Il lupo Ferito, credo, mi conobbe e 'ncontro Mi 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 feelings that should hallow the memory of the poet, but the awe that wraps the memory of the magician.To his charms they ascribe the hollowing of that mountain passage; and tradition yet guards his tomb by the spirits he had raised to construct the cavern.This spot, in the immediate vicinity of Viola's home, had often attracted her solitary footsteps.She had loved the dim and solemn fancies that beset 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 the windings of the soil below; and now, at noon, she bent thither her thoughtful way.She threaded the narrow 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 the minds of men is believed to rest.From afar rose the huge fortress of St.
Elmo, frowning darkly amidst 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 stretched below; 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 had followed her on her path and started to hear a voice at hand.
So sudden was the apparition of the form that stood by her side, emerging from the bushes that clad the crags, and so singularly did it harmonise in its uncouth ugliness with the wild nature of the scene immediately around her, and the wizard 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."After three months' marriage, there is no different between ugliness and beauty.Custom is a great leveller.I was coming to your house when I saw you leave it; so, as I have matters of importance to communicate, Iventured to follow your footsteps.My name is Jean Nicot, a name already favourably 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 fear his appearance had occasioned.He seated himself, as he spoke, on a crag beside her, and, looking up steadily into her face, continued:--"You are very beautiful, Viola Pisani, and I am not surprised at the number of your admirers.If I presume to place myself in the list, it is because I am the only one who loves thee honestly, and woos thee fairly.Nay, look not so indignant! Listen to me.
Has the Prince di -- ever spoken to thee of marriage; or the beautiful imposter Zanoni, or the young blue-eyed Englishman, Clarence Glyndon? It is marriage,--it is a home, it is safety, it is reputation, that I offer to thee; and these last when the straight form grows crooked, and the bright eyes dim.What say you?" and he attempted to seize her hand.
Viola shrunk from him, and silently turned to depart.He rose abruptly and placed himself on her path.
