Zicci, Complete - Edward Bulwer Lytton
ZICCI
A Tale
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
In the gardens at Naples, one summer evening in the last century, some
four or five gentlemen were seated under a tree drinking their sherbet
and listening, in the intervals of conversation, to the music which
enlivened that gay and favorite resort of an indolent population. One of
this little party was a young Englishman who had been the life of the
whole group, but who for the last few moments had sunk into a gloomy and
abstracted revery. One of his countrymen observed this sudden gloom, and
tapping him on the back, said, "Glyndon, why, what ails you? Are you ill?
You have grown quite pale; you tremble: is it a sudden chill? You had
better go home; these Italian nights are often dangerous to our English
constitutions."
"No, I am well now,--it was but a passing shudder; I cannot account for
it myself."
A man apparently of about thirty years of age, and of a mien and
countenance strikingly superior to those around him, turned abruptly, and
looked steadfastly at Glyndon.
"I think I understand what you mean," said he,--"and perhaps," he added,
with a grave smile, "I could explain it better than yourself." Here,
turning to the others, he added, "You must often have felt,
gentlemen,--each and all of you,--especially when sitting alone at night,
a strange and unaccountable sensation of coldness and awe creep over you;
your blood curdles, and the heart stands still; the limbs shiver, the
hair bristles; you are afraid to look up, to turn your eyes to the darker
corners of the room; you have a horrible fancy that something unearthly
is at hand. Presently the whole spell, if I may so call it, passes away,
and you are ready to laugh at your own weakness. Have you not often felt
what I have thus imperfectly described? If so, you can understand what
our young friend has just experienced, even amidst the delights of this
magical scene, and amidst the balmy whispers of a July night."
"Sir," replied Glyndon, evidently much surprised, "you have defined
exactly the nature of that shudder which came over me. But how could my
manner be so faithful an index to my impressions?"
"I know the signs of the visitation," returned the stranger, gravely;
"they are not to be mistaken by one of my experience."
All the gentlemen present then declared that they could comprehend, and
had felt, what the stranger had described. "According to one of our
national superstitions," said Merton, the Englishman who had first
addressed Glyndon, "the moment you so feel your blood creep, and your
hair stand on end, some one is walking over the spot which shall be your
grave."
"There are in all lands different superstitions to account for so common
an occurrence," replied the stranger; "one sect among the Arabians hold
that at that instant God is deciding the hour either of your death or
that of some one dear to you. The African savage, whose imagination is
darkened by the hideous rites of his gloomy idolatry, believes that the
Evil Spirit is pulling you towards him by the hair. So do the Grotesque
and the Terrible mingle with each other."
"It is evidently a mere physical accident,--a derangement of the stomach;
a chill of the blood," said a young Neapolitan.
"Then why is it always coupled, in all nations, with some superstitious
presentiment or terror,--some connection between the material frame and
the supposed world without us?" asked the stranger. "For my part, I
think--"
"What do you think, sir?" asked Glyndon, curiously.
"I think," continued the stranger, "that it is the repugnance and horror
of that which is human about us to something indeed invisible, but
antipathetic to our own nature, and from a knowledge of which we are
happily secured by the imperfection of our senses."
"You are a believer in spirits, then?" asked Merton, with an incredulous
smile.
"Nay, I said not so. I can form no notion of a spirit, as the
metaphysicians do, and certainly have no fear of one; but there may be
forms of matter as invisible and impalpable to us as the animalculae to
which I have compared them. The monster that lives and dies in a drop of
water, carniverous, insatiable, subsisting on the creatures minuter than
himself, is not less deadly in his wrath, less ferocious in his nature,
than the tiger of the desert. There may be things around us malignant and
hostile to men, if Providence had not placed a wall between them and us,
merely by different modifications of matter."
"And could that wall never be removed?" asked young Glyndon, abruptly.
"Are the traditions of sorcerer and wizard, universal and immemorial as
they are, merely fables?"
"Perhaps yes; perhaps no," answered the stranger, indifferently. "But
who, in an age in which the reason has chosen its proper bounds, would be
mad enough to break the partition that divides him from the boa and the
lion, to repine at and rebel against the law of nature which confines the
shark to the great deep? Enough of these idle speculations."
Here the stranger rose, summoned the attendant, paid for his sherbet,
and, bowing slightly to the company, soon disappeared among the trees.
"Who is that gentleman?" asked Glyndon, eagerly.
The rest looked at each other, without replying, for some moments.
"I never saw him before," said Merton, at last.
"Nor I."
"Nor I."
"I have met him often," said the Neapolitan, who was named Count Cetoxa;
"it was, if you remember, as my companion that he joined you. He has been
some months at Naples; he is very rich,--indeed enormously so. Our
acquaintance commenced in a strange way."
"How was it?"
"I had been playing at a public gaming-house, and had lost considerably.
I rose from the table, resolved no longer to tempt Fortune, when this
gentleman, who had hitherto been a spectator, laying his hand on my arm,
said with politeness, 'Sir, I see you enjoy play,--I dislike it; but I
yet wish to have some interest in what is going on. Will you play this
sum for me? The risk is mine,--the half-profits yours.' I was startled,
as you may suppose, at such an address; but the stranger had an air and
tone with him it was impossible to resist. Besides, I was burning to
recover my losses, and should not have risen had I had any money left
about me. I told him I would accept his offer, provided we shared the
risk as well as profits. 'As you will,' said he, smiling, 'we need have
no scruple, for you will be sure to win.' I sat down, the stranger stood
behind me; my luck rose, I invariably won. In fact, I rose from the table
a rich man."
"There can be no foul play at the public tables, especially when foul
play would make against the bank."
"Certainly not," replied the count. "But our good fortune was indeed
marvellous,--so extraordinary that a Sicilian (the Sicilians are all
ill-bred, bad-tempered fellows) grew angry and insolent. 'Sir,' said he,
turning to my new friend, 'you have no business to stand so near to the
table. I do not understand this; you have not acted fairly.' The
spectator replied, with great composure, that he had done nothing against
the rules; that he was very sorry that one man could not win without
another man losing; and that he could not act unfairly even if disposed
to do so. The Sicilian took the stranger's mildness for
apprehension,--blustered more loudly, and at length fairly challenged
him. 'I never seek a quarrel, and I never shun a danger,' returned my
partner; and six or seven of us adjourned to the garden behind the house.
I was of course my partner's second. He took me aside. 'This man will
die,' said he; 'see that he is buried privately in the church of St.
Januario, by the side of his father.'
"'Did you know his family?' I asked with great surprise. He made no
answer, but drew his sword and walked deliberately to the spot we had
selected. The Sicilian was a renowned swordsman; nevertheless, in the
third pass he was run through the body. I went up to him; he could
scarcely speak. 'Have you any request to make,--any affairs to settle?'
He shook his head. 'Where would you wish to be interred?' He pointed
towards the Sicilian coast. 'What!' said I, in surprise, 'not by the side
of your father?' As I spoke, his face altered terribly, he uttered a
piercing shriek; the blood gushed from his mouth, and he fell dead. The
most strange part of the story is to come. We buried him in the church of
St. Januario. In doing so, we took up his father's coffin; the lid came
off in moving it, and the skeleton was visible. In the hollow of the
skull we found a very slender wire of sharp steel; this caused great
surprise and inquiry. The father, who was rich and a miser, had died
suddenly and been buried in haste, owing, it was said, to the heat of the
weather. Suspicion once awakened, the examination became minute. The old
man's servant was questioned, and at last confessed that the son had
murdered the sire. The contrivance was ingenious; the wire was so slender
that it pierced to the brain and drew but one drop of blood, which the
gray hairs concealed. The accomplice was executed."
"And this stranger, did he give evidence? Did he account for--"
"No," interrupted the count, "he declared that he had by accident visited
the church that morning; that he had observed the tombstone of the Count
Salvolio; that his guide had told him the count's son was in Naples,--a
spendthrift and a gambler. While we were at play, he had heard the count
mentioned by name at the table; and when the challenge was given and
accepted, it had occured to him to name the place of burial, by an
instinct he could not account for."
"A very lame story," said Merton.
"Yes, but we Italians are superstitious. The alleged instinct was
regarded as the whisper of Providence; the stranger became an object of
universal interest and curiosity. His wealth, his manner of living, his
extraordinary personal beauty, have assisted also to make him the rage."
"What is his name?" asked Glyndon.
"Zicci. Signor Zicci."
"Is it not an Italian name? He speaks English like a native."
"So he does French and German, as well as Italian, to my knowledge. But
he declares himself a Corsican by birth, though I cannot hear of any
eminent Corsican family of that name. However, what matters his birth or
parentage? He is rich, generous, and the best swordsman I ever saw in my
life. Who would affront him?"
"Not I, certainly," said Merton, rising. "Come, Glyndon, shall we seek
our hotel? It is almost daylight. Adieu, signor."
"What think you of this story?" said Glyndon as the young men walked
homeward.
"Why, it is very clear that this Zicci is some impostor, some clever
rogue; and the Neapolitan shares booty, and puffs him off with all the
hackneyed charlatanism of the marvellous. An unknown adventurer gets into
society by being made an object of awe and curiosity; he is devilish
handsome; and the women are quite content to receive him without any
other recommendation than his own face and Cetoxa's fables."
"I cannot agree with you. Cetoxa, though a gambler and a rake, is a
nobleman of birth and high repute for courage and honor. Besides, this
stranger, with his grand features and lofty air,--so calm, so
unobtrusive,--has nothing in common with the forward garrulity of an
impostor."
"My dear Glyndon, pardon me, but you have not yet acquired any knowledge
of the world; the stranger makes the best of a fine person, and his grand
air is but a trick of the trade. But to change the subject: how gets on
the love affair?"
"Oh! Isabel could not see me to-night. The old woman gave me a note of
excuse."
"You must not marry her; what would they all say at home?"
"Let us enjoy the present," said Glyndon, with vivacity; "we are young,
rich, good-looking: let us not think of to-morrow."
"Bravo, Glyndon! Here we are at the hotel. Sleep sound, and don't dream
of Signor Zicci."
CHAPTER II.
Clarence Glyndon was a young man of small but independent fortune. He
had, early in life, evinced considerable promise in the art of painting,
and rather from enthusiasm than the want of a profession, he had resolved
to devote himself to a career which in England has been seldom entered
upon by persons who can live on their own means. Without being a poet,
Glyndon had also manifested a graceful faculty for verse, which had
contributed to win his entry into society above his birth. Spoiled and
flattered from his youth upward, his natural talents were in some measure
relaxed by indolence and that worldly and selfish habit of thought which
frivolous companionship often engenders, and which is withering alike to
stern virtue and high genius. The luxuriance of his fancy was unabated;
but the affections, which are the life of fancy, had grown languid and
inactive. His youth, his vanity, and a restless daring and thirst of
adventure had from time to time involved him in dangers and dilemmas, out
of which, of late, he had always extricated himself with the ingenious
felicity of a clever head and cool heart. He had left England for Rome
with the avowed purpose and sincere resolution of studying the divine
masterpieces of art; but pleasure had soon allured him from ambition, and
he quitted the gloomy palaces of Rome for the gay shores and animated
revelries of Naples. Here he had fallen in love--deeply in love, as he
said and thought--with a young person celebrated at Naples, Isabel di
Pisani. She was the only daughter of an Italian by an English mother. The
father had known better days; in his prosperity he had travelled, and won
in England the affections of a lady of some fortune. He had been induced
to speculate; he lost his all; he settled at Naples, and taught languages
and music. His wife died when Isabel, christened from her mother, was ten
years old. At sixteen she came out on the stage; two years afterwards her
father departed this life, and Isabel was an orphan.
Glyndon, a man of pleasure and a regular attendant at the theatre, had
remarked the young actress behind the scenes; he fell in love with her,
and he told her so. The girl listened to him, perhaps from vanity,
perhaps from ambition, perhaps from coquetry; she listened, and allowed
but few stolen interviews, in which she permitted no favor to the
Englishman it was one reason why he loved her so much.
The day following that on which our story opens, Glyndon was riding alone
by the shores of the Neapolitan sea, on the other side of the Cavern of
Pausilippo. It was past noon; the sun had lost its early fervor, and a
cool breeze sprang voluptuously from the sparkling sea. Bending over a
fragment of stone near the roadside, he perceived the form of a man; and
when he approached he recognized Zicci.
The Englishman saluted him courteously. "Have you discovered some
antique?" said he, with a smile; "they are as common as pebbles on this
road."
"No," replied Zicci; "it was but one of those antiques that have their
date, indeed, from the beginning of the world, but which Nature eternally
withers and renews." So saying, he showed Glyndon a small herb with a
pale blue flower, and then placed it carefully in his bosom.
"You are an herbalist?"
"I am."
"It is, I am told, a study full of interest."
"To those who understand it, doubtless. But," continued Zicci, looking up
with a slight and cold smile, "why do you linger on your way to converse
with me on matters in which you neither have knowledge nor desire to
obtain it? I read your heart, young Englishman: your curiosity is
excited; you wish to know me, and not this humble herb. Pass on; your
desire never can be satisfied."
"You have not the politeness of your countrymen," said Glyndon, somewhat
discomposed. "Suppose I were desirous to cultivate your acquaintance, why
should you reject my advances?"
"I reject no man's advances," answered Zicci. "I must know them, if they
so desire; but me, in return, they can never comprehend. If you ask my
acquaintance, it is yours; but I would warn you to shun me."
"And why are you then so dangerous?"
"Some have found me so; if I were to predict your fortune by the vain
calculations of the astrologer, I should tell you, in their despicable
jargon, that my planet sat darkly in your house of life. Cross me not, if
you can avoid it. I warn you now for the first time and last."
"You despise the astrologers, yet you utter a jargon as mysterious as
theirs. I neither gamble nor quarrel: why then should I fear you?"
"As you will; I have done."
"Let me speak frankly: your conversation last night interested and amused
me."
"I know it; minds like yours are attracted by mystery."
Glyndon was piqued at those words, though in the tone in which they were
spoken there was no contempt.
"I see you do not consider me worthy of your friendship be it so. Good
day."
Zicci coldly replied to the salutation, and as the Englishman rode on,
returned to his botanical employment.
The same night Glyndon went, as usual, to the theatre. He was standing
behind the scenes watching Isabel, who was on the stage in one of her
most brilliant parts. The house resounded with applause. Glyndon was
transported with a young man's passion and a young man's pride. "This
glorious creature," thought he, "may yet be mine."
He felt, while thus rapt in delicious revery, a slight touch upon his
shoulder; he turned, and beheld Zicci. "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, Zicci disappeared; and when
the Englishman saw him again, he was in the box of one of the Neapolitan
ministers, where Glyndon could not follow him.
Isabel now left the stage, and Glyndon accosted her with impassioned
gallantry. The actress was surprisingly beautiful; of fair complexion and
golden hair, her countenance was relieved from the tame and gentle
loveliness which the Italians suppose to be the characteristics of
English beauty, by the contrast of dark eyes and lashes, by a forehead of
great height, to which the dark outline of the eyebrows gave some thing
of majesty and command. In spite of the slightness of virgin youth, her
proportions had the nobleness, blent with the delicacy, that belongs to
the masterpieces of ancient sculpture; and there was a conscious pride in
her step, and in the swanlike bend of her stately head, as she turned
with an evident impatience from the address of her lover. Taking aside an
old woman, who was her constant and confidential attendant at the
theatre, she said, in an earnest whisper,--
"Oh, Gionetta, he is here again! I have seen him again! And again, he
alone of the whole theatre withholds from me his applause. He scarcely
seems to notice me; his indifference mortifies me to the soul,--I could
weep for rage and sorrow."
"Which is he, my darling?" said the old woman, with fondness in her
voice. "He must be dull,--not worth thy thoughts."
The actress drew Gionetta nearer to the stage, and pointed out to her a
man in one of the nearer boxes, conspicuous amongst all else by the
simplicity of his dress and the extraordinary beauty of his features.
"Not worth a thought, Gionetta," repeated Isabel,--"not worth a thought!
Saw you ever one so noble, so godlike?"
"By the Holy Mother!" answered Gionetta, "he is a proper man, and has the
air of a prince."
The prompter summoned the Signora Pisani. "Find out his name, Gionetta,"
said she, sweeping on 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 Isabel sought only those of one calm and unmoved
spectator; she exerted herself as if inspired. The stranger 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.
Isabel, who was in the character of a jealous and abandoned mistress,
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 if this young Englishman should accompany her home?"
"The presuming barbarian! At all events let him bleed for his folly. I
hear that she admits him to secret interviews. 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,--let him
be watched, and the fitting occasion taken. I trust him to you,--robbers
murder him; you understand: the country swarms with them. Plunder and
strip him. Take three men; the rest shall be my escort."
Mascari shrugged his shoulders, and bowed submissively. Meanwhile Glyndon
besought Isabel, who recovered but slowly, to return home in his
carriage. (1) She had done so once or twice before, though she had never
permitted him to accompany her. This time she refused, and with some
petulance. 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 Isabel, the offer was
accepted; the actress, with a mixture of naivete and coquetry, gave her
handy to her lover, who kissed it with delight. 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 Zicci then suddenly
occurred to him; he had forgotten it in the interest of his lover's
quarrel with Isabel. 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, who hustled and jostled and pressed
upon him; but he recognized no familiar countenances. While pausing
irresolute, he heard Merton's voice calling on him, and to his great
relief discovered his friend making his way through the throng.
"I have secured you a place in the Count Cetoxa's carriage," said he.
"Come along, he is waiting for us."
"How kind in you! How did you find me out?"
"I met Zicci in the passage. 'Your friend is at the door of the theatre,'
said he; 'do not let him go home alone to-night the streets of Naples are
not always safe.' I immediately remembered that some of the Calabrian
bravos had been busy within the city the last few weeks, and asked
Cetoxa, who was with me, to accompany you."
Further explanation was forbidden, for they now joined the count. As
Glyndon entered the carriage and drew up the glass, he saw four men
standing apart by the pavement, who seemed to eye him with attention.
"Cospetto!" cried one; "ecco Inglese!" Glyndon imperfectly heard the
exclamation as the carriage drove on. He reached home in safety.
"Have you discovered who he is?" asked the actress, as she was now alone
in the carriage with Gionetta.
"Yes, he is the celebrated Signor Zicci, about whom the court has run
mad. They say he is so rich,--oh, so much richer than any of the Inglese!
But a bird in the hand, my angel, is better than--"
"Cease," interrupted the young actress. "Zicci! Speak of the Englishman
no more."
The carriage was now entering that more lonely and remote part of the
city in which Isabel's house was situated, when it suddenly stopped.
Gionetta, in alarm, thrust her head out of window, and perceived by the
pale light of the moon that the driver, torn from his seat, was already
pinioned in the arms of two men; the next moment the door was opened
violently, and a tall figure, masked and mantled, appeared.
"Fear not, fairest Pisani," said he, gently, "no ill shall befall you."
As he spoke, he wound his arms round the form of the fair actress, and
endeavored to lift her from the carriage. But the Signora Pisani was not
an ordinary person; she had been before exposed to all the dangers to
which the beauty of the low-born was subjected amongst a lawless and
profligate nobility. She thrust back the assailant with a power that
surprised him, and in the next moment the blade of a dagger gleamed
before his eyes. "Touch me," said she, drawing herself to the farther end
of the carriage, "and I strike!"
The mask drew back.
"By the body of Bacchus, a bold spirit!" said he, half laughing and half
alarmed. "Here, Luigi, Giovanni! disarm and seize her. Harm her not."