zanoni-第20部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！



dead！〃



〃Dead！　who　is　dead？　　Is　any　one　dead？〃



〃Ah！　don't　talk　so；　you　must　know　it　well：　　my　poor　mistress；

she　caught　the　fever　from　you；　it　is　infectious　enough　to　kill　a

whole　city。　　San　Gennaro　protect　me！　　My　poor　mistress；　she　is

dead；buried；　too；　and　I；　your　faithful　Gionetta；　woe　is　me！

Go；　gototo　bed　again；　dearest　master；go！〃



The　poor　musician　stood　for　one　moment　mute　and　unmoving；　then　a

slight　shiver　ran　through　his　frame；　he　turned　and　glided　back；

silent　and　spectre…like；　as　he　had　entered。　　He　came　into　the

room　where　he　had　been　accustomed　to　compose；where　his　wife；　in

her　sweet　patience；　had　so　often　sat　by　his　side；　and　praised　and

flattered　when　the　world　had　but　jeered　and　scorned。　　In　one

corner　he　found　the　laurel…wreath　she　had　placed　on　his　brows

that　happy　night　of　fame　and　triumph；　and　near　it；　half　hid　by

her　mantilla；　lay　in　its　case　the　neglected　instrument。



Viola　was　not　long　gone：　　she　had　found　the　physician；　she

returned　with　him；　and　as　they　gained　the　threshold；　they　heard　a

strain　of　music　from　within；a　strain　of　piercing；　heart…rending

anguish。　　It　was　not　like　some　senseless　instrument；　mechanical

in　its　obedience　to　a　human　hand；it　was　as　some　spirit　calling；

in　wail　and　agony　from　the　forlorn　shades；　to　the　angels　it

beheld　afar　beyond　the　Eternal　Gulf。　　They　exchanged　glances　of

dismay。　　They　hurried　into　the　house；　they　hastened　into　the

room。　　Pisani　turned；　and　his　look；　full　of　ghastly　intelligence

and　stern　command；　awed　them　back。　　The　black　mantilla；　the　faded

laurel…leaf；　lay　there　before　him。　　Viola's　heart　guessed　all　at

a　single　glance；　she　sprung　to　his　knees；　she　clasped　them；

〃Father；　father；　_I_　am　left　thee　still！〃



The　wail　ceased；the　note　changed；　with　a　confused　association

half　of　the　man；　half　of　the　artistthe　anguish；　still　a　melody；

was　connected　with　sweeter　sounds　and　thoughts。　　The　nightingale

had　escaped　the　pursuit；soft；　airy；　bird…like；　thrilled　the

delicious　notes　a　moment；　and　then　died　away。　　The　instrument

fell　to　the　floor；　and　its　chords　snapped。　　You　heard　that　sound

through　the　silence。　　The　artist　looked　on　his　kneeling　child；

and　then　on　the　broken　chords。。。〃Bury　me　by　her　side；〃　he　said；

in　a　very　calm；　low　voice；　〃and　THAT　by　mine。〃　　And　with　these

words　his　whole　frame　became　rigid；　as　if　turned　to　stone。　　The

last　change　passed　over　his　face。　　He　fell　to　the　ground；　sudden

and　heavy。　　The　chords　THERE；　too；the　chords　of　the　human

instrument　were　snapped　asunder。　　As　he　fell；　his　robe　brushed

the　laurel…wreath；　and　that　fell　also；　near　but　not　in　reach　of

the　dead　man's　nerveless　hand。



Broken　instrument；　broken　heart；　withered　laurel…wreath！the

setting　sun　through　the　vine…clad　lattice　streamed　on　all！　　So

smiles　the　eternal　Nature　on　the　wrecks　of　all　that　make　life

glorious！　　And　not　a　sun　that　sets　not　somewhere　on　the　silenced

music；on　the　faded　laurel！





CHAPTER　1。X。



Che　difesa　miglior　ch'　usbergo　e　scudo；

E　la　santa　innocenza　al　petto　ignudo！

〃Ger。　Lib。；〃　c。　viii。　xli。



（Better　defence　than　shield　or　breastplate　is　holy　innocence

to　the　naked　breast。）



And　they　buried　the　musician　and　his　barbiton　together；　in　the

same　coffin。　　That　famous　Steinerprimeval　Titan　of　the　great

Tyrolese　raceoften　hast　thou　sought　to　scale　the　heavens；　and

therefore　must　thou；　like　the　meaner　children　of　men；　descend　to

the　dismal　Hades！　　Harder　fate　for　thee　than　thy　mortal　master。

For　THY　soul　sleeps　with　thee　in　the　coffin。　　And　the　music　that

belongs　to　HIS；　separate　from　the　instrument；　ascends　on　high；　to

be　heard　often　by　a　daughter's　pious　ears　when　the　heaven　is

serene　and　the　earth　sad。　　For　there　is　a　sense　of　hearing　that

the　vulgar　know　not。　　And　the　voices　of　the　dead　breathe　soft　and

frequent　to　those　who　can　unite　the　memory　with　the　faith。



And　now　Viola　is　alone　in　the　world；alone　in　the　home　where

loneliness　had　seemed　from　the　cradle　a　thing　that　was　not　of

nature。　　And　at　first　the　solitude　and　the　stillness　were

insupportable。　　Have　you；　ye　mourners；　to　whom　these　sibyl

leaves；　weird　with　many　a　dark　enigma；　shall　be　borne；　have　you

not　felt　that　when　the　death　of　some　best…loved　one　has　made　the

hearth　desolate；have　you　not　felt　as　if　the　gloom　of　the

altered　home　was　too　heavy　for　thought　to　bear？you　would　leave

it；　though　a　palace；　even　for　a　cabin。　　And　yet；sad　to　say；

when　you　obey　the　impulse；　when　you　fly　from　the　walls；　when　in

the　strange　place　in　which　you　seek　your　refuge　nothing　speaks　to

you　of　the　lost；　have　ye　not　felt　again　a　yearning　for　that　very

food　to　memory　which　was　just　before　but　bitterness　and　gall？　　Is

it　not　almost　impious　and　profane　to　abandon　that　dear　hearth　to

strangers？　　And　the　desertion　of　the　home　where　your　parents

dwelt；　and　blessed　you；　upbraids　your　conscience　as　if　you　had

sold　their　tombs。



Beautiful　was　the　Etruscan　superstition　that　the　ancestors　become

the　household　gods。　　Deaf　is　the　heart　to　which　the　Lares　call

from　the　desolate　floors　in　vain。　　At　first　Viola　had；　in　her

intolerable　anguish；　gratefully　welcomed　the　refuge　which　the

house　and　family　of　a　kindly　neighbour；　much　attached　to　her

father；　and　who　was　one　of　the　orchestra　that　Pisani　shall

perplex　no　more；　had　proffered　to　the　orphan。　　But　the　company　of

the　unfamiliar　in　our　grief；　the　consolation　of　the　stranger；　how

it　irritates　the　wound！　　And　then；　to　hear　elsewhere　the　name　of

father；　mother；　child；as　if　death　came　alone　to　you；to　see

elsewhere　the　calm　regularity　of　those　lives　united　in　love　and

order；　keeping　account　of　happy　hours；　the　unbroken　timepiece　of

home；　as　if　nowhere　else　the　wheels　were　arrested；　the　chain

shattered；　the　hands　motionless；　the　chime　still！　　No；　the　grave

itself　does　not　remind　us　of　our　loss　like　the　company　of　those

who　have　no　loss　to　mourn。　　Go　back　to　thy　solitude；　young

orphan；go　back　to　thy　home：　　the　sorrow　that　meets　thee　on　the

threshold　can　greet　thee；　even　in　its　sadness；　like　the　smile

upon　the　face　of　the　dead。　　And　there；　from　thy　casement；　and

there；　from　without　thy　door；　thou　seest　still　the　tree；　solitary

as　thyself；　and　springing　from　the　clefts　of　the　rock；　but

forcing　its　way　to　light；as；　through　all　sorrow；　while　the

seasons　yet　can　renew　the　verdure　and　bloom　of　youth；　strives　the

instinct　of　the　human　heart！　　Only　when　the　sap　is　dried　up；　only

when　age　comes　on；　does　the　sun　shine　in　vain　for　man　and　for　the

tree。



Weeks　and　monthsmonths　sad　and　manyagain　passed；　and　Naples

will　not　longer　suffer　its　idol　to　seclude　itself　from　homage。

The　world　ever　plucks　us　back　from　ourselves　with　a　thousand

arms。　　And　again　Viola's　voice　is　heard　upon　the　stage；　which；

mystically　faithful　to　life；　is　in　nought　more　faithful　than

this；　that　it　is　the　appearances　that　fill　the　scene；　and　we

pause　not　to　ask　of　what　realities　they　are　the　proxies。　　When

the　actor　of　Athens　moved　all　hearts　as　he　c