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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 456 pages of information about Zanoni.

CHAPTER 3.XV.

     Oime! come poss’ io
     Altri trovar, se me trovar non posso. 
     “Amint.,” At. i.  Sc. ii.

     (Alas! how can I find another when I cannot find myself?)

The sleep of Glyndon, the night after his last interview with Zanoni, was unusually profound; and the sun streamed full upon his eyes as he opened them to the day.  He rose refreshed, and with a strange sentiment of calmness that seemed more the result of resolution than exhaustion.  The incidents and emotions of the past night had settled into distinct and clear impressions.  He thought of them but slightly,—­he thought rather of the future.  He was as one of the initiated in the old Egyptian mysteries who have crossed the gate only to long more ardently for the penetralia.

He dressed himself, and was relieved to find that Mervale had joined a party of his countrymen on an excursion to Ischia.  He spent the heat of noon in thoughtful solitude, and gradually the image of Viola returned to his heart.  It was a holy—­for it was a human—­image.  He had resigned her; and though he repented not, he was troubled at the thought that repentance would have come too late.

He started impatiently from his seat, and strode with rapid steps to the humble abode of the actress.

The distance was considerable, and the air oppressive.  Glyndon arrived at the door breathless and heated.  He knocked; no answer came.  He lifted the latch and entered.  He ascended the stairs; no sound, no sight of life met his ear and eye.  In the front chamber, on a table, lay the guitar of the actress, and some manuscript parts in the favourite operas.  He paused, and, summoning courage, tapped at the door which seemed to lead into the inner apartment.  The door was ajar; and, hearing no sound within, he pushed it open.  It was the sleeping-chamber of the young actress, that holiest ground to a lover; and well did the place become the presiding deity:  none of the tawdry finery of the profession was visible, on the one hand; none of the slovenly disorder common to the humbler classes of the South, on the other.  All was pure and simple; even the ornaments were those of an innocent refinement,—­a few books, placed carefully on shelves, a few half-faded flowers in an earthen vase, which was modelled and painted in the Etruscan fashion.  The sunlight streamed over the snowy draperies of the bed, and a few articles of clothing on the chair beside it.  Viola was not there; but the nurse!—­was she gone also?  He made the house resound with the name of Gionetta, but there was not even an echo to reply.  At last, as he reluctantly quitted the desolate abode, he perceived Gionetta coming towards him from the street.

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