.She heard not a step that hadfollowed her on her path and started to hear a voice at hand.So sudden was the apparition of theform that stood by her side, emerging from the bushes that clad the crags, and so singularly did itharmonise in its uncouth ugliness with the wild nature of the scene immediately around her, and thewizard traditions of the place, that the colour left her cheek, and a faint cry broke from her lips."Tush, pretty trembler!--do not be frightened at my face," said the man, with a bitter smile."Afterthree months' marriage, there is no different between ugliness and beauty.Custom is a greatleveller.I was coming to your house when I saw you leave it; so, as I have matters of importance tocommunicate, I ventured to follow your footsteps.My name is Jean Nicot, a name alreadyfavourably known as a French artist.The art of painting and the art of music are nearly connected,and the stage is an altar that unites the two."There was something frank and unembarrassed in the man's address that served to dispel the fearhis appearance had occasioned.He seated himself, as he spoke, on a crag beside her, and, lookingup steadily into her face, continued:--"You are very beautiful, Viola Pisani, and I am not surprised at the number of your admirers.If Ipresume to place myself in the list, it is because I am the only one who loves thee honestly, andwoos thee fairly.Nay, look not so indignant! Listen to me.Has the Prince di -- ever spoken to theeof marriage; or the beautiful imposter Zanoni, or the young blue-eyed Englishman, ClarenceGlyndon? It is marriage,--it is a home, it is safety, it is reputation, that I offer to thee; and these lastwhen the straight form grows crooked, and the bright eyes dim.What say you?" and he attemptedto seize her hand.Viola shrunk from him, and silently turned to depart.He rose abruptly and placed himself on herpath."Actress, you must hear me! Do you know what this calling of the stage is in the eyes of prejudice,--that is, of the common opinion of mankind? It is to be a princess before the lamps, and a Pariahbefore the day.No man believes in your virtue, no man credits your vows; you are the puppet thatthey consent to trick out with tinsel for their amusement, not an idol for their worship.Are you soenamoured of this career that you scorn even to think of security and honour? Perhaps you aredifferent from what you seem.Perhaps you laugh at the prejudice that would degrade you, andwould wisely turn it to advantage.Speak frankly to me; I have no prejudice either.Sweet one, I amsure we should agree.Now, this Prince di --, I have a message from him.Shall I deliver it?"Never had Viola felt as she felt then, never had she so thoroughly seen all the perils of her forelorncondition and her fearful renown.Nicot continued:--"Zanoni would but amuse himself with thy vanity; Glyndon would despise himself, if he offered theehis name, and thee, if thou wouldst accept it; but the Prince di -- is in earnest, and he is wealthy [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.With thoughts of lust and murder, he is digging his own grave; thou mayest yet daunt him fromhis doom.And I also mysteriously, by the same bond, am pledged to obey, if he so command, aless guilty descendant of a baffled but nobler student.If he reject my counsel, and insist upon thepledge, Mejnour, thou wilt have another neophyte.Beware of another victim! Come to me! This willreach thee with all speed.Answer it by the pressure of one hand that I can dare to clasp!CHAPTER 3.VIII.Il lupoFerito, credo, mi conobbe e 'ncontroMi venne con la bocca sanguinosa."Aminta," At.iv.Sc.i.(The wounded wolf, I think, knew me, and came to meet me with its bloody mouth.)At Naples, the tomb of Virgil, beetling over the cave of Posilipo, is reverenced, not with the feelingsthat should hallow the memory of the poet, but the awe that wraps the memory of the magician.Tohis charms they ascribe the hollowing of that mountain passage; and tradition yet guards his tombby the spirits he had raised to construct the cavern.This spot, in the immediate vicinity of Viola'shome, had often attracted her solitary footsteps.She had loved the dim and solemn fancies thatbeset her as she looked into the lengthened gloom of the grotto, or, ascending to the tomb, gazed from the rock on the dwarfed figures of the busy crowd that seemed to creep like insects along thewindings of the soil below; and now, at noon, she bent thither her thoughtful way.She threaded thenarrow path, she passed the gloomy vineyard that clambers up the rock, and gained the lofty spot,green with moss and luxuriant foliage, where the dust of him who yet soothes and elevates theminds of men is believed to rest.From afar rose the huge fortress of St.Elmo, frowning darklyamidst spires and domes that glittered in the sun.Lulled in its azure splendour lay the Siren's sea;and the grey smoke of Vesuvius, in the clear distance, soared like a moving pillar into the lucid sky.Motionless on the brink of the precipice, Viola looked upon the lovely and living world that stretchedbelow; and the sullen vapour of Vesuvius fascinated her eye yet more than the scattered gardens,or the gleaming Caprea, smiling amidst the smiles of the sea.She heard not a step that hadfollowed her on her path and started to hear a voice at hand.So sudden was the apparition of theform that stood by her side, emerging from the bushes that clad the crags, and so singularly did itharmonise in its uncouth ugliness with the wild nature of the scene immediately around her, and thewizard traditions of the place, that the colour left her cheek, and a faint cry broke from her lips."Tush, pretty trembler!--do not be frightened at my face," said the man, with a bitter smile."Afterthree months' marriage, there is no different between ugliness and beauty.Custom is a greatleveller.I was coming to your house when I saw you leave it; so, as I have matters of importance tocommunicate, I ventured to follow your footsteps.My name is Jean Nicot, a name alreadyfavourably known as a French artist.The art of painting and the art of music are nearly connected,and the stage is an altar that unites the two."There was something frank and unembarrassed in the man's address that served to dispel the fearhis appearance had occasioned.He seated himself, as he spoke, on a crag beside her, and, lookingup steadily into her face, continued:--"You are very beautiful, Viola Pisani, and I am not surprised at the number of your admirers.If Ipresume to place myself in the list, it is because I am the only one who loves thee honestly, andwoos thee fairly.Nay, look not so indignant! Listen to me.Has the Prince di -- ever spoken to theeof marriage; or the beautiful imposter Zanoni, or the young blue-eyed Englishman, ClarenceGlyndon? It is marriage,--it is a home, it is safety, it is reputation, that I offer to thee; and these lastwhen the straight form grows crooked, and the bright eyes dim.What say you?" and he attemptedto seize her hand.Viola shrunk from him, and silently turned to depart.He rose abruptly and placed himself on herpath."Actress, you must hear me! Do you know what this calling of the stage is in the eyes of prejudice,--that is, of the common opinion of mankind? It is to be a princess before the lamps, and a Pariahbefore the day.No man believes in your virtue, no man credits your vows; you are the puppet thatthey consent to trick out with tinsel for their amusement, not an idol for their worship.Are you soenamoured of this career that you scorn even to think of security and honour? Perhaps you aredifferent from what you seem.Perhaps you laugh at the prejudice that would degrade you, andwould wisely turn it to advantage.Speak frankly to me; I have no prejudice either.Sweet one, I amsure we should agree.Now, this Prince di --, I have a message from him.Shall I deliver it?"Never had Viola felt as she felt then, never had she so thoroughly seen all the perils of her forelorncondition and her fearful renown.Nicot continued:--"Zanoni would but amuse himself with thy vanity; Glyndon would despise himself, if he offered theehis name, and thee, if thou wouldst accept it; but the Prince di -- is in earnest, and he is wealthy [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]