E cosi i pigri e timidi desiri
Sprona.
“Gerusal. Lib.,” cant1. iv. lxxxviii.
(And thus the slow and timid passions urged.)
It was the custom of Pisani, except when the duties of his profession made special demand on his time, to devote a certain portion of the mid-day to sleep,— a habit not so much a luxury as a necessity to a man who slept very little during the night. In fact, whether to compose or to practice, the hours of noon were precisely2 those in which Pisani could not have been active if he would. His genius resembled those fountains full at dawn and evening, overflowing3 at night, and perfectly4 dry at the meridian5. During this time, consecrated6 by her husband to repose7, the signora generally stole out to make the purchases necessary for the little household, or to enjoy (as what woman does not?) a little relaxation8 in gossip with some of her own sex. And the day following this brilliant triumph, how many congratulations would she have to receive!
At these times it was Viola’s habit to seat herself without the door of the house, under an awning9 which sheltered from the sun without obstructing10 the view; and there now, with the prompt-book on her knee, on which her eye roves listlessly from time to time, you may behold11 her, the vine-leaves clustering from their arching trellis over the door behind, and the lazy white-sailed boats skimming along the sea that stretched before.
As she thus sat, rather in reverie than thought, a man coming from the direction of Posilipo, with a slow step and downcast eyes, passed close by the house, and Viola, looking up abruptly12, started in a kind of terror as she recognised the stranger. She uttered an involuntary exclamation13, and the cavalier turning, saw, and paused.
He stood a moment or two between her and the sunlit ocean, contemplating14 in a silence too serious and gentle for the boldness of gallantry, the blushing face and the young slight form before him; at length he spoke16.
“Are you happy, my child,” he said, in almost a paternal17 tone, “at the career that lies before you? From sixteen to thirty, the music in the breath of applause is sweeter than all the music your voice can utter!”
“I know not,” replied Viola, falteringly18, but encouraged by the liquid softness of the accents that addressed her,—“I know not whether I am happy now, but I was last night. And I feel, too, Excellency, that I have you to thank, though, perhaps, you scarce know why!”
“You deceive yourself,” said the cavalier, with a smile. “I am aware that I assisted to your merited success, and it is you who scarce know how. The WHY I will tell you: because I saw in your heart a nobler ambition than that of the woman’s vanity; it was the daughter that interested me. Perhaps you would rather I should have admired the singer?”
“No; oh, no!”
“Well, I believe you. And now, since we have thus met, I will pause to counsel you. When next you go to the theatre, you will have at your feet all the young gallants of Naples. Poor infant! the flame that dazzles the eye can scorch19 the wing. Remember that the only homage20 that does not sully must be that which these gallants will not give thee. And whatever thy dreams of the future,— and I see, while I speak to thee, how wandering they are, and wild,— may only those be fulfilled which centre round the hearth21 of home.”
He paused, as Viola’s breast heaved beneath its robe. And with a burst of natural and innocent emotions, scarcely comprehending, though an Italian, the grave nature of his advice, she exclaimed,—
“Ah, Excellency, you cannot know how dear to me that home is already. And my father,— there would be no home, signor, without him!”
A deep and melancholy22 shade settled over the face of the cavalier. He looked up at the quiet house buried amidst the vine-leaves, and turned again to the vivid, animated23 face of the young actress.
“It is well,” said he. “A simple heart may be its own best guide, and so, go on, and prosper24. Adieu, fair singer.”
“Adieu, Excellency; but,” and something she could not resist — an anxious, sickening feeling of fear and hope,— impelled25 her to the question, “I shall see you again, shall I not, at San Carlo?”
“Not, at least, for some time. I leave Naples today.”
“Indeed!” and Viola’s heart sank within her; the poetry of the stage was gone.
“And,” said the cavalier, turning back, and gently laying his hand on hers,—“and, perhaps, before we meet, you may have suffered: known the first sharp griefs of human life,— known how little what fame can gain, repays what the heart can lose; but be brave and yield not,— not even to what may seem the piety26 of sorrow. Observe yon tree in your neighbour’s garden. Look how it grows up, crooked27 and distorted. Some wind scattered28 the germ from which it sprang, in the clefts29 of the rock; choked up and walled round by crags and buildings, by Nature and man, its life has been one struggle for the light,— light which makes to that life the necessity and the principle: you see how it has writhed30 and twisted; how, meeting the barrier in one spot, it has laboured and worked, stem and branches, towards the clear skies at last. What has preserved it through each disfavour of birth and circumstances,— why are its leaves as green and fair as those of the vine behind you, which, with all its arms, can embrace the open sunshine? My child, because of the very instinct that impelled the struggle,— because the labour for the light won to the light at length. So with a gallant15 heart, through every adverse31 accident of sorrow and of fate to turn to the sun, to strive for the heaven; this it is that gives knowledge to the strong and happiness to the weak. Ere we meet again, you will turn sad and heavy eyes to those quiet boughs32, and when you hear the birds sing from them, and see the sunshine come aslant33 from crag and housetop to be the playfellow of their leaves, learn the lesson that Nature teaches you, and strive through darkness to the light!”
As he spoke he moved on slowly, and left Viola wondering, silent, saddened with his dim prophecy of coming evil, and yet, through sadness, charmed. Involuntarily her eyes followed him,— involuntarily she stretched forth34 her arms, as if by a gesture to call him back; she would have given worlds to have seen him turn,— to have heard once more his low, calm, silvery voice; to have felt again the light touch of his hand on hers. As moonlight that softens35 into beauty every angle on which it falls, seemed his presence,— as moonlight vanishes, and things assume their common aspect of the rugged36 and the mean, he receded37 from her eyes, and the outward scene was commonplace once more.
The stranger passed on, through that long and lovely road which reaches at last the palaces that face the public gardens, and conducts to the more populous38 quarters of the city.
A group of young, dissipated courtiers, loitering by the gateway39 of a house which was open for the favourite pastime of the day,— the resort of the wealthier and more high-born gamesters,— made way for him, as with a courteous40 inclination41 he passed them by.
“Per fede,” said one, “is not that the rich Zanoni, of whom the town talks?”
“Ay; they say his wealth is incalculable!”
“THEY say,— who are THEY?— what is the authority? He has not been many days at Naples, and I cannot yet find any one who knows aught of his birthplace, his parentage, or, what is more important, his estates!”
“That is true; but he arrived in a goodly vessel42, which THEY SAY is his own. See,— no, you cannot see it here; but it rides yonder in the bay. The bankers he deals with speak with awe43 of the sums placed in their hands.”
“Whence came he?”
“From some seaport44 in the East. My valet learned from some of the sailors on the Mole45 that he had resided many years in the interior of India.”
“Ah, I am told that in India men pick up gold like pebbles46, and that there are valleys where the birds build their nests with emeralds to attract the moths47. Here comes our prince of gamesters, Cetoxa; be sure that he already must have made acquaintance with so wealthy a cavalier; he has that attraction to gold which the magnet has to steel. Well, Cetoxa, what fresh news of the ducats of Signor Zanoni?”
“Oh,” said Cetoxa, carelessly, “my friend —”
“Ha! ha! hear him; his friend —”
“Yes; my friend Zanoni is going to Rome for a short time; when he returns, he has promised me to fix a day to sup with me, and I will then introduce him to you, and to the best society of Naples! Diavolo! but he is a most agreeable and witty48 gentleman!”
“Pray tell us how you came so suddenly to be his friend.”
“My dear Belgioso, nothing more natural. He desired a box at San Carlo; but I need not tell you that the expectation of a new opera (ah, how superb it is,— that poor devil, Pisani; who would have thought it?) and a new singer (what a face,— what a voice!— ah!) had engaged every corner of the house. I heard of Zanoni’s desire to honour the talent of Naples, and, with my usual courtesy to distinguished49 strangers, I sent to place my box at his disposal. He accepts it,— I wait on him between the acts; he is most charming; he invites me to supper. Cospetto, what a retinue50! We sit late,— I tell him all the news of Naples; we grow bosom51 friends; he presses on me this diamond before we part,— is a trifle, he tells me: the jewellers value it at 5000 pistoles!— the merriest evening I have passed these ten years.”
The cavaliers crowded round to admire the diamond.
“Signor Count Cetoxa,” said one grave-looking sombre man, who had crossed himself two or three times during the Neapolitan’s narrative52, “are you not aware of the strange reports about this person; and are you not afraid to receive from him a gift which may carry with it the most fatal consequences? Do you not know that he is said to be a sorcerer; to possess the mal-occhio; to —”
“Prithee, spare us your antiquated53 superstitions,” interrupted Cetoxa, contemptuously. “They are out of fashion; nothing now goes down but scepticism and philosophy. And what, after all, do these rumours54, when sifted55, amount to? They have no origin but this,— a silly old man of eighty-six, quite in his dotage56, solemnly avers57 that he saw this same Zanoni seventy years ago (he himself, the narrator, then a mere58 boy) at Milan; when this very Zanoni, as you all see, is at least as young as you or I, Belgioso.”
“But that,” said the grave gentleman,—“THAT is the mystery. Old Avelli declares that Zanoni does not seem a day older than when they met at Milan. He says that even then at Milan — mark this — where, though under another name, this Zanoni appeared in the same splendour, he was attended also by the same mystery. And that an old man THERE remembered to have seen him sixty years before, in Sweden.”
“Tush,” returned Cetoxa, “the same thing has been said of the quack59 Cagliostro,— mere fables60. I will believe them when I see this diamond turn to a wisp of hay. For the rest,” he added gravely, “I consider this illustrious gentleman my friend; and a whisper against his honour and repute will in future be equivalent to an affront61 to myself.”
Cetoxa was a redoubted swordsman, and excelled in a peculiarly awkward manoeuvre62, which he himself had added to the variations of the stoccata. The grave gentleman, however anxious for the spiritual weal of the count, had an equal regard for his own corporeal63 safety. He contented64 himself with a look of compassion65, and, turning through the gateway, ascended66 the stairs to the gaming-tables.
“Ha, ha!” said Cetoxa, laughing, “our good Loredano is envious67 of my diamond. Gentlemen, you sup with me to-night. I assure you I never met a more delightful68, sociable69, entertaining person, than my dear friend the Signor Zanoni.”
收听单词发音 |
1
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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obstructing
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| 阻塞( obstruct的现在分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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11
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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13
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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17
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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falteringly
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| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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scorch
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| v.烧焦，烤焦；高速疾驶；n.烧焦处，焦痕 | |
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20
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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28
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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clefts
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| n.裂缝( cleft的名词复数 )；裂口；cleave的过去式和过去分词；进退维谷 | |
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30
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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32
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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33
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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38
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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46
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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47
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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48
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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49
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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50
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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51
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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52
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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55
sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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56
dotage
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| n.年老体衰；年老昏聩 | |
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57
avers
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| v.断言( aver的第三人称单数 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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58
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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59
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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61
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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63
corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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64
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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65
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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66
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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68
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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69
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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