Zanoni

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PROM

THE FUND OF

Mrs. HARRIET J. G. DENNY,

OF BOSTON.

Gift oh$5000 from the children of Mrs. Denny,
at her request, "for the purchase of books for the
public library of the College. *V

L

ZANONI.

(

FRONTISPIECE.

See page H.

Z A N N I.

SIR EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON, BART., M.P.

asait!) a ^frontispucc.

LONDON.
\ G. ROUTLEDGE AND CO., FARRINGDON STREET.

I NEW YORKt— 18, BEEKMAN STREET.

' 1856.

^^^,3a

/^-$

^ /l<rl.{t t^ ,

Pint prefixed to the Edition of 1943.
TO

JOHN GIBSON, E.A.

In looking round the wide and luminous circle of our great living
Englishmen, to select one to whom I might fitly dedicate this work, —
one who, in his life as in his genius, might illustrate the principle I have
sought to convey ;— elevated by the ideal which he exalts, and serenely
dwelling in a glorious existence with the images born of his imagina-
tion, — ^in looking round for some such man, my thoughts rested upon
you. Afar from our turbulent cabals — from the ignoble jealousy and
the sordid strife which degrade and acerbate the ambition of Genius, —
in your Roman Home, you have lived amidst all that is loveliest and
least perishable in the Past, and contributed, with the noblest aims,
and in the purest spirit, to the mighty heirlooms of the Future. Your
youth has been devoted to toil, that your manhood may be consecrated
to fame ; — a fame unsullied by one desire of gold. You have escaped
the two worst perils that beset the Artist in our time and land — the
debasing tendencies of Commerce, and the angry rivalries of Com-
petition. You have not wrought your marble for the market — you have
not been tempted by the praises which our vicious criticism has
showered upon exaggeration and distortion, to lower your taste to the
level of the Hour ; you have lived, and you have laboured, as if you
had no rivals, but in the Dead — ^no purchasers, save in judges of what
is best. In the divine Priesthood of the Beautiful, you have sought
only to increase her worshippers and enrich her temples. The pupil
of Canova, you have inherited his excellences, while you have shunned
his errors :— yours his delicacy, not his affectation. Your heart
resembles him even more than your genius — ^you have the same noble
enthusiasm for your sublime profession — the same lofty freedom from
envy and the spirit that depreciates— the same generous desire, no^ to
war with, but to serve. Artists in your art; aiding, strengthening,

Yi DEDICATORY EPISTLE TO ZANONI.

advising, elevating the timidity of inexperience, and the vague aspira-
tions of youth. By the intuition of a kindred mind, you have equalled
the learning of Winckelman, and the plastic poetry of Goethe, in the
intimate comprehension of the Antique. Each work of yours, rightly
studied, is in itself a criticism, illustrating the suhlime secrets of the
Grecian Art, which, without the servility of plagiarism, you have
contributed to revive amongst us ; in you we behold its three great,
and long undetected principles, — simplicity, calm, and concentration.

But your admiration of the Greeks has not led you to the bigotry of
the mere Antiquarian, nor made you less sensible of the unappreciated
excellence of the mighty Modem, worthy to be your countryman, —
though till his statue is in the streets of our capital, we show ourselves
not worthy of the glory he has shed upon our land : You have not
suffered even your gratitude to Canova to blind you to the superiority
of Flaxman. When we become sensible of our title-deeds to renown
in that single name we may look for an English public, capable of real
patnmage to English Artj^-and not till then.

I, Artist in words, dedicate, then, to you. Artist, whose ideas speak
in marble, this well-loved work of my matured manhood. I love it
not the less because it has been little understood, and superficially
judged by the common herd. It was not meant for them. I love it
not the more, because it has found enthusiastic favourers amongst the
Few. My affection for my work is rooted in the solenm and pure I

delight wluch it gave me, to conceive and to perform. If I had graven |

it on the rocks of a desert, this apparition of my own innermost mind,
in its least clouded moments, would have been to me as dear : And
this ought, I believe, to be the sentiment with which He whose Art is
bom of faith in the truth and beauty of the principles he seeks to
illustrate, should regard his work. Yourserener existence, uniform and
holy, my lot denies— if my heart covets. Bat our tme nature is in our
thoughts, not our deeds: And therefore, in Books which are his
Thoughts — the Author's character lies bare to the discerning eye. It
is not in the life of cities — ^in the turmoil and the crowd ; it is in the j

still, the lonely, and more sacred life, which, for some hours, imder !

every sun— the student lives — (his stolen retreat from the Agora to the
Gave), that I feel there is between us the bond of that secret sympa.ihy, J

that magnetic chain— which unites the Everlasting Brotherhood, of |

whose being Zanoni is the type. .

E. B. L. ^

«<

LoMDOX, Matf, 1845.

i

PREFACE TO PBESENT EDITION, 1853.

As a work of imagination, ' Zanoni ' ranks, perhaps, amongst the
highest of my prose fictions. In the Poem of ' King Arthur,' published
many years afterwards, I have taken up an analogous design, in the con-
templation of our positive life through a spiritual medium : and I have
enforced, through a far wider development, and, I believe, with more com-
plete and enduring success, that harmony between the external evei^ts
which are all that the superficial behold on the surface of human afiPairs,
and the subtle and intellectual agencies which in reality influence the
conduct of individuals, and shape out the destinies of the World. As
Man has two lives — that of action and that of thought — so I conceive
that work to be the truest representation of Humanity which faithfully
delineates both, and opens some elevating glimpse into the sublimest
mysteries of our being, by establishing the inevitable union that exists
between the plain things of the day, in which our earthly bodies
perform their allotted part, and the latent, often uncultivated, often
invisible, affinities of the soul with all the powers that eternally
breathe and move throughout the Universe of Spirit.

I refer those who do me the honour to read ' Zanoni ' with more
attention than is given to ordinary romance, to the Poem of ' King
Arthur,' for suggestive conjecture into most of the regions of specula-
tive research, affecting the higher and more important condition of
our ultimate being, which have engaged the students jof immaterial
philosophy in my own age. •^. ;,

viii PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION.

Affixed to the ' Note ' with which this Volume concludes, and which
treats of the distinctions between type and allegory, the Reader will
find, from the pen of one of our most eminent living writers, an
ingenious attempt to explain the interior or typical meanings of the
work now before him.

INTRODUCTION.

It is possible that^ among my readers, there may be a few not
unacquainted with an old bookshop, existing some years since in the
neighbourhood of Covent Garden ; I say a few, for certainly there was
little enough to attract the many, in those precious volumes which the
labour of a life had accumulated on the dusty shelves of my old friend

D , There, were to be found no popular treatises, no entertaining

romances, no histories, no travels, no " Library for the People,** no
" Amusement for the Million.** But there, perhaps, throughout all
Europe, the curious might discover the most notable collection, ever
amassed by an enthusiast, of the works of Alchemist, Cabalist, and
Astrologer. The owner had lavished a fortune in the purchase of

unsaleable treasures. But old D did not desire to sell. It

absolutely went to his heart when a customer entered his shop ; he
watched the movements of the presumptuous intruder with a vindictive
glare, he fluttered around him with uneasy vigilance ; he frowned, he
groaned, when profane hands dislodged his idols from their niches. If
it were one of the favourite sultanas of his wizard harem that attracted
you, and the price named were not sufficiently enormous, he would
' not unfrequently double the sum. Demur, and in brisk delight he
snatched the venerable charmer from your hands ; accede, and he
became the picture of despair : — Nor unfrequently, at the dead of
night, would he knock at your door, and entreat you to sell him back,
at your own terms, what you had so egregiously bought at his. A
believer himself in his Averroes and Paracelsus, he was as loth as the
philosophers he studied to communicate to the profane the learning he
had collected.

It so chanced that some years ago, in my younger days, whether of
authorship or life, I felt a desire to make myself acquainted with the
true origin and tenets of the singular sect known by the name of
Rosicrucians. Dissatisfied with the scanty and superficial accounts to

X INTRODUCTION.

be fonnd in the works nsaally referred to on the subject, it struck me

as possible that Mr. D ^*s collection, which was rich, not only in

black letter, but in manuscripts, might contain some more accurate
and authentic records of that famous brotherhood — written, who
knows ? by one of their own order, and confirming by authority and
detail the pretensions to wisdom and to virtue which Bringaret had
arrogated to the successors of the Chaldean and Gymnosophist.
Accordingly I repaired to what^ doubtless, I ought to be ashamed to
confess, was once one of my favourite haunts. But are there no errors
and no fallacies, in the chronicles of our own day, as absurd as those of
the alchemists of old? Our very newspapers may seem to our
posterity as full of delusions as the books of the alchemists do to us ;
— not but what the Press is the air we breathe — ^and uncommonly
foggy the air is too !

On entering the shop, I was struck by the venerable appearance of a
customer whom I had never seen there before. I was struck yetmore
by the respect with which he was treated by the disdainful collector.
" Sir," cried the last, emphatically, as I was turning over the leaves ot
the catalogue—" Sir, you are the only man I have met in five-and-
forty years that I have spent in these researches, who is worthy to be
my customer. How — ^where, in this frivolous age, could you have
acquirad a knowledge so profound 1 And this august fraternity, whose
doctrines, hinted at by the earliest philosophers, are still a mjltery to
the latest ; tell me if there really exists upon the earth any book,
any manuscript, in which their discoveries, their tenets, are to be
learned !"

At the words, ' august fraternity I need scarcely say, that my
attention had been at once aroused, and I listened eagerly for the
stranger's reply.

" I do not think," said the old gentleman, ''that the masters of the
school have ever consigned, except by obscure hint, and mystical
parable, their real doctrines to the world. And I do not blame them
for their discretion."

Here he paused, and seemed about to retire, when I said somewhat

abruptly, to the collector, '' Isee nothing, Mr. D , in this catalogue,

which relates to the Rosicmcians ! "

" The Rosiorucians ! " repeated the old gentleman, and in his turn
he surveyed me with deliberate surprise. '' Who but a Rosicrucian
could explain the Rosicrucian mysteries ! And can you imagine that
any members of that sect, the most jealous of all secret societies,
would themselves lift the veil that hides the Isis of their wisdom from
the world r*

" Aha ! " thought I, " this, theiy is ' the august £ntemity ' of which

INTBODUCnON. xi

you spoke. Heavai be praised ! I certainly have stiaiibled on one of
the brotherhood.*'

*^ But," I said, alond, '4f not in books, sir, where else ami to
obtain information? Now-anlays one can hazard nothing in print
"without authority, and one may scarcely quote Shakspeare without
citing chapter and yerse. This is- the age of facts-^the age of
facts, sir."

" Well,'' said the old gentleman with a pleasuit smile, ''if we meet
again, perhaps, at least, I may direct your researches to the proper
source of intelligence." And with that he buttoned his great coat,
whistled to his dog, and departed.

It so happened that I did meet again with the old gentleman exactly

four dsys after our brief conversation in Mr. D 's bookshop. I was

riding leisurely towards Highgate, when at the foot of its classic hill,
I recognised the stranger ; he was mounted on a black pony, and before
him trotted his dog, which was black also.

If you meet the man whom you wish to know, on horseback, at the
commencement of a long hill, where, unless he has borrowed a friend's
favourite hack, he cannot in decent humanity to the brute creation,
ride away from you, I apprehend that it is your own fault if you have
not gone far in your object before you have gained the» top. In
short, so well did I succeed, that on reaching Highgate, the old gentle-
man invited me to rest at his house, which was a little apart from the
village ; and an excellent house it was— small, but commodious, with
a large garden, and commanding from the windows such a prospect as
Lucretius would recommend to philosophers ; — ^the spires and domes
of London, on a clear day, distinctly visible ; here, the Retreat of the
Hcarmit, and there the Mare Magnum of the world.

The walls of the principal rooms were embellished with pictures of
extraordinary merit, and in that high school of art which is so little
understood out of Italy. I was surprised to learn that they were all
from the hand of the owner. My evident admiration pleased my new
friend, and led to talk upon his part, which showeii hun no less
elevated in his theories of art than an adept in the practice. Without
fatiguing the reader with irrelevant criticism, it is necessary, perhaps,
as elucidating much of the design and character of the work which
these prefatory pages introduce, that I should briefly observe, that he
insisted as much upon the Connexion of the Arts, as a distinguished
aulihor has upon that of the Sciences ; that he held thai in all works
of imagination, whether expressed by words or by colours, the artist
of thf ' higher schools must make the broadest distinction between the
Real and the True, — ^in other words, between the imitation of actual
life,<atid the exaltation of Nature ii\|athe Ideal.

xii INTRODUCTION.

'• The one," said he, " is the Dutch School, the other is the Greek."

** Sir," said I, " the Dutch is the most in fashion."

" Yes, in painting, perhaps," answered my host, " but in literature — ^*'

*' It was of literature I spoke. Our growing poets are all for simplicity
and Betty Foy ; and our critics hold it the highest praise of a work of
imagination, to say that its characters are exact to common life. £ven
in sculpture — "

" In sculpture ! No — ^no ! tJiere the high ideal must at least be
essential ! '*

"Pardon me; I fear you have not seen Souter Johnny and
Tam O'Shanter."

" Ah I ** said the old gentleman, shaking his head, " I live very
much out of the world, I see. I 'suppose Shakspeare has ceased to
be admired 1 "

" On the contrary ; people make the adoration of Shakspeare the
excuse for attacking everybody else. But then our critics have discovered
that Shakspeare is so real ! ''

*'Real !• The poet who has never once drawn a character to be met
with in actual life — who has never once descended to a passion that is
false, or a personage who is real ! "

I was about to reply very severely to this paradox, when I perceived
that my companion was growing a little out of temper. And he who
wishes to catch a Rosicrucian, must take care not to disturb the waters.
— I thought it better, therefore, to turn the conversation.

"Revenons a nos moutons/^ said I ; "you promised to enlighten my
ignorance as to the Rosicrucian s."

"Well!" quoth he, rather sternly; "but for what purpose?
Perhaps you desire only to enter the temple in order to ridicule the
rites?"

" What do you take me for ! Surely, were I so inclined, the fate of
the Abbd de Villars is a sufficient warning to all men not to treat idly
of the realms of the Salamander and the Sylph. Everybody knows
how mysteriously that ingenious personage was deprived of his life, in
revenge for the witty mockeries of his Comte de Gabalia.*^

" Salamander and Sylph ! I see that you fall into the vulgar error,
and translate literally the allegorical language df the mystics."

With that, the old gentleman condescended to enter into a very
interesting, and, as it seemed to me, a very erudite relation, of the tenets
of the Rosicrucians, some of whom, he asserted, still existed, and still
prosecuted in august secresy, their profound researches into natural
science and occult philosophy.

" But this fraternity," said he, " however respectable and virtuous-
virtuous I say, for no monastic order is more severe in the practice of

INTRODUCTION. xiii

moral precepts, or more ardent in Christian faith — this fraternity is but
a branch of others yet more transcendent in the powers they have
obtained, and yet more illustrious in their origin. Are you acquainted
with the Platonists 1 "

" I have occasionally lost my way in their labyrinth," said I. "Faith,
they are rather difficult gentlemen to understand."

" Yet their knottiest problems have never yet been published. Their
sablimest works are in manuscript, and constitute the initiatory learning,
not only of the Rosicrucians, but of the nobler brotherhoods I have
referred to. More solemn and sublime still is the knowledge to be
gleaned from the elder Pythagoreans, and the immortal masterpieces
of ApoUonius."

'^ ApoUonius the impostor of Tyanea ! are his writings extant ? '*

" Impostor ! " cried my host, "ApoUonius an impostor ! '*

^* I beg your pardon ; I did not know he was a friend of yours ;
and if you vouch for his character, I will believe him to have been a
very respectable man, who only spoke the truth when he boasted of his
power to be in two places at the same time."

" Is that so difficult ? " said the old gentleman ; "if so, you have
never dreamed ! "

Here ended our conversation ; but from that time an acquaintance
was formed between us, which lasted till my venerable fiiend departed
this life. Peace to his ashes ! He was a person of singular habits and
eccentric opinions ; but the chief part of his time was occupied in acts of
quiet and unostentatious goodness. He was an enthusiast in the duties of
the Samaritan ; and as his virtues were softened by the gentlest charity,
so his hopes were based upon the devoutest belief. He never conversed
upon his own origin and history, nor have I ever been able to penetrate
the darkness in which they were concealed. He seemed to have seen
much of the world, and to have been an eye-witness of the first French
Revolution, a subject upon which he was equally eloquent and instruc-
tive. At the same time, he did not regard the crimes of that stormy
period with the philosophical leniency with which enlightened writers
(their heads safe upon their shoulders) are, in the present day, inclined
to treat the massacres of the past : he spoke not as a student who had
read and reasoned, but as a man who had seen and suffered. The old
gentleman seemed alone in the world ; nor did I know that he had one
relation, till his executor, a distant cousin, residing abroad, informed me
of the very handsome legacy which my poor friend had bequeathed me.
This consisted first of a sum about which I think it best to be guarded,
foreseeing the possibility of a new tax upon real and funded property ;
and secondly, of certain precious manuscripts, to which the following
volumes owe their existence.

xiv INTRODUCTION.

I imagine I trace this latter beqnest to a visit I paid the Sage, if so
i may be permitted to call him, a few weeks before his death.

Although he read little of onr modm-n literature, mj friend, with the
affable good-nature which belonged to him, graciously permitted me to
consult him upon various literary undertakings meditated by the
desultory ambition of a young and inexperienced • student. And at
that time I sought his advice upon a work of imagination, intended to
depict the effects of enthusiasm upon different modifications of character.
He listened to my conception, which was sufficiently trite and prosaic,
with his usual patience ; and then, thoughtfully turning to his book-
shelves, took down an old volume, and read ib me, first in Greek, and
secondly in English, some extracts to the following effect : —

" Plato here expresses four kinds of Mania, by which I desire to
understand enthusiasm, and the inspiration of the gods. — Firstly, the
musical; secondly, the telestic or m3rstic; thirdly, the prophetic; and
fourthly, that which belongs to Love.*'

The Author he quoted, after contending that there is something in
the soul above intellect, and stating that there are in our nature distinct
energies, by the one of which we discover and seize as it were on
sciences and theorems with almost intuitive rapidity, by another,
through which high art is accomplished, like the statues of Phidias,
proceeded to state, that '* enthusiasm, in the true acceptation of the
word, is, when that part of the soul which is above inteUect is excited
to the gods, and thence derives its inspiration."

The Author then, pursuing his comment upon Plato, observes, that
^' one of these manias may suffice (especially that which belongs to
Love) to lead back the soul to its first divinity and happiness ; but that
there is an intimate union with them all : and that the ordinary progress
through which the soul ascends is, primarily, through the musical ; next,
throagh the telestic or mystic ; thirdly, through the prophetic ; and
lastly, through the enthusiasm of Love."

While with a bewildered understanding and a reluctant attention,
I listened to these intricate sublimities, my adviser closed the volume,
and said with complacency, " There is the motto for your book — the
thesis for your theme/'

" DavuB «ifff», non (EdipuSy^ said I, shaking my head, disrcontentedly.
"All this may be exceedingly fine, but. Heaven forgive me — I
don't understand a word of it. The mysteries of your Rosicrucians,
and your fraternities, are mere child's play to the jargon of the
Platonists."

" Yet, not till you rightly understand this passage can yon understand
the higher theories of the Bosicmeians, or of the still nobler fraternities
you speak of with so much levity."

INTRODUCTION. xv

"Oh, i£ that be the case, I give up in despair. Why not, since
you are so well vecsed in the matter, take the motto fo^ a book of
your own ? "

" Bat if I haye already composed a book with that thesis for its
theme, wiU yon prepare it for the public ? "

" With the greatest pleasure," said I, — alas, toe rashly !

" I shall hold you to your promise," returned the old gentleman, " and
when I am no more, you will receive the manuscripts. From what you
say of the prevailing taste in literature, I cannot flatter you with the
hope that you will gain much by the undertaking. And I tell you
beforehand that you will find it not a little laborious."

" Is your work a romance ? "

''It is a romance, and it is not a romance. It is a truth for
those who can comprehend it, and an extravagance for those who
cannot"

At last there arrived the manuscripts, with a brief note from my
deceased friend, reminding me of my imprudent promise.

With mournful interest, and yet with eager impatience, I opened the
packet and trimpied my lamp. Conceive my dismay when I found the
whole written in an unintelligible cipher. I present the reader with a
specimen ;—

ZI7 -*V "S^ V 4o =v J

^ ' ^y and so on for 940 mortal pages in foolscap. I

could scarcely believe my eyes ; in fact, I began to think the lamp
burned singularly blue ; and sundry misgivings as to the unhallowed
nature of the characters I had so unwittingly opened upon, coupled with
the strange hints and mystical language of the old gentleman, crept
through my disordered imagination. Certainly, to say no worse of it,
the whole thing looked uncanny J I was about, precipitately, to hurry
the papers into my desk, with a pious determination to have nothing
more to do with them, when my eye fell upon a book, neatly bound in
blue morocco, and which in my eagerness, I had hitherto overlooked.
I opened this volume with great precaution, not knowing what might
jump out, andj—guess my delight,— found that it contained a key
or dictionary to the hieroglyphics. Not to weary the reader with an
account of my labours, I am contented with saying that at last I
imagined myself capable of construing the characters, and set to work
in gocd earnest. Still it was no easy task, and two years elapsed
before I had made much progress. I then, by way of experiment

xvi INTRODUCTION.

on the public, obtained the insertion of a few desultory chapters, in
a periodical with which, for a few months, I had the honour to be
connected. They appeared to excite more curiosity than I had presumed
to anticipate ; and I renewed, with better heart, my laborious under-
taking. But now a new misfortune befel me : I found as I proceeded,
that the Author had made two copies of his work, one much more
elaborate and detailed than the othet ; I had stumbled upon the earlier
copy, and had my whole task to re-model, and the chapters I had written
to re-translate. I may say then, that, exclusive of intervals devoted
to more pressing occupations, my unlucky promise cost me the toil of
several years before I could bring it to adequate fulfilment. The task
was the more difficult, since the style in the original is written in a kind
of rythmical prose, as if the author desired that in some degree his work
should be regarded as one of poetical conception and design. To this
it was not possible to do justice, and in the attempt I have, doubtless,
very often need of the reader's indulgent consideration. My natural
respect for the old gentleman's vagaries with a muse of equivocal
character must be my only excuse, whenever the language, without
luxuriating into verse, borrows flowers scarcely natural to prose. Truth
compels me also to confess that, with all my pains, I am by no means sure
that I have invariably given the true meaning of the cipher ; nay, that
here and there either a gap in the narrative, or the sudden assumption
of a new cipher, to which no key was afforded, has obliged me to resort
to interpolations of my own, no doubt easily discernible, but which, I
flatter myself, are not inharmonious to the general design. This confes-
sion leads me to the sentence with which I shall conclude— If, reader,
in this book there be anything that pleases yon, it is certainly mine-
but whenever you come to something you dislike,— lay the blame
upon the old gentleman!

London, JawMvy^ 1842.

N.R— The notes appended to the text are sometimes by the Author, sometimes by
the Editor.— I have occasionally (bat not always) marked the distinction :— where,
however, this is omitted, the ingenuity of the Reader will.be rarely at fault.

No. 259.

BOOK THE FIEST.

THE MUSICIAN.

■ Due Fontane

Cbe di diverse effetto hanno liquore ! '<'

Ariosti>, Orland. Fur. Canto 1. 78.

Two Founts

That hold a draught of different effects.

ZANONL

BOOK THE FIRST.

CHAPTER I.

Yergiaa era

D'alta beltk, ma sua beltk non oura :

T¥ * * * * *

Di natura, d'amor, de 'cieli amici
' Le n^ligenxe sue aono artifici.*

Okbusal. Lib., canto ii., xiv.-«xviii.

At Naples, in the latter half of the
last century, a worthy artist named
Oaetano Pisani, liyed and flourished.
He was a musician of great genius,
but not of popular reputation; there
was in all his compositions something
capricious and fantastic, which did not
please the taste of the Dilettanti of
Naples. He was fond of unfEtmiliar
subjects, into which he introduced
urs and symphonies that excited a
kind of terror in those who listened.
The names of his pieces will probably
soggest their nature. I find, for in-
stance, among his MSS., these titles,
^The Feast of the Harpies," "The
Witches at Benevento," " The Descent

* She wan a yirgin of a glorious beauty,
Irat regarded not her bekuty * *
* ♦ Negligence itself is art in those
favoured by nature, by lore, and by the

of Orpheus into Hades," "The Evil
Eye," "The Eumenides," and many
others that evince a powerful imagi-
nation, delighting in the fearful and
supernatural, but often relieved, by an
airy and delicate fancy, with passages
of exquisite grace and beauty. It is
true that in the selection of his sub-
jects from ancient fable, Gaetano
Pisani was much more faithful than
his contemporaries to the remote
origin and the early genius of Italian
Opera. That descendant, however
efifominate, of the ancient union be-
tween Song and Drama, when, after
long obscurity and dethronement, it
regained a punier sceptre, though a
gaudier purple, by the banks of the
Etrurian Amo, or amidst the Lagunes
of Venice, had chosen all its primary
inspirations from the unfamiliar and
classic sources of heathen legend;
B 2

ZANONI.

and Pisani'B '^ Deacent of Orpheus "
was but a bolder, darker, and more
scientific repetition of the " Euridice"
which Jacopi Peri set to music at the
august nuptials of Henry of Navarre
and Mary of Medicis.* Still, as I
have said, the style of the Neapolitan
musician was not on the whole pleasing
to ears grown nice and euphuistic
in the more dulcet melodies of the
day; and faults and extravagancies
easily discernible, and often to appear-
ance wilful, served the critics for an
excuse for their distaste. Fortunately,
or the poor musician might have
starved, he was not only a composer,
but also an excellent practical per-
former, especially on the violin, and
by that instrument he earned a decent
subsistence as one of the orchestra at
the Great Theatre of San Carlo. Here,
formal and appointed tasks necessarily
kept his eccentric fancies in tolerable
check, though it is recorded that no
less than five times he had been de-
posed from hisdesk for havingshocked
the conosc^nti, and thrown the whole
band into confusion, by impromptu
variations of so frantic and startling a
nature that one might well have
imagined that the harpies or witches
who inspired his compositions had
clawed hold of his instrument. The
impossibility, however, to find any
one of equal excellence as a performer
(that is to say, in his more lucid and
orderly moments), had forced his re-
instalment, and he had now, for the
most part, reconciled himself to the
narrow sphere of his appointed adagios
or allegros. The audience, too, aware
of his propensity were quick to per-
ceive the least deviation from the text;
and if he wandered for a moment,
which might also be detected by the
eye as well as the ear, in some sti^ge

* Orpheus wm the favourite hero of early
Italian Opera, or Lyrical Drama. The Orfeo
of Angelo Politiano was prtxluoed 1475.
The Orfeo of Montev«rde was performed
at Venice in 166?

contortion of visage, and some ominous
flourish of his bow, a gentle and ad-
monitory murmur recalled the musi-
cian from his Elysium or his Tartarus,
to the sober regions of his desk. Then
he would start as if from a dream —
cast a hurried, frightened, apologetic
glance around, and, with a crest-
falleOy humbled air, draw his rebel-
lious instrument back to the beaten
track of the glib monotony. But at
home he would make himself amends
for this reluctant drudgery. And
there, grasping the unhappy violin
with ferocious fingers, he would pour
forth, often till the morning rose,
strange wild measures, that would
startle the early fisherman on the
shore below with a superstitious awe,
and make him cross himself as if mer-
maid or sprite had wailed no earthly
music in his ear.

This man*s appearance was in keep-
ing with the characteristics of his
art. The features were noble and
striking, but worn and haggard, with
black, careless locks, tangled into a
maze of curls, and a fixed, speculative,
dreamy stare in his large and hollow
eyes. All his movements were peeu-
liar, sudden, and abrupt, as the im-
pulse seized him; and in gliding
through the streets, or along the
beach, he was heard laughing and
talking to himself. Withal, he was
a harmless, guileless, gentle creature,
and would share his mite with any
idle lazzaroni, whom he often paused
to contemplate as they lay lazily
basking in the sun. Yet was he
thoroughly unsocial. He formed no
friends, flattered no patrons, resorted
to none of the merry-makings, so dear
to the children of music and the south.
He and his art seemed alone suited to
each other— both quaint, primitive,
unworldly, irregular. You could not
separate the man from his music ; it
was himsell Without it, he was
nothing, a mere machine 1 WUh it,
he was king over worlds of his own.

ZANONI.

Poor man, he had little enongh in
this ! — ^At a manufacturing town in
England there is a gravestone, on
which the epitaph records "one
Claudius Phillips, whose absolute con-
tempt for riches, and inimitable pe]>
formance on tbe violin, made him the
admiration of all that knew him !''
Logical conjunction of opposite
eulogies? In proportion, GeniuB,
to thy contempt for riches will be thy
performance on thy violin !

Gaetano Pisani's talents as a com-
poser had been chiefly exhibited in
music appropriate to tMs his &vourite
instrument, of all unquestionably the
most various and royal in its resources
and power over the passions. As
Sh&kspeare among poets, is the Cre-
mona among instruments. Never-
theless, he had composed other pieces,
of larger ambition and wider accom-
plishment, and, chief of these, his'
precious — his unpurchased — his un-
published — his unpublishable and
imperishable opera of the ''Siren."
This great work had been the dream
of his boyhood — ^the mistress of his
manhood; in advancing age ''it stood
beside him like his youth." Yainly
had he struggled to place it before
the world. Even bland, unjealous
Faiaiello, Maestro di Capella, shook
his gentle head when the musician
favoured him with a specimen of one
of his most thrilling scenas. And
yet, Paisiello, though that music
differs from all Durante taught thee
to emulate, there may — ^but patience,
Qaetano Pisani ! — ^bide thy time, and
keep thy violin in tune !

Strange as it may appear to the
fiurer reader, this grotesque personage
had yet formed those ties which or-
dinary mortals are apt to consider
their especial monopoly — he was
married, and had one child. What
is more strange yet, his wife was a
daughter of quiet, sober, un&ntastic
£ngland ; she was much younger than
IdiMelf j she was ^r and gentle, with

a sweet English &oe ; she had married
him from choice (and will you believe
it T) she yet loved him. How she came
to marry him, or how this shy,unsocial,
wayward creature ever ventured to
propose, I can only explain by asking
you to look round and explain first to
me how half the husbands and half the
wives you meet ever found a mate !
Yet, on reflection this union was not
so extraordinary after all. The girl
was a natural child of parents too
noble ever to own and claim her. She
was brought into Italy to learn the art
by which she was to live, for she had
taste and voice ,- she was a dependent,
and harshly treated, and poor Pisani
was her master, and his voice the only
one she had heard from her cradle,
that seemed without one tone that
could scorn or chide. And so — ^well,
is the rest natural 1 Natural or not,
they married. This young wife loved
her husband ; and young and gentle
as she was, she might aJmost be said
to be the protector of the two. From
how many disgraces with the despots
of San Carlo and the Conservatorio *
had her unknown officious mediation
saved him 1 In how many ailments
— for his frame was weak — ^had she
nursed and tended him ! Often, in
the dark nights, she would wait at
the theatre, with her lanthom to light
him, and her steady arm to lean on ;
—otherwise, in his abstract reveries,
who knows but the musician would
have walked after his " Siren," into
the sea ! And then she would so pa-
tiently, perhaps (for in true love there
is not always the finest taste,) so de-
ligktedly listen to those storms of
eccentric and fitful melody, and steal
him — ^whispering praises iX\. the way
— ^from the unwholesome nightwatch
to rest and sleep ! I said his music
was a part of the man, and this gentle
creature seemed a part of the music ;
it was, in fiwt, when she sate beside
him that whatever was tender or foiry-
likeinhismotleyfimtasia crept ?"*"♦*»«

6

zASom.

harmony as by stealth.. Bonbtiess her
presenoe acted on themnstc, and shaped
and softened it ; bnt he, who never
examined how or what his inspira-
tion, knew it not. All that he knew
was, that he loved and blessed her.
He fancied he told her so twenty times
a-day ; but he never did, for he was
not of many words, even to his wife.
His language was his music, as hers
— her cares 1 He was more commu-
nicative to his barbiton, as the learned
Mersennns teaches us to call all the
varieties of the great viol family.
Certainly barbiton sounds better than
fiddle ; and barbiton let it be. He
would talk to that by the hour together
— ^praise it— scold it— coax it, nay
(for such is man, even the most guile-
less,) he had been known to swear at
it ; but for that excess he was always
penitentially remorseful. And the
barbiton had a tongue of his own,
could take his own part, and when Tie
also scolded, had much the best of it.
He was a noble fellow, this Violin 1 a
Tyrolese, the handiwork of the illus-
trious Steiner. There was something
mysterious in his great age. How
many hands, now dust, had awakened
his strings ere he became the Sobin
Goodfellow and Familiar of Gaetano
Pisani ! His very case was venerable ;
— beaiutifully painted, it was said, by
Caracei. An English collector had
offered more for the case than Pisani
had ever made by the violin. But
Pisani, who cared not if he had in-
habited a cabin himself, was proud of
a pahice for the barbiton. His bar-
biton, it was his elder child I He had
another child, and now we must turn
to her.

How shall I describe thee, Yiohil
Certainly the music had somethlngto
anawer for in the advent of that young
stranger. For both in her form and
hereharaeter you might have tnieed a
fiunily likeaiess to that singular and
spliit-llke life of sound wfaieh night
after night threw itself in auyand

goblin spod; over the starry seas ....
Beautafiil she wbs> but of a very un-
common beauty — a combination, a
harmony of opposite attributes. Her
hiur of a gold richer and purer than
that which is seen even in the North ;
but the eyes, of all the dark, tender,
subduing light of more than Italian —
almost of oriental — splendour. The
complexion exquisitely fair, but never
the same — vivid in one moment, pale
the next. And with the complexion,
the expression also varied; nothing
now so sad) and nothing now so joyous.
I grieve to say that what we rightly
entitle eduoation was much neglected
for their daughter by this singular
pair. To be siyre, neither of them had
much knowledge to bestow : and
knowledge was not then the fashion,
as it ia now. Biit accident or nature
fiftvoured young Viola. She learned,
as of course, her mother's language
with her father^s. And she contrived
soon to read and to write : and her
mother, who, by the way, was a Roman
I Catholic, taught her betimes to pray.
But theuj to connteract all these acqui-
sitions, the strange habits of Pisani,
and the incessant watch and care which
he required from his wife, often left the
chUd alone with an old nurse ; who,
to be sure, loved her deariy, but who
was in no way calculated to instruct
her. Dame Oionetta was every inch
Italian and Neapolitan. Her youth
had been all love, and her age was all
superstition. She was garrulous, fond
— a gossip. Now she would pratlAe
to the girl of cavaliers and princes at
her feet, and now- she would freeze her
blood with tales and legends, periiaps
a» old as Oreek or Etrurian fable--of
demon and vampire— of the dances
round the great walnut-tree at Bmio-'
vento, and the haunting spell of the
Evil Eye. AU this h^]^ fiHently io
weave charmed webs over- Viola's
imagmation, that afterthought and
later yeavs* might labour yainly to
dispd. And all thia especially fitted

ZAKOKL

her to hang, with a fearfal joy^upon
her Either 8 music. Those visionary
strains, ever straggling to translateinto
-wild and broken sounds the language
of unearthly beings, breathed around
her from her birth. Thus you might
hare said that her whole mind was
fall of musio: — ^associationB, memories,
sensati(ms of pleasure or pain, all were
mixed up inexpHcably with th<fee
sounds that now delighted, and now
terrified — that greeted her when her
eyes opened to the sun, and woke her
trembling on her lonely coueh in the
darkness of the night. The legends
and tales of Gionetta only served to
make the child better understand the
signification of those mysterious
tonea; they fumlBhed her with words
to the music. It was natural that the
daughter of such a parent should soon
evince some taste in his art. But this
developed itself chiefly in the ear and
the voice. She was yet a child when
she sang divinely. A great Cardinal,
— great alike in the State and the
Conservatorio, heard of her gifts, and
seat for hex.% From that moment her
fate was decided : she was to be the
future glory of Naples, the prima
donna of San Carlo. The Cardinal
infflsted upon the accomplishment of
his own predictions, and provided her
with the most renowned masters. To
inspire her with emulation, his Emi-
nence took her one evening to his
own box : it would be something to
see the performance, something more
to hear the applause lavished upon
the glittering signoras she was here-
after to excel! Oh how gloriously
that Life of the Stage — that fairy
World of Music and Song, dawned
upon her ! It was the only world that
seemed to correspond with her strange
childish thoughts. It appeared to her
as if, cast hitherto on a foreign shore,
she was brought at last to see the
forms and hear the language of her
native land. Beautiful and true
enthusiasm, rich with the promise of

genius! Boy or man, thou wilt never
be a poet, if thou hast not felt the
ideal, the romance, the Calypso's isle
that opened to thee, when for the
first time, the magic curtain was
drawn aside, and let in the World of
Poetry on the World of Prose I

And now the initiation was begun.
She was to read, to study, to depict
by a gesture, a look, the passions she
was to deUneate on the boards;
lessons dangerous, in truth, to some,
but not to the pure enthuedasm that
comes from Art ; for the mind that
rightly conceives Art, is but a mirror,
which gives back'what is cast on its
sur&ce fjuthfuUy only — while un-
sullied. She seized on nature and
truth intuitively. Her recitations
became full of unconscious power;
her voice moved the heart to tears,
or warmed it into generous rage. But
this arose from that sympathy which
genius ever has, even in its earliest
innocence, with whatever feels, or
aspires, or suffers. It waa no prema-
ture woman comprehendiag the love
or the jealousy that the words ex-
pressed; her art was one of those
strange secrets which the psycho-
logists may unriddle to us if they
please, and tell us why children of
the simplest minds and the purest
hearts are often so acute to distin-
guish, in the tales you tell them, or
the songs you sing, the difference
between the true Art and the False —
Passion and Jargon — Homer and
Bacine ; — echoing back, from hearts
that have not yet felt what they re-
peat, the melodious accents of the
natural pathos. Apart from her
studies, Viola was a simple, affection-
ate, but somewhat wayward child;
wayward, not in temper, for that was
sweet and docile, but in her moods,
which, as I before hinted, changed
from sad to gay and gay to sad with-
out an apparent cause. If cause there
were, it must be traced to the early
and mysterious influences I have

ZANONI.

referred to, when seeking to explain
the effect produced on her imagina-
tion by those restless streams of sound
that constantly played around it : for
it is noticeable, that to those who are
much alive to the effects of music,
airs and tunes often come back, in
the commonest pursuits of life, to
vex, as it were, and haunt them.
The music, once admitted to the soul,
becomes also a sort of spirit, and
never dies. It wanders perturbedly
through the halls and galleries of the
memory, and is often heard again,
distinct and living as when it first
displaced the wavelets of the air.
Kow at times, then, these phantoms
of sound floated back upon her
fancy ; if gay, to call a smile from
every dimple ; if mournful, to throw
a shade upon her brow — to make her
cease from her childish mirth, and sit
apart and muse.

Bightly, then, in a typical sense,
might this £Eiir creature, so airy in
her shape, so harmonious in her
beauty, so unfamiliar in her ways and
thoughts, — rightly might she be
called a daughter, less of the Mu-
sician than the Music — a being for
whom you could imagine that some
fate was reserved, less of actual life
than the romance which, to eyes that
can see, and hearts that can feel,
glides ever along vniJi the actual life,
stream by stream, to the Dark Ocean.

And therefore it seemed not
strange that Yiola herself, even in
childhood, and yet more as she
bloomed into the sweet seriousness of
virgin youth, should fancy her life
ordained for a lot, whether of bliss or
woe, that should accord with the ro-
mance and reverie which made the
atmosphere she breathed. Frequently
sh^ would climb through the thickets
that clothed the neighbouring grotto
of Posilipo — the mighty work of the
old Cimmerians, — and, seated by the
haunted. Tomb of Virgil, indulge
those visions, the subtle vagueness of
which no poetry can render palpable
and defined : — for the Poet that sur-
passes all who ever sung — ^is the
Heart of dreaming Youth! Fre-
quently there, too, beside the threshold
over which the vine-leaves clung, and
facing that dark-blue, waveless sea,
she would sit in the autumn noon or
summer twilight, and build her
castles in the air. Who doth not do
the same — ^not in youth alone, but
with the dimmed hopes of age ! It
is man's prerogative to dream, the
common royalty of peasant and of
king. But those day-dreams of hers
were more habitual, distinct, and
solemn, than the greater part of us
indulge. They seemed like the
Oram a of the Greeks — ^prophets while
phantasma.

ZANONI.

CHAPTER IL

Fa stupor, fa vaghezza, fa diletto ! *

GxRUSAL. Lib., cant. ii. xzl.

Now at last the education is accom-
plishedl Yiola is^ nearly sixteen.
The Cardinal declares that the time
is come when the new name must be
inscribed in the Libro d'Oro—the
Golden Book set apart to the children
of Art and Song. Yes, but in what
character 1 — ^to whose genius is she to
give embodiment and formi Ah,
there is the secret! Humours go
abroad that the inexhaustible Pai-
siello, charmed with her performance
of his Ifd cor piu non me aento,
and his lo eon Lindoro, 'will pro-
duce some new masterpiece to intro-
duce the debutante. Others insist
upon it that her forte is the comic,
and that Cimarosa is hard at work at
another* Jdairimonio Segreto, But
in the meanwhile there is a check in
the diplomacy somewhere. The Car-
dinal is observed to be out of humour.
He has said publicly— and the words
are portentous — " The silly girl is as
mad as her father — what she asks is
preposterous r* Conference follows
conference — ^the Cardinal talks to the
poor child yery solemnly in his closet
— all in vain. Naples is distracted
with curiosity and conjecture. The
lecture ends in a quarrel, and Yiola
comes home sullen and pouting : she
will not act — she has renounced the
engagement.

Pisani, too inexperienced to be
aware of all the dangers of the stage,
had been pleased at the notion that
one, at least, of his name, would add

* " Jleaire it waa, twaa wonder, 'twas de-
ligltt»?-.WiirntM'8 trM9latiim,

celebrity to his art. The girPs
perverseness displeased him. How-
ever, he said nothing — he never
scolded in words, but he took up the
faithful barbiton. Oh, faithful bar-
biton, how horribly thou didst scold I
It screeched — it gabbled — ^it moaned
—it growled. And Viola's eyes filled
with tears, for she understood that
language. She stole to her mother,
and whispered in her ear ; and when
Pisani turned from his employment,
lo! both mother and daughter were
weeping. He looked at them with a
wondering stare ; and then, as if he
felt he had been harsh, he flew again
to his Familiar. And now you
thought you heard the lullaby which a
fairy might sing to some fretful change-
ling it had adopted and sought to
soothe. Liquid, low, silvery, streamed
the tones beneath the enchanted bow.
The most stubborn grief would have
paused to hear ; and withal, at times,
out came a wild, merry, ringing note,
like a laugh, but not mortal laughter.
It was one of his most successful airs
from his beloved opera — the Siren in
the act of charming the waves and
the winds to sleep. Heaven knows
what next would have come, but his
arm was arrested. Yiola had thrown
herself on his breast, and kissed him,
with\ happy eyes that smiled through
her sunny hair. At that very mo-
ment the door opened — a message
from the Cardinal. Yiola must go to
his Eminence at once. Her mother
went with her. All was reconciled
and settled ; Yiola had her way, and
selected her own opera. O ye dull

10

ZANOOT,

nations of the North, with your
broils and debates — your bustling
lives of the Pnyx and the Agora ! —
you cannot g^ess what a stir through-
out musical Naples was occasioned
by the rumour of a new opera and a
new singer. But whose the opera?
No cabinet intrigue ever was so
secret Pisani came back one night
from the theatre, evidently disturbed
and irate. Woe to thine ears hadst
thou heard the barbiton that night {
They had suspended him from his
oflSce — they feared that the new
opera, and the first deb^ of his
daughter as prima donna, would be
too mach for his nerves. And his
variations, his diablerie of sirens and
harpies, on such a night, made a
hazard not to be contemplated with-
out awe. To be set aside, and on the
very night that his child, whose
melody was but an emanation of his
own, was to perform — set aside for
some new rival — ^it was too much for
a musician's flesh and blood. For
the first time he spoke in words upon
the subject, and gravely asked — for
that question the barbiton, eloquent
as it was, could not express distinctly
— ^what was to be the opera> and vdiat
the parti And Yiola as gravely
answered that she was pledged to the
Cardinal not to reveal. PisaausaM
nothing, but disappeared with the
violin ; and presently they heard the
Familiar from the housetop (whither,
when thoroughly out of humour, the
Musician sometimes fled), whining
and sighing as if. its heart were
broken.

Theafieetions of Pisani were little
visible on the surface. He was not
one of those fond, caressing &thM«
whose children* are ever playing
round their knees; his mind and
soul were so thoroughly in his art,
that domestic life glided by him,
seemingly as if ikat were a dream,
and the heart the substantial form
and body of existence. Persons

much cultivating an abstract study
are often thus ; mathematicians pro-
verbially so. When his servant ran
to the celebrated French philosopher,
shrieking, ** The house is on fire, sir ! "
"Go and tell my wife then, fool!"
said the wise man, settling back to
his problems; "do / ever meddle
with domestic affairs T' But what
are mathematics to music, — music,
that not only composes operas, but
plays on the barbiton 1 Do yon
know what the illustrious Qiardini
said wben the tyro asked how long it
would take to learn to play on the
violin? Hear, and despair, ye who
would bend the bow to which, that of
Ulysses was a plaything—*' Twelve
hours Srday, for twenty years
together r' Can a num, then, who
plays the barbiton be always playing
also with his little ones ? No, Pisani !
often, with the keen susceptibility of
childhood, poor Yiola had stolen
from the room to weep at the thought
that thou didst not love her. And
yet, underneath this outward abstrac-
tion of the artist, the nsitural fond-
ness flowed all the same ; and as she
grew'up, the dreamer had understood
the dreamer. And now, shut out
from all fame himself— to be forbidden
to hail even his daughter's fame! —
and that daughter herself to be in
the ooni^iraey against him ! Sharper
than the serpent's tooth was the
ingratitudei, tLod. sharper than the
serpent's tooth was the wail of the
pitying barbiton I

The eventful hour is come. Yiolft
is- gone to the theatre — ^ber mother
with her. The indignant mnsician
remains at home. Gionetta borate
into the room — My Lord Cardinal's
carriage is at the door — the Padrone
is sent for. He must lay aside his
violin— he mvaik pnt on his brocade
coat and his laoe mflieB. Here they
are — quick, quick I And quick rolls
the gilded ooaeh, and majestic sits
the driver, and statelily pnuice the

ZAlSrONL

11

steeds. Poor Pisani i^ lost in a mist
of uncomfortable amaze. He arrives
at the theatre — he descends at the
great door — he turns round and
round, and looks about him and
about— he misses something — Where
is the violin? Alas! his soul, his
voice, his ^If of self, is left behind !
It is but an automaton that the
lackeys conduct up the stairs, through
the tier, into the Cardinals box.
But then, what bursts upon him ! —
Does he dream) The first act is
over, (they did not send for him till
success seemed no longer doubtful,)
the first act has decided all. He feels
that, by the electric sympathy which
every the one heart has at once with
a vast audience. He feels it by the
breathless stillness of that multitude
— ^he feels it even by the lifted finger
of the Cardinal. He sees his Yiola
on the stage, radiant in her robes and
gems — ^he hears her voice thrilling
through the single heart of the
thousands I But the scene — ^the part
— the music I It is his other child —
his immortal child — the spirit-infant
of his soul*— his diffUng of many years
of patient obscurity and pining
genius — ^his masterpiece — his opera
of the Siren !

ThiSf then,was the mystery thai had
so galled him — this the cause of the
quarrel with the Cardinal — this the
secret not to be proclaimed till the

success was won, and the daughter had
united her father's triumph with her
own!

And there she stands, as all souls
bow before her — fairer than the very
Siren he had called from the deeps of
melody. Oh ! long and sweet recom-
pense of toil! Where is on earth
the rapture like that which is known
to genius when at last it bursts from
its hidden cavern into light and fame I

He did not speak — he did not
move — ^he stood transfixed, breath*
less — ^the tears rolling down his
cheeks : only from time to time his
hands still wandered about — ^mecha-
nically they sought for the faitiifnl
instrument — ^why was it not there to
share his triumph 1

At last the curtain fell; but on
such a storm — and diapason of
applause ! Uprose the audience as
one man — as with one voice that dear
name was shouted. She came on —
trembling, pale — and in the whole
crowd saw but her father's face. The
audience followed those moistened
eyes — they recognised with a thrill
the daughter's impulse and her
meaning. The good old Cardinal
drew him gently forward — Wild
musician ! thy daughter has given thee
back more than the life thou gavest t

** My poor violin ! " said he, wiping
his eyes— " they will never hiss thee
again now ! "

12

ZANONI.

CHAPTER III.

•* Fra si contrarie teinpre in ghiaccio e in foco,
]n riso e in plan to, e fra paura e Bpene
L' Ingannatrice Donna — " *

Gerusal. Lib., cant iv. xciv.

Kow, notwithstanding the triumph
both of the singer and the opera,
there had been one moment in the
first act, and, consequently, before
the arrival of Hsani, when the scale
seemed more than doubtful. It was
in a chorus replete with all the
peculiarities of the composer. And
when this Maelstrom of Capricci
whirled and foamed, and tore ear and
sense through every variety of sound,
the audience simultaneously recog-
nised the hand of Pisani. A title
had been given to the opera, which
had hitherto prevented all suspicion
of its parentage; and the overture
and opening, in which the music had
been regular and sweet, had led the
audience to fancy they detected the
genius of their favourite Paisiello.
Long accustomed to ridicule and
almost to despise the pretensions of
Pisani as a composer, they now felt as
if they had been unduly cheated into
the applause with which they had
hailed the overture and the com-
mencing scenas. An ominous buzz
circulated round the house; — ^the
singers, the orchestra — electrically
sensitive to the impression of the
audience — ^grew, themselves, agitated
and dismayed, and fEiiled in the
energy and precision which could
alone carry off the grotesqueness of
the music.

* Between such contrarious mixtures of
Ice and Are, laughter and tears,— fear and
hope, the decei?ing

There are always in every theatre
many rivals to a new author, and a
new performer— a party impotent
while all goes well — ^but a dangerous
ambush the instant some accident
throws into confusion the march to
success. A hiss arose ; it was partial,
it is true, but the significant silence
of all applause seemed to forebode
the coming moment when the dis-
pleasure would grow contagious. It
was the breath that stirred the
impending avalanche. At that criti-
cal moment — Viola, the Siren queen,
emerged for the first time from her
ocean cave. As she came forward to
the lamps, the novelty of her situa-
tion, the chilling apathy of the
audience — which even the sight of
so singular a beauty, did not at the
first arouse — ^the whispers of the
malignant singers on the stage, the
glare of the lights, and more — far
more than the rest — that recent hiss,
which had reached her in her con-
cealment, all froze up her faculties
and suspended her voice. And
instead of the grand invocation into
which she ought rapidly to have
burst, the regal Siren, retransformed
into the trembling girl, stood pale
and mute before the stern cold array
of those countless eyes.

At that instant, and when con-
sciousness itself seemed about to fail
her — ^as she turned a. timid beseeching
glance around the still multitude —
she perceived, in a box near the stage,
a countenance which at once, and

ZANONI.

13

like magic, prodaced on her mind an
eflfect never to be analysed nor for-
gotten. It was one that awakened an
indistinct haunting reminiscence, as
if she had seen it in those day-dreams
she had been so wont from in&ncy to
indulge She could not withdraw
her gaze from that face, and as she
gazed, the awe and coldness that had
before seized her, yanished, like a
mist from before the sun.

In the dark splendour of the eyes
that met her own there was indeed so
much of gentle encouragement, of
benign and compassionate admiration ;
so much that warmed, and animated,
and nerved ; that any one — ^actor or
orator — ^who has ever observed the
effect that a single earnest, and kindly
look, in the crowd that is to be
addressed, and won, will produce upon
his mind, may readily account for the
suddenand inspiriting influence which
the eye and smile of the stranger
exercised on the debutante.

And while yet she gazed, and the
glow returned to her heart, the
stranger half rose, as if to recal the
audience to a sense of the courtesy
due to one so fair and young ; and
the instant his voice gave the signal,
the audience followed it by a burst of
generous applause. For this stranger
himself was a marked personage, and
his recent arrival at Naples, had
divided with the new opera the
gossip of the city. And then as the
applause ceased — clear, full, and
freed from every fetter — like a spirit
from the clay — the Siren's voice
poured forth its entrancing music.
From that time, Viola forgot the
crowd, the hazard, the whole world —
eicept the fairy one over which
she presided. It seemed that the
stranger's presence only served ^still
more to heighten that delusion, in
which the artist sees no creation
without the circle of his art; she felt
as if that serene brow, and those
brilliant eyes, inspired her with

powers never known before : and, as
if searching for a language to express
the strange Bensations occasioned by
his presence, that presence itself
whispered to her the melody and the
song.

Only when all was over, and she
saw her fiither and felt his joy, did
this wild spell vanish before the
sweeter one of the household and
filial love. Yet again, as she turned
from the stage, she looked back
involuntarily, and the stranger's calm
and half melancholy smile sunk into
her heart — ^to live there — ^to be
recalled with confused memories, half
of pleasure and half of pain.

Pass over the congratulations of
the good Cardinal-Virtuoso, aston-
ished at finding himself and all
Naples had been hitherto in the
wrong on a subject of taste, — still
more astonished at finding himself
and all Naples combining to confess
it ; pass over the whispered ecstasies
of admiration which buzzed in the
singer's ear, as once more, in her
modest veil and quiet dress, she
escaped from the crowd of gallants
that choked up every avenue behind
the scenes; pass over the sweet
embrace of father and child, return-
ing through the starlit streets and
along the deserted Chiaja in the
Cardinal's carriage ; never pause now
to note the tears and ejaculations of
the good, simple-hearted mother . . .
see them returned — see the well-
known room, venimtu ad larem
nostrum* — see [old Gionetta bustling
at the supper ; and hear Pisani, as he
rouses the barbiton from its case,
communicating all that has happened
to the intelligent Familiar ; hark to
the mother's merry low English
laugh, — Why, Viola, strange child,
sittest thou apart, thy face leaning
on thy fair hands, thine eyes fixed on
space? Up, rouse thee I Eveiy

* Wo com* to our own bouse.

14

ZAKOKI.

dimple on the cheek of home naiist
smile to-night.*

And a happy re-nnion it was round
that humble table ; a feast LucuUus
might hare envied in his Hall of
Apollo, in the dried grapes and the
dainty sardines, and the luxurious
polenta, uid the old 14crima, a present
from the good Cardinal. The barbi-
ton, placed on a chair — a tall, high-
backed chair — ^beside the musician,
seemed to take a part in the festive
meal. Its honest varnished face
glowed in the light of the lamp ; and
there ^"as an impish, sly demureness
in its very silence, as its master,
between every mouthful, turned to
talk to it of something he had for-
gotten to relate before. The good
wife looked on affectionately, and
could not eat for joy ; but suddenly
she rose, and placed on the artist's
temples a laurel wreath, which she
had woven beforehand in fond antici-
pation ; and Viola, on the other side
her brother, the barbiton, re-arranged
the chaplet, and smoothing back her
father's hair, whispered, " Caro Padre,
you will not let him scold me again ! "

Then poor Pisani, rather distracted
between the two, and excited both by
the l^crima and his triumph, turned
to the younger child with so naive
# and grotesque a pride, " I don't know
which to thank the most You give
me so much joy, child, — I am so
proud of thee and myself. But he
and I poor fellow, have been so ofben
unhappy together ! "

Viola's sleep was broken; that was
natural. The intoxication of vanity
and triumph, the happiness in the
happiness she had caused, all this was
better than sleep. But still from all
this, again and again her thoughts
flew to those haunting eyes, to that
smile with which for ever the memory
of the triumph, of the happiness, was

* ** Ridete qnidquid est Domi oachlnnonim."
Catvul, ad Sirm. Penin.

to be untied. Her feelings, like her
own character, were strange and
peculiar. They were not those of a
girl whose heart, for the first time
reached Uirough the eye, sighs its
natural and native language of first
love. It wsA not so much admiration,
tiiough the face that reflected itself
on every wave of her restless fSEtncies
was of the rarest order of majesty and
beauty ; nor a pleased and enamoured
recollection that the sight of this
stranger had bequeathed; it was a
•human sentiment of gratitude and
delight, mixed with something more
mysterious, of fear and awe. Certainly
she had seen before those features;
but when and how] only when her
thoughts had sought to shape out her
future, and when in spite of all the
attempts to vision forth a fate of
flowers and sunshine, a dark and chill
foreboding made her recoil back into
her deepest self. It was a something
found that had long been sought for
by a thousand restless yearnings and
vague desires, less of the heart than
mind; not as when j^outh discovers
the one to be beloved, but rather as
when the student, long wandering
after the clue to some truth in science,
sees it glimmer dimly before him, to
beckon, to recede, to allure, and to
wane again. She fell at last into
unquiet slumber, vexed by deformed,
fleeting, shapeless phantoms; and,
waking, as the sun, through a veil of
hazy cloud, glinted with a sickly ray
across the casement, she heard her
Either settled back betimes to his one
pursuit, and calling forth from his
Familiar, a low mournful strain, like
a dirge over the dead.

"And why," she asked, when she
descended to the room below, — " Why,
my father, was your inspiration so
sad, after the joy of last night 1 " — " I
know not, child. I meant to be merry,
and compose an air in honour of thee,
%ut he is an obstinate fellow, this —
and he- would have it so."

ZANOSL

15

CHAPTER IT.

E coal i plgri e timidi dosiri
Spnnuu'l^

Gkruaal. Lib., cant iv. Ixxxviii.

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 daring the night. In fact,

whether to compose or to practise,

the hours of noon were precisely those

in which Pisani could not have been

active if he would. His genius

resembled those foimtainsfullat dawn

and evening, overflowing at night,

and perfectly dry at the meridian.

Daring this time, consecrated by her

husband to repose, the Signora

generally stole out to make the

parchases necessary for the little

hoosehold, or to enjoy, as what woman

does not, a little relaxation 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 awning which
sheltered from the san, without
obstructing the view ; and there now,
with the prompt-book on her knee,
on which her eye royes listlessly from
time to time, yot^may behold her, the
vine-leaves clustering, from their
arching trellis over the door behind,
and the lazy white-sailed boats skim-
ming along the sea that stretched
before.

* And thai the slow and timid paaeioiis
urged.

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
abniptly, started in a kind of terror
as she recognised the stranger. She
uttered an involuntary exclamation,
and the cavalier turning, saw, and
paused.

He stood a moment or two between
her and the sunlit ocean, contem-
plating in a silence too serious and
gentle for the boldness of gallantry,
the blushing face and the youug
slight form before him : at length he
spoke.

"Are you happy, my child," he
said, in almost a paternal 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,
falteringly, 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.

ZANONI.

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 scorch the wing. Bemem-
ber that the only homage that docs
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 hearth 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. Signer, without him I "

A deep and melancholy 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, Animated
face of the young actress.

" It is well," said he. " A simple
heart may be its own best guide, and
60, go on, and prosper. Adieu, fair
singer."

" Adieu, Excellency ; but,"— and
something she could not resist — an
anxious, sickening feeling of fear and
hope — ^impelled her to the question,
" I shall see yen again, shall I not, at
San Carlo r'

" Not, at least, for some time. I
leave Naples to day."

"Indeed;" and Viola's heart sunk
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 piety of sorrow.
Observe yon tree in your neighbour's
garden. Look how it grows up,
crooked and distorted. Some wind
scattered the germ, from which it
sprung, in the clefts 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 writhed 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 gallant
heart, through every adverse accident
of sorrow, and of fete, 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 boughs, and
when you hear the birds sing from
them, and see the sunshine come
aslant from crag and housetop to be
the, play fellow 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 sad-
ness, charmed. Involuntarily her
eyes followed him — ^involuntarily she

ZANONI.

17

stretched forth her arms, as if by a
gesture to call him back; shewoald
have given worlds to have seen him
tnm — 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 softens into
beauty every angle on which it falls,
seemed his presence, — as moonlight
vanishes, and things assume their
common aspect of the rugged and the
mean — ^he receded from her eyes,—
and the outward scene was common-
place 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 populous quarters of the
city.

A group of young, dissipated cour-
tiers, loitering by the gateway of a
house which was open for the &vourite
pastime of the day — the resort of the
wealthier and more high-bom game-
sters — ^made way for him, as with a
courteous inclination he passed them
by.

" Perfede" said one, " is not that
the rich Zanoni, of whom the town
talks r

" Ay— they say his wealth is incal-
culable!"

" 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 birth-place, his parentage, or,
what is more important, his estates !"

" That is true ; but he arrived in a
goodly vessel, 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 awe of the sums placed in their
hands."

*' Whence came heV*

" BVom some sea-port in the East.
My viJet learned from some of the
sailors on the Mole that he had resided
many years in the interior of India."

Iso, 260.

** Ah, I am told that in India men
pick up gold like pebbles, and that
there are valleys where the birds build
their nests with emeralds to attract
the moths. 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"—

" Hal ha I hear him I— his friend"—

" Yes ; my friend Zanoni is going
to Home 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 witty gentle-
man ! "

"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 iti)
and a new ij^nger — (what a face — what
a voice! — ah!) had engaged every
comer of the house. I heard of
Zanoni's desire to honour the talent
of Naples, and, with my usual courtesy
to distinguished 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 retinue ! We sit late, — I tell him
all ^he news of Naples, — we grow
bosom friends, — he presses on me thi»
diamond before we part, — ^it is a trifle,
he teUs 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.

"Signer Count Cetoxa," said one
2

18

ZANONI;

graye-looking sombre man, ^o had
crossed himself two or three times
during the Neapolitan's narratire;
'^ Are yon not aware of the strange
reports about this person ; and are
yon not afraid to receive firom him a
g^, which may earry with it the most
fisital consequences. Do you not knt>w
that he is said to be a sorcerer— to
possess the mal-occhio—to- — "

" Prithee, spare us your antiquated
superstitions/' interrupted Cetoza,
contemptuously. "They are out of
fashion, nothing now goes down but
scepticism and philosophy. And what,
after all, do these rumours when sifted,
amount to. They have no origin but
this — ^a silly old man of eighty-six,
quite in his dotage, solemnly arers
that he saw this same Zanoni seventy
years ago — (he himself, the narrator,
then a mere 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 gentle-
man, **thaJt 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 saaae mys*

tery^ And that an old man there,
remembered to have seen him sixty
years before, in Sweden;"

"Ttish," returned Cetoxa, "the
same thing has been said of the quack
Cfi^ioBtro — ^meirefebies. I will believe
them when. I see this diamond turn
to^ a wisp of hay. For the rest (he
added gravely) I consider this iilus-
trions gentleman my friend; and a
whisper against his honour and repute
Wilt, in future, be equivalent to an
afiront to myself."

Cetoxa was a redoubted swordsman,
and excelled in a peculiarly awkward
manoeuvre, which he himself had
added to the variations of the stoc-
caJta, The grave gentleman, however
anxious for the spiritual weal of the
Count, had an equal regard for his
own corporeal safety. He contented
himself with a look of compassion,
and, turning through the gateway,
ascended the stairs to the gaming-
tables^

'' Ha, ha !" said Cetoxa,. laughing^
** our good Loredano is envious of my
diamond. Qentlemen, you sup with
me to-night. I assure you 1 never
met a more delightful, sociable, enter-
taining person— than my dear friend,
the Signer 'Zanoni."

ZANOKI.

19

CHAPTER V.

' <^uaiU> IpiiogifOi gxBnde e ttraao augdlo
Lo porta yia.***

Orl. Fur., c. vI. xvfii.

Aim now, aecompanymg thie mys-
terioofi ZskHom, am I compelled to bid
a short &reweU to Naplesi Mount
behind me — amount on mj hippogriff;
reader — settle yourself at your ease.
I bought the pillion the other day of
a poet who loves his comfort ; it has
been newly stuffed for your special
acoommodation. So, so, we ascend !
Look as we ride aloft — ^look ! — never
fear, hippogriffs never stumble ; and
every hippogriff in Italy is warranted
to carry elderly gentlemen — look
down on the gliding landscapes!
There, near the ruins of the Oscan's
old Atella, rises Aversa, once the
strong hold of the Norman ; there
gleam the columns of Capua, above
the Yulturnian Stream. Hail to ye,
corn-fields, end vineyards famous for
the old Falemian! Hail to ye,
golden orange groves of Mola di
Gaeta ! Hail to ye, sweet shrubs and
wild flowers, omma copia narium,
that clothe the mountain skirts of
the silent Lautulae ! Shall we rest at
Hhe Yolseian Anxur — the modem
Terracina — where the lofty rock
staads like the giant that guards the
last borders of the southern land of
Love 1 Away, away ! and hold your
breath as we flit above the Pontine
Marshes. Dreary and desolate, their
miasma is to the gardens we have
passed what the rank commonplace of
life is to the heart when it has left
love behind. Mournful Campagna,

* That hippogrifl; great and marvellous
bird, bears him away.

thou openest on nsin majestic sadness.
Rome, seven-hilled Rome ! receive us
as Memory receives the wayworn;
receive us in silence, amidst ruins !
Where is the traveller we pursued Turn
the hippogriff loose to graze; he loves
the acanthus that wreathes round yon
broken columns. Tes, that is the
Arch of Titus, the- conqueror of Jeru-
salem, — ^that the Colosseum ! Through
one passed the triumph of the deified
invader — ^in one fell the butchered
gladiators. Monuments of murder,
how poor the thoughts, how mean the
memories ye awaken, compared with
those that speak to the heart of man
on the heights of Phyle, or by thy
lone mound, grey Marathon! We
stand amidst weeds, and brambles,
and long, waving herbage. Where
we stand reigned Nero — here were
his tesselated floors ; here

'* Mighty in the Heaven, a second HeaTon/'

hung the vault of his ivory roofs —
here, arch upon arch, pillar on pillar,
glittered to the world the golden
palace of its master — the Golden
House of Nero. How the lizard
watches- us with his bright timorous
eye 1 We disturb his reign. Gather
that wild flower : the Qalden House
is vanished — ^but the wild flower may
have kin to those which the stranger's
hand scattered over the tyrant's grave;
— see, over this soil, the grave of Rome,
Nature strews the wild flowers still !

In the midst of this desolation ia
an old building of the middle ages.
Here dwells a singular Recluse. In
2

20

ZANONI.

the season of the malaria, the native
peasant flies the rank vegetation
round; but he, a stranger and a
foreigner, breathes in safety the pesti-
lential air. He has no friends, no
associates, no companions, except
books and instruments of science.
He is often seen wandering over the
grass-grown hills, or sauntering
through the streets of the new city,
not with the absent brow and incurious
air of students, but with observant,
piercing eyes, that seem to dive into
the hearts of the passers by. An old
man, but not infirm — erect and
stately, an if in his prime. None
know whether he be rich or poor.
He asks no charity, and he gives
none — ^he does no evil, and seems
to confer no good. He is a man
who appears to have no world be-
yond himself; but appearances are
deceitful; and Science, as well as
Benevolence, lives in the Universe.
This abode, for the first time since
thus occupied, a visitor enters. It is
Zanoni.

You observe those two men seated
together, conversing earnestly. Years
long and many have flown away since
they met last — at least, bodily, and face
to face. But if they are sages, thought
can meet thought, and spirit spirit,
though oceans divide the forms.
Death itself divides not the wise.
Thou meetest Plato when thine eyes
moisten over the Phaedo. May Homer
live with all men for ever !

They converse — they confess to each
other — ^they conjure up the past, and
repeople it ; but note how differently
do such remembrances affect the two.
On Zanoni's face, despite its habitual
calm, the emotions change and go.
He has acted in the past he surveys ;
but not a trace of the humanity that
participates in joy and sorrow can be
detected on the passionless visage of
his companion; the Past, to him, as
is now the Present, has been but as
nature to the sage, the volume to the

student — a calm and spiritual life— a
study — a contemplation.

From the Past they turn to the
Future. Ah ! at the close of the last
century, the future seemed a thing
tangible — it was woven up in all
men's fears and hopes of the Present.

At the verge of that hundred years,
Man, the ripest-bom of Time,* stood
as at the death-bed of the Old World,
and beheld the New Orb, blood-red
amidst cloud and vapour, — uncertain
if a comet or a sun. Behold the icy
and profound disdain on the brow of
the old man — the lofty yet touching
sadness that darkens the glorious
countenance of Zanoni. Is it that
one views with contempt the struggle
and its issue, and the other with awe
or pity] Wisdom contemplating
mankind leads but to the two results
— Compassion or disdain. He who
believes in other worlds can accustom
himself to look on this as the natu-
ralist on the revolutions of an ant-hill,
or of a leaf. What is the Earth to
Infinity — what its duration to the
Eternal ! Oh, how much greater is
the soul of one man than the
vicissitudes of the whole globe!
Child of heaven, and heir of immor-
tality, how from some star hereafter
wilt thou look back on the ant-hill
and its commotions, from Clovis to
Robespierre, from Noah to the Final
Fire. The spirit that can contemplate,
that lives only in the intellect, can
ascend to its star, even from thet
midst of the Burial-ground called
Earth, and while the Sarcophagus
called Life immures in its clay the
Everlasting !

But thou, Zanoni — thou hast re-
fused to live only in the intellect —
thou hast not mortified /the heart —
thy pulse still beats with the sweet
music of mortal passion — thy kind

* " An des Jahrhnnderts Neige,
2>er relfate Bohn der Zeit" '
Die KCnstler.

ZANONI.

21

is to thee still something warmer
than an abstraction — thou wouldst
look upon this Revolution in its
cradle, which the storms rock — thou

wouldst see the world while its
elements yet struggle through the
chaos 1
Go!

CHAPTER VI.
Precepteurs ignorans de ce faible univera. *

VOLTAIRK.

Nous ^tions k table chez un de nos confreres k I* Acaddmie, Grand Seigneur
et h<^pune d'e8prit.~LA Harpk.*

Onb evening, at Paris, several months
after the date of our last chapter,
there was a reunion of some of the
most eminent wits of the time, at the
house of a personage distinguished
alike by noble birth and liberal
accomplishments. Nearly all present
were of the views that were then the
mode. For as came afterwards a time
when nothing was so unpopular as
the people, so that was the time
when nothing was so vulgar as
aristocracy. The airiest fine gentle-
man and the haughtiest noble prated
of equality, and lisped enlightenment.
Among the more remarkable guests
were Condorcet, then in the prime of
his reputation, the correspondent of
the King of Prussia, the intimate of
Voltaire, the member of half the
academies of Europe — ^noble by birth,
polished in manners, republican in
opinions. There, too, was the vene-
rable Malesherbes, "I'amour et les
delicesdela Nation." t There Jean
Silvain Bailly, the accomplished
scholar — the aspiring politician. It
was one of those petite soupera for
which the capital of all social pleasures
was so renowned. The conversation,
as might be expected, was literary

* Ignorant teachers of this weak world.

t We supped with one of our confreres of
til* Academy; a great nobleman and wit.

^ The idol and delight of the nation (so
called by his historian, OaiUard).

and intellectual, enlivened by graceful
pleasantry. Many of the ladies of
that ancient and proud noblesse — for
the noblesse yet existed, though its
hours were already numbered — added
to the charm of the society; and
theirs were the boldest criticisms, and
often the most liberal sentiments.

Vain labour for me — vain labour
almost for the grave English lan-
guage, to do justice to the sparkling
paradoxes that flew from lip to lip.
The favourite theme was the supe-
riority of the Modems to the An-
cients. Condorcet on this head was
eloquent, and to some, at least, of his
audience, most convincing. That
Voltaire was greater than Homer few
there were disposed to deny. Keen
was the ridicule lavished on the dull
pedantry which finds everything
ancient necessarily sublime.

"Yet," said the graceful Marquis

de , as the champagne danced

to his glass, " more ridiculous still is
the superstition that finds everything
incomprehensible holy ! But intelli-
gence circulates, Condorcet; like
water, it finds its level. My hair-
dresser said to me this morning,
'Though I am bat a poor fellow,
I believe as little as the finest gentle-
man 1'"

" Unquestionably, the great Revo-
lution draws near to its final com-
pletion — d pas de giant, as Montes-

22

ZANOUI.

quieu aaid of . his own immortal

Then there rushed from all — ^wit
and noble, courtier and republican —
a confused chorus, harmonious only
in its anticipation of the brilliant
things to which "the great Revo-
lution" was to give birth. Here
Condorcet is more eloquent than
before.

" II fant absolumcnt qne la Super-
stition et le Fanatisme fassent place
a la philofiophie.* Kings persecute
persons, priests opinion. Without
kings, men must be safe ; and without
priests, minds must be free."

"Ah," mnralured the Marquis,
" and as ce cher Diderot has so well
sung —

* Et des boyauz du dernier pr€tre
Serrez le cou du dernier roL* " t

" And then," resumed Condorcet —
^' then commences the Age (^Reason !
— Equality in instruction— equality
in institutions — equality in wealth!
The great impediments to knowledge
are^ first, the want of a common lan-
guage ; and next, the short duration
of existence. But as to the first,
when all men are brothers, why not
an universal language? As to the
seoond, the organic perfectibility of
the vegetable world is undisputed, is
Mature less powerful in the nobler
existence of thinking man ? The very
destruction of the two most active
causes of physical deterioration — here,
luxurious wealth, — there, abject
penary — joaust necessarily prolong
the general term of life.:}: The art of
medicine will then be honoured in
the place of war, which is the art of
murder; the noblest study of the

* It must necessarily happen that super-
stition and fanaticism give place to philo-
sophy.

t And throttle the neck of the last Idog,
with a airing from the hovels oi the last
priest.

t See Condorcet's posthumous work on
the progress of the Human mind.— Epitor.

acntest minds will be devoted to the
diacov^iry and arrest of the causes of
disease. Life, I grant, cannot be
made eternal; but it may be pro-
longed almost indefinitely. And as
the meaner animal bequeaths its
vigour to its offspring, so man shall
transmit his improved organisation,
mental and physical, to his sons.
yes, to such a consummation does
our age approach ! "

The venerable Malesherbes sighed.
Perhaps he feared the consummation
might hot come in time for him.

The handsome Marquis de

and the ladies, yet handsomer than
he, looked conviction and delight.

But two men there were, seated
next to each other, who joined not
in the general talk ; the one, a stran-
ger newly arrived in Paris, where his
wealth, his person, and his accom-
plishments, had already made hhn
remarked and courted ; the other, an
old man, somewhere about seventy —
the witty and virtuous, brave and
still light-hearted Cazotte, the author
of Le Diable Amoiireux,

These two conversed famUiariy,
and apart from the rest, and only by
an occasional smile testified their
attention to the general coversation.

" Yes," said the stranger — " yes,
we have met before."

" I thought I could not forget your
countenance ; yet I task in rain my
recollections of the past."

" I will assist you. Recal the time
when, led by curiosity, or perhaps
the nobler desire of knowledge, you
sought initiation into the mysterious
order of Marlines de Pasqualis."*

4° It is so recorded of Cazotte. Of Martines
de Pasqualis little is known; even the
country to which he belonged is matter of
conjecture. Equidly so the rites, ceremo-
nies, and nature of the oabalistio order he
established. 8t. Martin was a disciple of
the school, and that, at least; is in its favour ;
for ' in spite of his mysticism, no man more
beneficent, generousy^pure, and %'irtuou8.

2AN0NL

'^ Ah ! is it posaible ! Ton are one
of that thenrglc brotherhood ^ "

" Nay, I attended their ceremonies
bnt to see how vainly they sought
to revive the ancient marvels of the
cabala."

'' Such studies please you ] I have
shaken off the influence they once had
on my own imagination."

'* You have not shaken it off," re-
turned the stranger gravely ; " it is on
you still — on you at this hour; it
beats in your heart ; it kindles in your
reason ; it will speak in your tongue ! "

And then with a yet lower voice, the
stranger continued to address him, to
remind him of certain ceremonies and
doctrines, — to explain and enforce
them by references to the actual ex-
perience and history of his listener,
which Cazotte thrilled to find so
&miliar to a stranger.

Gradually the old man's pleasing
and benevolent countenance grew
overcast, and he turned, from time
to time, searching, curious, uneasy
glances, towards his companion.

The charming Duchess de G

archly pointed out to the lively guests
the ab«tracted air and clouded brow

than St. Martin, adorned the last century.
Above all, no man more distingnisbed him-
self from the herd of sceptical philosophers
by the gallantry and fervour with which he
oombated materialism, and vindicated the
necessity of faith amidst a chaos of unbelief.
It may also be observed, that Cazotte,
whatever else he learned of the brotherhood
of Marlines, learned nothing that diminished
the excellence of his life and the sincerity
of his religion. At once gentle and brave,
he never ceased to oppose the excesses of
the Revolution. To the last, unlike the
I«ibera]s of his time, he was a devout .aad
sincere Christian. Before his execution, he
demanded a pen and paper, to write these
words : *< Ma femme, mes enfans, ne me
pleures pas, ne m'oubliez pas, mais souvenez-
Tons surtont de ne jamais offenser Dieu." ^—

^ My wife, my children, weep not for
roe ; forget me not, but remember above
everything never to offend God.

of the poet ; and Condoroet, who liked
no one else to be remarked when he
himself was present, said to Cazotte,
^ Well, and what do yonu predict of
the Bevolution — ^how, at least, will it
affect us 1"

At that question, Cazotte started —
his cheeks grew pale, large drops stood
on his forehead — his lips writhed.
His gay companions gazed on him in
surprise.

"Speak !" whispered the stranger,
laying his hand genUy upon the arm
of the old wit.

At that word, Cazotte*s face grew
locked and rigid, his eyes dwelt
vacantly on space, and in a low,
hollow voice, he thus answered — *

*' You ask how it will affect your-
selves, — ^yott, its most learned, and its
least selfish agents. I will answer;
you. Marquis de Condorcet, will die
in prison, but not by the huid of the
executioner. In the peaceful happi-
ness of that day, the philosopher will
carry about with him, not the elixir,
but the poison."

" My poor Cazotte," said Condoroet,
with his gentle smile, ''what have
prisons, executioners, and poison, to
do with an age of liberty and brother-
hood 1"

" It is in the names of Liberty and
Brotherhood that the prisons will reek,
and the headsman be glutted."

" You are thinking of priestcraft,
not philosophy, Cazotte," said Champ-
fort, t— " And what of me % "

* The following prophecy (not unfamiliar
perhaps, to some of my readers), with some
slight variations, and at greater length, in the
text of the authority I am about to cite, is to
be found in La Harpe's posthumous Works.
The MS. is said to exist still in La Harpe's
hand-writing, and the story is given on
M. Petitot's authority, vol. i. p. 62. It is
not for me to inquire if there be doubts of
its foundation on fact.— En.

t Champfort, one of those men of letters
who, though misled by the first fair show
of the Revolution, refused to foUow the
baser men of action into its horrible ex-

24

ZANONI.

" You will open your own veins to
escape the fraternity of Cain. Be
comforted; the last drops will not
follow the razor. For you, venerable
Malesherbes, — for you, Aimar Nicola!,
— for you, learned Bailly, — I see them
dress the scaffold ! And all the while,
great philosophers, your murderers
will have no word but philosophy on
their lips!"

The hush was complete and uni-
versal when the pupil of Voltaire —
the prince of the academic sceptics,
hot La Harpe — cried, with a sarcastic
laugh, *' Do not flatter me, prophet,
by exemption from the fate of my
companions. Shall / have no part
to play in this drama of your phan-
tasies]"

At this question. Gazette's coun-
tenance lost its unnatural expression
of awe and sternness ; the sardonic
]ium<$ur most common to it came back
and played in his brightening eyes.

, lived to express the murderous phi-
lanthropy of its agents by the best bon mot
of the time. Seeing written on the walls,
" Fraternity ou la Mort/* he observed that
the sentiment should be translated thus—
•• Sots mon/rire, ou Je U tue. **

"fie my brother or I km thee."

" Tea, La Harpe, the most wonderful
part of all ! You will become — a
Christian I"

This was too much for the audience
that a moment before seemed grave
and thoughtful, and they burst into
an immoderate fit of laughter, while
Gazette as if exhausted by his pre-
dictions, sunk back in his chair, and
breathed hard and heavily.

"Nay," said Madame de G ,

" you who have predicted such grave
things concerning us, must prophesy
something also about yourself."

A convulsive tremor shook the
involuntary prophet ; — it passed, and
left his countenance elevated by an
expression of resignation and calm.
''Madame," said he, after a long
pause, " during the siege of Jerusalem,
we are told by its historian that a
man, for seven successive days, went
round the ramparts, exclaiming, 'Woe
to thee, Jerusalem, woe to myself ! ' "

"Well, Gazette, welH"

" And on the seventh day, while he
thus spoke, a stone from the machines
of the Romans dashed him into atoms ! "

With these words Gazette rose ; and
the guests, awed in spite of them-
selves, shortly afterwards broke up
and retired.

ZANONI.

25

CHAPTER VII.

Qnl done t'a donn^ la mission s'annoncer au pouple que la divinity n'exlste pas— quel
avantage trouves-tu k persuader k rhomme qu'une force aveugle preside k ses destinies
et frappe au hasard le crime et la vertu ? *— Robkspibrrx, Discours, llai 7* 1794.

It was some time before midnight
when the stranger returned home.
His apartments were situated in one
of those vast abodes which may be
called an epitome of Paris itself. The
cellars rented by mechanics, scarcely
removed a step from paupers, often
by outcasts and fugitives from the
law, — often by some daring writer,
who after scattering amongst the
people doctrines the most subversive
of order, or the most libellous on the
characters of priest, minister, and
king,— retired amongst the rats, to
escape the persecution that attends
. the virtuous, — ^the ground-floor occu-
pied by shops — ^the eTUresol by artists
— the principal stories by nobles, and
the garrets by journeymen or grisettes.
As the stranger passed up the stairs,
a youngmanof aformand countenance
singularly unprepossessing, emerged
from adoor in the entresol, and brushed
beside him. His glance was furtive,
sinister, savage, and yet timorous ; the
man's &ce was of an ashen paleness,
and the features worked convulsively.
The stranger paused, and observed
him with thoughtful looks, as he hur-
ried down the stairs. While he thus
stood, he heard a groan from the room
which the young man had just quitted;
the latter had puUed-to the door with
hasty vehemence, but some fragment.

* Who then invested you with the
mission to announce to the people that
there is no God ?— what advantage find you
in persuading man that nothing but blind
force presides over his destinies, and strikes
hap-bazard both orime and virtue ?

probably of fuel, had prevented its
closing, and it now stood slightly ajar ;
the stranger pushed it open and en-
tered. He passed a small anteroom,
meanly furnished, and stood in a bed-
chamber of meagre and sordid dis-
comforL Stretched on the bed, and
writhing in pain, lay an old man ; a
single candle lit the room, and threw
its feeble ray over the furrowed and
death-like face of the sick person. No
attendant was by; he seemed left
alone to breathe his last. " Water,"
he moaned, feebly — "water — I parch
— I bum ! " The intruder approached
the bed, bent over him, and took his
hand— -"Oh, bless thee, Jean, bless
thee ! " said the sufferer ; " hast thou
brought back the physician already ?
Sir, I am poor, but I can pay you
well. I would not die yet, for that
young man's sake." And he sat
upright in his bed, and fixed his dim
eyes anxiously on his visitor.

"What are your symptoms, your
disease f*

" Fire — fire— fire in the heart, the
entrails— I bum!"

"How long is it since you have
taken food 1"

'* Pood I only this broth. There is
the basin, all I have taken these six
hours. I had scarce drunk it ere
these pains began."

The stranger looked at the basin,
some portion of the contents was yet
left there.

" Who administered this to you 1"

"Whol Jean! Who else should ?
I have no servant, — none! I am

26

ZAKONI.

poor, very poor, sir. But no! you
physicians do not care for the poor.
/ am rich ! can you cure me 1 "

"Yes, if Heaven permit. Wait
but a few momenta."

The old man was fast sinking under
the rapid effects of poison. The
stranger repaired to his own apart-
ments, and returned in a few moments
with some pr^>aration that had the
instant result of an antidote. The
pain oeasetd, the blue and livid colour
reeeded from the lips; the old man
fell into a profound sleep. The
stranger drew the curtains round t^e
bed, took up the lights and inspected
the apartment The walls of both
rooms were himg with drawings of
masterly excellence. A portfolio was
filled with sketches of equal skill;
but these last were mostly subjects
that appalled the eye and revolted
the taste; they displayed the human
figure in every variety of suffering —
the rack, the wheel, the ^bbet, all
that cruelty has invented to sharpen
the pangs of death, seexned yet more
dreadful from the. passionate gusto
and earnest force of the designer.
And some of the countenances of
those thus delineated were sufficiently
removed from the ideal to show that
they were portraits ; in a large, bold,
irregukr hand, was written beneath
these drawings, " The Future of the
Aristocrats." In a comer of the
room, and close by an old bureau,
was a small bundle, over which, as if
to hide it, a cloak was thrown care-
lessly. Several shelves were filled
with books; these were almost entirely
the works of the philosophers of the
time — ^the philosophersof the material
school, especially the Encyclop6dhites,
whom £obespierre afterwards so
nngalariy attacked, when the coward
deemed it unsafe to leave his reign
without a God.* A volume lay on a

« Oetle seete (lea EneyelopMisteB) pro-
pafM aveo bauicoup de sMe I'opinion da

table, it was one of Voltaire, and the
page was opened at his argumentative
assertion of the existence of the
Supreme Being.* The margin was
covered with pencilled notes, in the
stiff but tremulous hand of old age ;
all in attempt to refute or to ridicule
the logic of the sage of Ferney :
Voltaire did not go far enough for
the annotator! The clock struck
two, when the sound of steps was
heard without. The stranger silently
seated himself on the farther side of
th« bed, and its drapery screened him,
as he sat, from the eyes of a man who
now entered on tiptoe; it was the
same person who had passed him on
the stairs. The new comer took up
the candle and approached the bed.
The old man's face was turned to the
pillow; but he lay so still, and his
breathing was so inaudible, tthat his
sleep might well, by that haety,
shrinking, guilty glance be mistaken
for the repose of death. The new
comer drew back, and a grim smile
passed over his face ; he replaced the
candle on the table, opened the bureau
with a key which he took from his
pocket, and loaded himself with
several rouleaus of gold, that he
found in the drawers. At this time

materlaliBme, qui prevalut paimi lea grands
et panni les beaux esprits ; on lui doit en
partie cette espdee de phllosophie pratique
qui, redaieant PBgoiame en syetftme, regafde
a sooi^t^ humalne oomne un gneire de
ruse, le buoc^b oomme la r£gle du Juste et
de Tinjuste, la probity corame une affaire
de gotlt, ou de biensdance, le monde comme
le patrimonie dee frlpons adrolts.^— DisoovRs
DK RoBSBPiSMtB, May 7. 1794*
* HiatofredeJemii.

1 This sect (the Encj'cloptedista) pro.
pagatewlth much zeal thedoetrineof mtfte.
rialtmi. wliioh prevails among the great and
the wits ; we owe to it, parUy, that kind of
practical phttesophy wfaich, reducing Bgo-
tiem to a system, looks upon eociety, as a
wiar of «uimlng--snoosss the rule of right
and wrong-«koneaty-as an affair of taat» or
dadenoy— Old the world as the pafcitaony
of clever Mwondnla.

ZANOKI.

27

the old nan began to wake. He
stirred, he looked up ; he turned his
eyes towards the light now waning in
its socket ; he saw the robber at his
work ; he sat erect for ^n instant, as
if transfixed, more even by astonish-
ment than terror. At last he sprang
from his bed —

" Jnst Heaven ! do I dream ! Thon
— thou — ^thou for whom I toiled and
starved! — nouT

The robber started; the gold fell
from his hand, and rolled on the floor.

"What!" he said, "art thou not
dead yet 1 Has the poison bailed ? *'

" Poison, boy ! Ah ! " dirieked the
old man, and covered his &ce with
his hands ; then, withsodden enei^gy,
he exolaimed, "Jean! Jean t reed
that word. Rob, phmd^ me if thon
wilt, but do not say thou couldst
mnrder one who only lived for thee !
There, there, take the -gold; I hoarded
it but for thee. Go-«-^!" and the
<Ad man, who, in his passion, had
quitted his bed, fell at the feet of the
foiled assassin, and writhed /on the
groQnd->*the mental agony more in-
tolerable than that of the body, which
hehad so lately undergone. The robber
looked at him with a hard disdain.

" What have I ever done to thee,
wietch?" cried the old man, "what
but loved «nd Perished thee 1 Thou
wert an orphan — an outeast. I nur-
tured, niirsed,-adopiedthee asmy son.
If men call me a miser, it was but that
none mig^t despise thee, my heir, be-
cause nature has stunted and deformed
thee, when I was no more. Thou
wouldst have had all when I was
dead: Couldst thou not < iq>are me a
few montha or days — nothiag to thy
youth, all that is left to my agel
What have I done to thee V'

" Thou hast continued to live, and
thon wouldst make no will.*'

"MonDien! MohDieu!"

''TonDuuI ThyGk)d! Fool!
Hast thou not told me, from my
childhood, that there is no God?

Hast thou not fed me on philosophy?
Hast thou not said, ' Be virtuous, be
good, be just, for the sake of man-
kind ; but there is no life after this
lifel' Mankind! why should I love
mankind? Hideous and misshapen,
mankind jeer at me as I pass the
streets. What hast thou done to
me? Thou hast taken away from
me, who am the scoff of this world,
the hopes of another ! Is there no
other life? Well, then, I want thy gold,
that at least I may hasten to make the
best of this!*'

"Monster! Curses light on thy
ingratitude, thy—"

" And who hears thy curses? Thou
knowdst there is no God I Mark me ;
I have prepared all to fly. See — I
have my passport; my horses wait
without; relays are ordered. I have
thy. gold." (And the wretch, as he
i^ke, continued coldly to load his
person with the rouleaus.) "And now,
if I spare thy life, how shall I be sure
that thou wilt not inform against mine ?"
He advanced with a gloomy scowl and
a menacing gesture as he spoke.

The old man's anger changed to fear.
He cowered before the savage. " Let
me live ! let' me live ! — ^that — that — "

"That— what?"

"I may pardon thee! Yes, thou
hast nothing to fear from me. I
swear it !"

** Swear ! But by whom and what,
old man ? I cannot believe thee, if
thou believest not in any God ! Ha,
ha ! behold the result of thy lessons."

Another moment, and those 'mur-
derous fingers would have strangled
their prey. But between the assassin
and his victim rose a form that seemed
almost to both a visitor from the
world that both denied — stately with
majestic strength, glorious with aw&l
beauty.

The ruffian recoiled, looked, trem-
bled, and then turned and fled trtm
tiie chamber. The old man fell again
to the gnMUOLdineensible.

28

ZANONI.

CHAPTER VIII.

To know how a) bad man will act when in power, rererae all the doctrines he preaches
when obscnre.— 8. Montague.

Antipathies also form a part of magio (falsely) so called. Man natnrally has the samo
instinct as the animals ; which warns them involuntarily against the creatures that
are hostile or f^tal to their existence. But he so often neglects it that it becomes
dormant. Not so the true cultivator of The Great Science. &o.

;Trjsmkoistv8 the Fourth. (A Rosicmcian.)

When he again saw the old man the
next day, the stranger found him calm,
and surprisingly recovered from the
scene and sufferings of the night. He
expressed his gratitude to his pre-
server with tearful fervour, and stated
that he had already sent for a relation,
who would make arrangements for his
future safety and mode of life. " For
I have money yet left," said the old
man; "and henceforth have no
motive to be a miser." He proceeded
then briefly to relate the origin and
circumstances of his connexion with
his intended murderer.

It seems that in earlier life he had
quarrelled with his relations — from' a
difference in opinions of belief. Re-
jecting all religion as a fable, he yet
cultivated feelings that inclined him
— for though his intellect was weak,
his dispositions were good— to that
false and exaggeratjed sensibility
which its dupes so often mistake for
benevolence. He had no children;
he resolved to adopt an enfant du
peupU, He resolved to educate this
boy according to "Reason." He
selected an orphan of the lowest ex-
traction, whose defects of person and
constitution only yet the more moved
his pity, and finally engrossed his
Affection. In this outcast he not only
loved a son, he loved a theory ! He
brought him up most philosophically.
Helvetius had proved t<^ him that

education can do all ; and before he
was eight years old, the little Jean's
favourite expressions were — " La
lumiire et la veriu" * The boy showed
talents, especially in art. The pro-
tector sought for a master who was as
free from "superstition" as himself,
and selected the painter, David. That
person, as hideous as his pupil, and
whose dispositions were as vicious as
his professional abilities were undeni-
able, was certainly as free fronv
" superstition " as the protector could
desire. It was reserved for Robes-
pierre hereafter to make the san-
guinary painter believe in the Eire
Supr^ne, The boy was early sensible
of his ugliness, which was almost
preternatural. His benefactor found
it in vain to reconcile him to the
malice of nature by his philosophical
aphorisms ; but when he pointed out
to him that in this world money, like
charity, covers a multitude of defects,
the boy listened eagerly and was
consoled. To save money for his
proUgS — for the only thing in the
world he loved — this became the
patron's passion. Verily, he had'met
with his reward.

" But I am thankful he has es-
caped," said the old man, wiping hia
eyes. " Had he left me a beggar, I
could never have accused him."

* Light and virtue.

ZANONI.

29

"Vo, for yoa are the author of his
crimes."

"Howl I, "who never ceased to
inculcate the beauty of virtue ? Ex-
plain yourself."

** Alas, if thy pupil did not make
this clear to thee last night from his
own lips, an angel might come from
heaven to preach to thee in vain."

The old man moved uneasily, and
was about to reply, when the relative
he had sent for, and who, a native of
Nancy, happened to be at Paris at the
time — entered the room. He was a
man somewhat past thirty, and of a
dry, saturnine meagre countenance,
restless eyes, and compressed lips.
He listened, with many ejaculations of
horror, to bis relation's recital, and
-sought earnestly, but in vain, to
induce him to give information
against his protigS.

"Tush, tush, R6n6 Dumas!" said
the old man, " you are a lawyer. You
are bred to regard human life with
contempt. Let any man break a law,
and you shout — 'Execute him 1 ' "

" I ! " cried Dumas, lifting up his
hands and eyes : " venerable sage, how
you misjudge me. I lament more
than any one the severity of our code.
I think the state never should take
away life — ^no, not even the life of a
murderer. I agree with that young
statesman — Maximilien Robespierre
— that the executioner is the inven-
tion of the tyrant. My very attach-
ment to our advancing revolution is,
that it must sweep away this legal
butchery."

The lawyer paused, out of breath.
The stranger regarded him fixedly,
and turned pale.

"You change countenance, sir,"
said Dumas ; " you do not agree with
me."

" Pardon me, I was at that moment
repressing a vague fear which seemed
prophetic " —
" And that"—
" Was that we should meet again. [

when your opinions on Death and the
philosophy of Revolutions might be
different."
"Never!" .

''You enchant me, cousin R6n6,"
said the old man who had listened to
his relation with delight. "Ah, I
see you have proper sentiments of
justice and philanthropy. Why did
I not seek to know you before ! You
admire the Revolution 'i — ^you, equally
with me, detest the barbarity of kings
and the fraud of priests 1 "

" Detest ! How could I love man-
kind if I did not 1 "

"And," said the old man hesitat-
ingly, " you do not think, with this
noble gentleman, that I erred in the
precepts I instilled into that wretched
manr*

"Erred! Was Socrates to blame
if Alcibiades was an adulterer and a
traitor 1"

" You hear him — ^you hear him !
But Socrates had also a Plato ; hence-
forth you shall be a Plato to me.
You hear him ? " exclaimed the old
man, turning to the stranger.

But the latter was at the threshold.
Who shall argue with the most
stubborn of all bigotries — the fanati-
cism of unbelief]

"Are you going?" exclaimed
Dumas, " and before I have thanked
you, blessed you, for the life of this
dear and venerable man ? Oh, if ever
I can repay you — ^if ever you want the
heart's blood of Ren^ Dumas ! " Thus
volubly delivering himself, he followed
the stranger to the threshold of the
second chamber, and there gently
detaining him, and after looking over
his shoulder, to be sure that he was
not heard by the owner, he whispered^
" I ought to return to Nancy. One
would not lose one's time ; — you don't
think, sir, that that scoundrel took
away all the old fool's money?"

"Was it thus Plato spoke of
I Socrates, Monsieur Dumas ?"

* Ha, ha ! — you are caustic. Well,

80

ZAKOKI.

you httv&ia nght Sir, wslmll meet

" Aqaik ! " muttered the
and his brow darkened. He hastened
to hig chanrber, he paawd the day and
the night alone, and in studies, no
matter of what nat«re, — ^they served
to iaereafle his gloom*

What could ever connect his iSite
with Eiti6 Dumas? or the fugitive
assassin 3 Why did the buoyant air
of Paris seem to him heavy with the
steams of blood ^--why didan instiiust
urge- him to f y from those sparkling
circles, from that foeus of the world's
awakened hopes, warning him frOm
return? — he, whose lofty existence
defied — but away these dreams and
om«Qa! He leaves ! iiMHice behind^
Back, 0, Italy, to thy majestic wreekftf

On the Alps his soul breathes the
free air once more. Free air ! Alas,
let the world-healers exhaust their
chemistry ; Man never shi^ be as free
in the market-place as on the SMnm-
tain. But we, reader, we too, escape
from these scenes of Mae wisdom
clothing godless crime. Away, once
more*

** In den heltem Regiooen
Wo die reinen formen wohnen."

Away, to the loftier realm where the
pure dwellers are. Unpolluted by
the Actual, the Ideal lives only with
Art and Beauty. Sweet Viola, by the
shores of the blue Parthenope, by
Virgil's tomb, and the Cimmerian
cavern, we return to thee once more.

b.

ZANOWI.

83

OHAPTBK'IX.

* Ck0m/m 4vuol<Att *l ctestrier pidi vadaiin alto;

Poi lo lofa nel.margine muiBO
A 4m Terdfrmirto ia meszo un lauro-^ un plno,"

Obl. Fur., c. vi. zziii.

O MtsiciAR! art tliou happy now^l
Thou art reinstelled at thy stately
desk — thy &lthfu! barbHon has its
share -in the triumph. It is thy
masterpiece which fills thy ear— it is
thy daughter who fills the scene —
the music, the actress so united, that
applause to one is applause to both.
They make way for thee at the
orchestra — ^they no longer jeer and
wink, when, with a fierce fondness,
thou dost caress thy Familiar, that
plains, and wails, and chides, and
growls, under thy remorseless hand.
They understand now how irregalar
is ever the symmetry of real genius.
The inequalities in its surface make
the moon luminous to man. Giovanni
Paisiello, Mftestro di Capella, if thy
gentle soul could know envy, thou
must sicken to see thy Elfrida and
thy Pirro laid aside, and all Naples
turned fanatic to the Siren, at whose
measures shook querulously thy
gentle headl But thou, Paisiello,
calm in the long prosperity of fame,
knowest that the New will have its
day, and comfortest thyself that the
Elfrida and the Pirro will live for
ever. Perhaps a mistake, but it is by
such mistakes that true genius con-
quers envy. "To be immortal," says
Schiller, " live in the whole." To be
superior to the hour, live in thy self-
esteem. The audience now would

*■ As be did not wish that his charger (the
hippogriflr) Bhoald take any further exour-
sioDt into the higher regions for the prebent,
he hound him at the sea-ahore to a greeo
isyrtle betfreen a laurel and a pine.

give their ears for those variations
and flights they were once wont to
hiss. No ! — Pisani has been two-
thirds of a life at silent work on his
masterpiece : there is nothing he can
add to that, however he might have
sought to improve on the masterpieces
of others. Is not this common?
The least little critic, in reviewing
some work of art, will say, " pity this,
and pity that;" "this should have
been altered — that omitted." Yea,
with his wiry fiddlestring will he
creak out his accursed variations.
But let him sit down and compose,
himself. He sees no improvement in
variations tften! Every man can
control his fiddle when it is his own
work with which its vagaries would
play the devil.

And Viola is the idol — the theme
of Naples. She is the spoiled Sultana
of the boards. To spoil her acting
may be easy enough — shall they spoil
her nature 1 No, I think not. There,
at home, she is still good and simple;
and there, under the awning by the
door- way — there she still sits, divinely
musing. How often, crook-trunked
tree, she looks to thy green boughs ;
how often, like thee, in her dreams
and fancies, does she struggle for the
light ; — Not the light of the stage-
lamps. Pooh, child! be contented
with the lamps, even with the rush-
lights. A farthing candle is more
convenient for household purposes
than the stars.

Weeks passed, and the stranger did
not re-appear: months had passed.

ZANONI.

i prophecy of sorrow was not
jinlfiUed. One evening, Pisani
taken ill. His success had
Crought on the long-neglected com-
poser pressing applications for con-
certi and sonata, adapted to his more
peculiar science on the violin. He
had been employed for some weeks,
day and night, on a piece in which he
hoped to excel himself. He took, as
nsual, one of those seemingly imprac-
ticable subjects which it was his pride
to subject to the expressive powers of
his art — the terrible legend connected
with the transformation of Philomel.
The pantomime of sound opened with
the gay merriment of a feast. The
monarch of Thrace is at his
banquet: a sudden discord brays
through the joyous notes — the string
seems to screech with horror. The
king learns the murder of his son by
the hands of the avenging sisters.
Swift rage %he chords, through the
passions of fear, of horror, of fury,
and dismay. The father pursues the
sisters. Hark! what changes the
dread — ^the discord — into that long,
silvery, mournful music ? The trans-
formation is completed; and Philomel,
now the nightingale, pours from the
myrtle-bough the full, liquid, sub-
duing notes that are to tell evermore
to the world the history of her woes
and wrongs. Now, it was in the
midst of this complicated and difficult
attempt that the health of the over-
tasked musician, excited alike by past
triumph and new ambition, suddenly
gave way. He was taken ill at night.
The next morning, the doctor pro-
nounced that his disease was a malig-
nant and infectious fever. His wife
and Viola shared in their tender
watch ; but soon that task was left to
the last alone. The Signora Pisani
caught the infection, and in a few
hours was even in a state more
alarming than that of her husband.
The Keapolitans, in common .with
the inhabitants of all warm climates,

are apt to become selfish and brutal
in their dread of infections disorders.
Gionetta herself pretended to be ill,
to avoid the sick chamber. The whole
labour of love and sorrow fell on
Viola. It was a terrible trial — I am
willing to hurry over the details.
The wife died first !

One day, a little before sunset,
Pisani woke., partially recovered from
the delirium which had preyed upon,
him, with few intervals, since the
second day of the disease ; — and cast-
ing about him his dizzy and feeble
eyes, he recognised Viola, and
smiled. He filtered her name as he
rose and stretched his arms. She
fell upon his breast, and strove to
suppress her tears.

"Thy motherr* he said. "Does
she sleep 1**

" She sleeps — ah, yes ! '* and the
tears gushed forth.

" I thought — eh ! I know not what
I have thought. But do not weep —
I shall be well now — quite well. She
will come to me when she wakes —
will shel"

Viola could not speak; but she
busied herself in pouring forth an
anodyne, which she had been directed
to give the sufiferer as soon as the
delirium should cease. The doctor
had told her, too, to send for him the
instant so important a change should
occur.

She went to the door, and called to
the woman who, during Glonetta's
pretended illness, had been induced
to supply her place ; but the hireling
answered not. She flew through the
chambers to search for her in vain —
the hireling had caught Glonetta's
fears, and vanished. What was to be
donel The case was urgent — the
doctor had declared not a moment
should be lost in obtaining his attend-
ance ; she must leave her father— -she
must go herself! She crept back
into the room — the anodyne seemed
already to have taken benign effect— i

ZANONI.

83

the patient's eyes were closed, and he
breathed regtilarly, as in sleep. She
stole away, threw her veil oyer her
£ice, and hurried from the house.

Now, the anodyne had not produced
the effect which it appeared to hare
done ; instead of healthful sleep, it
had brought on akindof light-h^ed
somnolence, in which the mind, pre-
tematurally restless, wandered about
its accustomed haunts, waking up its
old i^miliar instincts and inclinations.
It was not sleep— it was not delirium;
it was the dream-wakefulness which
opium sometimes induces, when every
nerve grows tremulously alive, and
creates a corresponding activity in
the frame, to which it gives a false
and hectic vigour. Pisani missed
something — ^what, he scarcely knew ;
it was a combination of the two wants
most essential to his mental life — ^the
voice of his wife, the touch of his
Familiar. He rose — he left his bed
— ^he leisurely put on his old dressing-
robe, in which he had been wont to
compose. He smiled complacently
as the associations connected with the
garment came over his memory; he
walked tremulously across the room,
and entered the small cabinet next to
his chamber, in which his wife had
been accustomed more often to watch
than sleep, when illness separated her
from his side. The room was deso-
late and void. He looked round
wistfully, and muttered to himself,
and then proceeded regularly, and
with a noiseless step, through the
chambers of the silent house, one
by one.

He came at last to that in which
old Qionetta, — faithful to her own
safety, if nothing else— nursed herself,
in the remotest comer of the house,
from the danger of infection. As he
glided in— wan, emaciated, with an
uneasy, anxious, searching look in
his haggard eyes — the old woman
shrieked aloud, and fell at his feet.
He bent over her, passed his thin

No. 261

hands along her averted face, shook
his head, and said in a hollow voice —

"I cannot find them; where are
theyl"

"Who, dear master 1 Oh, have
compassion on yourself; they are not
here. Blessed saints! this is terrible:
he has touched me : I am dead !"

"Dead ! who is deadi 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 in-
fectious enough to kill a whole city.
San Gennaro, protect me ! My poor
mistress — she is dead — buried, too;
and I, your faithful Qionetta, woe is
me! Go, go — to — to bed again,
dearest master — ^go I "

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 comer
he found the laurel-wreath she had
placed on his brows that happy night
of £une and triumph ; and near it,
half hid by her mantilla, lay in its
case the neglected instmment.

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 pierc-
ing, heart-rending anguish: it was
not like some senseless instrument^
mechanical in its obedience to a
human hand — it was as some spirit
calliDg in wail and agony from the
forlorn shades, to the angels it beheld
a&r beyond the Eternal Gulf. They
exchanged glances of dismay. They
hnnied into the house — they
hastened into the room. Pifiani
turned, and his look, full of ghastiy
8

u

zk^mt

intelUgenceAiidfiteni comiiuuB4»awed
them back. The -blaek sumtUla, the
faded laurel-lea^ l^y there before
him. Viola's heart guessed all at a
single glance-^ she sprung to his
knees — she elasped them — ''Father^
father, / am left thee still ! "

The wail ceased — ^the note changed;
with a confiised association — half of
the man, half of the artist — the
anguish^ still a melody, was coimected
with aweeter sounds and thought.
The nightingale had escaped the pur-
suit — 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 tlxat sound through the
silence. The artist looked on his
kneeling child, and then on the
broken chords. . . . "Bury me by

her side," he «ud, in a veiy calm, low
Yoioe; ''and that, by mine." AmA
wiUi these words his whole frame
became xigid, as if tumttd to fitonfi.
The last change passed over his tee.
He fell to the ground, SHdd«n and
heavy. The chords tiiere, iito — the
chords of the human instrument w^re
snapped asunder. As he fell, jtiis
robe brushed the laurel-wreath, aad
that fell also, near, but not ia i<each
of, the dead man's nerveless hand.

Broken instrum^at— broken heart
— withered laurel-wreath! — the set-
ting sun through the yine-clad lattice
streamed on all! So smiles ihe
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 !

35ANOM.

35

CHAPTER X.

Ghi dtfesB mi^Hor eh' uabirgo e scudo
B la SBsta iiiBOoeiiBa al petto ignudo !

Obb. Lib., c. ▼iii. xU.

r^KD they buried the Maaician and his
barbiton together, in the same coffin.
That famous Stelner — Prima87al Titan
of the great Tjrrolese race — often 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 Ihy soul
sleeps with thee in the coffin. And
the music that belongs to ^is, separate
from the instrument, ascends on high^
to be heard often by a daughter's
pious ears, when the heav^ 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
&ith.

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 in-
supportable. 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
yon fly from the walls, when in the

* Better defoaoe than shield or breast-
Ute, is holy innocenoe to the naked bres9t !

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 foad to memory which
was just before bat bitterness and
gall 1 Is it not almost impions and
pro&ne to abandon that dear hearth
to strangers? And the desertion of
the home where your parents dwelt^
and blessed you, upbraids your con-
science as if you had sold their tombs.
Beautiful was the Etruscan superoti-
tion, that the ancestors become the
household gods. Deaf is the heart to
which the Lares call from the desolate
floors in vain. At first Viohi had, in
her intolerable anguish, gratefhlly
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 proflered
to the orphan. But the company oi
the unfamiliar in our grief, the conso-
lation of the stranger, how it irritates
the wound ! And then, to hear else-
where the name of &ther, mother,
child — ^as if death came alone to you
— to see elsewhere the calm regu-
larity of those lives united in love
and order, keeping account of happy
hours, the unbroken timepiece of
home, as if nowhere else the wheeU
were arrested, the chain shattered^
the hands motionless, the chime still !
Ko, the grave itself does not remind
us of our loss like the company of
those who have no loss to mourn. Gk>
back to thy solitude^ young orphan-
go back to thy home : the sorrow t^
D 2

36

ZANONI*

meets tbee on the threshold can greet
thee, even in its sadness, like the
smile upon the £Ace of the dead. And
there, from thy casement, and there,
from without thy door, thou seest still
the tree, solitary as thyself, and spring-
ing 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 I 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 months — months sad
and many — ^again passed, and Naples
wUl not longer suffer its idol to se-
clude 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 clasped the burial urn,
and burst into broken sobs ; how few,
there, knew that it held the ashes of
his son ! Gold, as well as fame, was
showered upon the young actress;
but she still kept to her simple mode
of life, to her lowly home, to the one
servant, whose faults, selfish as they
were, Viola was too inexperienced to
perceive. And it was Gionetta who
had placed her, when first bom, in
her father^s arms.' She was sur-
rounded by every snare, wooed by
every solicitation that could beset her
unguarded beauty and her dangerous
calling. But her modest virtue passed
unsullied through them all. It is tru
that she had been taught by lips now
mute the maiden duties enjoined by
honour and religion. And all love
that spoke not of the altar only
shocked and repelled her. But be-
sides that, as grief and solitude

ripened her heart, and made hep-
tremble at times to think how deeply
it could feel, her vague and early
visions shaped themselves into aii«
ideal of love. And till the ideal is-
found, how the shadow that it throws-
before it chills us to tha actual !'
With that ideal, ever and ever, un-
consciously, and with a certain awe-
and shrinking, came the shape and
voice of the warning stranger. Nearly
two years had passed since he had ap-
peared at Naples. Nothing had been
heard of him, save that his vessel had'
been directed, some months after his.
departure; to sail for Leghorn. By the
gossips of Naples, his existence, sup-
posed so extraordinary, was well-nigh,
forgotten ; but the heart of Viola was
more HiithfuL Often he glided
through her dreams, and when the
wind sighed through that fantastic
tree, associated with his remembrance,,
she started, with a tremor and a blush,
as if she had heard him speak.

But amongst the train of her suitors,
was one to whom she listened more
gently than to the rest; partly be-
cause, perhaps, he spoke in her
mother's native tongue, partly be-
cause in his diffidence, there was little
to alarm and displease ; partly because
his rank, nearer to her own than that
of lordlier wooers, prevented his
admiration from appearing insult;
partly because he himself, eloquent
and a dreamer, often uttered thoughts
that were kindred to those buried
deepest in her mind. She began to
like — perhaps to love him, but as a
sister loves; a sort of privileged
familiarity sprung up between them.
If, in, the Englishman's breast, arose
wild and unworthy hopes, he had not
"-^t expressed them. Is there danger
to thee here, lone Viola 1 or is the
danger greater in thy unfound ideal.

And now, as the overture to some
strange and wizard spectacle, closes
this opening prelude. Wilt thou hear
more 1 Come with thy faith prepared^

ZANONL

87

I ask not the blinded eyes, but the
■awakened sense. As the enchanted
Isle, remote irom the homes of men,

ove aloun legno

lUdo, o non mai Ta dalle nostre aponder-*
(0«r. Lib., cant. xiv. 69.)

IB the space io the weary ocean of

actual life to which the Muse or Sibyl

(antient in years butiever young in

aspect), offers thee no unhallowed

sail—

<lainci ella in eima auna montagne asoende

Disabitata, e d' ombre oaoura e bruna ;

•"

* Where 8hipeeldom>or never oomes from
ourooasta.

E par Incanto a lei neroee rende
Le spalle e 1 fianchl ; e Btnsa nevo alcuna
Gli lascia il capo yerdeggiante e yago ;
B yi fonda tin palagio appreeeo un lago.*

* There, she a monntaln'B lofty peek ascends.
Unpeopled, shady, shsfg'd with forests

brown.
Whoso sides by po w srof tmagio half wfty

down
She heaps with slippery>ioe, and frost, and

But sunshiny and yeviant leayesthe crown
With orange woods andinysties,— -speaks,

andlol
Bioh from the bordering lake a palace

rises slow.

(WiOirs Vranslation.)

BOOK THE SECOND.

ART, LOVE, AND. WONDER.

Dirersi aspetti in un oonfusi e mUtL*

GsR. Lib., omt it. v.

* DifTerent appearances, conf iiwd and mixt in one.

• »'^ . V

ZANONI.

41

BOOK THE SECOND.

CHAPTBB I.

Centaurf, e Sfingi, e pallide GorgonL

GsR. Lib., o. It. ▼.

Oin moonlit night, in the Gardens at
Naples, some four or five gentlemen
irere seated under a tree, drinking
their sherbet^ and listening, in the
intervals of conversation, to the music
which enlivened that gay and favourite
resort of an indolent popuhbtion. One
of this little party was a young
Englishman, who had been the life
of the whole group, but wli% for the
last few moments, had sunk into a
gloomy and abstracted reverie. One
of his countrymen observed this sud-
den gloom, and, tapping him on the
back, said, " What ails you, Glyndon 1
Are you 1111 Tou have grown quite
pale— you tremble. Is it a sudden
chill 1 Ton had better go home : these
Italian nights are often dangerous to
our English constitntions."

"Ko, I am well now; it was 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 Qlyndon.

"I think I understand what you

* Centaurs, and Sphinxes, and pallid
Gorgons.

said he; "and perhaps," he
added, with a grave smile, ** I could
explain it better than yourself."
Here, turning to the others, he added,
"Tou must often have felt, gentle-
men, each and all of yon, especially
when sitting alone at night, a strange
and unaccountable sensation of cold-
ness and awe creep over you; your
blood curdles, and the heart stands
still; the limbs shiver, the hair
brisUes; you are afraid to look up, to
turn your eyes to the darker comers
of the room; you have a horrible
fimcy 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 imperfectiy de-
scribed 1 if so, you can understand
what our young Mend has just expe-
rienced, even amidst the delights of
this magical scene, and amidst the
balmy wlnspers of a July night"

"Sir," replied Qlyndon, evidently
much surprised, "you have defined
exactly the nature of that shudder
which came over me. But how
could my manner be so fidthful an
index to my impressions 1 "

** I know the signs of the visitation/'

4&

zA^^m,

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 Mervale, the Eng-
lishman 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 com-
mon an occurrence," replied the
stranger : " one sect among the
Arabians holds that at that instant
God is deciding the hour either of
your death, ox' of some one dear to you.
The African savage, whose imagi-
nation is darkened by the hideous
rites of his gloomy idolatiy, 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
aceident — a derangement of the
stomach— a chill of the blood," said
a young Neapoiitan, with whom
Glyndon had formed a slight ac-
quaintance.

" Then why is it always coupled in
all nations, with some superstitious
presentiment or terror — some con*
^ nexion between the material frame
and the supposed world without us ?
Fw my part, I think "

''Ay, what do you think, sir?"
asked Glyndon, curiously.

*^ I think," continued the stranger,
** that it is the repugnance and horror
with which our more human elements
rBeoU from something, indeed, in-
Tlsible, but antipathetic to our own
nature; and from a knowledge of
wiiich we are happily secured by the
imperfection of our senses."

"You are a believe in spirits,

then?" said Mervale, with an incre-
dulous smile.

" Nay, it was not precisely of spirits
that I spoke ; but there may be forma
of matter as invisible and impalpable
to us as the animalculse in the air we
breathe — in the water that plays in
yonder basin. Such beings may have
passions and powers like our own, —
as the animalculaB to which I have
compared them. The monster that
lives and dies in a drop of water —
carnivorous, insatiable, subsisting on
the creatures minuter than himself —
is not less deadly in his wrath, less
ferociotis in his nature, than the tiger
of the desert. There may be things
around us that would be dangerous
and hostile to men, if Providence had
not placed a wall between them and
us, merely by different modifications
of matter."

"And think yon that wall nerror
can be removed?" asked youvtg^
Glyndon, abruptly. " Are the tradi*
tions of sorcerer and wizard, univenal
and immemoiial as they are, merely
fiibles?"

"Per]fl|p». yes— perhaps no,** an*'
swered ^e «trsnger, indlfifbrently.
"But who, in an age in which the
reason has chosen its proper bounds^
would be mad enough to break the'
partition that divides ^im from th»
boa. and the lion — to rep^e at and
rebel against the law which!>%0nfiii6»
the shark to the great deep ? Enough
of these idle speculations.".^

Here the stranger rose, summiftned
the attendant, paid for his sherbet,
and, bowing slightly to the oompsny,
soon disappeared among the trees.

*' Who is that gentleman?" asked
Glyndon, eagerly.

The rest looked at each other, with-
out relying; for some moments.

"I never saw him before," said
Mervale, at last.

"Nor I.".

"Nor I."

"I know him well," said the

ziUKnn:

4S

Hflapolitan, who iraayindeed, the Count
CSetoza. '' If you remember, it was
as my companion that he joined you.
He yisited Naples about two years
9go, and has recently returned ; he is
Tery rich — ^indeed, enormously so. A
moat agreeable person. I am sorry
to hear him talk so strangely to-night;
it serres to encourage the yarions
foolish reports that are circulated
ocmceming him."

"And surely," said another Ifea*
politan, ''the circumstance that occur-
red but the other day, so well known
to yourself, Getoza Justifies the reports
yon pretend to deprecate."

" Myself and my countryman/' said
Qlyndon, *' mix so little in Neapolitan
aodety, Uiai we lose much that appears
well worthy of lively interest. May I
inquire what are the reports, and what
IB the oircumstance you refer to V'

"As to the reports, gentlemen,"
said Getoza, courteously addressing
Umself to the two Englishmen, "it
may suffice to obserye, that they attri-
bute to the Signer Zanoni certain
qualitiea which eveiybody desires for
himself, but damns any onei else for
pOMcaring, The incident Si^or Bel-
gioso alludes to illustrates these
qualities, and is, X must own, some-
wliat startling:. You probably play,
gentlemen 1" (Here Getoza paused ;
and, as both Englishmen had occa-
aionally staked a few scudi at the
pnbUo gaming tables, they bowed
assent to the conjeeture.) Getoza
oontmued: "Well, then, not many
days since, and on the very day that
Ziiiooi returned to Naples, it so
happened that I had been playing
pzetty high, and had lost consideiably.
I rose from the table, resolved no
longer to tempt fortune, when I
suddenly peroeived Zanoni, whose
aoquaintanoe I had before made, (and
who, I may say, was under some
slight obligation to me,) standing by,
a spectator. Sre I could e^qiress my
gratification at this unezpected recog-

nition, he laid his hand on my arm.
' You hare loet much/ said he ; ' more
than you can afibrd. For my part, I
dislike play ; yet I wish to have some
interest in what is going on. Will
you play this sum for me 1 the risk is
mine — the half profits yours.' I was
startled, as you may suppose, at such
an address; but Zanoni had an air
and tone with him it was impossible
to resist; besides, I was burning to
reeoyer my losses, and should not
haye 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 sate
down; Zanoni stood behind me ; my
luck rose ; ,1 invariably won. In
fact, I rose from the table a rich
man."

" There can be no foul play at the
publie tables, especially when foul
play would make against the banki"
This question was put by Qlyndon.

" Gertainly not/' replied the Gount.
" 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 fiurly.' Zanoni replied, with
great composure, that he had dono
nothing against the rules — that ho
was rerj sorry that one man could
not win without another man losing ;
and that he could not act unfiiiriy,
even if disposed to do so. The
Sicilian took the stranger's mildness
for apprehension, and blustered moro
loudly. In fact, he rose from tho
table, and confronted Zanoni in a
manner that, to say the least of it,
was provoking to any genUeman who
has some quiokness of temper; or
some skill with the sBiall sword."

" And," intfRiqptod Beigioao^ " the

44

2AN0NL

most singular part of the whole to
me was, that this Zanoni, who stood
opposite to where I sat^ and whose
fiice I distinctly saw, made no remark,
showed no resentment. He fixed his
eye stead&stly on the Sicilian ; never
shall I forget that look ! it is impos-
sible to describe it, it froze the blood
in my veins. The Sicilian staggered
back, as if struck. I saw him tremble;
he sank on the bench. And then'* —

" Yes, then," said Cetoxa, " to my
infinite surprise, our gentleman, thus
disarmed by a look from Zanoni,
turned his whole anger upon me— ^
— but perhaps you do not know,
gentlemen, that I have some repute
with my weapon ] "

"The best swordsman in Italy,"
said Belgioso.

''Before I could guess why or
wherefore," resumed Cetoxa, " I found
myself in the garden behind the
house, with Ughelli (that was the
Sicilian's name) facing me, and five
or six gentlemen, the witnesses of the
duel about to take place, around.
Zanoni beckoned me aside. 'This
man will fall,' said he. ' When he is
on the ground, go to him, and ask
whether he will be buried by the side
of his father in the church of San
GennaroT 'Do you then know his
fiunilyT I asked, with great surprise.
Zanoni made me no answer, and the
next moment I was engaged with
the Sicilian. To do him justice, his
imbrogliaio was magnificent^ and a
swifter lounger never crossed a sword;
nevertheless/' added Cetoxa, with a
pleasing modesty, " he was run
through the body. I went up to
him ; he could scarcely speak. ' Have
you any request to miUce — any afiidrs
to settler He shook his head.
'Where would you wish to be in-
terred)' He pointed towards the
Sicilian coast. 'Whatl' said I, in
surprise, 'not by the side of your
fisither, in the church of San Qennarol'
As I spoke, his &oe 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 San Gennaro. In

doing so, we took up his Other'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 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

I awakened, the examination became

minute. The old main's servant was

I questioned, and at last confbssed that

I the son had murdered the sire : the

I contrivance was ingenious ; the wire

i was so slender, that it pierced to

I the brain, and drew but one drop of

! blood, which the grey hairs concealed.

! The accomplice will be executed."

And Zanoni— did he give evi-
dence ? 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 Ughelli ; that his guide
had told him the Count's son was in
Naples — a spendthrift and a gambler.
WMle 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 occurr^ to
him to name the place of burial, by
an instinct -wbieh he either could not
or would not account for."
^ A very lame story," said Mervale.
''Yes! b^twe Italians are super-
stitious; — ^the alleged instinct was
regarded by many as the whisper of
I Providence. The next day the
I stranger became an object of universal
' interest and curiosity. His wealth,
I his manner of living, his extraordinary
personal beauty, have assisted also to
I make him the rage ; besides, I have
I had pleasure in introducing bo emi-

ZANONI.

4»

nent a person to our gayest cayaliers
and our fairest ladies.*'

''A most interesting narrative/'
said Mervale, rising. " Come, Glyn-
don ; shall we seek our hotel 1 — It
is almost daylight. Adieu, Signer ! "

"What think you of this story?"
said Glyndon, as the young men
walked homeward.

**Why, it is very clear that this
Zanoni is some impostor — some clever
rogue ; and the Neapolitan shares the
booty, and puffs him off with all the
hackneyed charlatanism of the Mar-
vellous. An unknown adventurer
gets into society by being made an
object of awe and curiosity ; — ^he is
more than ordinarily handsome ; and
the women are quite content to
receive him without any other recom-
mendation than his own face and
Cetoza's &bles."

" I cannot agree with you. Cetoxa,
though a gambler and a rake^ is a

nobleman of birth and high repute
for courage and honour. Besides^
this stranger, with his noble presence,
and lofty idr — so calm — so unob-
trusive — 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 grarui air is but a trick of the
trade. But, to change the subject-^
how advances the love afiair 1 " i

" Oh, Viola could not see me to-day."

* You must not marry her. What
would they all say at home V'

"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 Signer Zanoni."

ZAUOJTL

CHAPTER II.

Prende, giovine audace e impasiente,
L'occasione offerta ayidamente.*

OitiBSHOB GLTiTDOir wBfl B jouDg man
oi fortune, not large, but easy and
independent. His parents were dead,
and hia nearest relation was an only
sister, left In England under the care
of her aunt, and many years younger
thanhimsek Early in life he had
evinced considerable promise in the
art of painting, and rather from
enthusiasm than any pecuniary necei^-
sity for a profession, he determined to
devote himself to a career in which
the English artist generally com-
mences with rapture and historical
<!ompoBition, to conclude with avari-
ciouB calculation, and portraits of
Alderman Simpkins. Glyndon was
supposed by his friends to possess no
inconsiderable genius ; but it was of
a rash and presumptuous order. He
was averse from continuous and steady
labour, and his ambition rather sought
to gather the fruit than to plant the
tree. In common with many artists
in their youth, he was fond of pleasure
and excitement, yielding with little
forethought to whatever impressed
his fjEuicy or appealed to his passions.
He had travelled through the more
celebrated cities of Europe, with the
avowed purpose and sincere resolu-
tion of studying the divine master-
pieces of his art. But in each,
pleasure had too often allured him
from ambition, and living beauty
distracted his worship from the sense-
less canvass. Brave, adventurous,

* Take, youth, bold and impatient, the
offered occasion eagerly.

Ger. Lib., c. yi. zxiz.

vain, restless, inquisitive, he was ever
involved in wild prof ects and pleasant
dangers — the creature of impulse and
the slave of imagination.

It was then the period, when »
feverish spirit of change was working
its way to that hideous mockeiy of
human aspirations, the Revolution of
France. And from the chaos into
which were already jarring tlie
sanctities of the World's Venerable
Belief, arose many shapelesa and
unformed chimeras. Keed I remind
the reader, that while that was the
day for polished scepticism and
affected wisdom, it was the day also
for the most egregious credulity and
the most mystical superstitions, — the
day in which magnetism and magio
found converts amongst the disciples
of Diderot, — ^when prophecies were
current in every mouth, — ^when the
salon of a philosophical deist was
converted into an Heraclea, in which
necromancy professed to conjure up
the shadows of the dead — ^when the
Crosier and the Book were ridiculed^
and Mesmer and Cagliostro were
believed. In that Heliacal Rising
heralding the new sun before which
all vapours were to vanish, stalked
from their graves in the feudal
ages all the phantoms that had
flitted before the eyes of Paracelsus
and Agrippa. Dazzled by the dawn
of the Revolution, Glyndon was yet
more attracted by its strange accom-
paniments, and natural it was with
him, as with others, that the fancy
which ran riot amidst the hopes of a

ZANOiri.

49

soeial Uiopia, should grasp with
avidity aU Uiat promised, out of the
dasty laracks of the beaten seienee,
the bold diBCOvenes of some marvel-
lous Slysiiim.

In his travels, he had listened with
vivid interest, at least, if not with
implicit belief to the wonders told of
^each more renowned Ghostseer, and
his mind was therefore prepared for
the impression which the mysterious
Zanoni at first sight had produced
upon it.

There might be another cause for
this disposition to credulity. A
remote ancestor of Glyndon's, on the
mother's side, had achieved no incon-
siderable reputation as a philosopher
and alchemist. Strange stories were
afloat concerning this wise progenitor.
He was said to have lived to an age
far ezoeeding the allotted boundaries
of mortal existence^ and to have
preserved to the last the appearance
of middle life. He had died at length
it was supposed of grief for the
sadden death of a great grandchild,
the only creature he had ever appeared
to love. The works of this philosopher,
though rare, were extant, and found
in the library of Glyndon*s home.
Their Platonic mysticism, their bold
assertions, the high promises that
might be detected through their
figurative and typical phraseology,
had early made a deep impression on
the young imagination of Clarence
Glyndon. His parents, not alive to
the consequences of encouraging
femcies iriiich the very enlightenment
of the age appeared to them sufficient
to prevent or dispel, were fond, in the
long winter nights, of conversing on
the traditional history of this distin-
guished progenitor. And Clarence
thrilled with a fearful pleasure when
bis mother playfully detected a
striking likeness between the features
of the young heir and the faded
portrut of the alchemist that over-
hung their mantelpiece^ and was the

boast of their household and^,
admiration of their friends :

id^_/b
.—The

child is, indeed, more often than
we think for, "the father of the
man."

I have said that Glyndon was fond
of pleasure. Facile, as genius ever
must be, to cheerful impression, his
careless Artist-life, ere Artist-life
settles down to labour, had wandered
from flower to flower. He had
enjoyed, almost to the reaction of
satiety, the gay revelries of Naples,
when he fell in love with the face and
voice of Viola Pisani. But his love,
like his ambition, was vague and
desultory. It did not satisfy his
whole heart and fill up his whole
nature ; not from want of strong and
noble passions, but because his mind
was not yet matured and settled
enough for their development. As
there is one season for the blossom,
another for the fruit ; so it is not till
the bloom of fancy begins to fade that
the heart ripens to the passions that
the bloom precedes and foretels.
Joyous alike at his lonely easel or
amidst his boon companions, he had
not yet known enough of sorrow to
love deeply. For man must be disap-
pointed with the lesser things of life
before he can oompreh^d the full
value of the greatest. It is the shal-
low sensualists of France, who, in
their «aZo7i-language, call love ''a
folly;" — Love, better understood, is
wisdom. Besides, the world was too
much with Clarence Glyndon. His
ambition of art was associated with
the applause and estimation of that
miserable minority of the Surface
that we call the Public.

Like those who deceive, he was
ever fearful of being himself the dupe.
He distrusted the sweet innocence of
Viola. He could not venture the
hazard of seriously proposing marriage
to an Italian aolreas ; but the modest
dignity of the girl, and something
good and generous in his own nature.

any m(

ZANONI.

itlierto made him shrink from
more worldly but less honourable
Thus the familiarity be-
tween them seemed rather that of
kindness and regard, than passion.
He attended the theatre; he stole
behind the scenes to. converse with
her; he filled his portfolio with
countless sketches of a beauty that
charmed him as an artist, as well as
lover. And day after day he floated
on through a changing sea of doubt
and irresolution, of affection and
distrust. The last, indeed, constantly
sustained against his better reason,
by the sober admonitions of Mervale,
a matter-of-fact man !

The day following that eve on
which this section of my story opens,
Glyndon was riding alone by the
shores of the Neapolitan sea, on the
other side of the Cavern of Posilipo.
It was past noon ; the sun had lost its
early fer>'our, and a cool breeze sprung
up voluptuously from the sparkling
sea. Bending over a fragment of
stone near the road-side, he perceived
the form of a man; and when he
approached, he recognised Zanoni.

The Englishman saluted him cour-
teously. " Have you discovered some
antique?" said he, with a smile;
" they are common as pebbles on this
road."

" No," replied Zanoni ; "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 a herbalist]"

"lam."

" It is, I am told, a study fall of
interest."

"To those who understand it,
doubtless."

"Is the knowledge, then^ so
rarel"
, " Rare f The deeper knowledge is

perhaps rather, among the arts, lost
to the modem philosophy of common-
place and surface ! Do you imagine
there was no foundation for those tra-
ditions which come dimly down from
remoter ages— as shells now found oa
the mountain-tops inform us where
the seas have been 1 What was the
old Colchian magic, but the minute
study of Nature in her lowliest worksl
What the fable of Medea» but a proof
of the powers that may be extracted
from the germ and leaf 1 The most
gifted of all the Priestcrafts, the mys-
terious sisterhoods of Cuth, concern-
ing whose incantations Learning
vainly bewilders itself amidst the
maze of legends, sought in the mean-
est herbs what, perhaps, the Baby-
lonian Sages explored in vain amidst
the loftiest stai-s. Tradition yet tells
you that there existed a race* who
could slay their enemies from afar,
without weapon, without movement.
The herb that ye tread on may have
deadlier powers than your engineers
can give to their mightiest instm-
ments of war. Can you guess, that
to these Italian shores — to the old
Circsean Promontory, came the Wise
from the farthest East, to search for
plants and simples which your Phar-
macists of the Counter would flings
from them as weeds 1 The first
Herbalists — the master chemists of
the world — were the tribe that the
ancient reverence called by the name
of Titaw.f I remember once, by the
Hebrus, in the reign of—— But
this talk," said Zanoni, checking
himself abruptly, and with a. cold
smile, "serves only to waste your
time and my own." He paused, looked
steadily at Qlyndon, and continued —
" Young man, think you that vague
curiosity will supply the place of
earnest labour? I read your heart.

• Plut Bjmp.f h 5, c. 7.
t Synoellufl^ p. 14.— «• Chemistry the In-
vention of the Gkmtfr**

ZANONI.

49

Tou wish to know me, and not iliiB
humble herb; but pass on; your
desire cannot be satiafied.*'

"You have not the politeness of
your countrymen," said Glyndon,
Bomeif hat discomposed. "Suppose!
were desirous to cultiyate your ac-
quaintance, why should you reject my
advances 1"

"1 reject no man's advances,"
answered Zanoni; "I must know
them if they so desire ; bat 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 ]"

"On this earth, men are often,
without their own agency, fated to be
dangerous to others. Jf 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 l^e. 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
perplexed me."

" I know it : minds like yours are
attracted by mystery."

Glyndon was piqued at these 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 ! " Zanoni coldly replied to
the salutation ; and, as the English-
man rode on, returned to his botanical
employment.

The same night, Glyndon went, as
uitoal, to the theatre. He was stand-
ing behind the scenes watching Viola,
vho was on the stage in one of her

Ko. 262. ]

most brilliant parts. The house re-
sounded with applause. Glyndon was
transported with a young man's pas-
sion and a young man's pride : —
" This glorious creature," thought he^
* may yet be mine."

He felt, while thus wrapt in de-
licious reverie, a slight touch upon
his shoulder : he turned, and beheld
Zanoni. "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, Zanoni disappeared; and
when the Englishman saw him again,
he was in the box of one of the Nea-
politan nobles, where Glyndon could
not follow him.

Viola now left the stage, and Glyn-
don accosted her with an unac-
customed warmth of gallantry. But
Viola, contrary to her gentle habit,
turned with an evident impatience
from the address of her lover. Taking
aside Gionetta, who was her constant
attendant at the theatre, she said, in
an earnest whisper, —

" Oh, Gionetta ! He is here again!
— the stranger of whom I spoke to
thee! — ^and again, he alone, of the
whole theatre, withholds from me his
applause."

"Which is he, my darling V said
the old woman, with fondness in her
voice. "He must indeed be dull —
not worth a thought."

The actress drew Gionetta nearer
to the stage, and pointed out to her a
man in one of the boxes, conspicuous
amongst all else by the simplicity
of his dress, and the extraordinary
beauty of his features.

"Not worth a thought, Gionetta!"
repeated Viola — ** not worth a thought !
Alas, not to think of him, seems the
absence of thought itself!"

The prompter summoned the

Signora Pisani. " Find out his name,

Gionetta^" swd she, moving slowly to

the stage, and pasedng by Glyndon,

4

50

ZANONI.

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 remark-
able powers of voice and art were pre-
eminently called forth. The house
hung on every word with breathless
worship; but the eyes of Viola
sought only those of on^ calm and
unmoved spectator : she exerted her-
self as if inspired. Zanoni listened,
and observed her with an attentive
gaze, but no approval escaped his
lips; no emotion changed the ex-
pression of his cold and half disdainful
aspect. Yiola, who was in the cha-
racter of one who loved, but without
return, never felt so acutely the part
she played. Her tears w^re 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
ihe stage — men wiped their eyes, and
women sobbed aloud.

" By heavens ! ** said a Neapolitan
of great rank, "she has fired me be-
yond endurance. To-night, this very
night, she shall be mine ! You have
arranged all, Mascari?"

"All, Signor, And the young
Englishman 1 "

" The presuming barbarian ! As I
before told thee, let him bleed for his
folly. 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 I Our ruffians are silent as
the grave itself: — and I ! — who would
dare to suspect, to arraign the Prince

di ? See to it.— this night I

trust him to you : — robbers murder
^^im^-yoQ understand;— the countqr

swarms with them ;-^plunddr and
strip him, the better to favour auch
report Take three men; the rest
shall be my escort."

Mascari shrugged his shoulders, and
bowed submissively.

The streets of Naples were not then
so safe as now, and oarriages were
both less expensive and more neces-
sary. The vehicle which was regularly
engaged by the young actress was not
to be found. Gionetta, too aware of
the beauty of her mistress and the
number of her admirers to contem«
plate without alarm the idea of their
return on foot, communicated her dis-
tress to Glyndon, and he besought
Viola, who recovered but slowly, to
accept his own carriage. Perhaps
before that night she would not have
rejected so slight a service. Kow, for
some reason or other, she refuied.
Qlyndon, offended, was retiring sul-
lenly, when Gionetta sto^^ed 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 & few
moments spent in ezpostuhitlon on
the part of Gionetti^ and resistance
on that of Viola, the offer was ac-
cepted. Gionetta and her charge en-
tered the carriage, and Glyndon wui
left at the door of the theatre to
return home on foot The mysteriona
warning of Zanoni then suddenly oc-
curred to him ; he had forgotten it ia
the interest of his lover's quarrel with
Viola. 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 erowda; they
hustled, and jostled, and pressed upon
him ; but he recognised no familiar
countenance. While pausing irreso-
lute, he heard Hervale's voice calling
on him, and, to his great relief, dift-
coYered hia friend making hia .wi^
through the throoj^

aiKONI.

^l

" I bare seeared you," said he, " a
plaee in the Count Getoza's carriage.
Come along, he is waiting for us."

" How kind in you 1 how did you
find me out?"

"I met Zanoni in the passage. —
'Tour friend is at the door of the
ibeaire,' said he ; 'do not let him go
liome on foot to-night; the streets of
Kaples are not always safe.' I imme-
diately remembered that some of the
Calabrian bravos had been busy
within the city the last few weeks,
and suddenly meeting Oetoza — but
i^ere he is."

Farther explanation was forbidden,
for they now joined the Count. As
Olyndon entered the carriage and
draw up the glass, he saw four men
standing apart by the payement, who
seemed to eye him with attention.

" Cospetto I " cried one, " that is the
Englishman ! " Glyndon imperfectly
heard the exclamation as the carriage
drove on. He reached home in safety.

The familiar and endearing in-
timacy which always exists in Italy
between the nurse and the child she
has reared, and which the "Bomeo
and Juliet " of Shakspeare in no way
exaggerates, could not but be drawn
yet closer than usual, in a situation so
friendless as that of the orphan-actress.
In all that concerned the weaknesses
of the heart, Gionetta had large expe-
rience; and when, three nights before,
VioU, on returning from the theatre,
had wept bitterly, the nurse had suc-
ceeded in extracting from her a confes-
sion that she had seen one — not seen
for two weary and eventful years — ^but
never foigotten, and who, alas, had not
evinced the slightest recognition of
herself. Gionetta could not com-
prehend all the vague and innocent
emotions that swelled this sorrow;
but she resolved them all, with her
plain blunt understanding, to the one
sentiment of love. And here, she was

well fitted to sympathise and console.

Confidant to Yiola'a entire and deep [ " with me you are indeed safe !

heart she never could be — for that
heart never could have words for all
its secrets. But such confidence as
she could obtain, she was ready to
repay by the most nni^roving pity
and the most ready service.

*' Have you discovered who he is 1"
asked Viola, as she was now alone in
the carriage with Gionetta.

'' Yes ; he is the celebrated Signer
Zanoni, about whom all the great
ladies have gone mad. They say he
is so rich !— oh, so much richer than
any of the Inglesi l^not but what the

Signer Glyndon "

"Cease!" interrupted the young
tress. "Zanoni! Speak of the
Englishman no more."

The carriage was now entering that
more lonely and remote .part of the
city iu which Viola's house was
situated, when it suddenly stopped.

Gionetta, in alarm, thrust her
head out of the window, and per-
ceived 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 befel you." As
he spoke, he wound his arms round
the form of the fair actress, and en-
deavoured to lift her from the car-
riage. But Gionetta was no ordinary
ally — she thrust back the assailant
with a force that astonished him, and
followed the shock by a volley of the
most energetic reprobation.

The mask drew back, and com-
posed his disordered mantle.

" By the body of Bacchus ! " said
he, half laughing, " she is well pro-
tected. Here, Luigi — Giovanni ! seize
the hag !— quick ! — ^why loiter yel"

The mask retired from the door,
and another and yet taller form pre-
sented itself. " Be calm, Viola
Pisani," said he, in a low voice;

He

ZANOKI.

lifted his mask as he spoke, and
showed the noble features of Zanoni.
** Be calm, be hushed, — ^I can save
you." He vanished, leaving Viola
lost in surprise, agitation, and delight.
There were, in all nine masks : two
were engaged with the driver; one
stood at the head of the carriage
horses; a fourth guarded the well-
trained steeds of the party; three
others (besides Zanoni and the one
who had first accosted Yiola) stood
apart by a carriage drawn to the side
of the road. To these three Zanoni
motioned : they advanced ; he pointed
towards the first mask, who was in
fact the Prince di , and to his un-
speakable astonishment, the Prince
was suddenly seized from behind.

"Treason!" he cried. "Treason
among my own men ! What means
this]"

" Place him in his carriage ! If he
resist, his blood be on his own head !"
said Zanoni, calmly.

He approached the men who had
detained the coachman.

"You are outnumbered and out-
witted," said he: "join your lord;
you are three men — ^we six, armed to
the teeth. Thank our mercy that we
spare your lives. — Go ! "

The men gave way, dismayed. The
driver remounted.

"Cut the traces of their carriage
and the bridles of their horses," said
Zanoni, as he entered the vehicle
containing Viola, which now drove
on rapidly, leaving the discomfited
ravisher in a state of rage and stupor
impossible to describe.

" Allow me to explain this mystery
to you," said ZanonL " I discovered
the plot against you — ^no matter ho w^;
I frustrated it thus: — ^The head of
this design is a nobleman, who has
long persecuted you in vain. He and
two of his creatures watched you from
the entrance of the theatre, having
directed six others to await him on
the spot where you were attacked ;
myself and five of my servants sup-
plied their place, and were mistaken
for his own followers. I had pre-
viously ridden alone to the spot where
the men were waiting, and informed
them that their master would not
require their services that night.
They believed me, and accordingly
dispersed. I then joined my own
band, whom I had left in the rear ;
you know all. We are at your
door."

ZANONi:

53

CHAPTER III.

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see.
For all the day they view things unrespected ;

But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.

Shakkspkarb.

Zanoni followed the yonng Neapolitan
into her house : Gionetta vanished —
they were left alone.

Alone, in that room so often filled,
in the old happy days, with the wild
melodies of Pisani ; and now, as she
saw this mysterious, haunting, yet
beautiful and stately stranger, stand-
ing on the very spot where she had
sat at her father's feet, thrilled and
spellbound — she almost thought, tin
her fantastic way of personifying her
own airy notions, that that spiritual
Music had taken shape and life, and
stood before her glorious in the image
it assumed. She was unconscious all
the while of her own loveliness. She
had thrown aside her hood and veil ;
her hair, somewhat disordered, fell
over the ivory neck which the dress
partially displayed ; and, as her dark
eyes swam with grateful tears, and
her cheek flushed with its late excite-
ment, the god of light and music
himself never, amidst his Arcadian
valleys, wooed, in his mortal guise,
maiden or nymph more fair.,

Zanoni gazed at her with a look in
which admiration seemed not un-
mingled with compassion. He mut-
tered a few words to himself, and then
addressed her aloud.

'* Viola, I have saved you from a
great peril ; not from dishonour only,
bnt^ perhaps, from death. The Prince
di , under a weak despot and a

venal administration, is a man above
the law. He la capable of every

crime; but amongst his passions he
has such prudence as belongs to
ambition ; if you were not to reconcile
yourself to your shame, you would
never enter the world again to tell
your tale. The ravisher has no heart
for repentance, but he has a hand
that can murder. I have saved you,
Viola. Perhaps you would ask me
wherefore]" Zanoni paused, and
smiled mournfully, as he added, *' You
will not wrong me by the thought
that he who has preserved is not less
selfish than he who would have
injured. Orphan, I do not speak to
you in the language of your wooers;
enough that I know pity, and am not
ungrateful for affection. Why blush,
why tremble at the word? I read
your heart while I speak, and I see
not one thought that should give you
shame. I say not that you love me
yet; happily, the fancy may be roused
long before the heart is touched.
But it has been my fate to fascinate
your eye, to influence your imagina-
tion. It is to warn you against what
could bring you but sorrow, as I
warned you once to prepare for sorrow
itself, that I am now your guest. The
Englishman, Glyndon, loves thee well
— ^better, perhaps, than I can ever
love : if not worthy of thee yet, he
has but to know thee more to deserve
thee better. He may wed thee, ho
may bear thee to his own free and
happy land, the land of thy mother's
kin. Forget mo; teach thyself "^to

u

ZANOlSri.

retnm and deserye his love; and I
tell thee that thou wilt be honoured
and be happy."

Yiola listened with ^ent, inex-
pressible emotion, and burning
blushes, to this strange address, and
when he had concluded, she coTered
her lace with her hands, and wept.
And yet, much as his words were calcu-
lated to humble or irritate, to produce
indignation or excite shame, those
were not the feelings with which her
eyes streamed and her heart swelled.
T^ woman at that moment was lost
in the child ; and as a child with all
its exacting, craying, yet innocent
deore to be loved, weepe inunrebnking
sadness when its affection is thrown
austerely back upon itself— so, without
aager and without shame, wept
Viola.

Zanoni contemplated her thus, as
her graceful head, shadowed by its
redundant tresses, bent before him;
and after a moment's pause he drew
near to her, and said, in a voice of
the most soothing sweetness, and with
a half smile upon his lip — ^

*Do you remember, when I told
you to struggle for the light, that I
pointed for example to the resolute
and earnest tree : I did not tell you,
fair child, to take example by the
moth, that would soar to the star,
but &lls scorched beside the lamp.
Gome, I will talk to thee. This

Viola drew herself away, and wept
yet more passionately*

'' This Englishman is of thine own
yean, not fax above thine own rank.
Thon mayst share his thoughts in life
— thou mayst sleep beside him in the
same grave in death! And I, but
that view of the future should concern
us not. Look into thy heart, and
thou wilt see that till again my
shadow crossed thy path^ there had
grown up for this thine equal, a pure
u^ calm affection that would have
ripened into love. * Hast thou never

pictured to thyself a home in which
thy partner was thy young wooer?"

" Never ! " said Viola, with sudden
energy, "never, but to feel that such
was not the &te ordained me. And,
oh 1 ** she continued, rising suddenly,
and putting aside the tresses that
veiled her face, she fixed her eyes
upon the questioner; ''and, oh I
whoever thou art that thus wouldst
read my soul and shape my future,
do not mistake the sentiment that —
that" — (she faltered an instant, and
went on with downcast eyes,) "that
has fascinated my thoughts to thee;
Do not think that I could nourish a
love unsought and unretumed. It is
not love that I feel for thee, stranger.
Why should II Thou hast never
spoken to me but to admonish — and
now, to wound \" Again she paused,
again her voice faltered; !the tears
trembled on her eyelids ; she brushed
them away and resumed. " No, not
love — ^if that be love which I have
heard and read of, and sought to
simulate on the stage, — but a more
solemn, feajtful, and, it ^seems to me,
almost preternatural attraction, which
makes me associate thee, waking or
dreaming, with images that at once
charm and awe. Thinkest thou, if it
were love, that I could speak to thee
thus? that" (she raised her loc^s
suddenly to his) "mine eyes could
thus search and confront thine own t
Stranger, I ask but at times to see, to
hear thee ! Stranger, talk not to me
of others. Forewarn, rebuke, bruise
my heart, reject the not unworthy
gratitude it offers thee, if thou wilt,
but come not always to me as an
omen of grief and trouble. Sometimes
have I seen thee in my dreams sur^
rounded by shapes of glory and light;
thy looks radiant with a celestial joy
which they wear not now. Stranger,
thou hast saved me, an& I thank and
bless thee ! Is that also a homage
thou wouldst reject?" With these
words, she crossed her arms meekly

ZAITOHI.

^5

-on her bosoxn, and inclined lowlily
before him. Nor did her humility
seem unwomanly or abject, nor that
of mifitress to lover, of slaye to
master, bat rather of a child to its
goardian, of a neophyte of the old
religion to her priest. Zanoni's brow
was melancholy and thoughtful. He
looked at her with a strange ezpres-
uon of ^kindness, of sorrow, yet of
teader afl^otion, in his ey«s; but his
lips wer« stem, and his voice cold, as
lie replied —

"Do you know what you ask,
Viola? Do you guess the danger to
yonrself—- perhaps to both of us —
which yon court ? Do you know that
my life, separated from the turbulent
herd of men, is one worship of the
BeanUf ul, from which I seek to banish
what the Beautiful inspires in most 1
As a calamity, I shun what to man
seems the furest fate — the love of the
daughters of earth. At present, I
can warn and save thee from many
evils; if I saw more of thee, would
the power still be mine 1 Ton under-
stand me not. What-^Kam about to
add, it will be easier io comprehend.
I bid thee banish from thy heart all
thought of me, but as one whom the
Future cries aloud to thee to avoid.
Glyndon, if thou acceptest his homage,
will love thee till the tomb closes
upon both. I too/ (he added, with
emotion,) — ** I, too, might love
thee!"

"Tour cried Viola, with tbe
vehemence of a sudden impulse of
delight, of rapture, which she could

not suppress; but the instant after,
she would have given worlds to recal
the exclamation.

''Yes, Viola, I might love thee;
but in that love what sorrow and
what change) The flower gives
perfume to the rock on whose heart
it grows. A little while, and the
flower is dead; but the rock still
endures ;*^th« snow at its breast —
the sunshine on its summit. Pause
— ^think well. Danger besets thee
yet. For some days thou shalt be
safe from thy remorseless persecutor ;
but the hour soon comes when thy
only security will be in flight. If the
Englishman love thee worthily, thy
honour will be dear to him as his
own ; if not, there are yet other lands
where love will be truer, and virtue
less in danger from fraud and force.
Farewell; my own destiny I cannot
foresee except through cloud and
shadow. I know, at least, that we
shall meet again ; but learn ere then,
sweet flower, that there are more
genial resting-places than the rock."

He turned as he spoke, and gained
the outer door where Gionetta dis-
creetly stood. Zanoni lightly laid his
hsnd on her arm. With the gay
accent of a jesting cavalier, he
said —

''The Signor Glyndon woos your
mistress : he may wed her. I know
your love for her. Disabuse her of
any caprice forme. I am a-bird ever
on the wing."

He dropped a purse into Gionetta's
I ^land as he spoke, and was gone.

56

ZANONI.

CHAPTER IV. • *

Lea Intelligences Celestes se font voir, et se commiiniquent plus volontiers, dans le silence,
et dans la tranquillity de la solitude. On aura done une petite chambre ou un
cabinet secret, &c.— let Clavieulet de Rabbi Salomon, chap. 3 ; traduites exacUment
<iu texle Hebreu par M. Pierre Morittoneau, Pro/esseur des Lariffuet Orientalei, et
Sectateur de la Philosophie des Sages Cabalistes. (Manuscript Translation.)

The Palace retained by Zanoni was
in one of the less frequented quarters
of the city. — It still stands, now
ruined and dismantled, a monument
of the splendour of a chivalry long
since vanished from Kaples, with the
lordly races of the Norman and the
Spaniard.

As he entered the rooms reserved
for his private hours, two Indians, in
the dress of their country, received
him at the threshold with the grave
salutations of the East. They had
accompanied him from the far lands
in which, according to rumour, he
had for many years fixed his home.
But they could communicate nothing
to gratify curiosity or justify suspicion.
They spoke no language but their
own. With the exception of these
two, his princely retinue was com-
posed of the native hirelings of the
city ; whom his lavish but imperious
generosity made the implicit creatures
of his will. In his house, and in his
habits, so far as they were seen, there
was nothing to account for the
rumours which were circulated abroad.
He was not, as we are told of Albertus
Magnus or the jae&t Leonardo da
Vind, served by Ttiiy forms ; and no
brazen image, the invention of magic
mechanism, communicated to him

* The Celestial Intelligenoes exhibit and
explain themselves most freely in the
silence and tranquillity of solitude. One will
have then a little chamber, or a secret
cabinet, dec

the influences, of. the stars. None
of the apparatus of the alchemist —
the crucible, and the metals — ^gave
solemnity to his chambers, or ac-
counted for his wealth; nor did he
even seem to interest himself in those
serener studies which might be sup-
posed to colour his peculiar conversa-
tion with abstract notions, and often
with recondite learning. No books
spoke to him in his solitude ; and if
ever he had drawn from them his
knowledge, it seemed now that the
only page he read was the wide one
of Nature, and that a capacious and
startling memory supplied the rest.
Yet was there one exception to what
in all else seemed customary and
commonplace, and which, according"
to the authority we have prefixed to
this chapter, might indicate the
follower of the occult sciences.
Whether at Rome or Naples, or, in
fact, wherever his abode, he selected
one room remote from the Vest of the
house, which was fastened by a lock
scarcely larger than the seal of a ring,
yet which sufficed to baffle the most
cunning instruments of the locksmith :
at least, one of his servants, prompted
by irresistible curiosity, had made
the attempt in vain ; and though he
had &ncied it was tried in the most
&yourable time for secrecy — ^not a
soul near — in the dead of night—
Zanoni himself absent from home,
yet his superstition, or his conscience,,
told him the reason why the next.

ZANOBTI.

57

day the Mi^or Domo quietly dismiBsed
liim. He compensated himself for
this misfortone by spreading his own
story, with a thousand amusing
exaggerations. He declared that, as
he approached the door, invisible
hands seemed to plnck him away;
and that when he touched the lock,
he was struck as by a palsy to the
ground. One surgeon, who heard the
tale, obseryed, to the distaste of the
wonder-mongers,. that possibly Zanoni
made a dexterous use of electricity.
Howbeit, this room once so secured,
was never entered save by Zanoni
himself.

The solemn voice of Time, from
the neighbouring church, at last
aroused the lord of the palace from
the deep and motionless reverie,
rather resembling a trance than
thought, in which hia mind was
absorbed.

"It is one more sand out of the
mighty Hour-glass," said he, mur-
muringly, " and yet time neither adds
to, nor steals from, an atom in the
Infinite ! — Soul of mine, the luminous,
the Augoeides,* why descendest thou

* Avy»uiiif—Sk word favoured by the mva-

lib. 8.— The sense of which beautiful sentence
of the old philosophy, which, as Bayle well
observes, in his article on Cornelius Agrippa,
the modem Quietists have (however impo-
tently) sought to imitate, is to the effect

from thy sphere — why from the
eternal, starlike, and passionless Se-
rene, shrinkest thou back to the mists
the dark sarcophagus 1 How long,
too austerely taught that companion-
ship with the things that die brings
with it but sorrow in its sweetness,
hast thou dwelt contented with thy
majestic solitude V'

As he thus murmured, one of the
earliest birds that salute the dawn
broke into sudden song from amidst
the orange trees in the garden below
his casement. And as suddenly song
answered song; the mate, awakened at
the note, gave back its happy answer
to the bird. He listened; and not
the soul he had questioned, but the
heart replied. He rose, and with
restless strides paced the narrow floor.
"Away from this world!'* he
exclaimed at length, with an impa-
tient tone. " Can no time loosen its
fatal ties] As the attraction that
holds the earth in space, is the attrac-
tion that fixes the soul to earth.
Away, from the dark-grey planet !
Break, ye fetters : arise, ye wings ! "

He passed through the silent
galleries, and up the lofty stairs, and
entered the secret chamber.

that * the sphere of the soul is luminous,
when nothing external has contact with the
soul itself :.^ut when lit by its own light, it
sees the truth of all things and the (ruth
centered in itself.'

58

ZANOKI.

CHAPTER V.

•* I and my fellows

Are ministera of Fate.**

The Tempest.

Thk next day, Glyndon bent Ms steps,
towards Zanoni*s palace. The young
man's imagination, naturally inflam-
mable, was singularly excited by the
little he had seen and heard of this
strange being — a spell, he could
neither master nor account for,
attracted him towards the stranger.
Zanoni's power seemed mysterious
and great, his motives kindly and
benevolent, yet his manners chilling
and repellant. Why at one moment
reject Glyndon*s acquaintance, at
another save him from danger 1 How
had Zanoni thus acquired the know-
ledge of enemies unknown to Glyndon
himself 1 His interest was deeply
roused, his gratitude appealed to; he
resolved to make another effort to
conciliate the ungracious herbalist.

The Signor was at home, and
Glyndon was admitted into a lofty
saloon, where in a few moments
Zanoni joined him.

*^ I am come to thank you for your
warning last night," said he, " and to
entreat you to complete my obligation
by informing me of the quarter to
which I may look for enmity and
peril."

" You are a gallant," said Zanoni,
with a smile, and in the English
language, "and do you know so little
of the south as not to be aware that
gallants have always rivals 1 "

* Are you serious 1 " said Glyndon,
colouring.

"Most serious. You love Viola
Pisani; you have for rival one of
♦La «,««* uowerful and relentless of

the Keapoliian princes. Your danger
is indeed great."

" But pardon me ! — how came it
known to you 1 "

^ I give no account of myself to
mortal man," replied Zanoni, haugh-
tily; ''and to me it matters nothing
whether you regard or scorn my
warning."

" Well, if I may not question you,
be it so ;— but at least advise me what
to do."

"►Would you follow my advice V

« Why not r'

"Because you are oonstitntionally
brave; you are fond of excitement
and mystery ; you like to be the hero
of a romance. Were I to advise you
to leave Kaples, would you do so while
Naples contains a foe to confront, or
a mistress to pursue?"

"You are right," said the youi^g
Englishman, with energy. "No ! and
you cannot reproach me for such a
resolution."

" But there is another course left
to you : do you love Viola Pisani
truly and fervently? if so, marry her,
and take a bride to your native
land."

" Nay," answered Glyndon, embar-
rassed; "Viola is not of my rank.
Her profession, too, is — ^in short, I am
enslaved by her beauty, but I cannot
wed her."

Zanoni frowned.

"Your love, then, is but selfish
lust, and I advise you to your own
happiness no more. Young man.
Destiny is less inexorable than it

ZATfOM.

59

tsppeam, Tfae retomeeB of the great
Baler of the UniTene are not so
aeant J and bo stern as to deny to men
the diyine privilege of Free Will ; all
of us can carve oat onr own way, and
Ood can make onr very contradictions
harmonise with His solemn ends.
Yon have hefore you an option.
Hononrable and generous love may
even now work out your happiness,
and effect your escape ; a frantic and
selfish passion will but lead you to
misery and doom."

" Do you i^etend, then, to read the
Foturer

'* I have said all that it pleaaes me
to utter.'

" While you assume the moralist to
me. Signer Zanoni," said Glyndon,
with a smile, "are yon yourself so in-
different to youth and beauty, as to
act the stoic to its allurements ) "

" If it were necessary that practice
square with precept," said Zanoni,
v^Qi a bitter smile, ''our monitors
wotdd be but few. The conduct of
the individual can affect but a small
^c&cle beyond himself; the permanent
good or evil that he works to others
lies rather in the sentiments he can
diflfuse. His acts are limited and
momentary ; his sentiments may per-
vade the universe, and inspire gene-
rations till the day of doom. All our
virtues, all our laws, are drawn from
books and maxims, which are senti-
ments, not from deeds. In conduct,
Julian had the virtues of a Christian,
and Gonstantine the vices of a Pagan.
The sentiments of Julian reconverted
thousands to Paganism; those of
Constantino helped, under Heaven's
will, to bow to Christianity the na-
tions of the earth. In conduct, the
humblest fisherman on yonder sea,
who believes in the miracles of San
Gennaro, may be a better man than
Luther. To the sentiments of Luther
the mind of modem Europe is in-
debted for the noblest revolution it
has known. Our opinions, young En-

^ishman, are the angel part of us ; our
acts, the earthly."

"Ton have reflected deeply for an
Italian," sidd Glyndon.

" Who told you I was an Italian 1 *'

"Are you noti And yet, when I
hear you speak my own language as
a native, I — **

"Tush!" interrupted Zanoni im-
patiently turning away. Then, after
a pause, he resumed in a mild voice —
"Glyndon, do you renounce Viola
Pisani? Will you take some days to
consider what I have said V*

" Renounce her — never ! "

" Then you will marry her 1 "

" Impossible I "

" Be it so : she will then renounce
you. I tell you that you have rivals."

"Yes; the Prince di : but I

do not fear him."

" You have another, whom you will
fear more."

"Andwhoishel"

« Myself."

Glyndon turned pale and started
from his seat.

"You, Signer Zanoni! — ^you — and
you dare to tell me so 1 "

"Dare! Alas! there are times
when I wish that I could fear."

These arrogant words were not ut-
tered arrogantly, but in a tone of the
most mournful dejection. Glyndon
was enraged, confounded, and yet
awed. However, he had a brave
English heart within his breast, and
he recovered himself quickly.

" Signor," said he, calmly, " I am
not to be duped by these solemn
phrases and these mystical assump-
tions. You may have powers which
I cannot comprehend or emulate, or
you may be but a keen impostor."

"Well, proceed!"

"I mean, then," continued Glyn-
don, resolutely, though somewhat
disconcerted, " I mean you to under-
stand, that, though I am not to be
persuaded or compelled by a stranger
to marry Yiola Pisani, I am not the

60

ZANONI.

less determined never tamely to yield
her to another."

Zanoni looked gravely at the young
man, whose sparkling eyes and
heightened colour testiiied the spirit
to support his words, and replied —
"So bold! well; it becomes you.
But take my advice : wait yet nine
days, and tell me then if you will marry
the fairest and the purest creature that
ever crossed your path."

" But if you love her, why — ^why — "

" Why am I anxious that she should
wed another : to save her from my-
self ! Listen to me. That girl, humble
and uneducated though she, be, has
in her the seeds of the most lofty
qualities and virtues. She can be
all to the man she loves — all that
man can desire in wife. Her soul,
developed by affection, will elevate
your own; it will influence your
fortunes, exalt your destiny: you
will become a great and a prosperous
man. If, on the contrary, she fall to
me, I know not what may be her lot ;
but I know that there is an ordeal
which few can pass, and which
hitherto no woman has survived."
. As Zanoni spoke, his face became
colourless, and there was something
in his voice that froze the warm blood
of the listener.

" What is this mystery which sur-
rounds youl" exclaimed Glyndoh,
unable to repress his emotion. " Are
you, in truth, different from other
meni Have you passed the boun-
dary of lawful knowledge 1 Are you,
as some declare, a sorcerer, or only a — "
" Hush I " interrupted Zanoni,
gently, and with a smile of singular
but melancholy sweetness : " have

you earned the right to ask xne these
questions ] Though Italy still boast
an Inquisition, its power is rivelled
as a leaf which the first wind shall
scatter. The days of torture and per- •
secution are over ; and a man may
live as he pleases, and talk as it suits
him, without fear of the stake and
the rack. Since I can defy perse-
cution, pardon me if I do not yield to
curiosity."

Glyndon blushed, and rose. In
spite of his love for Viola, and his
natural terror of such a rival, he felt
himself irresistibly drawn towards the
very man he had most cause to sus-
pect and dread. He held out his
hand to Zanoni, saying, " Well, then,
if we are«to be rivals, our swords must
settle our rights : till then I would
fain be friends."

"Friends! You know not what
you ask."

" Enigmas again ! "

" Enigmas ! " cried Zanoni, passion-
ately, "ay! can you dare to solve
them? Not till then could I give
you my right hand, and call you
friend."

" I could dare everything and all
things for the attainment of super-
human wisdom," said Glyndon, and
his countenance was lighted up with
wild and intense enthusiasm.

Zanoni observed him in thoughtful
silence.

" The seeds of the ancestor live in
the son," he muttered ; "he may — ^yet"

He broke off abruptly ; then,

speaking aloud — " Go, Glyndon,"
said he : ^ we shall meet again, but I
will not ask your answer till the hour
presses for decision."

ZANONI.

61

CHAPTER VI.

'Tis oertain that this man has an estate of fifty thousand livres, and seems to he a person
of very great accomplishments. But. then, if he's a Wizard, are wizards so devoutly
Riven as this man seems to be ?— In short, I could make neither head nor tail on't.—
Thb Count dk Gabaus, Translation qffixed to the Second Edition qf the -Rape of
the Lock."

Ow all the weaknesses which little
men rail against, there is none that
they are more apt to ridicule than the
tendency to believe. And of all the
signs of a corrupt heart and a feeble
head, the tendency of incredulity is
the surest.

Beal philosophy seeks rather to
solve than to deny. While we hear,
every day, the small pretenders to
science talk of the absurdities of
Alchemy and the dream of the Philo-
sopher's Stone, a more erudite know-
ledge is aware that by Alchemists the
greatest discoveries in science ',have
been made, and much which still
seems abstruse, had we the key to the
mystic phraseology they were com-
pelled to adopt, might open the way
to yet more noble acquisitions. The
Philosopher's Stone itself has seemed
no visionary chimera to some of the
soundest chemists that even the
present century has produced.* Man
cannot contradict the Laws of Nature.
But are all the Laws of Nature yet
discovered 1

"Give me a proof of your Art,"
says the rational inquirer. ** When I

* Hr. Disraeli, in his ".Curfosities of
Literature," (Article Alchem,) after quoting
the sanguine Judgmaoits of modem chemists,
as to the transmutation of metals, observes,
of one yet greater and more recent than
those to which Olyndon's thoughts could
have referred— "Sir Humphry Davy told me
that he did not consider this undiscovered
art as impossible; but should it ever be
discovered, it would certainly be useless."

have seen the effect, I will endeavour,
with you, to ascertain the causes."

Somewhat to the above effect were
the first thoughts of Clarence Glyn-
don on quitting ZanonL But Clarence
Qlyndon was no ** rational inquirer."
The more vague and mysterious the
language of Zanoni, the more it
impose«l upon him. A proof .would
have been something tangible, with
which he would have sought to
grapple. And it would have only
disappointed his curiosity to find
the supernatural reduced to Nature.
He endeavoured, in vain, at some
moments rousing himself from cre-
dulity to the scepticism he deprecated,
to reconcile what he had heard with
the pr(7bable motives and designs
of an impostor. Unlike Mesmer and
Cagliostro, Zanoni, whatever his pre-
tensions, did not make them a source
of profit ; nor was Olyndon's position
or rank in life sufficient to render any
influence obtained over his mind,
subservient to schemes, whether of
avarice or ambition. Yet, ever and
anon, with the suspicion of worldly
knowledge, he strove to persuade
himself that Zanoni had at least some
sinister object in inducing him to
what his English pride and manner
of thought considered a derogatory
marriage with the poor actress.
Might not Viola and the Mystic be in
league with each other? Might not
all this jargon of prophecy and menace
be but artifices to dupe himi He

62

ZAKONI.

felt an unjust resentment towards
Viola, at her having secured such an
ally. But with that resentment was
mingled a natural jealousy. Zanoni
threatened him with rivalry. Zanoni,
who, whatever his character or his
arts, possessed at least all the external
attributes that dazzle and command.
Impatient of his own doubts, he
plunged into the society of such
acquaintances as he had made at
Naples— chiefly artists, like himself,
men of letters, and the rich com-
mercialists, who were already vying
with the splendour, though debarred
from the privileges, of the nobles.
From these he heard much of Zanoni,
already with them, as with the idler
classes, an object of curiosity and
speculation.

He had noticed, as a thing remark-
able, that Zanoni had conversed with
him in English, and with a command
of the language so complete, that he
might have passed for a native. On
the other hand, in Italian, Zanoni
was equally at ease. Glyndon found
that it was the same in languages less
usually learned by foreigners. A
painter from Sweden, who had con-
versed with him, was positive that he
was a Swede ; and a merchant from
Constantinople, who had sold some of
his goods to Zanoni, professed his
conviction that none but a Turk, or
at least a native of the East, could
have so thoroughly mastered the soft
Oriental intonations. Yet, in all
these languages, when they came to
compare their several recollections,
there was a slight, scarce perceptible
distinction, not in pronunciation, nor
even accent, but in the key and
chime, as it were, of the voice, be-
tween himself and a native. This
faculty was one which Glyndon called
to mind, that sect, whose tenets and
powers have never been more than
most partially explored, the Bosicru-
cians especially arrogated. He re-,
xnembeied to hAve heard in Germany

of the work ^f John Bringeret,*
asserting that all the languages of
earth were known to 'the genuine
Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross. Did
Zanoni belong to this mystical Fra-
ternity, who, in an earlier age, boasted
of secrets of which the Philosopher's
Stone was but the least; who con-
sidered themselves the heirs of all
that the Chaldaeans, the Magi, the
GymnoBophists, and the Platonista
had taught; and who differed froia
all the darker Sons of Magic in the
virtue of their lives, the purity of
their doctrines, and their insisting^,
as the foundation of all wisdom, on
the subjugation of the senses, and
the intensity of Beligions Faith 1-—
a glorious sect, if they lied not 1 And,
in truth, if Zanoni had powers beyond
the race of worldly sages, they seemed
not unworthily exercised. The little
known of his life was in his favoar.
Some acts, not of indiscriminate, hut
judicious generosity and beneficence,
were recorded; in repeating whicfa,
still, however, the narrators shook
their headsy and expressed surprise
how a stranger should have possessed
so minute a knowledge of the quiet
and obscure distresses he had relieved.
Two or three sick persons, wiun
abandoned by their physicians, he
had visited and conferred with alone.
They had recovered ; they ascribed
to him their recovery ; yet they could
not tell by what medicines they had
been healed. They could only de-
pose that he came, conversed with
them, and they were cured ; it usually,
however, happened that a deep sleep
had preceded the recovery.

Another circumstance was also be-
ginning to be remarked, and spoke
yet more in his commendation. Those
with whom he principally associated
— the gay, the dissipated, the thought-
less, the sinners and publicans of the
more polished world — ^all appeared

*FxiBWdial6iew

ZANONI.

6$

rapidly, yet inaensibly to tbemselveB,
to awaken to purer thoughts and
more regulated Uyes. Even Cetoxa,
the prince of gallants^ duellists and
gamesters, was no longer the same
man since the night of the singular
erents which he had related to
Glyndon. The first trace of his re-
fona was in his retirement from the
gaming-houses; the next was his
reconciliation with an hereditary
enemy of his house, whom it had
been his constant object for the last
aiz years to entangle in such a
^piarrel as might call forth his in-
initable manoeavre of the stoceata»
"Nor when Cetoxa and his young eom-
panions were heard to speak of Zanoni,
did it seem that this change had been
broQght about by any sober lectures
or admonitiofis. They all described
2anoni as a man keenly alive to en-
joyment-^f manners, the reverse of
£irmal — ^not precisely gay, but equable,
serene, and cheerful; ever ready to
liatoi to the talk of others, however
idle, or to charm all ears with an
iBfishanstible fund of brilliant anec-
doie and worldly experidhce. All
niiuuiers, all nations, all grades of
men seemed £uniliar to him. He
mm reserved only if allusion were
ever ventured to his birth or history.
The more general opinion of his
origin certainly seemed the more
plausible. His riches, his familiarity
with the languages of the Bast, his
residenee in India, a certain gravity
wliieh never deserted his most cheer-
fill and &miliar hours, the Instrous
darkness of his eyes and hair, and
even the peculiarities of his shape, in
the delicate smallness of the hands,
and the Arab-like turn of the stately
head, appeared to fix him as belong-
ing to one at least of the Oriental
races. And a dabbler in the Eastern
tongues even sought to reduce the'
simple name of Zaaoni, wlufih a cen-

tury before had been borne by an
inoffensive naturalist of Bologna,* to
the radicals of the extinct language.
Zan was unquestionably the Chaldaaan
appellation for the sun. Even the
Greeks, who mutilated every Oriental
name, had retained the right one in
this case, as the Cretan inscription on
the tomb of Zeusf significantly
showed. As to the rest, the Zan, or
Zaun, was, with the Sidonians, no un-
common prefix to On. Adonis was
but another name for Zanonas, whose
worship in Sidon Hesychius records.
To this profound and unanswerable
derivation, Mervale listened with
great attention, and observed that he
now ventured to announce an erudite
discovery he himself had long since
made — ^viz., that the numerous family
of Smiths in England were un-
doubtedly the ancient priests of the
Phrygian Apollo. "For," said he,
" was not Apollo's surname, in Phry-
^Skf Smintheusl How clear all the
ensuing corruptions of the august
name — Smintheus — Smitheus —
Smiths — Smith ! And even now, I
may remark that the more ancient
branches of that illustrious family, un-
consciously anxious to approximate at
least by a letter nearer to the true
title, take a pious pleasure in writing
their names Smithe ! "

The Philologist was much stnu^L
with this discovery, and begged
Mervale's permission to note it down
as an illustration suitably, po a work
he was about to publish on the origin
of languages, to be called "Babel/
and published in three quartos by
subscription.

* The author of two works on botaoy and
rare plants.

t OU fuyag muTM imrS^yrU «m»a
Juiiem,

^ Here lies great Jove.

64

ZANONI.

CHAPTER VII.

Learn to be poor in spirit, my wn, if you would penetrate that saored night wliioh
environs truth. Learn of the Sages to allow to the Devils no power in nature, since
the fatal stone has shut 'em up in the depth of the abyss. Learn of the Philosophers
always to look for natural causes in all extraordinary events ; and when such natural
causes are wanting, recur to God.— Ths Count na Gabalis.

All these additions to his knowledge
of Zanonij picked up in the various
lounging places and resorts that he
frequented, were unsatisfactory to
Glyndon. That night Viola did not
perform at the theatre ; and the next
day, still disturbed by bewildered
fancies, and averse to the sober and
sarcastic companionship of Mervale,
Olyndon sauntered musingly into the
public gardensf and paused under the
very tree under which he had first
heard the voice that had exercised
upon his mind so singular an influence.
The gardens were deserted. He
threw himself on one of the sei
placed beneath the shade ; and again,
in the midst of his reverie, the same
cold shudder came over him which
Zanoni had so distinctly defined, and
to which he had ascribed so extra-
ordinary a cause.

He roused himself with a sudden
effort, and started to see, seated next
him, a figure hideous enough to
have personated one of the malignant
beings of whom Zanoni had spoken.
It was a small man, dressed in a
fiishion strikingly at variance with
the elaborate costume of the day:
An affectation of homeliness and
poverty approaching to squalor, in
the loose trowsers, coarse as a ship's
sail — in the rough jacket, which
appeared rent wilfully into holes —
and the black, ragged, tangled locks
that streamed from their confinement

''''r a woollen cap, accorded but ill

with other details which spoke of
comparative wealth. The shirt, open
at the throat, was fastened by a brooch
of gaudy stones; and two pendent
massive gold chains announced the
foppery of two watches.

The man's figure, if not absolutely
deformed, was yet marvellously ill
favoured; his shoulders high and
square; his chest flattened, as if
crushed in ; his gloveless hands were
knotted at the joints, and large, bony
and muscular, dangled from lean,
emaciated wrists, as if not belonging
to them. His features had the pain-
ful distortion sometimes seen in the
countenance of a cripple — laige,
exaggerated, with the nose nearly
touching the chin; the eyes small,
but glowing with a cunning fire as
they dwelt on Glyndon; and the
mouth was twisted into a grin that
dispbiyed rows of jagged, bUck,
broken teeth. Yet over this frightful
face there still played a kind of
disagreeable intelligence, an expres-
sion at once astute and bold ; and aa
Glyndon, recovering from the first
impression, looked again at his neigh-
bour, he blushed at his own disnnay,
and recognised a French artist, with
whom he had formed an acquuntance,
and who was possessed of no incon-
siderable talents in his calling.
Indeed, it was to be remarked that
this creature, whose externals were
BO deserted by the Graces, particularly
delighted in designs aspiring to

ZAKONI.

65

majesty and grandenr. Though his
colouring was hard and shallow, as
-was that generally of the French
school at the time, Ms draunngs
were admirable for symmetry, simple
elegance, and classic vigour; at the
same time they unquestionably wanted
ideal grace. He was fond of selecting
subjects from Eoman History, rather
than from the copious world of
Grecian beauty, or those still more
sublime stories of scriptural record
from which Saffiidle and Michel
Angelo borrowed their inspirations.
His grandeur was that, not of gods
and saints, but mortals. His delinea-
tion of beauty was that which the
eje cannot blame and the soul does
not acknowledge. In a word, as it
was said of Dionysius, he was an
Anthropographos, or Painter of
Men. It was also a notable contra-
diction in this person, who was
addicted to the most eztrayagant
excesses in every passion, whether of
hate or love, implacable in revenge,
and insatiable in debauch, that he
was in the habit of uttering the
most beautiful sentiments of exalted
purity and genial philanthropy. The
world was not good enough for him ;
he was, to use the expressive German
phrase, a toorld-betterer ! Neverthe-
less, his sarcastic lip often seemed to
mock the sentiments he uttered, as
if it sought to insinuate that he was
above even the world he would
construct.

Finally, this painter was in close
correspondence with the liepublicans
of Paris, and was held to be one of
those missionaries whom^ from the
earliest period of the Revolution,
the regenerators of mankind were
pleased to dispatch to the various
states yet shackled, whether by actual
tyranny, or wholesome laws. Certainly
as the historian of Italy* has observed,
there was no city in Italy where these

No. 263.

* Botta.

new doctrines would be received with
greater favour than Naples, partly
from the lively temper of the people,
principally because the most hateful
feudal privileges, however partially
curtailed some years before by the
great minister, Tanuecini, still pre-
sented so many daily and practical
evils as to make change wear a more
substantial charm than the mere and
meretricious bloom on the cheek of
the harlot — Novelty. This man,
whom I will call Jean Nicot, was,
therefore, an oracle amongthe younger
and bolder spirits of Naples; and
before Glyndon had met Zanoni, the
former had not been among the least
dazzled by the eloquent aspirations of
the hideous Philanthropist

"It is so long since we have met,
cher confrere," said Nicot, drawing
his seat nearer to Glyndon's, "that
you cannot be surprised that I see you
with delight, and even take the
liberty to intrude on your medita-
tions."

" They wete of no agreeable nature,"
said Glyndon; ''and never was
intrusion more welcome."

"You will be charmed to hear,**
said Nicot, drawing several letters
from his bosom, ** that the good work
proceeds with marvellous rapidity.
Mirabeau, indeed, is no more ; but^
mort DiaUe ! the French people are
now a Mirabeau themselves." With
this remark. Monsieur Nicot pro-
ceeded to read and to comment upon
several animated and interesting
passages in his correspondence, in
which the word Virtue was introduced
twenty-seven times, and Grod not once.
And then, warmed by the cheering
prospects thus opened to him, he
began to indulge in those anticipations
of the future, the outline of which we
have already seen in the eloquent
extravagance of Condorcet. All the
Old Virtues were dethroned for a new
Pantheon: Patriotism was a narrow
sentiment; Philanthropy was to be
r 5 ^

66

ZANOin.

/ itft sneeeBSOT. ISo love that did sot
/ embrace all mankind, as 'warm for
( Indus and the Pole as for the hearth
of home/ was worUiy the breast of a
generous man. Opinion was -to be
free as air ; and in order to make it
so, it was necessary to extenninate all
those whose opinions were not the
same as Mens. Jean Nicot's. Hneh
of this amused, moch revolted Qlyn-
don ; but when the Painter turned to
dwell upon a science that all should
comprehend— and the results of which
ail should enjoy, — a science that,
springing from the soil of equal
institutions and eqnal mental cultiva-
tion, should give to all the races x>f
men wealth without labour, and a life
longer than the Patriarchs', without
care, — th^i Glyndon listened with
interest and admiration, not unmixed
with awe. "Observe," said Nicot,
" how much that we now cherish as- a
virtue will then be rejected as mean-
ness. Our oppressors, for instance,
preach to us of the excellence of
gratitude. Gratitude, the confession
of inferiority ! What so hateful to a
noble spirit as the humiliating sense
of obligation 1 But where there is
equality there can be no means * for
power thus to enslave . merit. The
^ benefactor and the client will alike
cease, and " —

'' And in the meantime,'' said a low
voice, at hand, "in the meantime,
Jean Nicot 1"

The two artists started, and Glyndon
recognised Zanonl

He gazed with a brow of unusual
sternness on Nicot, who, lumped
together as he »ate, looked up at him
askew, and with an expression of
fear and dismay upon his distorted
countenance.

Ho, ho! Messire Jean Nioot,
thou who fearest neither God nor
Devil, why fearest thou the eye of a
Man?

"It is not the first time I have
been a witness to your opinions on

the infitmity of gratitude," said
ZanonL

Nieot suppressed' an exolamaiion,
and, after gloomily surveying Zancmi
with an eye viilanonS' and ainiBter,
bntfiillof >faaie impotent and nnutter-
able, said, "I know you<no4 — what
would yon t)f me ?"

" Your absence. Leare'ns ! *'

Nicot sprung forward a step, with
hands clenched, and showing h>s
teeth from ear to ear, like a wild
beast incensed. Zanoni stood motion-
less, and smiled at him' in scorn.
Nicot halted abruptly, as if fixed and
fiiscinated by the look, shivered from
head to foot, and sullenly, and with a
visible effort, aaif impelled by a power
not his own, turned away.

Giyndon's eyes followed him in
surprise.

" And what know yon of this man 1 "
said ZanonL

**. I know him as one like myself
—a follower of art."

^ Of art! Do' not so pro&ne that
glorious word. What* Nature is to i
God, .Art should be to Mai^— a sub- i
lime, ^ beneficent, genial, and warm
creation. That wDeteh may be a '
painter J not>an arUst"

" And pardon me if I ask what fou
know of one you thus- disparage ? "

^ I know thus much, that you are
beneath my care if it be necessary to
warn you against him; his -own lips
show the hideousness of his heart.
Why should I tell you of the crimes
he has committed! He ^)€aks
crime ! "

" You do not seem, Signor Zanoni,
to be one of the admirers of the
dawning Revolution. Perhi4}s you
are prejudiced against the man
because you dislike the opinions 1"

"What opinions r'

Glyndon paused, somewhat puzzled
to define; but at length he said,
" Nay, I must wrong you ; for yon,
of all men, I suppose, cannot discredit
the doctrine that preaches the

ZANONI.

67

infioite 'uaprDYement of the humaa
species.''

" You are right ; the few ja every
age impro%'e the many; the many
now may be as wise as the few were ;
bat improvement is at a stand-still,
if you tell me that the many now are
as wise as the few arc.'*

"I comprehend you ;» you will not
allow the law of universal equality!"

'* Law ! If the whole world con-
spired to enforce the falsehood, they
could could not make it law. Level
all conditions to-day, and you only
smoothe away all obstacles to tyranny
to-morrow. A nation that aspires to
equality is unfit for freedom. Through-
out all creation, from the archangel to
the worm, from Olympus to th6
pebble, from the radiant and com-
pleted planet to the nebula that
hardens through ages of mist and
slime into the habitable world, the
first law of nature is inequality."

"Harsh doctrine, if applied to
states. Are the cruel disparities of
life never to be removed V*

•'Disparities of the physical lifel
Oh, let us hope so. But disparities
of the inteHectvjal and the moral,
never ! Universal equality of intelli-
gence, of mind, of genius, of virtue !
— ^no teacher left to the world, no men
wiser, better than others — were it not
an impossible condition, uihaZ a hope-
less project for humanity/ No;
while the world lasts, the sun will
gild the mountain top before it shines
upon the plain. Diffuse all the know-
ledge the earth contains equally over
all mankind to-day, and some men
will be wiser than the rest to-morrow.
And tliis is not a harsh, but a loving
law, — the real law of Improvement;
the wiser the few in one generation,
the wi?er will be the multitude the
next I"

As Zanoni thus spoke, they moved
on through the smiling gardens, and
the beautiful bay lay sparkling in the
noontide. A gentle breeze just cooled

the sunbeam, and stirred the ocean ;
and in the inexpressible clearness of
the atmosphere, .there was something
that rejoiced the senses. The very
soul seemed to grow lighter a^d
purer in that, lucid air.

"And these men, to commence X
their era of improvement and equality, )
are jealous even of the Creator. They '
would deny an Intelligence — a God 1"
said Zanoni, as if involuntarily. "Are
yQu .aa Artist, and, looking on the
world, can you listen to such a dogma ?
Between Qod and Genius there is a
necessary link — there is almost a
correspondent language. Well said y
the Pythagorean*—' A good intellect,
is the chorus of divinity.' "

Struck and touched with those
sentiments, which he little expected
to fall from one to whom he ascribed
those powers which the superstitions
of childhood ascribe to the darker
agencies, Glyndon ^said, "And yet
you have confessed that your life,
separated from that of others, is one .
that man should dread to share. Is
there then a connexion between magic
and religion."

"Magic! And what is magic?
AVhen the traveller beholds in Persia
the ruins of palaces and temples, the
ignorant inhabitants inform him they
were the work of magicians! What
is beyond their own power, the 'vnilgar
cannot comprehend to be lawfully in
the power of others. But if by magic
you mean a perpetual research amongst
all that is more latent and obscure in
nature, I answer, I profess that magic,
and that he who does so comes but
nearer to the fountain of all belief.
Enowest thou not that magic was
taught in the schools of old 1 But how,
and by whom ? as the last and most
solemn lesson, by the Priests who
ministered to the Temple.+ And you,
who would be a painter, is not there

* Sextus, the Pythagorean,
t FseUua de Daemon. (MS.)
V 2

68

ZANONI.

a magic also in the art yoa would
advance] Must you not, after long
study of the Beautiful that has been,
seize upon new and airy combinations
of a beauty that is to be ^ See you
not that The Grander Art, whether of
poet or of painter, ever seeking for
the TRiTB, abhors the real ; that you
must seize Nature as her master, not
lackey her as her slave? You demand
mastery over the past, a conception of
the future. Has not the Art, that is
truly noble, for its domain the Future
and the Past? You would conjure
the invisible beings to your charm ;
and what is painting but the fixing
into substance the Invisible 1 Are
^you discontented with this world?
This vrorTd was never meant for
genius!/ To exist, it must create
another. What magician can do
more; nay, what science can do as
much 1 There are two avenues from
the little passions and the drear
calamities of earth; both lead to
heaven and away from hell — ^Art and
Science. But art is more godlike
/than science; science discovers, art
\ creates. You have faculties that may
command art; be contented with
your lot. The astronomer who cata-
logues the stars cannot add one atom
to the universe ; the poet can call an
universe from the atom ; the chemist
may heal with his drugs the infir-
mities of the human form; the
painter, or the sculptor, fixes into
everlasting youth forms divine, which
no disease can ravage, and no years

impair. Kenounce those wandering
fancies that lead you now to myself,
and now to yon orator of the human
race ; to us two who are the antipodes
of each other I Your pencil is your
wand ; your canvass may raise Utopias
&irer than Condorcet dreams' of. I
press not yet for your decision ; but
what man of genius ever asked more
to cheer his path to the grave, than
love and glory?"

"But," said Glyndon, fixing his
eyes earnestly on Zanoni, "if there
be a power to baffle the grave
itself"—

Zanoni's brow darkened. "And
were this so," he said, after a pause,
"would it be so sweet a lot to outlive
all you loved, and to recoil firom every
human tie 1 Perhaps the fairest im-
mortality on earth is that of a noble
name."

"You do not answer me — you
equivocate. I have read of the long
lives, far beyond the date common
experience assigns to man," persisted
Glyndon, "which some of the
alchemists enjoyed. Is the golden
elixir but a fable?"

" If not, and these men discovered
it, they died, because they refused to
live! There may be a mournful
warning in your conjecture. Turn
once more to the easel and the
canvass!"

So saying, Zanoni waved his hand,
and, with downcast eyes and a slow
step, bent his way back into the
city.

ZANONI.

CHAPTER VIII.

Thx Goddbsb Wisdom.

To some she is the goddess great ;

To some the milch cow of the field ;
Their care is but to calculate

What batter she will yield.

J'rom SCHILLBR.a,

This last conversation with Zanoni
left upon the mind of Glyndon a
tranquillising and salutary effect.
From the confused mists of his fancy
glittered forth again those happy,
golden schemes which part from the
young ambition of art, to play in the
air, to iUnmine the space, like rays
that kindle from the sun. And with
these projects mingled also the vision
of a love purer and serener than his
life yet had known. His mind went
back into that fair childhood of
genius, when the forbidden fruit is
not yet tasted, and we know of no
land beyond the Eden which is
gladdened by an Eve. Insensibly
before him there rose the scenes of a
home, with his art sufficing for all
excitement, and Yiola's love circling
occupation with happiness and con-
tent ; and in the midst of these phan-
tasies of a future that might be at his
command, he was recalled to the
present by the clear strong voice of
Mervale, the man of common sense.

Whoever has studied the lives of
persons in whom the imagination is
stronger than the will, who suspect
their own knowledge of actual life,
and are aware of their facility to im-
pressions, — will have observed the
influence which a homely, vigorous,
worldly understanding obtains over
such natures. It was thus with Glyii-
don. His friend had often extricated
him from danger, and saved him
from the consequences of imprudence :

and there was something in Mervalc's
voice alone that damped his enthu-
siasm, and often made him yet more
ashamed of noble impulses than weak
conduct. For Mervale, though a
downright honest man, could not
sympathise with the extravagance of
generosity any more than with that
of presumption and credulity. He
walked the straight line of life; and
felt an equal contempt for the man
who wandered up the hill-sides, no
matter whether to chase a butterfly
or to catch a prospect of the ocean.

"I will tell you your thoughts,
Clarence," said Mervale, laughing,
"though I am no Zanoni. I know
them by the moisture of your eyes
and the half smile on your lips. You
are musing upon that fair perdition —
the little singer of San Carlo."

The little singer of San Carlo f
Glyndon coloured as he answered —

" Would you speak thus of her if
she were my wife V*

"No! for then any contempt I
might venture to feel would be for
yourself One may dislike the duper,
but it is the dupe that one despises."

"Are you sure that I should be the
dupe in such an union 'i Where can
I find one so lovely and so innocent —
where one whose virtue has been tried
by such temptation] Does even a
single breath of slander sully the
name of Yiola Fisanl V

"I know not all the gossip of
Naples, and therefore cannot answer ;

70

ZANONI.

but I know this, that in England no
one would believe that a young
Englishman, of good fortune and re-
spectable birth, who marries a singer
from the Theatre of Naples, has not
l)een lamentably taken in. I would
save you from a fall of position
so irretrievable. Think how many
mortifications you will be subjected
to ; how many young men will visit
at your house, and how many young
wives will as carefully, avoid it."

" I can choose my own career, to
which- commonplace society is not
essential. I can owe the respect of
the world to my art, and not' to the
accidents of birth and fortune."

" That is, you still -persist in your
second fblly — the absurd ambition of
daubing canvass. Heaven forbid I
should say anything against the la«d-
able industry of one who follows such
a profession for the sake of subsist-
ence; but with means and connezions
that will raise you in life, why volun-
tarily sink into a mere artist? As
an accomplishment An leisure- mo-
ments, it is all very well in its way ;
but as the occupation of existence, it
is a frenzy."

''Artists have been the friends of
princes."

"Very rarely, so^ I fancy,. in sober
England. There, in the great centre
of political aristoeracy, what men
respect is the practical, not the ideal.
Just suffer me to draw two pictures
of my own. Clarence Glyndon re-
turns to England ; he marries a lady
of fortune equal to his own, of friends
and parentage that advance rational
ambition. Clarence Glyndon, thus a
wealthy and respectable man, of good
talents, of bustling energies then con-
centrated, enters into practical life.
He has a house at which he can re-
ceive those whose acquaintance is
both advantage and honour; he has
leisure which he can devote to useful

studies; his reputation, built on a
solid base, grows in men's mouths.
He attaches himself to a party ; he
enters political life; his new con-
nexions serve to.promote his objects.
At the age of five-and-forty, what, in
all probability, may Clarence Glyndon
be ? Since you are ambitious, I leave
that question for you to decide ! Now
turn to the other picture. Clarence
Glyndon returns to England with a
wife who can bring him no money,
unless he lets her out on the stage ;
so handsome that every one asks who
she is, and every one hears — the
celebrated singer, Pisani. Clarence
Glynfk)n shuts himself up to grind
colours and paint pictures in the
grand historical school, which nobody
buys. There • is even a ■ prejudice
against him, as not having studied in
the Academy, — ^as being an amateur.
Who is Mr. aarence Glyndon ? Oh !
the celebrated Pisani's husband!
What elsel Oh! he exhibits those
lai^e pictures. Poor man ! they have
merit in their way ; but Teniers and
Watteau are more convenient, and
almost as cheap. Clarence Glyndon,
with an easy fortune while single, has
a large fiimily, which his fortune, un-
aided by marriage, can just rear up
to callings more plebeian than his
own. He retires- into the country, to
save and to paint ; he grows slovenly
and discontented; 'the world does
not appreciate him,' he says, and he
runs away from the world. At the
age of forty-five, what will be Clarence
Glyndon ? Your ambition shall decide
that question also i "

'*If all men were as wofldly as
you," said Glyndon, rising, "there
would never have been an artist or a
poet!"

" Perhaps we should do just as well
without them," answered Morvale.
"R it not time to thiuk of dinner 1
The mullets here are remarkably fine !"

Zi.NOM.

71

OHAPTEB IX.

W«lliftr h«ek auC ihiHi Flugrin acfawoben,
Werft die AngBi dea Jxdischen von euofa !
Fltobet aos dem engea dumpfen Leben
Id des IdeakB Reich !

Dab Ioraim vkd das Lkbbn.

Wonld'Bt-thou Mar heBvenward on its joyous sring ?

Cast off the earthly burthen of the Real ;
High from this cramp'd and duogeon'd being, spring

Into the realm of the IdeaL

/As sone injudidous master lowen
and Titiates the taste ef the student
by fixing his attention to- what he

' firiaely calls the If atnral, bnt which,
in reality, is the Commonplace, and
nndeiBtands not that beauty in. art is
created by what Bafla61e so well
deacribea-^Tiz., the idea of heavJby in
ihtpainier^s own mind; and thatvin
every art, whether its plastic ex-
pression be found in words or marble,
colours or sounds, the servile imi-
tation of nature is the work of

\ioumeymen and tyros; — so in con-
duct the man of the world vitiates
and lowers the bold enthusiasm of
loftier natures by the perpetual re-
duction of whatever is generous and
trustful to all that is trite and coarse.
A great German poet has well defined
the distinction between discretion and
the larger wisdom. In the last there
is a certain rashness which the first
' disdains —

" The purblind see bnt the receding shore,
Iifot that to which the bold wave wafts
them o'er."

Yet in this logic of the prudent
and the worldly there is often a rea-
soning unanswerable of its kind.

Tou must have a feeling — a f)|ith
in whatever is self-sacrificing and
divine — whether in religion or in art,
in glory or in love — or Common-

sense will reason you out of the sacri-
fice^ and a syllogism will debase The
Divine- to an article in the market.

Every true critic in art, from Aris-
totle and Pliny — from Winkelmkn
and Yasari, to Reynolds and Fuseli,
has sought to instruct the painter
that Nature is not to be copied, but
exaUed; that the loftiest order of art,
selecting only the loftiest combina-
tions, is the perpetual struggle of
Humanity to approach the Gods. The
great painter, as the great author,
embodies what is possible to man, it
is true, but what is not common to
mankind. There is truth in Hamlet ;
in Macbeth, and his witches ; in Des-
demona; in Othello; in Prospero;
and in Caliban ; there is truth in the
cartoons of RaffaSle ; there is truth
in the Apollo, the Antinotis, and the
Laocoon. But you do not meet the
originals of the words, the cartoons,
or the marble, in Oxford-street or St.
James's. All these, to return to
Rafiadle, are the creatures of the idea
in the artist's mind. This idea is not
inborn ; it has come from an intense
study. But that study has been of
the ideal that can be raised from the
positive and the actual into grandeur
and beauty. The commonest model
becomes full of exquisite suggestions
to 'him who has formed this idea ; a
Yenus of flesh and blood would be

72

ZANOKI.

Yulgarised by the imitation of him
who has not.

When asked where he got his
models, Goido summoned a common
porter from his calling, and drew
from a mean original a head of sur-
passing beauty. It resembled the
porter, but idealised the porter to the
hero. It was true, but it was not
real. There are critics who will tell
you that the Boor of Teniers is more
true to nature than the Porter of Guide !
The common-place public scarcely
understand the idealising principle,
even in art. For high art is an
acquired taste.

But to come to my comparison.
Still less is the kindred principle com-
prehended in conduct. And the
advice of worldly Prudence would as
often deter from the risks of Virtue
as from the punishments of Vice ; yet
in conduct, as in art, there is an idea
of the great and beautiful, by which
men should exalt the hackneyed and
the trite of life. Now, Glyndon felt
the sober prudence of Mervale's rea-
sonings; he recoiled from the pro-

bable picture placed before* him, in
his doYotion to the one master talent
he possessed, and the one master pas-
sion that, rightly directed, na.i^ht
purify his whole being as a strong*
wind purifies the air.

But though he could not hring
himself to decide in the teeth of so
rational a judgment, neither could he
resolve at once to abandon the pursuit
of Viola. Fearful of being influenced
by Zanoni's counsels and his own
heart, he had for the last two days
shunned an interview with the young
actress. But after a night following
his last conversation with Zanoni, and
that we have just recorded with Mer-
vale — a night coloured by dreams so
distinct as to seem prophetic —
dreams that appeared so to shape hi»
future according to the hints of
Zanoni, that he could have fancied
Zanoni himself had sent them from the
house of sleep to haunt his pillow, he
resolved once more to seek Viola ; and
though without a definite or distinct
object, he yielded himself up to the
impulse of his heart.

ZANONI.

73

CHAPTER X.

O sollecito dabbio e fredda tema
Che pensando raccresci.*

TA880, Canzone vi.

Shb was seated outside her door — the
young actress ! The sea before her in
that heayenly bay seemed literally to
sleep in the arms of the shore ; while,
to the right, not far off, rose the dark
and tangled crags to which the tra-
veller of to-day is duly brought to
gaze on the tomb of Yirgil, or com-
pare with the cayem of Posilipo the
archway of Highgate-hill. There
were a few fishermen loitering by
the cliffs, on which their nets were
hung to dry ; and at a distance, the
sound of some rustic pipe (more com-
mon at that day than at this) mingled
now and then with the bells of the
lazy mules, broke the voluptuous
silence — the silence of declining noon
on the shores of Naples ; — ^never, till
you have enjoyed it, — ^never, till you
have felt its enervating, but delicious
charm, believe that you can compre-
hend all the meaning of the Dolce
farnient€;f and when that luxury
has been known, when you have
breathed that atmosphere of fagry
land, then you will no longer wonder
why the heart ripens into fruit so
sudden and so rich beneath the rosy
skies, and the glorious sunshine, of
the south.

The eyes of the actress were fixed
on the broad blue deep beyond. In
the unwonted negligence of her dresi»
might be traced the abstraction of
her mind. Her beautiful hair was

* O anxioiis doubt and chilling fear, that
grows by thinking,
t The pleasure of doing nothing.

gathered up loosely, * and ' partially
bandaged by a kerchief, whose purple
colour served to deepen the golden
hue of tresses. A stray curl escaped,
and fell down the gn^ceful neck. A
loose morning robe, girded by a sash,
left the breeze, that came ever and
anon from the sea, to die upon the
bust half disclosed; and the tiny
slipper, that Cinderella might have
worn, seemed a world too wide for the
tiny foot which it scarcely covered.
It might be the heat of the day that
deepened the soft bloom of the cheeks,
and gave an unwonted languor to the
large dark eyes. In all the pomp of
her stage attire — ^in all the f ush of
excitement before the intoxicating
lamps — ^never had Yiola looked so
lovely-

By the side of the actress, and fill-
ing up the threshold, stood Qionetta,
with her arms thrust to the elbow in
two huge pockets on either side her
gown.

" But I assure you," said the nurse,
in that sharp, quick, ear-splitting
tone in which the old women of the
south are more than a match for those
of the north, "but I assure you, my
darling, that there is not a finer cava-
lier in all Naples, nor a more beau-
tiful, than this Jnglese; and I am
told that all the Inglesi are much
richer than they seem. Though they
have no trees in their country, poor
people ! and instead of twenty-four
they have only twelve hours to the
day, yet I hear that they shoe their
horses with scudi; and since they

74

ZAN0NI.

cannot (the poor heretics!) turn
grapes into wine, for they have no
grapes, they turn gold into physic ;
and take a glass or two of piatoUa
whenever they are troubled with the
colic. But you don't hear me, little
pupil of my eyes, you don't hear me!"

" And these things ase whiqiered
of Zanoni ! " said Viola, half to herself
and unheeding Gionetta's eulogies on
Glyndon and the English.

'Blesaed Maria! do not talk of
this terrible Zanoni. Ton may be
sure that his beautiful faoe, like his
yet more beautiful 'pistoles, is only
witcln»raft. I look at the money he
gave me the other night, every
quarter of an hour, to see whether it
has not turned into pebbles."

"Do you then. really believe/-* said
Yiola, with timid earoestaesfi^ " that
sorcery still exists 'i "

"Believe! — ^Do I believe in* the
blessed San Gennaro ? How do< you
think he cured old Filippo, the
fisherman, when the doctor gav» him
up? How do you think he has
managed himself to live at. least
these three hundred years 1 How
do you think he fascinates every one
to his bidding with a look, as the
vampires do ? "

" Ah, ife this only witchcraft 1 It is
like it — it must be ! " murmured
Viola, turning very pale. Gionetta
herself was scarcely more superstitious
than the daughter of the musician.
And her very innocence, chilled at
the strwgeness of virgin passion,
might well ascribe to magic what
hearts- nf ore experienced would have
resolved to love.

''And, then> why has this great

Prince di been so terrified by

him ? Why has he ceased to persecute
us 1 Why has hebeen so quiet and
stitn Is there no sorcery in all
thatt"

"Think you, then," said Viola,
with sweet inconsistency, "that I
owe that happiness .and safety to his

protection ? Oh, let me so beliere !
Be silent, Gionetta! Why have I
only thee and my own terrors to
consult. beautiiful sun ! " and the
girl pressed her hand to her heart
with wild energy, " thou lightest every
spot but this. Go, Gionetta ! leave
me alone — leave me ! "

"And indeed it is time I should
leave you; for the polenta will be
spoiled, and you have eat nothing all
day. If you don't eat, you will lose
your beauty, my darling, and then
nobody will care for you. Nobody
cares for us when we grow ugly; I
know that ,* and then you must, like
old Gionetta, get some Viola of your
own to spoil. I'll go and see to the
polenta"

''Since I have known this man,"
said' the girl, half aloud, " since his
dark eyes have haunted me, I am no
longer tho same. I long to escape
from myself — to glide with the
sunbeam over the hill tops — to bec^oae
something that is not of earth.
Phantoms float before me at night;
and a fluttering, like the wing of a
bird, within my heart, seems as if the
spirit were terrified, and would break
its cage."

While murmuring these incoherent
rhapsodies, a step that she did not
hear approached the actress, and a
light hand touched her arm.

" Viola l—beUisaima !-^yiol& ! "

She turned, and e&w Glyndon.
The sight of his iair young face
calmed her at once. His presence
gave her pleasure.

"Viola," said the Englishman,
taking her hand, and drawing her
again to the bench from which she
had risen, as he seated himself beside
her, "you shall l\ear me speak!
You must know jilready that I love
thee ! It has not been pity or admira-
tion- alone that has led me ever and
ever to thy dear side ; reasons there
may have been why I have not •
spoken, save by my eyes, before;

ZANOIJL

76

but this day— I know not how it is
— ^I* feel ft more flnstamed and settled
coaxttge to address thee^ and learn the
hsppiest or tbe worst. I haTe rlTals,
I know — rivals who are more powerful
thaik tho'poor artist; are they also
nM^e- ftTonred ?"

Viola- bhiafaed faintly; but her
oounteDance- was grave and distressed.
Looking down, and marking some
lueitiglyphieal figures in the dust with
the point of her slipper, she said,
^ifa some hesitation, and a vain
attempt to be gay, " Signer, whoever
wastes his thoughts on an actress
must submit tv have rivals. It is
our unhappy destiny not to be sacred
eTen to ourselves.'*

" But you do not love this destiny,
glittering though it seem; your
heart is not in the vocation which your
gifts adorn."

, ''Ah, no!" said the actress, her
eyes filling with tears. "Once I
loved to be the priestess of song and
mvsicr now I feel only that it is a
miserable lot to be shive to a multi-
tude."

"Fly, then, with me," swd the
artist, passionately, "Quit for ever-
the calling that divides that heart I
would have all" my own. Share my
fate now and for ever— my pride, my
delight, my ideal I Thou shalt inspire
my canvass and my song; thy beauty
shall be made at once holy and
renowned. In the galleries of prinees,
crowds shall gather round the effigy
of a Yenus or a Saint, and a whisper
shall break forth, ' It is Viola Pisani ! '
Ah! Yiola, I adore thee: tell me
that I do not worship in vain."

"Thou art good and fair," said
Viola, gazing on her lover, as he
pressed nearer to her, and clasped her
hand in his. "But what should I
give thee in return 1"
"Love — love — only love !"
"A sister's love 1"
** Ah ! speak not with such cruel
coldness !"

"It is all I have for thee."^ Listen
to me. Signer : when I look oa your
face, when I hear your voice, a certain
serene and tranquil calm creeps over
and lulls thoughts — oh ! how feverish,
how wild ! When thou art gone, the
day seems a shade more dark; but
the shadow -soon flies. I miss thee
not ; I think not of thee ; no, I love
thee not ; and I wiU give myself only
where I love."

"But I would teach thee to love
me : fear it not. Nay, such love as
thou describest, in our tranquil
climates is the love of innocence and
youth."

" Of innocence ! " said Viola. " Is
it so? Perhaps" — she paused, and
added, with an effort, "Foreigner!
and wouMst thou wed the orphan !
Ah ! ihou at least art generous. It
is not the innocence thou wouldst
destroy ! "

Qlyndon drew back, conscience-
stricken.

"No, it may not be!" she said,
rising, but not conscious of. the
thoughts, half of shame, half sus-
picion, that passed through the mind
of her lover. " Leave me, and forget
me. You do not understand, you
could not comprehend, the nature
of her whom you think to love.
Prom my childhood upward, I have
felt as if I were marked out for
some strange and preternatural
doom ; as if I were singled from my
kind. This feeling (and, oh! at
times it is one of delirious and vague
delight, at others of the darkest
gloom) deepens within me day by
day. It is like the shadow of twilight,
spreading slowly and solemnly around.
My hour approaches : a little while,
and it will be night ! "

As she spoke, Glyndon listened
with visible emotion and perlurba-
tion. " Viola ! " he exclaimed, as
she ceased, "your words more than
ever enchain me to you. As you
feel, I feel. I, too, have been ever

76

ZANONL

haunted with a chill and unearthly
foreboding. Amidst the crowds of
men I have felt alone. In all my
pleasures, my toils, ioj pursuits, a
warning voice has murmured in my
ear, 'Time has a dark mystery in
store for thy manhood.' When you
spoke, it was as the voice of my
own soul ! "

Viola gazed upon him in wonder
and fear. Her countenance was as
white as marble : and those features,
so divine in their rare symmetry,
might have served the Greek with
a study for the Pythoness, when,
from the mystic cavern and the
bubbling spring, she first hears the
voice of the inspiring god. Gradually
the rigour and tension of that wonder-
ful face relaxed, the colour returned,
the pulse beat; the heart animated
the frame.

"Tell me," she said, turning
partially aside, "tell me, have you
seen — do you know — a stranger in
this city 1 one of whom wild stories
are afloat]"

"You speak of Zanoni? I have
seen him — I know him — and you]
Ah ! he, too, would be my rival !
— he, too, would bear thee from
me!"

" You err," said Viola, hastily, and
with a deep sigh; "he pleads for
you : he informed me of your love ;
he besought me not — ^not to reject it."

"Strange being! incomprehensible
enigma ! . Why did you name him ? "
_ " Why, ah I I would have asked

whether, when you first saw him, the
foreboding, the instinct, of which you
spoke, came on you more fearfollj;
more intelligibly than before—
whether you felt at once repelled
from him, yet attracted towards him
— ^whether you felt (and the actress
spoke with hurried animation) that
with HIM was connected the secret of
your life]"

" All this I felt," answered Glyndon,
in a trembling voice, " the first time
I was in his presence. Though all
around me was gay — music, amidst
lamp-lit trees, light converse near,
and heaven without a cloud above, —
my knees knocked together, my hair
bristled, and my blood curdled like
ice. Since then he has divided my
thoughts with thee."

" No more, no more ! " said Viola,
in a stifled tone; "there must be
the hand of fate in this. I can speak
to you no more now. Farewell ! "
She sprung past him into the house,
and closed the door. Glyndon did
not follow her, nor, strange as it may
seem, was he so inclined. The
thought and recollection of that
moonlit hour in the gardens, of the
strange address of Zanoni, froze up
all human passion. Viola herself if
not forgotten, shrunk back like a
shadow into the recesses of his breast.
He shivered as he stepped into the
sunlight, and musingly retraced hia
steps into the more populous parts of
that liveliest of Italian cities.

BOOK THE THIED.

THETJKGIA.

♦

. i caralier sen yanno

Dove il pino fatal gll attende in porto.*

GcRus. Lib., cant. zy. (Aroomxxto.)

* The knights came where the latal bark awaited them in the Port.

ZAKONI.

79

BOOK THE THIRD.

CHAPTER I.

But tbBt wtalclr especially distlnguislyMrtiie brotherhood ie tbeinmrrellous knowledgo of
all the reeoureee of medical. art. They ynak not by chamw, but simvlee.— Jf£f.
Account qfihe origin snd aUribtUu nftfu true RoiicrueitmtAp /. Von D--^

At ibis time it chanced that Yiola
bad the oppoFtunity to return the
kindness shown to her hy the friendly
musiciany whose house had received
and sheltered her when first left an
orphan on the world. Old Bemardi
had broi^ht up three sons to the
same profession as himself, and they
kad lately left Naples to seek their
fortune^ in the wealthier > cities of
northern Europe, where the musical
market was less overrtocked. There
was only left to glad the household of
his aged wife and hiijoself^a lively,
prattling, dark-eyed ;girl, of some
eight years old, the child of his* second
son, whose mother had died in giving
her birth. It so happened that,
. about a month previous to the date
on which our story has. now entered,
a paralytic affection had disabled
Bemardi from the duties of his call-
ing. He had been always a social,
harmless, improvident, generous fel-
low — ^living on his gains from day to
day, as if the day of sickness and old
age never was to arrive. Though he
received a small aUowance for his
past services, it ill^safficed for his
wants; neither was he free from
debt. Poverty stood at his hearth

— ^when Viola's grateful smile and
liberal hand came to chase the grim
fiend away. But it is not enough to
a heart truly kind to send and give ;
more charitable is it to visit and
console. " Forget, not thy father's
friend." So almost daily went the
bright idol of Naples to the house of
Bemardi. Suddenly a heavier afflic-
tion than either poverty or the palsy
befel the old musician. His grand-
child, his little Beatrice fell ill, sud-
denly and dangerously ill, of one of
those rapid fevers common to the
south; .and 'Viola was summoned
from her strange and fearful reveries
of love or fsuicy, to the sick bed of
the young sufferer.

The child was exceedingly fond of
Viola, and the old peoj^e thought
that her mere presence would bring
healing; but when Viola arrived,
Beatrice was insensible. Fortunately,
there was no performance that even-
ing at San Carlo, and she resolved to
stay the night, and partake its fearful
cares and dangerous vigil.

But during the night, the child
grew worse, the physician (the leech-
craft has never been veiy skilful at
Naples) shook his powdered head.

80

ZANONL'

kept his aromatics at Yob nostrils,
administered his palliatives, and de-
parted. Old Bemardi seated himself
by the bedside in stem silence : here
was the last tie that bound him to
life. Well, let the anchor break, and
the battered ship go down I It was
an iron resolve, more fearful than
sorrow. An old man with one foot
in the grave, watching by the couch
of a dying child, is one of the most
awful spectacles in human calamities.
The wife was more active, more
bustling,' more hopeful, and more
tearful. Yiola took heed of all three.
But towards dawn, Beatrice's state
became so obviously alarming, that
Viola herself began to despair. At this
time she saw the old woman suddenly
rise from before the image of the
saint at which she had been kneeling,
wrap herself in her cloak and hood,
and quietly quit the chamber. Viola
stole after her.

" It is cold for thee, good mother,
to brave the air, let me go for the
physician ] "

" Child, I' am not going to him.
I have heard of one in the city who
has been tender to the poor, and who,
they say, has cured the sick when
physicians failed. I will go and say
to him, ' Signer, we are beggars in all
else, but yesterday we were rich in
love. We are at the close of life, but
we lived in our grandchild's child-
hood. Oive us back our wealth — ^give
us back our youth. Let us die bless-
ing God that the thing we love sur-
vives us/ '*

,She was gone. Why did thy heart
beat, Viola 1 The infant's sharp cry
of pain called her back to the couch ;
and there still sate the old man, un-
conscious of his wife's movements,
not stirring, his eyes glazing fest as
they watched the agonies of that
slight frame. By degrees the wail of
pain died into a low moan — ^the con-
vulsions grew feebler, but more fre-
auent — the glow of fever faded into

the blue, pale tinge that settles into
the last bloodless marble.

The daylight came broader and.
clearer through the casement — ^steps
were heard on the stairs — the old
woman entered hastily : she rushed to
the bed, cast a glance on the paUen^
— " She lives yet. Signer — she lives !**

Viola raised her eyes — ^the child's
head was pillowed on her bosom —
and she beheld ZanonL He smiled
on her with a tender and soft approval,
and took the infant frdm her arms.
Yet even then, as she saw him bend-
ing silently over that pale &ce, a
superstitious fear mingled with her
hopes. " Was it by lawful — by holy-
art that "-^her self-questioning ceased
abruptly ; for his dark eye turned to
her as if he read her soul : and his
aspect accused her conscience for its
suspicion, for it spoke reproach not
unmingled with disdain.

"Be comforted," he said, gently
turning to the old man ; " the danger
is not beyond the reach of human
skill;" and ^taking from his bosom
a small crystal vase, he mingled a
few drops with water. No sooner did
this medicine moisten the. infant's
lips, than it seemed to produce an
astonishing effect. The colour re-
vived rapidly on the lips and cheeks ;
in a few moments the sufferer slept
calmly, and with the regular breath-
ing of painless sleep. And then the
old^man rose, rigidly, as a corpse might
rise — looked down — listened, and
creeping gently away, stole to the
comer of the room, and wept, and
thanked Heaven !

Now, old Bemardi had been^
hitherto, but a cold believer; sorrow-
had never before led him aloft from
earth. Old as he was, he had never
before thought as the old should think
of death — ^that endangered life of the
young had wakened up the careless
soul of age. Zanoni whispered to the
wife, and she drew the old man quietly
from the room.

ZANONI.

81

''Dost thon fear to leave me an
hour with thy cliarge,Viola1 TMnkest
thon still that this knowledge is of
iheEiendl"

" Ah,** said Viola, humbled and yet
rejoiced, "forgive me, forgive me,
Signor. Thou biddest the young
live and the old pray. My thoughts
never shall wrong thee more !"

Before the sun rose, Beatrice was
out of danger; at noon, Zanoni
escaped from the blessings of the
aged pair, and as he closed the door
of the house, he found Viola awaiting
him without.

She stood before him timidly, her
hands crossed meekly on her bosom,
her downcast eyes swimming with
tears.

" Do not let me be the only one
you leave unhappy !"

"And what cure can the herbs and
anodynes effect for thee] If thou
canst so readily believe ill of those
who have aided and yet would serve
thee, thy disease is of the heart ; and
— nay, weep not ! nurse of the sick,
and comforter of the sad, I should
rather approve than chide thee. For-
give thee I Life, that ever needs
forgiveness, has, for its first duty, to
forgive.'*

'* No, do not forgive me yet. I do
not deserve a pardon ; for even now,
while I feel how ungrateful I was to
believe, suspect, aught injurious and
false to my preserver, my tears flow
from happiness, not remorse. Oh!"
she continued, with a simple fervour,
unconscious, in her innocence and
her generous emotions, of all the
secrets she betrayed — " thou knowest
not how bitter it was to believe thee

not more good, more pure, more
sacred than all the world. And
when I saw thee — ^the wealthy, the
noble, coming from thy palace to
minister to the sufferings of the
hovel — ^when I heard those bless-
ings of the poor breathed upon thy
parting footsteps, I felt my very self
exalted — good in thy goodness — ^noble
at least in those thoughts that did
not wrong thee.'*

"And thinkest thou, Viola, that ia
a mere act of science there is so much
virtue? The commonest leech wilV
tend the sick for his fee. Are prayers.
&nd blessings a less reward than,
gold]"

"And mine, then, are not worth*
less ] thou wilt accept of mine ]'*

* Ah, Viola ! " exclaimed Zanoni
with a sudden passion, that covered
her face with blushes, "thou only,,
methinks, on all the earth, hast the
power to wound or to delight me!'*
He checked himself, and his facft
became grave and sad. " And this,"
he added, in an altered tone, "because,
if thou would'st heed my counsels,
methinks I could guide a guileless
heart to a happy fate."

" Thy counsels ! I will obey them
all. Mould me to what thou wilt.
In thine absence, I am as a child that
fears every shadow in the dark; in
thy presence, my soul expands, and
the whole world seems calm with a
celestial noon-day. Do not deny to
me that presence. I am fatherless,
and ignorant, and alone ! '*

Zanoni averted his face, and after a
moment's silence, replied, calmly —

" Be it so. Sister, I will visit thee
again!"

No. 2C4.

82

ZANONI.

CHAPTER II.
Gliding p&l« Btreians iritb heavenly alcbemy*— Srars^arb.

Wao 80 happy aB Viola now! A dark
load was lifted from iMr heart; her
step Beeittied to Dread en air ; she would
have stmg ibr Very delight as she
Went guly home.- It is such happi-
ness to the pure to love — ^but oh,
gneh more than happiness to believe
in the worth of the One beloved.
Between them there might be human
obstacles— wealth, rafak, m«n's Mttle
worlfd. But there was no longer that
dttrk gulf which the ima^nation re-
coils to dwell on, and which separates
for ever soul from soul. He did not
love her in r^ttfm. Love her ! But
did she ask for love ? Bid she herself
love 1 No ; or i^ wouM never have
been at once so hun^ble and so bold.
How merrily the ocean nmrm'ured
in ker ear; how radiant an aspect
the commonest passer-by seemed to
wear! She gained her home — she
looked upon the tree, glaneing, with
^oktastic hi^mches, in the son. ** Yes,
brotheir mine !" she said, laughing in
her joy, "lik^thee, I fuxvt steuggled
to the light!".

She had never hitherto, like the
more instSimcted Daughters of the
North, accustomed herself to that
delicious Confessional, the tmUfifosion
of thought to writing. "Sxfw, sud-
denly, her heart felt an impulse ; a
new-born instinct, that bade it com-
mune with itself, bade it disentangle
its web of golden fancies^— made her
wish to look upon her inmost self as
in a glass. Upsprung from the em-
brace of Love and Soul — the Bros
and the Psyche— their beautiful off-
spring, Genius ! She blushed, she
sighed, she trembled as she wrote.
And from the fresh World that she
had built for herself, she w!is aWirfcened
to prepare for the glittering stage.
How dull became the music, how
dim the scene, so exquisite ahd so
bright of old. Stage, thou ai^t the
Fairy Land to the vision of the
worldly. Fancy, whose music is not
heard by men, whose scenes shift not
by mortal hand, as the Stage to the
present world, art thou io the Fature
and the Past !

CHAPTEB IIL

In faith, I do not love thee tvith mine eyes.— Shaiujpearb.

The next day, at noon, Zanoni visited
Viola; and the next day, and the
next, and again the next ; — days, that
to her seemed like a special time set
apart from the rest of life. And yet
he never spoke to her in the language

of flattery, and almost of adoration,
to which she had been accastomed.
Perhaps his very coldness, so gentle
as it was, assisted to this mysterioas
charm. He talked to her much of
her past life, and she was scarcely

ZAKOKI.

183

surpTised (she now nerer thought of
terror) to perceive how much of that
past seemed known to him.

Xle made her speak to him of her
fatl&er; he made her recal some of
tlie airs of Pisani's wild music. And
tliose airs seemed to charm and lull
liim into reverie.

" As music was to the musician,"

said he, "may seieace be to the

mrise. Your fiithcr looked abroad

in the world; all was &cord to

tlie fine sympathies tiiat he fblt

-with the hannomes that daily and

Tiighily fioflt to the tiirone of

Heaven. Life> with its noisy am>

tntion and its mean passionB, is so

X>oor and base ! Out of his soul he

created the life and the world for

vfaich his soul was fitted. Tiola,

thou art the daughter of that life,

and wHt be the denizen of that

worfd."

In Mb eaiHer visits, he £d not
speak of GFlyndon. The day soon
came on whidi he renewed the sub-
ject And so trustful, obedient,
and entire was the allegiance that
Tiola now owned to his dominion,
that, unwelcome as that subject was,
she restrained her heart, and listened
to him in nlence !

At last he said, "Thou hast
promised thou wilt obey my counsels,
and i^ Tiola^ I Atould ask thee, nay

adjure, to accept this stranger's hand,
and share his fate, should he ofier to
thee such a lot — ^wouldst thou refuse 1*

And then she pressed back the
tears that gushed to her eyes— and
with a strange pleasure in the midst
of pain — the pleasure of one who
sacrifices heart itself to the one who
commands that heart, she answered,
falteringly — " If thou eanat ordain it
—why—"

''Speak on,"

" Dispose of me as thou wilt V

Zanoni stood in silence for some
moments ; he saw the struggle which
the girl thought she iconcealed so well ;
he made an involuntary movement
towards her, and pressed her hand to
his lips ; it was the first time he had
ever departed even so far from a
certain austerity, which perhaps
made her fear him and her own
thoughts the less.

''Viola," said he, and his voice
trembled, "the danger that I can
avert no more, if thou linger still in
Naples, comes hourly near and near
to thee ! On the third day from
this, thy fate must be decided.
I accept thy promise. Before the
last hour of that day, come what
may, I shall see thee again, here, at
thine own house. Till then, fare-
well!"

u

ZANONI.

CHAPTEE IV.

Between two worlds life horers like a star,
'Twixt night and morn.

Byrok.

Whbn Glyndon left Viola, as recorded
in the concluding chapter of the
second division of this work, he was
absorbed again in those mystical
desires and conjectures which the
haunting recollection of Zanoni always
served to create. And as he wandered
through the streets, he was scarcely
conscious of his own movements till,
in the mechanism of custom, he
found himself in the midst of one
of the noble collections of pictures
which form the boast of those Italian
cities whose glory is in the past.
Thither he had been wont, almost
daily, to repair, for the gallery con-
tained some of the finest specimens
of a master especially the object of
his enthusiasm and study. There,
before the works of Salvator, he had
often paused in deep and earnest
reverence. The striking character-
istic of that artist is the Vigour of
Will; void of the elevated idea of
abstract beauty, which furnishes a
model and archetype to the genius of
more illustrious order, the singular
energy of the man hews out of the
rock a dignity of his own. His
images have the majesty, not of the
god, but the savage; utterly free,
like the sublimer schools, from the
common-place of imitation, — ^apart,
with them, from the conventional
littleness of the Seal, — ^he grasps the
imagination, and compels it to follow
him, not to the heaven, but through
all that is most wild and fiuitastic
upon earth ; a sorcery, not of the
starry magian, but of the gloomy

wizard — a man of romance, whose
heart beat strongly, griping art with
a hand of iron, and forcing it to
idealise the scenes of his actual life.
Before this powerful Will, Glyndon
drew back more awed and admiring
than before the calmer beauty which
rose from the soul of EaffiiMe, like
Venus from the deep. And now, as
awaking from his reYerie,'he stood
opposite to that wild and magnificent
gloom of Nature whieh frowned on
him from the canvass, >the veiy leaves
on those gnomelike, distorted trees,
seemed to rustle sibylline secrets in
his ear. Those rugged and sombre
Apennines, the cataract that dashed
between, suited, more than the actual
scenes would have done, the mood
and temper of his mind. The stem
uncouth forms at rest on the crags
below, and dwarfed by the giant size
of the Matter that reigned around
them, impressed him with the might
of Nature and the littleness of Man.
As in genius of the more spiritual
cast, the living man, and the soul
that lives in him, are studiously made
the prominent image ; and the mere
accessories of scene kept down, and
cast back, as if to show that the
exUe from paradise is yet the mo-
narch of the outward world, — so, in
the landscapes of Salvator, the tree,
the mountain, the waterfall, become
the principal, and man himself
dwindles to the accessory. The Matter
seems to reign supreme, and its true
lord to creep beneath its stupendous
shadow. Inert matter giving interest

ZANONI.

85

to tlie immortal man, not the immor-
tal man to the inert matter. A terrible
pbllosophy in art 1

l^hile something of these thoughts
passed through the mind of the
painter, he felt his arm touched, and
saw Nicot bj his side.

*' A great master," said Kicot^ " but
I do not lore the schooL"

** I do not lore, but I am awed by
it. We love the beautiful and serene,
but yre have a feeling as deep as love
foT the terrible and dark."

«True," said Nicot, thoughtfully.
'* And yet that feeling 10 only a super-
stition. The nursery, with its tales of
gfhosts and goblins, is the cradle of
many of our impressions in the world.
But art should not seek to pander to
our ignorance; art should represent
only truths. I confess that Baffadle
pleases me less, because I hare no
sympathy with his subjects. His
saints and yiigins are to me only men
and women."

"And from what source should
painting then take its themes 1 "

"From history, without doubt,"
returned Nicot, pragmatically, —
" those great Roman actions which
inspire men with sentiments of
liberty and yalour, with the virtues
of a republic. I wish the cartoons of
Eaffii^le had illustrated the story of
the Horatii ; but it remains for France
and her Bepublic to give to posterity
the new and the true school, which
could nerer have arisen in a country
of priestcraft and delusion."

"And the saints and virgins of
Bafiadle are to you only men and
women?" repeated Glyndon, going
back to Nicot's candid confession in
amaze, and scarcely hearing the de-
ductions the Frenchman drew from
his proposition.

« Assuredly. Ha, ha ! " and Nicot

laughed hideously, "do you ask me

to believe in the calendar, or what 1 "

"Buttheideall"

*'The ideall" interrupted Nicot

" Stuff ! The Italian critics, and your
English Reynolds, have turned your
head. They are so fond of their
'gusto grande,' and their 'ideal
beauty that speaks to the soul!'—
soul !— is there a soul] I understand
a man when he talks of composing
for a refined taste — ^for an educated
and intelligent reason— for a sense
that comprehends truths. But as for
the soul — bah! — ^we are but modi*
fications of matter, and painting is
modification of matter also."

Glyndon turned his eyes from the
picture before him to Nicot, and from
Nicot to the picture. The dogmatist
gave a voice to the thoughts which
the sight of the picture had awakened.
He shook his head without reply.

"Tell me," said Nicot, abrupUy,
"that impostor — ^Zanonil — oh ! I have
now learned his name and quackeries,
forsooth — ^what did he say to thee <^
me 7"

" Of thee 1 Nothing ; but to warn
me against thy doctrines."

" Aha ! was that all 1 " said Nicot
'^ He is a notable inventor, and since,
when we met last, I unmasked his
delusions, I thought he might retaliate
by some tale of slander."

** Unmasked his delosions!— -howl "

" A dull and long story : he wished
to teach an old doting friend of mine
his secrets of prolonged life and philo-
sophical alchemy. I advise thee to
renounce so discreditable an acquaint-
ance." With that Nicot nodded
significantly, and, not wishing to be
further questioned, went his way.

Glyndon's mind at that moment
had escaped to his art, and the com-
ments and presence of Nicot had
been no welcome interruption. Ho
turned from the landscape of Salvator,
and his eye Mling on a Nativity by
Oorregio, the contrast between the two
ranks of genius struck him as a dis-
covery. That exquisite repose->that
perfect sense of beauty— that strength
without effort — that ^ breathing

ZANONL

■Koal of hi^h tat, sMfsh speaks
to the Bund tfaorough the eye, and
ittMB the thoughts, by tiie aid of
te&dernesB and lore, to the regioitB of
mwe and wosder,— agr i that was the
traeaehooL He quitted the gallery
with reluctant steps and inspiffed
ideaa; he senglvt hiaown ho»e. ^ete,
pleased not to find the sober Menrale,
he leant his &ce on his hands, and
flndearonred to reeal the ncords of
Zaneni in their last meeting. Yes,
he felt Kieot's talk even on art was
eirime; it debased the imagination
itself to mechanism. Could he^ who
M>w nothing in the soul but a combi-
natiim of matter, prate of schools that
should excel a Baltic 1 Yes, art was
magic ; and as he owned the truth of
the aphorism, he could eomprehend
that in magic there may be religion,
for religion is an essential to art
His old ambition, freeing itself from
the frigid prudence with which Mer-
▼ale sought to desecrate all imeges
less substantial than the golden calf
H)f the world, revived, and stirred, and
kindled. The subtle detection of
what he oonoeived to be an error in
the school he had hitherto ad^ted,
made more manifest to him by the
grinning commentary of Kicot,
seemed to open to him a new world
of inyenti(m. He seised the happy
moment— he placed before him the
eolosiB and the canvass. Lost in his
eoneeptioms of a ^rash ideal, his mind
was IkEted aloft into the airy realms of
beanty; dark thoughts, unhaUowed
desires, Tandshed. Zanoni was right :
the material world shrunk from his
gaae: he Tiewed nature as from a
mountain-top afar ; and as the waves
of his unquiet heart became calm and
still, again the angel eyes of Viola
beamed on them as a holy star.

Locking himself in his chamber,
he refused even the visits of Mervale.
Intoxicated with the pu]« air of his
fresh espstence, he remained for three
days» and almost nights, absorbed in

InsemplDyme&t; hot on ^m» £»iirtli
moniing came that zeaetlon to wMeh
all labour is exposed. He wv^e
lifiiJeBS and HsLtlgDnd; «nd as he east
his eyes on the eamnes the glisry
seemed to have gone from it. Hu-
miliating recollections i^ tbe great
masters ke atqaired to rival frireed
themselves upon him ; defects bedbre
unseen magnified themselvea to de-
formities in his languid and dia-
oontend^ e^esL He tooehed and
retouched, but Jhis hand &i]bQd Jiim ;
he threw down, hm xaatrnmeBts in
despair; he opened his osseBient;
the day without was bright and
lovely ; the street was crowded with
that M& which is ever so joyous and
affluent in the animated population
of l^aplee. He saw the lorer, as he
passed, couversing with lus mistress
by those mate gestures which have
survived all changes of languages, the
same now as wihen the £tnisean
painted yon vases in the- Museo Bor-
bonico. Light f roan without bedLoned
his youth to its mirUi and its plea-
sures; and :the dull walls within,
lately large enough to oomfoi&e
heaven and earth, seemed new
cabined and confined as a ftdon's
prison. He welcomed the step of
Merrale at his threshold, and nn-
barred the door.

" And is that all yon have done ? "
said Mervale, glancing disdainfully at
the canvass!! " Is it for iMa that you
have shut yoursdtf out from the soni^
days and moonlit ni^its of Naples?"

" While the fit was on me, I bsfiked
in a hri^ter sun, and unbibed the
yolnptuons luxury of a softer moon."

''You own that the fit is over.
Well, that is some sign of zetuming
sense. After all it is better to daab
canvass for three days than make a
foot of yourself for life. This little
siren r'

"Be dumb! I hate to hear you
name her."

Mervale drew his chair nearer to

ZANONL

87

O1yiidoii*8, thraat hi& hamU deep in
lus hreeckea' pockets, atretched his
leg% axKi was about to begin a seidoua
3t^rain of espostulatioa, whai a knock
^«ras heard at the door^ and Kicot,
^^nrjthout waitiog lof leave, obtruded
Isus ugly head.

" Good-da^, wow cher eor^r^re. I
inrished to apeak to you. Jieiii! you
liave been at work, I see. This is
-well — ^very well! A bold outline —
Cpreat freedom hi that right hand.
But, hold ! is the composition good 1
Tou have not got the great pyramidal
form. Don't you think;, too, that you
liave lost the advantage of ooatiast in
-this figure ; since the right leg is put
forward, surely the right arm should
be put back? Peste! but that Uttle
finger is very fine ! '*

Mervale detested Nicot. For aU
speculators, Ut(^ian6, alterers of the
world, and waadecera from the high
iroad, wore equally hateful to him;
but he could have hugged the French-
man at that moment. He saw in
Glyndon's expressive countenance all
the weadness and disgust he endured.
After so wrapt a study, to be pmted
to about pyramidal forms, and right
arms, and x^t legs — ^the aooidenoe
of the art-^tfae whole conccqprfiion to
be overlooked, and the critiQism to
end in approval of the little finger !

*'0h,*' said Glyndon, peevishly
tlirowing the cloth over his design,
''enough of my poor performance.
What is it you have to say to
me?"

'^In the first place," said Kicot,
huddling himself together upon a
stool — " in the first place, this Signor
Zanoni — this second CagUostro-r-who
disputes my doctrines 1 (no doubt — a
spy of the man Capet) I am not
vitfdietive; as Helvetius says, 'our
errors arise from our passions.' I
keep mine in order ; but it is virtuous
to hate in the cause of mankind ; I
would I had the denouncing and the
judging of Sognor Zanoni at Paris."

And Nicot's small eyes shot fire, and
he gnashed his teeth.

" Have you any new cause to hate
himV

" Yes," said Nicot, fiercely. <* Yes,
I hear he is courting the girl I mean
to maisry."

" You I Whom do you speak of ? "

"The celebrated Pisanit She is
divinely handsome. She would make
my fortune in a republic. And a
republic we-sl^dl have before the year
is out?"

Mervale rubbed his hands, imd
chuckled. Glyndon coloured with
rage and shame.

" Do you know the Signoia Pisani 1
Have you ever spoken to her?"

" Not yet. But when I make up
my mind to anything, it is soon done.
I am about to return to Paris. They
write me word that a handsome wife
advances the career of a patriot. The
age of prej udice is over. The sublimer
virtues begin to be understood. I
shall take back the hapd^omest wife
in Europe."

" Be quiet ! What are you about? "
said Mervale, seizing Gly»don, as he
saw him advance towards the French-
man, his eyes sparkling, and his
hands clenched.

" Sir ! " said Glyndon, between his
teeth, " you know not of whom you
thus speak. Do you affect to suppose
that Viola Pisani would accept ^ot^.?"

"Not if she could get a better
offer," said Mervale, lodkJng HP to
the ceiling.

" A better offer ? You doa't under-
stand me," said Nicot. "I, Jean
Nicot, propose to marry the girl;
marry iier! Others may make hef
more liberal offers, but no one, I appK
hend, would make one so honourable.
I alone have pity on her friendless
situation. Besic^s, according to the
dawning state of things, one will
always, in France be able to get rid
of a wife whenever one wishes. We
shall have new laws of divorce. Do

88

ZANONI.

you Imagine that an Italian girl —
and in no country in the world are
maidens, it seems, more chaste (though
wives may console themselves with
virtues more philosophical), — ^would
refuse the hand of an artist for the
settlements of a prince ? No ; I think
better of the Pisani than you do. I
shall hasten to introduce myself to

iier."

"I wish you All success, Monsieur

t^ifiot," said Mervale, rising, and

.shaking him heartily by the hand.
Glyndon cast at them both a dis-

.dainful glance.

* Perhaps, Monsieur Kicot," said
he, at length constraining his lips
into a bitter smile, "perhaps you
may have rivals."

"So much the better," replied
Monsieur Nicot, carelessly, kicking
his heels together, and appearing
absorbed in admiration at the size of
Jiis large feet
^ " I myself admire Viola Pisani."

" Every painter must ! "

"I may offer her marriage as well
as yourself."

" That would be folly in you, though
^sdom in me. You would not know
iiow to draw profit from the specu-
lation 1 Cher confr^e, you have
prejudices."

" You do not dare to say you would
make profit from your own wife?"

* The virtuous Cato lent his wife
to a friend. I love virtue, and I
cannot do better than imitate Cato.
But to be serious — I do not fear you
as a rival. You are good-looking,
and I am ugly. But you are irreso-
lute, and I decisive. While you are
uttering fine phrases, I shall say,
simply, ' I have a hon €tat. Will you
marry meV So do your worst, cher
amfirire. Au revoir, behind the
scenes ! " •

So saying, Nicot rose, stretched his
long arms, and short legs, yawned till
he showed all his ragged teeth from
'"'* to ear, pressed down his cap on

his shaggy head with an air of
defiance, and casting over his left
shoulder a glance of triumph and
malice at the indignant Glyndon^
sauntered out of the room«

Mervale burst into a violent fit of
laughter. "See how your Viola is
estimated by your friend. A fine
victory, to carry her off from the
ugliest dog between Lapland and the
Calmucks."

Glyndon was yet too indignant to
answer, when a new visitor arrived.
It was Zanoni himself. Mervale, on
whom the appearance and aspect of
this personage imposed a kind of
reluctant deference, which he was
unwilling to acknowledge, and still
more to betray, nodded to Glyndon,
and saying, simply, "More when I
see you again," left the painter and
his unexpected visitor.

"I see," said Zanoni, lifting the
cloth from the canvass, "that you
have not slighted the advice I gave
you. Courage, young artist, this is
an escape from the schools; this is
full of the bold self-confidence of real
genius. You had no Kicot — ^no Meiw
vale at your elbow, when this image
of true beauty was conceived ! "

Charmed back to his art by this
unlooked-for praise, Glyndon replied,
modestly, "I thought well of my
design till this morning; and then I
was disenchanted of my happy per-
suasion."

*' Say, rather, that, unaccustomed to
continuous labour, you were fatigued
with your employment."

" That is true. Shall I confess itf
I began to miss the world without.
It seemed to me as if, while I lavished
my heart and my youth upon visions
of beauty, I was losing the beautiful
realities of actual life. And I envied
the merry fisherman, singing as he
passed below my casement, and the
lover conversing with his mistress."

" And," said Zanoni, with an encou-
raging smile, " do you blame yourself

ZANONI.

89

{

Cor the natural and necessary return
'to earthj in which even the most
Jiabitnal visitor of the Heavens of
Invention seeks his relaxation and
repose. Man's genius is a bird that
cannot be always on the wing ; when
%he craving for the actual world is
felt, it is a hunger that must be
appeased. They who command best
the ideal, enjoy ever most the real.
See the true artist, when abroad in
men's thorough&res, ever observant,
ever diving into the heart, ever alive
to the least as to the greatest of the
eomplicated truths of existence;
descending to what pedants would
call the trivial and the Mvolous.
From every mesh in the social web,
he can disentangle a grace. And for
him each airy gossamer floats in the
gold of the sunlight. Enow you not
that around the animalcule that sports
in the water there shines a halo, as
around the star* that revolves in
bright pastime through the space 1
True art finds beauty everywhere. In
the street, in the market-place, in the
hovel, it gathers food for the hive of
its thoughts. In the mire of politics,
Dante and Milton selected pearls for
the wreath of song. Who ever told
you that Baffa^le did not enjoy the
life without, carrying everywhere with
him the one inward idea of beauty
which attracted and embedded in^' its
own amber every straw that the feet
of the dull man trampled into mudi
As some lord of the forest wanders
abroad for its prey, and scents and
follows it over plain and hill, through
brake and jungle, but, seizing it at
last, bears the quarry to its unwit-
nessed cave — so Genius searches
through wood and waste, untiringly
and eagerly, every sense awake, every
nerve strained to speed and strength,
for the scattered and flying images of

* The monas mica, found in the purest
pools, is encompafised with a halo. And
this is frequent amongst many other species
at animalculK.

matter, that it seizes at lafit with its
mighty talons, and bears away with it
into solitudes no footstep can invade.
Go, seek the world without ; it is for
art, the inexhaustible pasture ground
and harvest to the world within ! "

" You comfort me," said Glyndon,
brightening. '<I had imagined my
weariness a proof of my deficiency !
But not now would I speak to you of
these labours. Pardon me if I pass
from the toil to the reward. You
have uttered dim prophecies of my
future, if I wed one who, in the
judgment of the sober world, would
only darken its prospects and obstruct
its ambition. Do you speak from the
wisdom which is experience, or that
which aspires to prediction V

*' Are they not allied ? Is it not
he best accustomed to calculation
who can solve at a glance any
new problem in the arithmetic of
chances 1"

^ You evade my question."

" No ; but I will adapt my answer
the better to your comprehension,
for it is upon this very point that I
have sought you. Listen to me ! "
Zanoni fixed his eyes earnestly on his
listener, and continued. *'For the
accomplishment of whatever is great
and lofty, the clear perception of
truths is the first requisite — ^truths
adapted to the object desired. The
warrior thus reduces the chances of
battle to combinations almost of
mathematics. He can predict a
result, if he can but depend upon the
materials he is forced to employ. At
such a loss, he can cross that bridge ;
in such a time, he can reduce that
fort. Still more accurately, for he
depends less on material causes than
ideas at his command, can the com-
mander of the purer science or
diviner art, if^e once perceive the
truths that are in him and around,
foretel what he can achieve, and in
what he is condemned to fail. But
this perception of truths is disturbed

90

ZAl^ONL

by mas^ oavses — ^v&nity, paBsioa, fear,
ijidolenee in himseli^ ignoraace of the
fiMing meftns without to aeoomplish
vhat he deaignB. He may scuscal-
eulate his own forces ; he xoay have
no chart oi the country h^ would
invade. It is only in a peculiar state
of the mind that it is capable of
perceiving tFuth ; and that state is
profound serenity. Your mind is
fevered by a desire for truth : you
would compel it to your embraees;
yo« would ask me to impart to you,
without ordeal or preparation, the
grandest secrets that exist in nature.
But truth can no more be seen by the
rniad unprepared for it, than the sun
ean dawn upon the midst of night.
Such a mind receives truth only to
pollute it ; to use the simdle of one
who has wandered near to the secret
of the sublime Qoetia (or the magic
that lies within nature, as electricity
within the cloud), * He who pours
water into the muddy well, does but
disturb the mud.* " *

"What do you tend tor'

''This: that you have faculties
that may attain to surpassing power :
that may rank you among those
enchanters who, greater than the
magian, leave behind them an
enduring inftuence, worshipped where-
ever beauty is comprehended, where-
ever the soul is sensible of a higher
world than that in which matter
struggles for crude and uxoomplete
existence.

"But to make available those
faculties, need I be a prophet to tell
you that you must learn to concentre
upon great objects all your dosires.
The heart must rest, that the mind
may be active. At present, you
wander from aim to aim. As the
ballast to the ship, so to the spirit are
Faith and Love. W^th your whole
heart, affections, humanity, centered
in one object, your mind and aspira-

• Ia]n}>.d0yit.Py<diiig.

Uons will become equally at«ad<aat
and in earnest. Viola is a cltild us
yet: you do not pero^ve tlie 1u^
nature the trials of life will deTolcgpe.
Pardon me, if I say that her saul,
purer and loftier than yaixr own, wUl
bear it upward, as a sa^^ed byvm
carries aloft the spirito of the woj^ld.
Your natuxe wants the harmony, tbe
music which, as the Pytha^oxeao^i
wisely taught, at once elevates and
soothes. I oSer ytm tha^ «»iaie^i»i
her love."
" But am I sure that ahe do^ lore

"ArtifiKi, no; she loves youaoifcat

present; her affectic»s are liill of

I another. But if I could traasfiir t«

' you, as the loadst(»M tj^anrfeca i<»

' attractiofli to the magnet, the lo««

that she has now for m»—M I cotaid

cause her to see ija yon tW ideal •£

her dreams *'—

''Is Bsxch a gift m the poorer of
man]"

" I offer it to you, if your love be
lawful, if your faith in virtue and your-
self be deep and loyal ; if no<^ think
you that I would disenchant her with
truth to make her adore a falsehood ? "

"But if," persisted Glyndon, "if
she be all that you tell mc^ and k she
love you, how can you sob yoursatf of
BO priceless a treasme H "

"Oh, shallow and mean heart aS
man!" exclaimed Zanoni, wi<^ un-
accustomed paauon and vehemence,
" dost thou conceive so JUittle of love
as not to know that it sacrtfileee allr—
love itself— for the happiness ai the
thing it loves t Hear me!" And
2ianoni's face grew pale. " Hear me I
I press this upon you, because I love
her, and because I fear that with me
her fate will be less fair than with
j yourself. Why— ^ask not, for I will
not tell you. iElnonghl Time psesaes
now for your answer ; it eannot long
be delayed. Before the night of the
third day from this, all choice will be
forbid you!"

—I

ZANONL

91

" JMT said Glyndon, sidll doubt-
lug and saspicious, ''but why tiiis
Ittoter

^ Man, yoQ are not worihy of her
^hen you ask lae. All I can tell yon
liere, you should have knawn yourself.
^Susra^wher, this man of will, this
8«a of the old Yiconti, uiilJke yon;—
8tea4&at, resolute, earnest even in his
ertmoBy — ^never relinquishes an object.
Bat muB passion eontrols his lust—it
is Jus avariee. The day after his
attempt on Yiola^ his uncle, the

GarcUnal , Irom whom he has

laige expectations of land and gold,
sent for him, and forbade him, on pain
of forfeiting all the possessions which
Ilia schemes akeadj had parcelled out,
io pursee with didumonrable designs
one whom the GardinaiL had heeded
and loFod from childhood. S^his is
the eanoe of his present pause from
lug pursuit While we speak, the
cause expires. Before the hand of
the dock readies the hour of noon,

the Caidinal will be no more.

At this reiy moment thy fidend,
Jeaa J^fieot, is with the Frinoe
di ."

"He! whereforer

" To ask what dower shall go with
Viola Bnadu, the morning that ^
kayes the palace of the Prince.''

''And how do you know all this ) **

"Fool! I tell thee again, because
a lover is a watcher by night and day ;
because love never sleeps when danger
menaces the beloved one! *'

" And you it was that informed the
Cardinal 1"

" Yes ; and what has been my task
might as easily have been thine.
Speak — thine answer ! "

"You shall have it on the third
day from this."

"Be it so. Put off, poor waverer,
thy happiness to the last hour. On
the third day from this, I will ask
thee thy resolve."

" And where shall we meet 1 "
' «' Before midnight, where you may

least ^peot me. Yon canaot shun
me, though you may seek to do so !**

"Stay one moment I Youooademn
me as doubtful, irresolute, sue|ttcioiis.
Have I no cause ? Can I yield without
a struggle to the strange fMieigaatio&
you ez^ upon my mladi What
interest can you have m me,.a stranger,
that you should thus dictate to me
the gravest action in the life of man 1
Do yon suppose that any one in his
senses would not pause, and deliberate,
and ask himself, 'Why should this
strange care thus for me T "

" And yet," said Zanoni, " if I told
thee that I could initiate thee into
the secrets of that magic which the
philosophy ci the whole existing
world treats as a chimera, or impoa-
ture, — ^if I promised to show thee how
to command the beings of air and
ocean, howio accumulate wealth more
easily than a chUd can gather pebbles
on the shore, to place in thy hands
the essence o{ the herbs which pro*
long life from age to age, the mystery
of that attraction by which to awe all
danger, and disarm all violence, and
subdue man as the serpent oharma
the bird; if I told thee that all
these it was mme to possess and to
communicate, thou wouldst listen to
me then, and obey me without a
doubt i "

" It is true ; and I can account for
this only by the imperfect associations
of my childhood — ^by traditions in our
house of "

"Your forefather, who, in the
revival of science, sought the secrets
of Apollonius and Paracelsus."

"What!" said Qlyndon, amazed,
" are you so well acquainted with the
annals of an obscure lineage 1 "

" To the man who aspires to know,
no man who has been the meanest
student of knowledge should be
unknown. You ask me why I have
shown this interest in your fatel
There is one reason which I have not
yet told you. There is a Fraternity

92

ZANO^^I.

ae to whose laws and whose mysteries
the most inquisitive schoolmen are in
the dark. By those laws, all are
pledged to warn, to aid, and to guide
even the remotest descendants of men
who have toiled, though rainly, like
your ancestor, in the mysteries of the
Order. We are bound to advise them
to their welfare ; nay, more, — ^if they
command us to it, we must accept
them as our pupils. I am a survivor
of that most ancient and immemorial
union. This it was that bound me to
thee at the first; this, perhaps,
attracted thyself unconsciously. Son
of our Brotherhood, to me."

" If this be so, I command thee, in
the name of the laws thou obeyest, to
receive me as thy pupil ! "

** What do you ask ] " said Zanoni,
passionately. "Learn first the con-
ditions. No Neophyte must have, at
his initiation, one afiection or desire
that chains him to the world. He
must be pure from the love of woman,
free from avarice and ambition, free
from the dreams even of art, or the
hope of earthly feme. The first
sacrifice thou must make is — Viola
herself. And for what? For an
ordeal that the most daring courage
only can encounter, the most ethereal
natures alone survive! Thou art
unfit for the science that has made
me and others what we are or have

been ; for thy whole nature is one
fear ! '*

'* Fear ! " cried Glyndon, colouring
with resentment, and rising to tlie
full height of his stature.

*'Fear! and the worst fear — ^fear
of the world's opinion ; fear of the
Nicots and the Mervales ; fear of thine
own impulses when most generous ;
fear of thine own powers when thy
genius is most bold ; fear that virtue
is not eternal ; fear that God does not
live in ; heaven to keep -watch on
earth ; fear, the fear of little men ;
and that fear is never known to the
great."

With these words Zanoni abniptly
left the artist — humbled, bewildered,
and not convinced. He remained
alone with his thoughts, till he was
aroused by the striking | of the
clock ; he then suddenly remembered
Zanoni's prediction of the Cardinal's
death; and, seized with an intense
desire to learn its truth, he hurried
into the streets, — he gained the
Cardinal's palace. Five minutes
before noon his Eminence had expired,
after an illne^ of less than an hoar.
Zanoni's visit had occupied more time
than the illness of the Cardinal.
Awed and perplexed, he turned from
the palace, and as he walked through
the Chiaja, he saw Jean Nicot emerge
from the portals of the Prince di — ,

ZANONI.

CHAPTER V.

Two loves I have of comfort and despair.
Which like two spirits do suggest me still.

SUAKSPEABK.

Vekkbablb Brotherhood, so sacred
and 80 little known, from whose
secret and precious archives the
materials for this history have been
drawn; ye who have retained, from
eentnry to century, all that time has
spared of the august and venerable
science, — ^thanks to you, if now for
the first time, some record of the
thoughts and actions of no false and
self-styled luminary of your Order be
given, however imperfectly, to the
-world. Many have called themselves
of yonr band ; many spurious pre-
tenders have been so called by the
learned ignorance which stUl, baffled
and perplexed, is driven to confess
that it knows nothing of your origin,
yonr ceremonies or doctrines, nor
even if you still have local habitation
on the earth. Thanks to you if I, the
only one of my country, in this age,
adxnitted, with a profsme footstep,
into your mysterious Academe,* have
been by you empowered and instructed
to adapt to the comprehension of the
nninitiated, some few of the starry
truths which shone on the great
Shemaia. of the Chaldean Lore, and
gleamed dimly through the darkened
knowledge of later disciples, labour-
ing, like Psellus and lamblichus, to
revive the embers of the fire which
burned in the Hamarin of the East.
Though not to us of an aged and
hoary world, is vouchsafed the name
which, so say ithe earliest oracles of
the earth, '' rushes into the infinite

* The reader will have the goodness to
remember that this is said by the author of
the original MS., not by the editor.

worlds,'* yet is it ours to trace the
reviving truths, through each new dis-
covery of the philosopher and chemist.
The laws of Attraction, of Electricity,
and of the yet more mysterious agency
of that Great Principle of Life, which,
if drawn from the Universe, would
leave the Universe a Grave, were but
the code in which the Theurgy of old
sought the guides that led it to a
legislation and science of its own. To
rebuild on words the fragments of
this history, it seems to me as if, in a
solemn trance, I was led through the
ruins of a city whose only reroains
were tombs. From the sarcophagus
and the urn I awake the Genius* of
the extinguished Toich, and so closely
does its shape resemble Eros, that
at moments^ I scarcely know which
of ye dictates to me — Love I O
Death!

And it stirred in the virgin's heart
— ^this new, unfathomable, and divine
emotion ! Was it only the ordinary
affection of the pulse and the fancy,
of the eye to the Beautiful, of the ear
to the Eloquent, or did it not justify
the notion she herself conceived of it,
— ^that it was bom not of the senses,
that it was less of earthly and human
love than the effect of some wondrous,
but not unholy charm ? I said that,
from that day, in which, no longer
with awe and trembling, she surren-
dered herself to the influence of
Zanoni, she had sought to put her
thoughts into words. Let the
thoughts attest their own nature.

* The Greek Genius of Death.

94

2AK0NI.

THE 6ELF-00NFBS8I0NAL.

'^ Is it the Day-light that shineB on
me, or the memory of thy presence 1
Whereyer I look, the world seems
full of thee ; in every ray that trembles
on the water, that smiles upon the
leaves, I behold bat a likeness to thine
eyes. What is this change, that altera
not only myseif, but the face of the

whole universe 1 * *

* * * *

How instantaneously leapt into life
the power with which thou swayeat
my heart in its ebb and flow* Thou-
sands were around me, and I saw bat
thee. That was the Kight in which
I first entered upon the world which
crowds life into a Brama» and has no
language but music. How strangely
and how suddenly with thee became
that world evermore connected ! What
the delusion of the stage was to others,
thy presence was to me. My life too,
seemed to centre into those short
hours, and from thy lips I heard a
music, mute to all ears but mine. I
sit in the room where my fether dwelt.
Here, on that happy night, forgetting
why iJiey were so happy, I shrunk
into the shadow, and sought to guess
what thou wert to me; and my
mother's low voice woke me, and I
crept to my father's side, close — close,
from fear of my own thoughts.

"Ah! sweet and sad was the
morrow to that night, when thy lips
warned me of the Future. An orphan
now — what is there that lives for me
to think of, to dream upon, to revere,
but thou !

* How tenderly thou hast rehuked
me for the grievous wrong that my
thoughts did thee! Why should I
hare shuddered to feel thee glancing
upon my thoughts like the beam on
the solitary tree, to which thou didst
once liken me so well? It was — it
was, that, like the tree, I struggled
for the light, and the light came.
They tell me of love, and my very
''fe of the stage breathes the language

of love into my lips. "No ; agsdn and

again, I know that is not the lov^e

that I feel for thee! — it is not a

passion, it is a thought ! I ask not

to be loved again. I murmur not

that thy words are stem and thy looks

are cold. I ask not if I have rivals; I

sigh not to be &ir in thine eyes. It is

my spirit that would blend itself with.

thine. I would give worlds, though.

we were apart, though oceans rolled

between us, to know the how in.

which thy gaze was lifted to the ataxs

— in which thy heart poured itaetf izi

prayer. They tell me thou art mose

beautiful tlum the marble ixaageSy

that are fairer than all hnaan fwrns ;

but I have never dared to gace

steadfastly on thy &ce, that memoiy

might compare thee with the rest

Only thine eyes, and thy soft, calm

smile hauni me ; as when I look npon

the moon, all that passes into my

heart is her silent light.

* * * *

''Often, when the air is calx%p2
have thoi:^t that I hear the stsaiis
of my father's music ; often, though
long stilled in the grave, hai^e they
waked me from the dreams of the
solemn night. Methinks^ ere thou
comest to me, that I hear them herald
thy approach. Methinks I hear then
wail and moan, when I sink hack
into myself on seeing thee depart
Thon art (/that music — its spirit, its
genius. My father must have guessed
at thee and thy native regions^ whet
the winds hushed to listen to his
tones, and the world deemed hia
mad ! I hear, where I at, Uie &r
murmur of the sea. Murmur cm, ye
blessed waters! The waves are the
pulses of the shore. They beat with
the gladness of the morning wind-
so beats my heart in the freshness
and light that make up the thoughts
of thee!

"Often in my childhood I have

ZAKON^I.

95

mused Had aakdd for what I was

bom. ; and my booI asisw^red my

beaorty and and — ^Thon wert horn to

HfOT^MpV Yea; I tonow why the

real world has ever seemed to me so

fiiUae aami eold. I know why the

world of the stage chaamed and

dassacled me. 1 know Why it was so

Rweet to sit i^art and ga(ze my whole

being hito the distant heavens. My

noKtanreis not formed for this Ufa, happy

tboBgh that life seem to others. It is its

very want to h»TO ever before it some

image loftier thsA itself t S«ni&^,

iir what realm above, when the grave

is ^asty shaH my scat', hour after hoar,

woidn]^ at the same source as thine ?

* la titt gardens of ny neighbour
tbere i» a small focmtain. I stood by
it this morning after sunrise. How
it sprung up, with its eager spray,
%to the^ suabeams! And tl^en I
thought that I should see thee again
thisjay, and so ^rnag my heaart to
th^Blw morning whaeh thou bringest
me from the |^iei»

^I haw seei^I have listened to thee
agaia. How bold I have become !
I ran on with my cSiildlike thoughts
and stories, my recollections of the
pasty as if I had known thee from an
udattt. Saddenly the idea of my pre-
sumption siruek me. 1 stopped, and
timidly sought thine eyes.

" ' Well, and when yon found thai
the nightingale lefosed to sing V —

*"Akr I said, ' what to thee this
histeiy of the heart of a child 1 '

" ' Viola,' di^ thou answer, with
that voiee^ so iaeKpresetbly eabn and
earnest f^' Tiola, the darkness of a
^Ud's heart is often but the shadow
of a star* Spesik onl And thy
nightingale, when they eaught and
caged it, refused to sing V —

"'^tid I placed' the cage yonder,
amidst the vine-leaves, and took up

my kite, and spoke to it dn the
strings ; for I thought that all music
was its native language, and it
would understand that I songht to
comfort it.' •

** ' Tes,' saidst thou. ' And at la«t
it answered thee, but not with song
— ^in a sharp, brirf cry ; so mournful,
that Khy hands let fall the Inte, and
the tears gushed from thine eyes.
So softly didst thou unbar the cage,
and the nightingale flew into yon^
thicket ; and thou heardst the foliage
rustle, and looking through the moon-
light, thiae eyes saw that it had found
its mate. It sang to thee then from
the boughs a long, loud, joyous jubi- .
lee: And musing, thou didst feel
that it was not the vine-leaves or the
ssoonlight that made the bird give
melody to night ; and that the secret
of fts music wag the presence of a
thing beloved.'

"Howdida<f^ou know my thoughts
in that chj/alike time better than I
knew myself! How is the humble
life of my past years, with its mean
events, so mysteriously familiar to
thee, bright stranger! I wonder —
but I do not agiun dare to fear thee !

"Oace the thought of him op-
pressed and weighed me dovm. As
an infant that longs for the moon,
my being was one vague desire for
something never to be attained. Now
I feci rather as if to think of thee
sufficed to remove every fetter from
my spirit. I float in the still seas of
light, and nothing seems too high for
my wings, too glorious for my eyes.
It was mine ignoraaee that aiade me
fear thee. A knowledge that is not
in books seems to breathe aroond
thee as an atmosphere. How little
have I read! — ^hew little have I
learned ! Yet when thou art by my
side, it seems as if the veU were lifted
from all wisdom and all nature. I
startle when I look ev^ althe words

96

ZANONL

I have written; they Boem not to
come from myself, but are the signs
of another hmguage which thoa hast
taught my heart, and which my hand
traces rapidly, as at thy dictation.
Sometimes, while I write or muse, I
could fiincy that I heard light wings
horering around me, and saw dim
shapes of beauty floating round, and
vanishing as they smiled upon me.
No unquiet and fearful dream ever
comes to me now in sleep, yet sleep
and waking are alike but as one
dream. In sleep, I wander with thee,
not through the paths of earth, but
through impalpable air — an air which
seems a music — upward -and upward,
as the soul mounts on the tones of a
lyre 1 Till I knew thee, I was as a
slave to the earth. Thou hast given
to me the liberty of the universe!
Before, it was life ; it seems t« me
now as if I had commenced eternity I

" Formerly, when I was to appear
upon the stage, my heart beat more
loudly. I trembled to encounter the
audience, whose breath gave shame
or renown ; and now I have no fear of
them. I see them, heed them, hear
them not! I know that there will
be music in my voice, for it is a hymn
that I pour to thee. Thou never
comest to the theatre; and that no
longer grieves me. Thou art become
too sacred to appear a part of the
common world, and I feel glad that
thou art not by when crowds have a
right to judge me.

*' And he spoke to me of another :
to another he would consign me !
"No, it is not love that I feel for tbee,
Zanoni; or why did I hear thee
without anger 1 why did thy com-
mand seem to me not a thUig im-
possible! As the strings of the
instrument obey the hand of the
iwfifl*^!.. thy look modulates the wildest

chords of my heart to thy will. If it
please thee — yes — ^let it be so. Thou
art Lord of my destinies; they can-
not rebel against thee! I almost
think I could love him, whoever it
be, on whom thou wouldst shed the
rays that circumfuse thyself. What-
ever thou hast touched, I love;
whatever thou speakest of, I love.
Thy hand played with these vine-
leaves; I wear them in my bosom.
Thou seemesf to me the source of all
love ; too high and too bright to be
loved thyself, but darting light into
other objects, on which the eye can
gaze less dazzled. No, no ; it is not
love that I feel for thee, and there-
fore it is that I do not blush to
nourish and confess it. Shame on
me if I loved, knowing myself so

worthless a thing to thee !

* * * *

"Akothek! — ^my memory echoes
back ^ that word. Another J Dost
thou mean that I shall see thee no
more] It is not sadness — it is not
despair that seizes me. I (jflkiot
weep. It is an utter sense of deso-
lation. I am plunged back into the
common life ; and I shudder coldly
at the solitude. But I will obey
thee, if thou wilt. Shall I not see
thee again beyond the grave ? O how
sweet it were to die !

" Why do I not struggle from the
web in which my will is thus en-
tangled ? Hast thou a right to dis-
pose of me thus? Give me back —
give me back — the life I knew before
I gave life itself away to thee. Give
me back the careless dreams of my
youth — ^my liberty of heart that sung
aloud as it walked the earth. Thou
hast disenchanted me of everything
that is not of thyself. Where was the
sin, at least, to think of thee 1 — ^to see
thee 1 Thy kiss still glows upon my
hand : is that hand mine to bestow 1
Thy kiss claimed and hallowed it to
thyself. Strangef, I will not obey
thee.

ZANONI.

97

*' Another day — one day of the &tal
three is gone ! It is strange to me
that since the Bleep of the last night,
a deep calm has settled upon my
breast. I feel so assured that my
very being is become a part of thee,
that I cannot believe that my life can
be separated from thine ; and in this
conTiction I repose, and smile even
at thy words and my own fears. Thou
art fond of one maxim, which thou
repeatest in a thousand forms — ^i
the beauty of the soul is faith — that
as ideal ' loveliness to the sculptor,
fsuth is to the heart — that faith,
rightly understood, extends over all
the works of the Creator, whom we
can know but through belief— that it
embraces a tranquil confidence in our-
selves, and a serene repose as to our
fiiture — that it is the moonlight that
sways the tides of the human sea.

That faith I comprehend now. I
reject all doubt — all fear. I know
that I have inextricably linked the
whole that makes the inner life to
thee; and thou canst not tear me
from thee, if thou wouldsti And
this change from struggle into calm
came to me with sleep — a sleep with-
out a dream ; but when I woke, it was
with a mysterious sense of happiness
— an indistinct memory of something
blessed — as if thou hadst cast from
afar off a smile upon my slumber.
At night I was so sad ; not a blossom
that had not closed itself up as if
never more to open to the sun; and
the night itself, in the heart as on
the earth, has ripened the blossoms
into flowers. The world is beautiful
once more, but beautiful in repose —
not a breeze stirs thy tree — not a
doubt my soul ! "

No 2G5.

98

ZAlSrONJ.

CHAPTER VI.

Tu vegga o per violenaia o per ingaxmo
Patir* o4iaoiiore o mortal danno*

Orl. Fua., Cant. xlii. i.

It was a small cabinet; the walls
were covered with pictures, one of
which was worth more than the whole
lineage of the owner of the palace.
Oh, yes! Zanoni was right. The
painter is a magician ; the gold he
at least wrings from his crucible is
no delusion. A Venetian noble might
be a fribble, or an assassin — a scoun-
drel, or a dolt ; worthless, or worse
than worthless, yet he might have
sate to Titian, and his portrait may
be inestimable! — A few inches of
painted canvass a thousand times
more valuable than a man with his
veins and muscles, brain, will, heart,
and intellect !

In this cabinet sate a man of about
three and forty; dark eyed, sallow,
with short, prominent features, a
massive conformation of jaw, and
thick, sensual, but resolute lips ; this
man was the Prince di ■. His

form, above the middle height, and
rather inclined to corpulence, was
clad in a loose dressing-robe of rich
brocade. On a table before him lay
an old-fashioned sword and hat, a
mask, dice and dice-box, a portfolio,
and an inkstand of silver curiously
carved.

" Well, Mascari," said the Prince,
looking up towards his parasite, who
stood by the embrasure of the deep-
set barricadoed window — "well! the
Cardinal sleeps with his fathers. I

* Thou art about either through violence
or artifice to suffer either dishonour or
mortallo6B.

require comfort for the loss of so
excellent a relation; and where a
more dulcet voice than Viola
Pisani's?"

" Is your Excellency serious % So
soon after the death of his Eminence?"

" It will be the less talked of, and
I the less suspected. Hast thou
ascertained the name of the insolent
who baffled us that night, and advised
the Cardinal the next day?"

"Not yet."

" Sapient Mascari ! I will inform
thee. It was the strange Unknown."

"The Signer Zanoni! Are you
sure, my Prince?"

" Mascari, yes. There is a tone in
that man's voice that I never can
mistake ; so clear, and so command-
ing, when I hear it I almost fancy
there is such a thing as conscience.
However, we must rid ourselves of an
impertinent. Mascari, Signer Zanoni
hath not yet honoured our poor house
with his presence. He is a distin-
guished stranger — we must give a
banquet in his honour."

" Ah ! and the Cyprus wine ! The
cypress is a proper emblem of the
grave."

" But this anon. I am superstitious :
there are strange stories of Zanoni's
power and foresight; remember the
death of Ughelli. No matter! though
the Fiend were his ally, he should not
rob me of my prize; no, nor my
revenge."

"Your Excellency is infatuated;
the actress has bewitched you.*^

" Mascari/' said the Prince with a

ZANONL , 99

haughty Bmile/' through these veins ' heart stood still. Zanoni hent on
rolls the blood of the old Yiaconti — him his dark, smiling eyes, and then
of those who boasted that no woman seated himself with a familiar air.
ever escaped their lust, and no man " Thus it is signed and sealed ; I
their resentment. The crown of my mean our friendship, noble Prince,
fathers has shrunk into a gewgaw and And now I will tell you the objecjt of
a toy ; their ambition and their ' my visit. I find. Excellency, that,
spirit are undecayed. My honour is ^ unconsciously perhaps, we are rivals,
now enlisted in this pursuit — Yiola j Can we not accommodate our pre-
must be mine I" ' tensions ]" <

"Another unbuscade]" said Mas- < ''Ah !" said the Prince, carelessly,
eari, inquiringly. , "you then were the cavalier who

" Nay, why not enter the house it- , robbed me of the reward of my chase,
self 1 the situation is lonely, and the | All stratagems fair, in love as in war.
door is not made of iron." Reconcile our pretensions ! Well,

" But what if, on her return home, I here is the dice-box ; let us throw for
she tell the tale of our violence 1 A her. He who casts the lowest shall
house forced — a virgin stolen ! Be- ; resign his claim."
fleet ; though the feudal privileges I " Is this a decision by which you
are not destroyed, even a Yisconti is , will promise to be bound V*
not now above the law." " Yes, on my faith."

" Is he not, Masoari 1 Fool 1 in j ** And for him who break* Jiis word
what age of the world, even if the so plighted, what shall be the forfeit?"
Madmen of France, succeed in their *' The sword lies next to the dice*box,
chimeras, will the iron of law not Signer Zanoni. Let him who stands
bend itself, like an osier twig, to the , not by his honour, fall by the sword."
strong hand of power and gold 1 But j " And you invoke that sentence if
look not so pale, Mascari, I have fore- \ either of us &U his word ? Be it so ;
planned all things. The day that she
leaves this palace, she will leave it

for France, with Monsieur Jean
Nicofc."

let Signer Masoari cast for us."
" Well said I— Mascari, the dice! "
The Prince threw himself back in

his chair ; and, world-hardened as he

Before Mascari could reply, the | was, could not suppress the glow of
gentleman of the chamber announced triumph and satisfaction that spread
the Signer Zanoni. itself over his features. Mascari took

The Prince involuntarily laid his ' up the three dice, and rattled them
hand upon the sword placed on the | noisily in the box. Zanoni, leaning
table, then with a smile at his own ' his cheek on his hand, and bending
impulse, rose, and met his visitor at over the table, fixed his eyes stedfastly
the threshold, with . all the profuse on the parasite ; Mascari' in vain
and respectful courtesy of Italian ' struggled to extricate himself from
simulation. ! that searching gaze : he grew pale,

" This is an honour highly prized," , and trembled — he put down the box.
said the Prince. " I have long de- " I give the first throw to your Ex-
sired to clasp the hand of one so , cellency. Signer Mascari, be pleased
distinguished " ' to terminate our suspense."

" And I give it in the spirit with I Again Mascari took up the box ;
which you seek it," replied Zanoni. again his hand shook, so that the

The Neapolitan bowed over the dice rattled within. He threw ; the
hand he pressed; but as he touched numbers were sixteen,
it, a Bhiver came over him, and his " It is a high throw," said Zanoni,

H 2

100

ZANONI.

calmly; ''nevertheless, Signer Mas-
cari, 1 do not despond."

Atascari gathered up the dice, shook
the box, and rolled the contents once
more on the table ; the number was
the highest that can be thrown —
eighteen.

The Prince darted a glance of fire
at his minion, who stood with gaping
mouth, staring at the dice, and trem-
bling from head to foot.

" I have won, you see," said Zanoni;
" may we be friends still 1 "

" Signer," said the Prince, obviously
struggling with anger and confusion,
"the victory is yours. But pardon
me, you have spoken lightly of this
young girl — will anything tempt you
to yield your claim ] "

"Ah, do not think so ill of my
gallantry ; and," resumed Zanoni,
with a stern meaning in his voice,
" forget not the forfeit your own lips
have named."

The Prince knit his brow, but con-
strained the haughty answer that was
his first impulse.

" Enough ! " he said, forcing a
smile ; " I yield. Let me prove that

I do not yield ungraciously : will you
favour me with your presence at a
little feast I propose to give in
honour," — ^he added, with a sardonic
mockery, — "of the elevation of my
kinsman, the late Cardinal, of pious
memory, to the true seat of St. Peter 1"

''It is, indeed, a happiness to hear
one command of yours I can obey."

Zanoni then turned the conversa-
tion, talked lightly and gaily, and
soon afterwards departed.

"Villain!" then exclaimed the
Prince, grasping Mascari by the
collar, " you betrayed me ! "
' " I assure your Excellency that the
dice were properly arranged ; he
should have thrown twelve; but he
is the Devil, and that's the end of it."

" There is no time to be lost," said
the Prince, quitting his hold of hia
parasite, who quietly resettled his
cravat.

" My blood is up — I will win this
girl, if I die for it ! What noise is
that?"

" It is but the sword of your illus-
trious ancestor that has fiallen from
the table."

ZANONI.

101

CHAPTER VII.

11 ue faut appellor aucun ordre si co nW 6a terns olair et serein.*

Lks Claviculxs du Rabbi Salomon.

; I.STTEB VBOX ZANONI TO UEJNOUR.

'My art is already dim and troubled.
1 have lost the tranquillity which is
power. I cannot influence the deci-
sions of those whom I would most
^nide to the shore ; I see them wander
farther and deeper into the infinite
ocean, where our barks sail evermore
to the horizon that flies before us!
Amazed and awed to find that I can
only warn where I would control, I
have looked into my own soul. It is
true that the desires of earth chain
me to the Present, and shut me from
the solemn secrets which Intellect,
purified from all the dross of the' clay,
alone can examine and survey. The
stem condition on which we hold our
nobler and diviner gifts darkens our
Tision towards the future of those for
whom we know the human infirmities
of jealousy, or hate, or love. Mejnour,
all around me is mist and haze; I
have gone back in our sublime
existence; and from the bosom of
the imperishable youth that blooms
only in the spirit, springs up the dark
poison-flower of human love.

This man is not worthy of her — I
know that truth; yet in his nature
are the seeds of good and greatness,
if the tares and weeds of worldly
vanities and fears would suffer them
to grow. If she were his, and I had
thus transplanted to another soil the
passion that obscures my gaze and
disarms my power, unseen, unheard,
unrecognised, I could watch over his

* No order of spirits must be invoked
uulcae the weather be clear and serene.

fate, and secretly prompt his deeds,
and minister to her welfare through
his own. But time rushes on !
Through the shadows that encircle
me, I see, gathering round her, the
darkest dangers. No choice but
flight — no escape, save with him or me^
With me ! — the rapturous thought-^
the terrible conviction! With me!*
Mejnour, canst thou wonder that I
would save her from myself] A
moment in the life of ages — a bubble
on the shoreless sea. What else to
me can be human love ] And in this
exquisite nature of hers — more pure,
more spiritual, even in its young
affections than ever heretofore the
countless volumes of the heart, race
after race, have given to my gaze —
there is yet a deep-buried feeling that
warns me of inevitable woe. Thou,,
austere and remorseless Hierophant-^
thou who hast sought to convert to -
our brotherhood every spirit that
seemed to thee most high and bold
— even thou knowest, by horrible
experience, how vain the hope to-
banish/ear from the heart of woman. ■
My life would be to her one marvel..
Even if, on the other hand, I sought
to guid« her path through the realms
of terror to the light, think of the
Haunter of the Threshold, and
shudder with me at the awful hazard !
I have endeavoured to fill the English-
man's ambition with the true glory
of his art ; but the restless spirit of his
ancestor still seems to whisper in him,
and to attract to the spheres in which
it lost its own wandering way. There
is a mystery in man's inheritance

102

ZANONI,

from his fathers. Peculiarities of
the mind, as diseases of the body,
rest dormant for generations, to re-
vive in some distant descendant, baffle
all treatment and elude all skill.
Come to me from thy solitude amidst
the wrecks of Bome! I pant for a
living confidant — ^for one who in the
old time has himself known jealousy
and love. I have sought commune
with Adon-Ai : but his presence, that
once inspired such heavenly content
with knowledge, and so serene a confi-
dence in destiny, now only troubles
and perplexes me. From the height
from which I strive to search into the
shadows of things to come, I see con-
fused spectres of menace and wrath.
Methinks I behold a ghastly limit to
the wondrous existence I have held- —
^nethinks that, after ages of the Ideal
Life, I see my course merge into the
most stormy whirlpool of the Real.
Where the stars opened to me their
gates, there looms a scaffold^— thick
steams of blood rise as from a
shambles. What is more strange to
me, a creature here, a very type of
the false ideal of common men^-body
and mind, a hideous mockery of the
art that shapes the Beautiful, and the
desires that seek the Perfect, ever

haunts my vision amidst these per-
turbed and broken clouds of the &te to
be. By that shadowy scaffold it stands
and gibbers at me, with lips dropping
slime and gore. Come, friend "of
the far-time; for me, at least, thy
wisdom has not purged away thy
human afibctions. According to the
bonds of our solemn order, reduced
now to thee and myself, lone survivors
of so many haughty and glorious
aspirants^ thou art pledged, too, to
warn the descendant of those whom
thy counsels sought to initiate into
the great secret in a former age. The
last of that bold Yisconti, who was once
thy pupil, is the relentless persecutor
of this Mr child. With thoughts of '
lust and murder, he is digging his
own grave; thou mayest yet daunt
him from his doom. And I also
mysteriously, by the same bond, am
pledged to obey, if he so command, a
less guilty descendant of a baffled but
nobler student. If he reject my
counsel, and insist upon the pledge,
Mejnour, thou wilt have another
Neophyte. Beware of another victim !
Come to me! This will reach thee
with all speed. Answer it by the
pressure of one hand that I can dare
to clasp !

ZANONI.

103

CHAPTER VIII.

IIlupo
Feritb, credo, mi conobbe e 'ncontro
Mi venne con la bocca sanguiuosa.*

Amimta, At iv. se. i.

At Naples, the Tomb of Virgil,

beetling over the cave of Posilipo, is

reverenced, not with the feelings that

should hallow the memoiy 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 a&r 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.

* The wounded wolf, I think, knew me,
and oame to meet me with its bloody mouth.

Motionless on the brink of the preci-
pice, 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
Oaprea, 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 firom
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.

"Tu.sh, pretty trembler!— do not
be frightened at my face" said the
man, with a bitter smile. " After three
months' marriage, there is no differ-
ence 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 im-
portance to communicate, I ventured
to follow your footsteps. My name
is Jean Nicot^ a name already favour-
ably 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

104

ZANONI.

her, and; looking np steadily into her
&ce, continned :

"You are very beautiful, Viola
Pisani, and I am not surprised at the
number of your admirers. If I pre-
sume to place myself in the list, it is
because I am the only one who loves
thee honestly, and woos thee fairly,
^ay, look not so indignant ! Listen

to me. Has the Prince di ever

spoken to thee of marriage ! — or the
beautiful impostor, Zanoni? — o^ 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.

" Actress, you must hear me ! Do
you know what this calling of the
stage is in the eyes of prejudice— that
is, of the common opinion of man-
kind. It is to be a Princess before
the lamps, and a Pariah before the
day. No man believes in your virtue,
no man credits your vows; you are
the puppet that they consent to trick
out with tinsel for their amusement,
not an idol for their worship. Are
you so enamoured of this career that
you scorn even to think of security and
honour] Perhaps you are different
from what you seem. Perhaps you
laugh at the prejudice that would
degrade you^ and would wisely turn
it to advantage. Speak frankly to
me; I have no prejudice either.
Sweet one, I am sure we should agree.

Now, this Prince di , I have a

message from him. Shall I deliver
It?"

Never had Viola felt as she felt
then; never had she so thoroughly
seen all the perils of her forlorn con-
dition and her fearful renown. Nicot
continued :— -

" Zanoni would but amuse himself
with thy vanity ; Glyndon would
despise himself, if he offered thee his
name — and Ihee, if thou wooldst.

accept it ; but the Prince di is ia

earnest, and he is wealthy. Listen ! "

And Nicot approached his lips to
her, and hissed a sentence which she
did not suffer him to complete. She
darted from him with one ghince of
unutterable disdain. As he strove to
regain his hold of her arm, he lost
his footing, and fell down the sides of
the rock, till, bruised and lacerated,
a pine-branch saved him from the
yawning abyss below. She heard his
exclamation of rage and pain, as she
bounded down the path, and, without
once turning to look behind, regained
her home. By the porch stood Glyn-
don, conversing with Gionetta. She
passed him abruptly, entered the
house, and, sinking on the floor, wept
loud and passionately.

Glyndon, who had followed her in
surprise, vainly sought to soothe and
calm her. She would not reply to
his questions; she did not seem to
listen to his protestations of love, till
suddenly, as Nicot's terrible picture
of the world's judgment of that pro-
fession, which to her younger thoughts
had seemed the service of song and
the Beautiful, forced itself upon her,
she raised her face from her hands,
and looking steadily upon the English-
man, said, " False one, dost thou talk
to me of love 1 "

" By my honour, words* fail to tell
thee how I love ! "

" Wilt thou give me thy home—
thy name % Dost thou woo me as thy
wife!" And at that moment, had
Glyndon answered as his better angel
would have counselled, perhaps, in
that revolution of her whole mind,
which the words of Nicot had effected,
which made her despise her very self,
sicken of her lofty dreams, despair of
the future, and distrust her whole
ideal,— perhaps, I say, in restoring

ZANONI.

105

iLex self-esteem, he would have won
Ixer- confidence, and ultimately secured
Ixer- love. But, against the prompting
of ills nobler nature, rose up at that
aixdden question all those doubts
^wlu.ch, as Zanoni had so well implied,
xn.ade the true enemies of his soul.
AVas he thus suddenly to be entangled
i.o.t.0 a snare laid for his credulity by
^leceivers] Was she not instructed
-to seize the moment to force him
Into an avowal which prudence must
repent. Was not the great Actress
Tehearsing a premeditated part ? He
-turned round; as these thoughts, the
children of the world, passed across
liim, for he literally fancied that he
lieard the sarcastic laugh of Mervale
without. Nor was he deceived. Mer-
vale was passing by the threshold,
and Gionetta had told him his
friend was within. Who does not
know the effect of the world's laugh 1
Mervale was the personation of the
world. The whole world seemed to
shout derision in those ringing tones.

He drew back — ^he recoiled. Viola
followed him with her earnest, impa-
tient eyes. At last he faltered forth
— " Do all of thy profession, beautiful
Yiola, exact marriage as the sole con-
dition of love 1 '* Oh, bitter question ?
Oh, poisoned taunt ! He repented it
the moment after. He was seized
with remorse of reason, of feeling,
and of conscience. He saw her form
shrink, as it were, at his cruel words.
He saw the colour come and go, to
leave the writhing lips like marble ;
and then, with a sad, gentle look of
self-pity, rather than reproach, she
pressed her hands tightly to her
bosom, and said,

" He was right ! Pardon me.
Englishman ; I see now, indeed, that
I am the Pariah and the outcast."

"Hear me. I retract. Viola,
Viola ! it is for you to forgive ! "

But Viola waved him from her,
and smiling mournfully, as she passed
him by, glided from the chamber;
and he did not dare to detain her. |

106

ZANONL

CHAFTBR IX..

Dapmb. Ma, chi lung* k d'Amor,
TiJtsi. Cbi teme e fugge.

Dapmb. E che giova fnggir da lui ch' ha I'ali ?
Ttrsi. Amor na$eente ha corU Valtl^

Amthta, At. ii; 8c. ii.

Whsk Glyndon fonnd himself without
Viola's house, Mervale, still loitering
at the door, seized his arm. Glyndon
shook him off abruptly.

" Thou and thy counsels," said he,
bitterly, " have made me a coward
and a wretch. But I will go home —
I will write to her. I will pour out
my whole soul ; she will forgive me
yet."

Mervale, who was a man of im-
penetrable temper, arranged his
ruflBies, which his friend's angry
gesture had a little discomposed, and
not till Glyndon had exhausted him-
self awhile by passionate exclama-
tions and reproaches did the experi-
enced augler begin to tighten the
line. He then drew from Glyndon
the explanation of what had passed,
and artfully sought not to irritate,
but soothe him. Mervale, indeed,
was by no means a bad man, he
had stronger moral notions than are
common amongst the young. He
sincerely reproved his friend for
harbouring dishonourable intentions
with regard to the actress. " Because
I would not have her thy wife, I
never dreamed that thou shouldst
degrade her to thy mistress. Better
of the two an imprudent match than
an illicit connexion. But pause yet ;

* Dafnb. But, who is far from Love ?
'— TiRsi. He who fears and flies.— Dafnb.
What use to flee from one who has wings?
— TiRsr. The wings of Love, while he yet
STOWS, are short.

do not act on the impulse of tlie
moment."

'' But there is no time to lose. I
have promised to Zanoni to give him.
my answer by ^to-morrow night.
Later than that time, all option
ceases."

" Ah ! " said Mervale, '' this seems
suspicious. Explain yourself."

And Glyndon, in the earnestness of
his passion, told his friend what had
passed between himself and Zanoni
— suppressing only, he scarce knew
why, the reference to his ancestor
and the mysterious brotherhood.

This recital gave to Mervale all
the advantage he could desire.
Heavens! with what sound, shrewd
common-Bcnse he talked. How evi'
dently some charlatanic coalition
between the actress, and perhaps —
who knows] — her clandestine pro-
tector, sated with possession ! How
equivocal the character of one — the
position of the other ! What cunning
in the question of the actress 1 How
profoundly had Glyndon, at the first
suggestion of his sober reason, seen
through the snare. What ! was he
to be thus mystically cajoled and
hurried into a rash marriage, because
Zanoni, a mere stranger, told him
with a grave face that he must
decide before the clock struck a
certain hour 1

"Do this, at least," said Mervale,
reasonably enough, — "wait till the
time expires ; it is but another day.

ZANONI.

107

I^£i.£B.e Zanoni. He tells thee that he

virill meet thee before midnight to-

xTLOx-row, and defies thee to avoid

Ixixxi. Pooh! let us quit Naples for

soxxie neighbouring place^ whera,

-iirkless he be indeed the Devil, he

csL-onot possibly find us. Show him

t;liat you will not be led blindfold

e-ven into an act that you meditate

yourself. Defer to write to her, or

to see her, till after to-morrow. This

is all I ask. Then visit her, and

decide for yourself."

Glyndon was staggered. He could
not combat the reasonings of his
friend ; he was not convinced, but he
lieutated ; and at that moment Nicot
paaaed them. He turned round, and
stopped, as he saw Glyndon.

" WeU, and do you think still of the
Pisanir'

"Yes; and you "

''Have seen and conversed with
her. She shall be Madame Mcot
before this day week ! I am going to
the cafe, in the Toledo ; and hark ye,
when next you meet your friend

Signer Zanoni, tell him that he has
twice crossed my path. Jean Nicot,
though a painter, is a plain, honest
man, and always pays his debts."

'^t is a good doctrine in money
matters," saidMervale ; "as to revenge,
it is not so moral, and certainly not
so wise. But is it in your love that
Zanoni ha» crossed your path ] How
that if your suit prosper so well ] "

" Ask Viola Pisani that question.
Bah ! Glyndon, she is a prude only to
thee. But I have no prejudices. Once
more, fiurewell."

** Rouse thyself, man !" said Mervale,
slapping Glyndon on the shoulder.
" What think you of your fiiir one
nowl"

" This man must lie."

" Will you write to her at once 1 "

" No ; if she be really playing a
game, I could renounce her without
a sigh. I will watch her closely;
and at all events, Zanoni shall not be
the master of my iute. Let us, as
you advise, leave Naples at day-break
to morrow."

108

ZANONI.

CHAPTER X.

O obiunque tu sia, che fuor d'ogni oso
Pieghi Natura ad opre altere e tttrane,
E, spiando i eecreti, entro al pia chiuso
Spazj a tua voglia delle menti umane,
Deh— Dimmi! *

Gkrus. Lib., Cant. x. zviii.

Early the next morning the young
Englishmen mounted their horses,
and took the road towards Baise.
Glyndon left word at his hotel that if
Signer Zanoni sought him, it was in
the neighbourhood of that once cele-
brated watering-place of the ancients
that he should be found.

They passed by Viola's house, but
Glyndon resisted the temptation of
pausing there; and after threading
the grotto of Posilipo, they wound by
a circuitous route back into the
suburbs of the city, and took the
opposite road, which conducts to
Portici and Pompeii. It was late at
noon when they arrived at the former
of these places. Here they halted to
dine; for Mervale had heard much
of the excellence of the macaroni at
Portici, and Mervale was a ton
vivant.

They put up at an inn of very
humble pretensions, and dined under
an awning. Mervale was more than
usually gay ; he pressed the Lacrima
upon his friend, and conversed gaily.

"Well, my dear friend, we have
foiled Signor Zanoni in one of his
predictions, at least. You will have
no faith in him hereafter."

*• The ides are come, not gone."

" Tush ! If he be the soothsayer

* Oh thou, whoever thou art, who through
every use bendest Nature to works foreign
and strange— and by spying into her secrets,
cnterest, at thy will. Into the closest recesses
''* *'-'» human mind— O speak, O tell me !

you are not the Csesar. It is your
vanity that makes you credulous.
Thank Heaven, I do not think myself
of such importance, that the operar
tions of nature should be changed in
order to frighten me."

" But why should the operations of
nature be changed] There may be
a deeper philosophy than we dream
of— a philosophy that discovers the
secrets of nature, but does not alter,
by penetrating, its courses."

" Ah ! you relapse into your
heretical credulity; you seriously
suppose Zanoni to be a prophet— a
reader of the future; perhaps an
associate of genii and spirits ! "

Here the landlord, a little, fat, oily
fellow, came up with a fresh bottle of
Lacrima. He hoped their Excellencies
were pleased. He was most touched
— touched to the heart, that they
liked the macaroni. Were their
Excellencies going to Vesuvius?
There was a slight eruption; they
could not see it where they were, but
it was pretty, and would be prettier
still after sunset.

" A capital idea ! " cried Mervale.
" What say you, Glyndon]"

"I have not yet seen an^'ls^ption;
I should like it much."

** But is there no danger?" asked
the prudent Mervale.

" Oh, not at all ; the mountain is
very civil at present. It only plays a
little, just to amuse their Excellencies
the English." ^

^^iANONI.

109

** IVell, order the horses, and bring

Oho l)ill; we will go before it is dark.

</la.J7eiice, my friend — Nunc est bibenr

^^Jtmn ; but take care of the 'pede libero,

^wliich will scarce do for walking on

Ihe bottle was finished, the bill
-paid; the gentlemen mounted, the
l&ndlord bowed, and they bent their
-way, in the cool of the delightful
eirening, towards Eesina.

The wine, perhaps the excitement
of his thoughts, animated Glyndon,
-whose unequal spirits were, at times,
liigh and brilliant as those of a
schoolboy released ; and the laughter
of the northern tourists sounded oft
and merrily along the melancholy
domains of buried cities.

Hesperus had lighted his lamp
amidst the rosy skies as they arrived
at Eesina. Here they quitted their
horses, and took mules and a guide.
As the sky grew darker and more
dark, the Mountain Fire burned with
an intense lustre. In various streaks
and streamlets, the fountain of flame
rolled down the dark summit, and
the Englishmen began to feel increase
upon them, as they ascended, that
sensation of solemnity and awe, which
makes the very atmosphere that
surrounds the Giant of the Plains of
the Antique Hades.

It was night, when, leaving the
mules, they ascended on foot, accom-
panied by their guide, and a peasant
who bore a rude torch. The guide
was a conversable, garrulous fellow,
like most of his country and his
calling ; and Mervale, who possessed a
sociable temper, loved to amuse or to
instruct himself on every incidental
occasion.

" Ah I Excellency," said the guide,
"your countrymen have a strong
passion for the volcano. Long life to
them ! they bring us plenty of money.
If our fortunes depended on the
^Neapolitans, we should starve."
"True, they have no curiosity,"

said Mervale. "Do you remember,
Glyndon, the contempt with which
that old Count said to us, * You will
go to Vesuvius, I suppose 1 I have
never been; why should I go? you
have cold, you have hunger, you have
fatigue, you have danger, and all for
nothing but to see fire, which looks
just as well in a brazier as on a
mountain.' Ha! ha! the old fellow
was right."

" But, Excellency," said the guide,
"that is not all ; some Cavaliers think
to ascend the mountain without our
help. I am sure they deserve to
tumble into the crater."

" They must be bold fellows to go
alone ; — ^you don't often find such."

" Sometimes among the French,
Signer. But the other night — I
never was so frightened — I had been
with an English party; and a lady
had left a pocket-book on the moun-
tain, where she had been sketching.
She offered me a handsome sum to
return for it, and bring it to her at
Naples. So I went in the evening.
I found it, sure enough; and was
about to return, when I saw a figure
that seemed to emerge from the crater
itself. .The air there was so pesti-
ferous, that I could not have conceived
a human creature could breathe it,
and live. I was so astounded that I
stood still as a stone, till the figure
came over the hot ashes, and stood
before me, face to face. Santa Maria,
what ahead!"

"What! hideous?"

"No; so beautiful, but so terri-
ble. It had nothing human in its
aspect."

"And what said the salamander?"

" Nothing ! It did not even seem
to perceive me, though I was near as
I am to you ; but its eyes seemed to
emerge prying into the air. It passed
by me quickly, and, walking across a
stream of burning lava, soon vanished
on the other side of the mountain. I
was curious and foolhardy, and

110

ZANONI.

roBolved to see if I could bear the
atmosphere which this visitor had
left ; bat, though I did not advance
within thirty yards of the spot at
which he had first appeared, I was
driven back by a vapour that well
nigh stifled me. Oospetto! I have
spat blood ever since."

" Now will I lay a wager that you
fancy this fir&>king must be Zanoni/'
whispered Morvale, laughing.

The Utile party bad now arrived
nearly at the summit of tbe mountain ;
and unspeakably grand was the
spectacle on which they gazed. From
the crater arose a vapour, intensely
dark, that overspread the wbole back-
ground of the heavens ; in the C'Cntre
whereof rose a flame, that assumed a
form singularly beautiful. It might
have been compared to a crest of
gigantic feathers, the diadem of the
mountain, high-arched, and drooping
downward, with the hues delicately
shaded off, and the whole shifting and
tremulous as the plumage on a
warrior's helmet. The glare of the
flame spread, luminous and crimson,
over the dark and rugged ground on
which they stood, and drew an
innumerable variety of shadoYrs from
crag and hollow. An oppressive and
sulphureous exhalation served to
increase the gloomy and sublime
terror of the place. But on turning
from the mountain^ and towards the
distant and unseen ocean^ the contract
was wonderfully great; the heavens
serene and blue, the stars still and
calm as the eyes of Divine Love. It
was as if the realms of the opposing
principles of Evil and of Good were
brought in one view before the gaze
of man! Glyndon — once more the
enthusiast, the artist — was enchained
and entranced by emotions vague and
undefinable, half of delight and half
of pain. Leaning on the shoulder of
his friend, he gazed around him, and
heard, with deepening awe, the
'Mnbling of the earth below, the

wheels and voices of the Ministry of
Nature in her darkest and most
inscrutable recess. Suddenly as a
bomb from a shell, a huge stone was
flung hundreds of yards up from
the jaws of the crater, and, billing
with a mighty crash upon the rock
below, split into ten thousand frag-
ments, which bounded down the sides
of the mountain, sparkling and
groaning as they went. One of these,
the largest fragment, strnck the
narrow space of soil between the
Englishmen and the guide, not three
feet from the spot where the former
stood. Mervale uttered an excUms-
tion of terror, and Glyndon held his
breath, and shuddered.

"ZHavoloI" cried the guide. "De-
scend, Excellencies — descend ! we
have not a moment to lose: follow
me close ! "

So saying, the guide and the pea-
sant fled with as much swifliness as
they were able to bring to bear.
Mervale, ever more prompt and
ready than his friend, imitated their
example; and Glyndon, more con-
fused than alarmed, followed dose.
But they had not gone many yards,
before, with a rushing and sudden
blast, came from the crater an enor-
mous volume of vapour. It pursaed
— it overtook — it overspread them.
It swept the light from the heavens.
All was abrupt and utter darkness ;
and through the gloom was heard the
shout of the guide, already disUmt,
and lost in an instant amidst the
sound of the rushing gust, and the
groans of the earth beneath. Gflyndon
paused.. He was separated from his
friend — ^from the guide. He was
alone — ^with the Darkness and the
Terror. The vapour rolled sullenly
away; the form of the plumed fire
was again dimly visible, and lis
struggling and perturbed reflection
again shed a glow over the horrors of
the path. Glyndon recovered hhnselt^
and sped onward. Below, he heard

-^

ZANONI.

Ill

^Yxe ^voice of Mervale calling on him,
-Oxoxsgh he no longer saw his form.
Tli^ Boand served as a guide. Dizzy
ajX'dL breathless, he bounded forward ;
^^97l:i.en — ^hark ! — ^a sullen, slow, rolling
soTxnd in his ear ! He halted — and
t,xi.xTied back to gaze. The fire had
o^verflowed its course : it had opened
it^^elf a channel amidst the farrows of
-tr^e mountain. The stream pursued
Ixlm fast — ^fast; and the hot breath
o^ the chasing and preternatural foe
oame closer and closer upon bis
cheek ! He turned aside ; he climbed
desperately, with hands and feet, upon
s crag, that, to the right, broke the
scathed and blasted leyel of the soil.
The stream rolled beside and beneath
Mm, and then, taking a sudden wind
round the spot on which he stood,
inteiposed its liquid fire — ^a broad and
impassable barrier, between his rest-
ing-place and escape. There he
stood, cut off from descent, and with
no alternatiye but to retrace his steps
towards the crater, and thence seek,
without guide or clue, some other
pathway.

For a moment his courage left him :
he cried in despair, and in that over-
strained pitch of voice which is never
heard afar off, to the guide — to
Hervale, to return to aid him.

"So answer came ; and the English-
man, thus abandoned solely to his
own resources, felt his spirit and
energy rise against the danger. He
turned back, and ventured as far
towards the crater as the noxious
exhalation would permit ; then,
gazing below, carefully and deli-
berately, he chalked out for himself
a path, by which he trusted to shun
the direction the fire-stream had
taken ; and trod firmly and quickly
over the crumbling and heated strata.
He had proceeded about fifty yards,
when he halted abruptly; an unspeak-
* able and nnacconntable horror, not

hitherto experienced amidst all his
peril, came over him. He shook in
every limb; his muscles refused his
will — he felt, as it were, palsied and
death- stricken. The horror, I say, was
unaccountable, for the path seemed
clear and, safe. The fire, above and
behind, burned clear and far; and
beyond, the stars lent him their cheer-
ing guidance. No obstacle was visible
— no danger seemed at hand. As thus,
spell-bound and panic-stricken, he
stood chained to the soil — his breast
heaving; large drops rolling down his
brow; and his eyes starting wildly
from their sockets — he saw before
him, at some distance, gradually
shaping itself more and more dis-
tinctly to his gaze, a Colossal Shadow
— a shadow that seemed partially
borrowed from the human shape, but
immeasurably above the human
stature; vague, dark, almost form-
less ; and differing, he could not tell
where, or why, not only from the
proportions, but also from the limbs
and outline of man.

The glare of the volcano, that
seemed to shrink and collapse from
this gigantic and appalling apparition,
nevertheless threw its light, redly
and steadily, upon another shape that
stood beside, quiet, and motionless;
and it was, perhaps, the contrast of
these two things— the Being and the
Shadow — that impressed the beholder
with the difference between them —
the Man and the Superhuman. It
was but for a moment — nay, for the
tenth part of a moment, that this
sight was permitted to the wanderer.
A second eddy of sulphureous vapours
from the volcano, yet more rapidly,
yet more densely than its predecessor,
rolled over the mountain ; and either
the nature of the exhalation, or the
excess of his own dread, was such,
that Glyndon, after one wild gasp for
breathy fell senseless on the earth.

112

ZANONI.

CHAPTER XI.

Was hab' ich

Wenn ich nicht Allcs habe?— sprach der Jflnglinfr.*

Das Ybrscbijubrtk Bilo zu Sats.

Meryalb and the Italians arriyed in
safety at the spot where they had left
the mules; and not till they had
recovered their own alarm and breath
did they think of Glyndon. But
then, as the minutes passed, and he
appeared not, Mervale whose heart
was as good, at least, as human hearts
are in general, grew seriously alarmed.
He insisted on returning, to search
for his friend; and by dint of prodigal
promises, prevailed at last on the
guide to accompany him. The lower
part of the mountain lay calm and
white in the starlight ; and the guide's
practised eye could discern all objects
on the surface, at a considerable
distance. They had not, however,
gone very far, before they perceived
two forms, slowly approaching towards
them.

As they came near, Mervale recog-
nised the form of his friend. " Thank
Heaven, he is safe," he cried, turning
to the guide.

"Holy angels befriend us!" said
the Italian, trembling — " Behold the
very being that crossed me last
Friday night. It is he 1 but his face
is human now ! "

" Signer Inglese," said the voice of
Zanoni, as Glyndon — pale, wan, and
silent — returned passively the joyous
greeting of Mervale — " Signer Inglese,
I told your friend that we should
meet to-night. You see you have not
foiled my prediction."

* ''What have I, if I possess not All?"
B»l<l the youth.

«But howl— but where 1" stam-
mered Mervale, in great confusion
and surprise.

" I found your friend stretched on
the ground, overpowered by the
mephitic exhalation of the crater. I
bore him to a purer atmosphere ; and,
as I know the mountain well, I have
conducted him safely to you. This is
all our history. You see, sir, that
were it not for that prophecy which
you desired to frustrate, your friend
would, ere this time have been a
corpse : one minute more, and the
vapour had done its work. Adien;
good night, and pleasant dreams."

" But, my preserver, you will not
leave us ! " said Glyndon, anxiously,
and speaking for the fii-st time.
" Will you not return with us?"

Zanoni paused, and drew Glyndon
aside. " Young man," said he,
gravely, "it is necessary that we
should again meet to-night It is
necessary that you should ere the
first hour of morning, decide on your
own fate. I know that you have
insulted her whom you profess to love.
It is not too late to repent. Consult
not your friend — he is sensible and
wise; but not now is his wisdom
needed. There are times in life when, i
from the imagination, and not the I
reason, should wisdom come — this, for I
you, IB one of them. I ask not your 1
answer now. Collect your thoughts
— ^recover, your jaded and scattered
spirits. It wants two hours of midnight.
Before midnight I will be with you."

" Incomprehensible being!" replied

ZANONI.

113

.Ue Bng^lishman, "I would leave the
life you liave preserved in your own
bands ; 1)at what I have seen thin
niglit Iras swept even Viola from my
tlLoo^lite. A fiercer desire than that
of love barns in my veins — the desire
not to resemble but to surpass my
Icind. — the desire to penetrate and to
sliare the secret of your own existence
— ^tlie desire of a preternatural know-
ledge and unearthly power. I make
my ch.oice. In my ancestor*s name^ I
adjure and remind thee of thy pledge.
Instruct me; school me; make me
thine ; and I surrender to thee at once,
and Tvithout a murmur, the woman
whom, till I saw thee, I would have
defied a world to obtain."

" I bid thee consider well ; on the
one hand, Yiola^ a tranquil home, a
happy and serene life. On the other
hand, all is darkness — darkness, that
even these eyes cannot penetrate."

" But thou hast told me, that if I
wed Viola, I must be contented with
the conmion existence, — if I refuse,
it is to aspire to thy knowledge and
tliy power.'*

" Vain man ! — knowledge and
power are not happiness."

" But they are better than happi-
ness. Say I — ^if I marry Viola, wilt
thou be my master — my guide ] Say
this, and I am resolved."

** It were impossible."

" Then I renounce her ! I renounce
love. I renounce happiness. Wel-
come solitade—welcome despair; If
they are the entrances to thy datk
and sublime secret."

" I will not take thy answer now.
Before the last hour of night thou
fihalt gJLve it in one word — ^ay or no !
Farewell till then."

Zanoni waived his hand ; and,
descending rapidly, was seen no more.

Glyndon rejoined his impatient
and wondering friend ; but Mervale,
gaziug on his face, saw that a great
change had passed there. The flexile
and dubious expression of youth was
for ever gone. The features were
locked, rigid, and stern ; and so faded
was the natural bloom, that an hour
seemed to have done the work of years.

Xo. 23G.

114

ZANONI.

C?HAPT15R XII.

Was bt '8

Das tainter dietem Bchleier sioh Torblrgt ? *

Pas YSRBaHLBICBTJB BiLD ZU fiASB.

On returning from Vesuvius or
Pompeii, you enter K^aples, through
its most animated, its most Neapo-
litan, quarter — through that quarter
in which Modem life most closely
resembles the Ancient ; and in which,
when, on a fair day, the thoroughfare
swarms alike with Indolence and
Trade, you are impressed at oace with
the recollection of that restless, lively
race, from which the population of
Naples derives its origin : so that in
one day you may see at Pompeii the
habitations of a remote age ; and on
the Mole, at Naples, you may imagine
you behold the very beings with
whom those habitations had been
peopled.

But now, as the Englishmen rode
slowly through the deserted streets,
lighted but by the lamps of heaven,
all the gaiety of day was hushed and
breathless. Here and there, stretched
under a portico or a dingy booth, were
sleeping groups of houseless Lazza-
roni ; a tribe now merging its indolent
individuality amidst an energetic and
active population.

The Englishmen rode on in silence;
for Gljndon neither appeared to heed
nor hear the questions and comments
of Mervale, and Mervale himself was
almost as weary as the jaded animal
he bestrode.

' Suddenly the silence of earth and
ocean was broken by the sound of a dis-
tant clock, that proclaimed the quarter

* What is it that conceals itself hehind
this veil?

preceding the last hour of xught.
Glyndon started from his reverie, and
looked anxiously round. As the £nal
stroke died, the noise of hoofs rung
on the broad stones of the pavement ;
and from a narrow street to the ri^ht,
emerged the form of a solitary horse-
man. He neared the Engliahmen.
and Glyndon recognicsed the features
and mien of Zanoni.

" What! do we meet again. Signer r
said Mervale, in a vexed but drowsy
tone.

" Your friend and I have buedness
together," replied Zanoni, ati he
wheeled his steed to the side of
Glyndon. " But it will be soon
transacted. Perhaps you, sir, will
ride on to your hotel."

" Alone r

"There is no danger!" returned
Zanoni, with a slight expression of
disdain in his voice.

" None to me ; — ^but to Glyndon ? "

« Danger from me ! Ah, perhaps
you are right"

"Go on, my dear Mervale," said
Glyndon. "I will join you before
you reach the hotel."

Mervale nodded, whistled, and
pushed his horse into a kind of
amble.

" Now your answer — quick ! "

" I have decided. The love of Y iola
has vanished from my heart The
pursuit is over."

" You have decided ?"

" I have ; and now my reward."

"Thy reward! WeU; ere tLis
hour to-morrow it shall await thee."

ZANONI.

115

Zanoni gave the rein to his horse ;
it sprang forward with a bound ; the
sparks flew from its hoofs, and horse
and rider disappeared amidst the
shadows of the street whence thej
had emerged.

Menrale was surprised to see his
friend by his side, a minute after
thej had parted.

" What has passed between you
and ZanoniT'

** Mervale, do not ask me to-night ;
I am in a dream."

'* I do not wonder at it, for even I
am in a sleep. Let us push on.'*

In the retirement of his chamber,
dyndon sought to recolkct his
thoughts. He sat down on the foot
of his bed, and pressed his hands
tightly to his throbbing temples.
The events of the last few hours;
the apparition of the gigantic and
shadowy Companion of the Mystic,
amidst the fires and clonds of
Yesnvius ; the strange encounter with
Zanoni himself, on a spot in which
he could never, by ordinary reasoning,
have calculated on finding Glyndon,
filled his mind with emotions, in
which terror and awe the least pre-
vailed. A fire, the train of which
had been long laid, was lighted at his
heart — the asbestos-fire, that, once
lit, is never to be quend^d. AH his
early aspirations — ^his young ambition
— his longings for the laurel, were
merged in one passionate yearning to
overpass the bounds of the common

knowledge of man, and reach that
solemn spot, between two worlds,
on which the mysterious stranger
appeared to have fixed his home.

Far from recalling with renewed
affright the remembrance of the
apparition that had so appalled him,
the recollection only served to kindle
and concentrate his curiosity into a
burning focus. He had said aright —
love had vanished from his heart;
there was no longer a serene space
amidst its disordered elements for
human affection to move and breathe.
The enthusiast was rapt from this
earth; and he would have surrendered
all that mortal beauty ever promised,
that mortal hope ever whispered, for
one hour with Zanoni beyond the
portals of the visible world.

He rose, oppressed and fevered
with the new thoughts that raged
withhi him, and threw open his case-
ment for air. The ocean l&j sufiused
in the starry light, and the stillness
of the heavens never more eloquently
preached the morality of repose to
the madness of earthly passions. But
such was Glyndon's mood, that their
very hush only served to deepen the
wild desires tluit preyed upon his soul.
And the solemn stars, that are mys-
teries in themselves, seemed by a
kindred sympathy to agitate the
wings of the spirit no longer con-
tented with its cage. As he gazed, a
Star shot from its brethren, and
vanished from the depth of space !

116

ZANOiS'I.

CHAPTER XIII.

- O, be gone !

By heaTen I love thee better than myself.
For I came hither arm'd against my&elf.

ROMBO AND JULIRT.

l^HB young actress and Gionetta had
returned from the theatre ; and Yiola,
fatigued and exhausted, had thrown
herself on a sofa, while Qionetta busied
herself with the long tresses which,
released from the fillet that bound
them, half concealed the form of the
actress, like a veil of threads of gold.
As she smoothed the luxuriant locks,
the old nurse ran gossiping on about
the little events of the night, the
scandal and politics of the scenes, and
the tireroom. Gionetta was a worthy
soul. Almanzor, in Dryden's tragedy
of " Almahide," did not change sides
with more gallant indifference than
the exemplary nurse. She was at last
grieved and scandalised that Yiola
had not selected one chosen cavalier.
But the choice she left wholly to her
fair charge. Zegri or Abencerrage,
Glyndon or Zanoni, it had been the
same to her, except that the rumours
she had collected respecting the latter,
combined with his own recommenda-
tions of his rival, had given her
preference to the Englishman. She
interpreted ill the impatient and
heavy sigh with which Viola greeted
her praises of Glyndon, and her
wonder that he had of late so neglected
his attentions behind the scenes, and
she exhausted all her powers of pane-
gyric upon the supposed object of the
sigh. "And then too," she said, "if
nothing else were to be said against
the other Signer, it is enough that he
is about to leave Naples."
" T^eave Naples ! — Zanoni ] "

" Yes, darling ! In passing by the
Mole to day, there was a crowd round
some outlandish-looking sailors. His
shiparrived this morning, and anchors
in the bay. The sailors say that they
are to be prepared to sail with the
first wind ; they were taking in fresh
stores. They — "

" Leave me, Gionetta ! Leave me ! "

The time had already passed when
the girl could confide in Gionetta.
Her thoughts had advanced to that
point when the heart recoils from all
confidence, and feels that it cannot
be comprehended. Alone now, in
the principal apartment of the house,
she paced its narrow boundaries with
tremulous and agitated steps; she
recalled the frightful suit of Nicot;
the injurious taunt of Glyndon ; and
she sickened at the remembrance of
the hollow applauses which, bestowed
on the actress, not the woman, onl^''
subjected her to contumely and insult.
In that room the recollection of her
father's death, the withered laurel
and the broken chords, rose chillingly
before her. Hers, she felt, was a yet
gloomier fate — the c\)rds may break
while the laurel is yet green. The
lamp, waning in its socket, burned pale
and dim, and her eyes instinctively
turned from the darker corner of the
room. Orphan! by the hearth of
thy parents, dost thou fear the pre-
sence of the dead I

And was Zanoni indeed about to
quit Naples] Should she see him no
more 1 Oh, fool, to think that there

ZANONI.

117

Tvas grief in any other thonght ! The
Tast, that was gone !— The Future !
-there was no Future to her — Zanoni
absent ! But this was the night of
the third day on which Zanoni had
told her that, come what might, he
-would visit her again. It was, then,
if she might believe him, some
appointed crisis in her fate ; and how
should she tell him of Glyndon's
hateful words? The pure and the
proud mind can never confide its
wrongs to another, only its triumphs
and its happiness. But at that late
hour would Zanoni visit her — could
she receive him? Midnight was at
hand. Still in undefined suspense,
in intense anxiety, she lingered in
the room. The quarter before mid-
night sounded dull and distant. All
was still, and she was about to pass
to her sleeping-room, when she heard
the hoofe of a horse at full speed ; the
sound ceased ; there was a knock at
the door. Her heart beat violently ;
but fear gave way to another senti-
ment when she heard a voice, too well
known, calling on her name. She
paused, and then with the fearlessness
of innocence, descended, and unbarred
the' door.

Zanoni entered with a light and
hasty step. His horseman's cloak
fitted tightly to his noble form ; and
his broad hat threw a gloomy shade
over his commanding features.

The girl followed him into the
room she had just left, trembling and
blushing deeply, and stood before
him with the lamp she held shining
upward on her cheek, and the long
hair that fell like a shower of light
over the half clad shoulders and
heaving bust

" Viola," said Zanoni, in a voice
that spoke deep emotion, " I am by
thy side once more to save thee. Not
a moment is to be lost. Thou must
fly with me, or remain the victim of

the Prince di . I would have

made the charge I now undertake

another's; thou knowest I would —
thou knowest it! — but he is not
worthy of thee, the cold Englishman !
I throw myself at thy feet ; have trust
in me and fly."

He grasped her hand passionately
as he dropped on his knee, and looked
up into her face with his bright
beseeching eyes.

" Fly with thee ! " said Viola, scarce
believing her senses.

" With me. Name, fame, honour —
all will be sacrificed if thou dost not"

" Then — then," said the wild girl,
falteringly, and turning aside her
face ; '' then I am not indifierent to
thee ] Thou wouldst not give me to
another 1"

Zanoni was silent; but his breast
heaved, his cheeks flushed, his eyes
darted dark and impassioned fire.

"Speak!" exclaimed Viola, in
jealous suspicion of his silence.

"Indifferent to me! No; but I
dare not yet say that I love thee."

" Then what matters my fate 1" said .
Viola, turning pale, and shrinking
from his side ; " leave me— I fear no
danger. My life, and therefore my
honour, is in mine own hands."

"Be not so mad," said ZanonL
'' Hark ! do you hear the neigh of my
steed 1 — it is an alarum that warns us
of the approaching peril. Haste, or
you are lost ! "

"Why dost thou care for mel"
said the girl, bitterly. "Thou hast
read my heart; thou knowest that
thou art become the lord of my
destiny. But to be bound beneath
the weight of a cold obligation; to
be the beggar on the eyes of Indiffer-
ence; to cast myself on one who
loves me not ; that were indeed the
vilest sin of my sex. Ah, Zanoni,
rather let me die ! "

She had thrown back her clustering
hair from her face while she spoke ;
and as she now stood, with her arms
drooping mournfully, and her hands-
clasped together ^with ^ the proud

118

ZANONI.

bitterness of her wayward spi rit, giving
new zest and charm to her singular
beauty, it was impossible to conceive
a sight more irresistible to the eye
and the heart.

"Tempt me not to thine own
danger — perhaps destruction!" ex-
claimed Zanoni, in faltering accents.
"Thou canst not dream of what
thou wouldst demand — come ! " and,
advancing, he wound his arm round
her waisfc. " Come, Viola ; believe
at least in my friendship, my honour,
my protection "

" And not thy love," said the Italian,
turning on him her reproachful eyes.
Those eyes met his, and he could not
withdraw from the charm of their
gaze. He felt her heart throbbing
beneath his own; her breath came
warm upon his cheek. He trembled
— He ! the lofty, the mysterious
Zanoni, who seemed to stand aloof
from his race. With a deep and
burning sigh, he murmured, " Viola,
I love thee! Oh!" he continued,
passionately, and releasing his hold,
he threw himself abruptly at her feet,
"I no more command; — as woman
should be wooed, I woo thee. From
the first glance of those eyes — from
the first sound of thy voice, thou
becamest too fatally dear to me.
Thou speakest of fascination — it lives
and it breathes in thee ! I fled from
Kaples to fly from thy presence — it
pursued me. Months, years passed,
and thy sweet face still shone upon
my heart. I returned, because I
pictured thee alone and sorrowftil in
the world; and knew that dangers
from which I might save thee were
gathering near thee and around.
Beautiful Soul ! whose leares I have
read with reverence, it was for thy
sake, thine alone, that I would have
given thee to one who might make
thee hs^pier on earth than I can.
Viola! Viola! thou knowest not —
never* canst thou know — how dear
thou art to me ! "

It is in vain to seek for words to
describe the delight — the proud, the
fall, the complete, and the entire
delight that filled the heart of the
Neapolitan. He whom she had con-
sidered too lofty even for love — ^more
humble to her than those she had half
despised! She was silent, but her
eyes spoke to him ; and then slowly,
as aware, at last, that the human lore
had advanced on the ideal, she shmnk
into the terrors of a modest and
virtuous nature. She did not dare —
she did not dream to ask him the
question she had so fearlessly made to
Glyndon ; but she felt a sudden cold-
ness — a sense that a barrier was
yet between love and love. *'0h,
Zanoni ! " she murmured, with down-
cast eyes, "ask me not to fly with
thee; tempt me not to my shame.
Thou wouldst protect me from others.
Oh, protect me from thyself I *

" Poor orphan I ** said he, tenderly,
"and canst thou think that I ask
from thee one sacrifice, — still less the
greatest that woman can give to love?
As my wife I woo thee, and by every
tie, and by every vow that can hallow
and endiear affisction. Alas, they have
belied love to thee indeed, if thou
dost not know the religion that
belongs to it ! They who truly love
would seek, for the treasure they
obtain, every bond that can make it
lasting and secure. Viola, weep not,
unless thou givest me the holy right
to kiss away thy tears I "

And that beautiftil face, no more
averted, drooped upon his bosom;
and as he bent down, his lips sought
the rosy mouth : a long and burning
kiss — danger — ^life — the world was
forgotten! Suddenly Zanoni tore
himself from her«

" Hearest thou the wind that sighs,
and dies away 1 As that wind, my
power to preserve thee, to guard thee,
to foresee the storm in thy skies, is
gone. No matter. Haste, haste;
and may love supply the loss of

ZANOKI.

119

a.11 that it has dared to sacrifice !
Come."

Viola hesitated no more. She
threw her mantle over her shoulders,
and gathered up her dishevelled hair ;
a moment, and she was prepared,
when a sudden crash was heard below.

" Too late ! — ^fool that I was — too
late ! ** cried Zanoni, in a sharp tone
of agony, as he hurried to the door.
He opened it, only to be borne back
by the press of armed men. The
room literally swarmed with the
followers of the ravisher, masked, and
armed to the teeth.

Yiola was already in the grasp of

two of the myrmidons. Her shriek
smote the ear of Zanoni. He sprang
forward; and Viola heard his wild
cry in a foreign tongue ! She saw the
blades of the ruffians pointed at his
breast! She lost her senses; and
when she recovered, she found herself
gagged, and in a carriage that was
driven rapidly, by the side of a
masked and motionless figure. The
carriage stopped at the portals of a
gloomy mansion. The gates opened
noiselessly; a broad flight of steps,
brilliantly illumined, was before
her. She was in the palace of the
Prince di —---^

120

ZANOKI.

; CHAPTEE XIV.

Ma lasciaaift, per Dio, Signore, orinal
t)i parlar dim, e dl cantar di morte *

Okl. Fur., Canto svH. xvji.

The young actress was led to, and
left alone in, a chamber adorned with
all the luznrions and half-Eastern
taste that, at one time, characterised
the palaces of the great seigneurs of
Italy. Her first thought was for
Zanoni. Was he yet living? Had
he escaped unscathed the blades of
the foe 1 her new treasure — ^the new
light of her life — ^her lord, at last her
lover 'i

She had short time for reflection.
She heard steps approaching the
chamber ; she drew back, but trem-
bled not. A courage, not of herself,
never known before, sparkled in hg|
eyes, and dilated her stature. Living
or dead, she would be foithful still to
Zanoni ! There was a new motive to
the preservation of honour. The
door opened, and the Prince entered
in the gorgeous and gaudy costume
still worn at that time in Kaples.

" Fair and cruel one," said he,
advancing, with a half sneer upon his
lip, " thou wilt not too harshly blame
the violence of love." He attempted
to take her hand as he spoke.

"Nay," said he, as she recoiled,
"reflect that thou art now in the
power of one that never faltered in
the pursuit of an object less dear to
him than thou art. Thy lover, pre-
sumptuous though he be, is not by to
save thee. Mine thou art; but
instead of thy master, suflfer me to be
thy slave."

* But leave xne, I solemnly cox^ure thee
Signor, to speak of wrath, and to sing of

" Prince," said Viola, with a stern
gravity, " your boast is in vain. Yonr
power! 1 am not in your power.
Life and death arc in my own hands.
I will not deiy ; but I do not fear you.
I feel — ^and in some feelings,* added
Viola, with a solemnity almost
thrilling, " there is all the strength,
and all the divinity of knowledge — I
feel that I am safe even here ; but you

— ^you, Prince di , have brought

danger to your home and hearth ! "

The Keapolitan seemed startled by
an earnestness and boldness he was
but little prepared for. He was not,
however, a man easily intimidated or
deferred from any purpose he had
formed ; and, approaching Viola, ho
was about to reply with much warmth,
real or aflected, when a knock ^?as
heard at the door of the chamber.
The sound was repeated, gad the
Prince, chafed at the M^^|io^
opened the door and ^^^Bfll
impatiently, who had ^l^^BTto
disobey his orders, and invaoe his
leisure. Mascari presented himself,
pale and agitated : " My lord," said
he, in a whisper, " pardon me ; but a
stranger is below, who insists on
seeing you ; and, from some words hd
let fall, I judged it advisable^en to
infringe your commands." ^V

" A stranger ! — and at iBThour !
What business can he ptJfend ? Why
was he even admitted ?" -

"He asserts that your life is in
imminent danger. The seiircc whence
it proceeds he will relate to your
Excellency alone."

ZANONT.

121

The Prince frowned ; but his colour
changed. He mused a moment,
and then re-enterinj^ the
and advancing towards Viola, he
said —

*' Believe m^,;fair creature, I have
no -wish to take advantage of my
IioTrer. I would fain trust alone to
the gentler authorities of affection.
Hold yourself queen within these
walls more absolutely than you have
ever enacted that part on the stage.
To-night, farewell I May your sleep
be calm, and your dreams propitious
to my hopes."

With these words he retired, and in
a few moments Viola was surrounded
hy officious attendants, whom she at
length, with some difficulty, dismissed ;
and refusing to retire to rest, she spent
the night in examining the chamber,
which she found was secured, and in
thoughts of Zanoni, in whose power
she felt an almost preternatural con-
fidence.

Meanwhile, the Prince descended
the stairs, and sought the room
into which the stranger had been
shown.

He found the visitor wrapped from
head to foot in a long robe — half
gown, half mantle — such as was some-
times worn by ecclesiastics. The face
. ti^^BM^er was remarkable ! So
In^HHnd swarthy were las hues,
^a^Komst, apparently, have derived
his ongin amongst the races of the
furthest East. His forehead was
lofty, and his eyes so penetrating, yet
BO calm in their gaze, that the Prince
shrunk from them as we shrink from
'^ questioner who is drawing forth the
guiltieet secret of our hearts.

"<i^ would you with mel"
asked tie Prince, motioning his
visitor to a t^t.

" Prince of " said the stranger,

in a voice deep and &weet, but foreign
in its accent; " son of the most ener-
getic and masculine race that. ever
applied godlike genius to the service

chambei# ' descendani

of Human Will, with its "winding
^ckedness and its stubborn grandeur ;
it of the great Visconti, in
whose chronicles lies the History of
Italy in her palmy day, and in whose
rise was the development of the
mightiest intellect, ripened by the
most restless ambition, I come to gaze
upon the last star in a darkening
firmament. By this hour tp-morrow
space shall know it not. Man!
unless thy whole nature change, thy
days are numbered ! "

"What means this jargon ]" said
the Prince, in visible astonishment
and secret awe. "Comest thou to
menace me in my own halls, or wouldst
thou warn me of a danger 1 Art thou
some itinerant mountebank, or some
unguessed-of friend ] Speak out, and
plainly. What danger threatens me 1 "

" Zanoni and thy ancestor's sword,**
replied the stranger.

"Ha! ha!" said the Prince
laughing scornfully, " I half suspected
thee from the first Thou art then
the accomplice or the tool of that
most dexterous, but, at present,
defeated charlatan] And I suppose
thou wilt tell me that, if I were to
release a certain captive I have made,
the danger would vanish, and the
hand of the dial would be put
backl"

*' Judge of me as thou wilt. Prince

di . I confess my knowledge of

Zanoni. Thou, too, wilt know his
power, but not till it consume thee.
I would save, therefore I warn thee.
Dost thou ask me why 1 I will tell
thee. Canst thou remember to have
heard wild tales of thy grandsire ? —
of his desire for a knowledge that
passes that of the schools and cloisters ?
— of a strange man from the East,
who was his familiar and master in
lore, against which the Vatican has,
from age to age, launched its mi^mic
thunder 1 Dost thou call to mind
the fortunes of thy ancestor? — ^how
he succeeded in youth to little but a

122

ZANONI.

name ? — how, after a career wild and
dissolute as thine, he disappeared
from Milan, a paaper, and a self-exile 1
— ^how after years spent, none knew
in what climes or in what pursuits,
he again revisited the city where his
progenitors had reigned 1 — how with
him came the wise man of the East,
the mystic Mejnourl — how they who
beheld him, beheld with amaze and
fear that time had ploughed no furrow
on his brow ; that youth seemed fixed,
as by a spell, upon his face and form ]
Dost thou not know that from that
hour his fortunes rose 1 Kinsmen the
most remote died ; estate upon estate
fell into the hands of the ruined
noble. He became the guide of
princes, the first m'bgnate of Italy.
He founded anew the uouse [of
which thou art the last lineal upholder,
and transferred his splendour from
Milan to the Sicilian Eealms. Visions
of high ambition were then present
with him nightly and daily. Had he
lived, Italy would have known a new
dynasty, and the Visconti would have
reigned over Magna- Grsecia. He was
a man such as the world rarely sees ;
but his ends, too earthly, were at war
with the means he sought. Had his
ambition been more or less, he had
been worthy of a realm mightier than
the CsBsars swayed; worthy of our
solemn order ; worthy of the fellow-
ship of Mejnour, whom you now
behold before you."

The Prince, who had listened with
deep and breathless attention to the
words of his singular guest, started
from his seat at his last words.
" Impostor ! " he cried, *' can you
dare thus to play with my credulity ]
Sixty years have flown since my
grandsire died ; were he living he had
passed his hundred and twentieth
year ; and you, whose old age is erect
and vigorous, have the assurance to
pretend to have been his contem-
porary! But you have imperfectly
learned your tale. You know not, it

seems, that my grandsire, wise and
illustrious indeed, in all save his faith
lb a charlatan, was found dead in his
bed, in the very hour when his
colossal plans were ripe for execution,
and that Mejnour was guilty of his
murder."

'' Alas !" answered the stranger, in
a voice of great sadness, *' had he but
listened to Mejnour, had he but
delayed the last and most peribus
ordeal of daring wisdom until the
requisite training and initiation had
been completed, your ancestor would
have stood with me upon an eminence
which the waters of Death ilaelf wash
everlastingly, but cannot overflow.
Your grandee resisted my fervent
prayers, disobeyed my most absolute
commands, and in the sublime rash-
ness of a sonl that panted, for secrets,
which he who desires orbs and sceptres
never can obtain, perished, the victim
of his own frenzy."

"He was poisoned, and Mejnour
fled."

" Mejnour fled not," answered the
stranger, proudly; "Mejnour could
not fly from danger; for, to him,
danger is a thing long left behind. It
was the day before the duke took the
fatal draught which he believed was
to confer on the mortal the immortal
boon, that finding my pow«HM him
was gone, I abandoned l^^Hb hts
doom. But a truce with thlHL loved
your grandsire ! I would sav^ie last
of his race. Oppose not thyself to
Zanoni. Yield not thy soul to thine
evil passions. Draw back from the
precipice while there is yet time. In
thy front, and in thine eyes, I detect
some of that diviner glory which
belonged to thy race. Thou hast in
thee some germs of their hereditary
genius, but they are choked up by
worse than thy hereditary vices.
BecoUect that by genius thy house
rose ; by vice it ever failed to per-
petuate its power. In Uie laws which
regulate the Universe it is decreed,

ZAXONI.

123

that nothing wicked can long endure.
Be wise, and let history warn thee.
Thou Blandest on the verge of two
worlds, the Past and the Future;
and voices from either shriek omen in
thj ear. I have done. I bid thee
farewell ! "

" Not 80 ; thou shalt not quit these
walls. I will make experiment of thy
boasted power. What, ho there !—
ho!"

The Prince shouted ; the room was
filled with his minions.

" Seize that man ! " he cried,
pointing to the spot which had been
filled by the form of Mejnonr. To

his inconceivable amaze and horror,
the spot was vacant. The mysterious
stranger had vanished like a dream.
But a thin and fragrant mist undu-
lated, in pale volumes, round the
walls of the chamber. " Look to my
lord," cried Mascari. The Prince had
fallen to the floor insensible. For
many hours he seemed in a kind of
trance. When he recovered he dis-
missed his attendants, and his step
was heard in his chamber, pacing to
and fro, with heavy and disordered
strides. Not till an hour before his
banquet the next day did he seem
restored to his wonted self.

124

ZANONI.

CHAPTER XV.

Oime ! come poss 'io

Altri trovar, se me troTar non posso.*

Amint., At. L Sc. ii.

The sleep of Glyndon, the niglit after
hiB 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 senti-
ment of calmness, that seemed more
the result of resolution than exhaus-
tion. 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 excur-
sign 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 re-
signed 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

* Alas ! how cnn I find another, when I
cannot find myself?

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 manu-
script 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 orna-
ments 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 sun-light
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 per-
ceived Gionetta coming towards him
from the street. The poor old woman
uttered an exclamation of joy on
seeing him; but to their mutual
disappointment, neither had any
cheerful tidings or satisfactory expla-

ZANONI.

125

naiion. to afford the other. Gionetta
liad been aroused from her slumber
the night before by the noise in the
rooms below; but, ere she could
muster courage to descend, Viola was
gone! She found the marks of
violence on the door without; and
all slie had since been able to learn
in the neighbourhood, was, that a
Xiazzarone, from his nocturnal resting-
place on the Chiaja, had seen by the
moonlight a carriage, which he recog-
nised as belonging to the Prince

di ^,pass and repass that road

about the first hour of morning.
Glyndon, on gathering, from the
confused words and broken sobs of
the old nurse, the heads of this
account, abruptly left her and repaired
to the palace of Zanoni. There he
was informed that the Signer was
gone to the banquet of the Prince

di , and would not return till

late. Qlyndon stood motionless with

perplexity and dismay; he knew
not what to believe, or how to act.
Even Merrale was not at hand to
advise him. His conscience smote
him bitterly. He had had the power
to save the woman he had loved, and
had foregone that power; but how was
it that in this Zanoni himself had
failed] How was it that he was
gone to the very banquet of the
ravisher 1 Could Zanoni be aware of
what had passed ? If not, should he
lose a moment in apprising himi
Though mentally irresolute, no man
was more physically brave. He
would repair at once to the palace
of the Prince himself; and if Zanoni
failed in the trust he had half
appeared to arrogate, he, the humble
foreigner, would demand the captive
of fraud and force, in the very halls
and before the assembled guests of
the Prince di .

12t>

ZANOKI.

CHAPTER XXI.

Ardua rallalnr duriB sapientia scrupis *

Hadr. Juk., Emblem, xxxvli.

We must go back some honn in the
progress of this narrative. It was the
first faint and gradual break of the
summer dawn ; and two men stood in
a balcony overhanging a garden
fragrant with the scents of the
awakening flowers. The stars had
not yet left the sky — the birds were yet
silent on the boughs; all was still,
hushed, and tranquil ; but how
different the tranquillity of reviving
. day from the solemn repose of night !
In the music of silence there are a
thousand variations. These men,
who alone seemed awake in Naples,
were Zanoni and the mysterious
stranger, who had but an hour or two

ago startled the Prince di in

his voluptuous palace.

"No," said the latter; "hadst
thou delayed the acceptance of the
Arch Gift until thou hadst attained
to the years, and passed through all
the desolate bereavements, that chilled
and seared myself, ere my researches
^had made it mine, thou wouldst have
escaped the curse of which thou
complainest now, thou wouldst not
have mourned over the brevity of
human affection as compared to the
duration of thine own existence ; for
thou wouldst have survived the very
desire and dream of the love of
woman. Brightest, and, but for that
error, perhaps the loftiest, of the
secret and solemn race that fills up
the interval in creation between
mankind and the children of the

* Lofty wisdom ia circled round with
rugged rocks.

Empyreal, age after age wilt thou
rue the splendid folly which made
thee ask to carry the beauty and the
passions of youth into the dreaxy
grandeur of earthly immortality."

" I do not repent, nor shall I,"
I answered Zanoni. " The transport
I and the sorrow, so wildly blended,
which have at inten'als diversified
I my doom, are better than the calm
and bloodless tenour of thy aoUtsary
way. Thou, who lovest nothing,
hatest nothing, feelest nothing ; and
walkest the world with the noiseless
and joyless footsteps of a dream ! "

" You mistake," replied he who had
owned the name of Mejnour, —
" though I care not for love, and am
dead to every passion that agitates
the sons of clay, I am not dead to
their more serene enjoyments. I carry
down the stream of the countless
years, not the turbulent desires of
youth — but the calm and spiritual
delights of age. Wisely and deli-
berately I abandoned youth for ever
when I separated my lot from men.
Let us not envy or reproach each
othcB|^I would have saved this
Nea^Ran, Zanoni (since so it now
pleases thee to be called), partly
because his grandsire was but divided
by the last airy barrier from our own
brotherhood — ^partly because I know
that in the man himself lurk the
elements of ancestral courage and
power, which in earlier life would
have fitted him for one of us. Earth
holds but few to whom nature Las
given the qualities that can bear the
ordeal! But time and excess, that

ZANONL

127

liave thickened his grosser senses, I
have blunted his imagination. I
relinquish him to his doom."

"And still, then, Mejnour, you
cherish the desire to revive our order,
limited now to ourselves alone, by new
converts and allies ; surely — surely —
thy experience might have taught
thee, that scarcely once in a thousand
years is born the being who can pass
through the horrible gates that lead
into the worlds without. Is not thy
path already strewed with thy vic-
tims 1 Do not their ghastly faces of
agony and fear — the blood-stained
suicide, the raving maniac — rise
hefore thee, and warn what is yet left
to thee of human sympathy from thy
insane ambition ] "

" i^ay," answered Mejnour ; " have
I* not had success to counterbalance
failure 1 And can I forego this lofty
and august hope, worthy alone of our
high condition — the hope to form a
mighty and numerous race with a
force and power sufficient to permit
them to acknowledge to mankind
their m^gestic conquests and dominion
— 'to become the true lords of this
planet— invaders, perchance of others,
— ^masters of the inimical and malig-
nant tribes by which at this moment
we are surrounded, — a race that may
proceed, in their deathless destinies,
from stage to stage of celestial glory,
and rank at last amongst the nearest
minifitrants and agents gathered
round the Throne of Thrones 1 What
matter a thousand victims &r one
convert to our bandl A'flhyou>
Zanoni," continued Mqjnour, after a
pause — "you, even you, should this
affection for a mortal beauty that you
have dared, despite yourself, to
eherish, be more than a passing £incy
. — should it, once admitted into your
inmost nature, partake of ^ts bright

and enduring essence — even you may
brave all things to raise the beloved
one into your equal. Nay, interrupt
me not. Can you see sickness menace
her — danger hover around — years
creep on — the eyes grow dim — the
beauty fade — while the heart, youthful
still, clings and fastens round your
own, — can you see this, and know it
is yours to "*

" Cease ! " cried Zanoni, fiercely.
" What is all other fate as compared
to the death of terror 1 What, when
the coldest sage — the most heated
enthusiast — ^the hardiest warrior, with
his nerves of iron — ^have been found
dead in their beds, with straining
eyeballs and horrent hair, at the first
step of the Dread Progress, — ^thinkest
thou that this weak woman — from
whose cheek a sound at the window,
the screech of the night-owl, the sight
of a drop of blood on a man's sword,
would start the colour — could brave

one glance of ^Away ! — ^the very

thought of such sights for her makes
even myself a coward I"

" When you told her you loved her
— ^when you clasped her to your breast,
you renounced all power to foresee
her future lot, or protect her from
harm. Henceforth to her you are
human, and human only. How know
you, then, to what you may be
tempted'^ — how know you what her
curiosity may learn and her courage
brave 1 But enough of this— you arc
bent on your pursuit?"
. " The fiat has gone forth."

" And to-morrow 1 "

" To-morrow, at this hour, our bark
will be bounding over yonder ocean,
and the weight of ages will have
fallen from my heart ! I compassionate
thee, foolish sage, — thou hast given
up thy youth 1

128

ZANONI.

CHAPTER XVII.

Alch. Thon always speakest riddles. Tell me if thou art that fountain of which Bernard

Lord Trevizan writ?
Mbrc. I am not that fountain, but I am the water. The fountain compasaeth me about.

Sandivogius, New Light of Alchffmy,

The Prince di was not a man

whom Naples could suppose to be
addicted to superstitious fancies. Still,
in the south of Italy, there was then,
and there still lingers, a certain spirit
of credulity, which may, ever and
anon, be visible amidst the boldest
•dogmas of their philosophers and
sceptics. In his childhood, the
Prince had learned strange tales of
the ambition, the genius, and the
career of his grandsire, — ^and secretly,
perhaps influenced by ancestral exam-
ple, in earlier youth he himself had
followed science, not only through her
legitimate course, but her antiquated
and erratic windings. I have, indeed,
been shown in Naples a little volume,
blazoned with the arms of the
Visconti, and ascribed to the noble-
man I refer to, which treats of alchymy
in a spirit half mocking and half
reverential.

Pleasure soon distracted him fron^
such speculations, and his talents,
which were unquestionably great,
were wholly perverted to extravagant
intrigues, or to the embellishment of
a gorgeous ostentation with something
of classic grace. His immense wealth,
his imperious pride, his unscrupulous
and daring character, made him an
object of no inconsiderable fear to a
feeble and timid court; and the
ministers of the indolent government
willingly connived at excesses which
allured him at least from ambition.
The strange visit, and yet more
strange departure, of Mejnour, filled

the breast of the Neapolitan with
awe and wonder, against which all
the haughty arrogance and learned
scepticism of his maturer manhood
combated in vain. The apparition of
Mejnour served, indeed, to invest
Zanoni with a character in which the
Prince had not hitherto regarded him.
He felt a strange alarm at the rival
he had braved — at the foe he had
provoked. When, a little before his
banquet, he ^had resumed his self-
possession, it was with a fell and
gloomy resolution that he brooded
over the perfidious schemes he had
previously formed. He felt as if the
death of the mysterious Zanoni were
necessary for the preservation of his
own life, and if at an earlier period
of their rivalry he had determined on
the fate of Zanoni, the warnings of
Mejnour only served to confirm his
resolve.

'*We will try if his magic can
invent an antidote to the bane," said
he, half aloud, and with a stern smile,
as he summoned Mascari to his
present. The poison which the
Prince, with his own hands, mixed
into the wine intended for his
guest, was compounded from mate-
rials, the secret of which had been
one of the proudest heir-looms of
that able and evil race, which gave to
Italy her wisest and guiltiest tyrants.
Its operation was quick, yet not
sudden — it produced no pain— it left
on the form no grim convulsion, on
the skin no purpling spot, to arouse

ZANOKL

120

suspicion, — jou miglit have cut and
carved every membrane and fibre of
the corpse, but the sharpest eyes of
the leedi would not haye detected
the presence of the subtle life-queller.
For twelve hours the victim felt
nothing, save a joyous and elated
exhilaration of the blood — a delicious
lao^aor followed, the sure forerunner
of apoplexy. ISo lancet then could
save ! Apoplexy had run much in
the families of the enemies of the
Yiaconti !

The hour of the feast arrived — ^the
gaests assembled. There were the
flower of the Neapolitan seignorie,
the descendants of the Korman, the
Teuton, the Goth; for Naples had
then a nobility, but derived it from
the North, which has indeed been the
Nittrix Leonvm, the nurse of the
lion-hearted chivfdry of the world.

Last of the guests came Zanoni;
and the crowd gave way as the
dazzling foreigner moved along to
the lord of the palace. The Prince
greeted him with a meaning smile, to
which Zanoni answered by a whisper
— " He who plays with loaded dice
does not always win."

The Prince bit his lip ; and Zanoni,
passing on, seemed deep in conversa*
tion with the fawning Mascari.

* Who is the Prince's heir r* asked
the Guest.

" A distant relation on the mother's
side; with his Excellency dies the
male line.''

'' Is the heir present at our host*s
banquet]"

" No ; they are not Mends.'*
<< No matter ; he will be here to-
morrow I "

Mascari stared in surprise ; but the
mgnal for the banquet was given, and
the guests were marshalled to the
board. As was the custom then, the
feast took place not long after mid-
day. It was a long oval hall, the
whole of one side opening by a
marble colonnade upon a court or
No. 267. J

garden, in which the eye tested
gratefidly upon cool fountains and
statues of whitest marble, half shel-
tered by orange trees. Every art
that luxury could invent to give
freshness and coolness to the languid
and breezeless heat of the day
without (a day on which the breath
of the sirocco was abroad) had been
called into existence. Artificial cur-
rents of air through invisible tubes,
silken blinds waving to and firo as if
to cheat the senses into the belief of
an April wind, and miniature jets
deau in each comer of the apart-
ment, gave to the Italians the same
sense of exhilaration and comfort (if
I may use the word) which the well-
drawn curtains and the blazing hearth
afford to the children of colder
climes.

The conversation was somewhat
more lively and iutellectual than is
common amongstthe hmguid pleasure-
hunters of the South ; for the Prince,
himself accomplished, sought his
acquaintance not only amongst the
heaixx eaprita of his own country, but
amongst the gay foreigners who
adorned and relieved the monotony
of the Neapolitan circles. There
were present two or three of the
brilliant Frenchmen of the old rigimey
who had^ already emigrated from the
advancing revolution, and their pecu-
liar turn of thought and wit was well
calculated for the meridian of a society '
that made the Dolce far rviente at
once its philosophy and its fidth. The
Prince, however, was more silent than
usual ; and when he sought to rouse
himself, his spirits were forced and
exaggerated. To the manners of his
host, those of Zanoni afforded a
striking contrast. The bearing of
this singular person was at all times
characterised by a calm and polished
ease, which was attributed by the
courtiers to the long habit of society.
He could scarcely be called gay ; yet
few persons more tended to animat''
: 9

ISO

m^snom.

tk«<genenil sptiltfl tt aMnmialctnie.
He sMBifid^.by a kind 4>f i intnitioii, to
eUeit from -eaeh eompanion ibe
^^Itties in ^wiiidi Iw mogt esceUed;
4usd if ocofi8i<»ia%a certain tone of
lat«nt nockery dBduraeteruied kis
remaxkB upon the topie&on wMck
Ahe con'rarsatum lisU^ it appeared to
men wko teek aotking in eameit to
ke tke kngaage belh of ifit and
irii^xa. .To« the EreDchmcn in . par-
ticular there was "Bamethii^ startling
in his iatisnate kaowle^ ef the
minatestp events i& their t)Dfii capital
and cowitr79>aBd his pr^und pene-
tiatioik (eiiiiced but in epigiams and
tsareaams) into the eminent eharactess
irko were then placing a part upon
the geeatfitageef Contiaentid intri^pne.
It was while tMs oonversatKn. grew
animated, and the feast was tat . its
height, til^at .Olyndea. arrived at the
palaee. The porter, iperceiring by
his dress that he «as .aot' •one.'Of tl^
invited .guests, t<M him tkat his
Excellenosrwas eoBgi^ged, and en no
aeeoaat owld foe dastaiked; and
Glyndon then^fer the first tine,
beoame^ware how strange and em-
barrassing iwas tke daty he had
taken on himsel£ .'So force an
etttraace mto the hanqiiet hall of
a great and powerfiil noble, -sur-
Tonnded by the . Bank :€f l^aples, <asd
to arraign him for what to his boon
cempanioBB would appear but- an act
of gallantry, was an exploit that
could net iail to< be at once* kidicrons
and im.potent. He mused a nMosient ;
and slippii^ a piece of gold into the
porter's hand, said that he was com-
miesie&ed to seek the Signer Zanoni
upon an errand of life and death ; and
easily won . his wiy across the court,
and into the interior building. He
passed 'np the broad staircase, and
the Tsices and merriment of the
rereUers amote his ear at a distaaoe.
At the entnnce of the reception-
rooms he found a > page, wh<mi he
deqiatdied tnl&k a-messagotoZanoni

'Sbe p^pedad tib&emuid i and Zaakem,

en -hearing tin whispered name of
Glynden,* tamed toi his host.

*^ Fai!dan.me,:n^ lord ; anEkiglifdi
Mend «f • mine, i the ^Slgnor Qiynden
(net unknown by name to-yoar Exed-
leney) waits iwithout-^the buainess
must Indeed be urgent, en which he
hassoaghtmeinsuchianhour. Yea
will ' forgive my momentary ahsanee."

" liay, 8ignor,*'.8nswered the Prinee,
eenrteondy,! taut with a siniBtcr amiie
on his countenance, ''would it not
be better for yenr fiiend to join usi
An Saglidiman is welcome every-
where; and* even were he a IMcb-
man,- your fneoidskfp wouM inveat kis
presence ' with .attraction. HPniy kis
attendanee>->^we would* not spareTon
even for a moment.'"

.Zanoni bowred— the page was de-
spatched' with all flattering men^ges
to Qlyndan*^a seat nelt to Zanoni
was placed for kim, -and the yomg
Englishman entered.

^' You: are most welcome, sir. I
trust* your business to cur i&UBttiotts
guest is of good omen *awi:^eaamt
import. 'Ifyou.bring evil newsy d^r
it, I pray you."

•Qlynden's brow was suUen; and' he
was abeotto stattle the guests by his
reply, when Zanoni, toudiing his aim
aignificantiy, whiqiered in En^Heh —
"I know why you have sought me.
Be silent, and witness- what' enBitee.**

"Yon know, tken, that Viola,
whom you boasted you had the power
to save from danger" —

" Is in this house ! — ^yes. I know
also that Murder sits at the right
kand of our host But his fate is
now separated from hers for ever ;rsDd
the mirror which glasees it to my eye
is dear throngh the steams of blood.
Be still, and learn tho^Uie that awaits
thewidked!"

** My lord/' said Zanoni, .speaking
aloud, "tke Signor Glynden .has
indeed ]^*Gught me tidings, not
whoUy mexpeeted. I am compelled

TSMSONL

131

4o lesve *N8p)eB--i-aD ^ddiMboiial motife
to make tiie meat of the iwesent
lioiir."

" And what, if I may Tefttuffe to
ask:, may be the cause that brings
such auction >on'the fair dames of
D^aplesl"

'^It is the ' approaching death of
one who honoured me with most loyal
fiiendsMp/' replied Zanoni, grav^.
^ Iiet ns not^ speak of it; grief cannot
put back the dial. As we supply by
new flowers those that fade in our
vases, so it is the secret of worldly
'Wisdom to replace by fresh friendships
those that fade from our pat^."

*' Tme philosq[>hy ! " exclaimed the
Prince. *"Not to mhndre,* was the
BoBUOi's maxim ; ' Never' to mourn/
is mine, '^here is nothing in life to
Srieye lor, save, indeed, Signer Zanoni,
when some yonng beauty on whom
we hare set our hearts, slips from our
gfasp. bi such a moment we - have
need of 'all our wisdcnoci, not to sue-
emnb to despair, and shake hands
with death. What say you. Signer?
Tcfu smile! Such never could be
your lot. Pledge me in a sentiment
— 'Long life to the fortunate lover
— a quick release to the baffled
snitorr"

" I pledge yofu," said Zanoni. And
as the &tal wine was pora^d into his
^hisB, he repeated, fixing his eyes on
the Prince, " I pledge you even in
this wine ! "

He lifted the glass to his lips. The
Prince seemed ghastly pde while the
gaze of his Guest bent upon him,
with an intent and stern brightness
beneath which the conscience^striekcn
host ^cowered and quailed. Not till
he had drained the draught, and
replaced the glass upon the board,
did Zanoni turn his eyes from the
Prince; and he then said, ''Tour
wine has been kept too long ; it has
loi^ its virtues. It might disi^ee
with many, bat do not fear ; it will
mot ham tte^ Prince. SignovMaseari;

] yon<are a judge e£ the grape ; will you

favour us with your opinion ] "

I " 'Nay," answered Mascari, with

' well-affected composure, '' I like not

' the wines of Cyprus; they are heating.

Perhaps Signor Glyndon may not

have Uie same distaste 1 The English

are said to love their potations warm

and pungent."

"Do you wish my fi-iend also to
taste the wine, Prince 1" said Zanoni.
"Recollect, all cannot drink it with
the same impunity as myself."

** No," said the Prince, ^hastily ; "if
you do not recommend the wine.
Heaven forbid that we should con-
sttain our guests ! My Lord Duke,"
turning to <me of the Frenchmen,
" yours is the true soil of Bacchus.
What think you of this cask from Bur-
gundy 'i Has It hornet the journey 1 "

" Ah," said Zanoni, " let us change
both the wine and the theme."

With that, Zanoni grew yet more
animated and brilliant. Never did
wit more sparkling, airy, exhilarating,
flash from the lips of reveller. His
spirits feseinated all present— even
the Prince himself, even Glyndon, —
with a strange and wild contagion.
The former, indeed, whom the words
and gaze of Zanoni, when he drained
the poison, had filled with fearful
misgivings, now hailed in the brilliant
eloquence of his wit, a certain sign of
the operation of the bane. The wine
circulated fast; but none seemed
conscious of its effects. One by one
the rest of the party fell into a
charmed and spell-bound silence, a$»
Zanoni continued to pour forth salljr
upon sally, tale upon tale. They
hung on his words, they almost held
their breath to listen. Yet, how
bitter was his mirth 1— how fall of
contempt for the triflers present, and
for the trifles which made their life.

Night came on; the room grew

dim, and the feast had lasted several

hours longer than was the customary

(Koirtion of similar entertainmentB <^^

k2

182

ZAKOSri.

that day. Still the gaests stinred
not, and still Zanoni continued, with
glittering eye and mocking lip, to
lavish his stores of intellect and
anecdote; when suddenly the moon
rose, and shed its rays over the flowers
and fountains in the court without,
leaving the room itself half in shadow
and half tinged by a quiet and ghosUy
Ught.
It was then that Zanoni rose.
Well, gentlemen," said he, "we
have not yet wearied our host, I hope;
and his garden offers a new tempta-
tion to protract our stay. Have you
no musicians among your train.
Prince, that might r^ale our ears
while we inhale the fragrance of your
orange trees T'

" An excellent thought t " said the
Prince. '' Mascari, see to the music."
The party rose simultaneously to
adjourn to the garden; and then for
the first time, the effect of the wine
they had drunk seemed to make itself
felt.

With flushed cheeks and unsteady
steps they came into the open air,
which tended yet more to stimulate
that glowing fever of the grape. As
if to make up for the silence with
which the guests had hitherto listened
to Zanoni, every tongue was now
loosened — every man talked, no man
listened. There was something wild
and fearful in the contrast between
the calm beauty of the night and,
scene, and the hubbub and clamour
of these disorderly roysters. One of
the Frenchmen, in especial, the young

Due de E , a nobleman of .the

highest rank, and of all the quick,
vivacious, and irascible temperament
of his countrymen, was particularly
noisy and excited. And as circum-
stances, the remembrance of which is
still preserved among cert-ain circles
of Naples, rendered it afterwards
necessary that the Due should him-
self give evidence of what occurred, I
will here translate the short account

he drew up, and which was kindly
submitted to me some few years ago
by my accomplished and lively Mend,
U Cavaliere cU B ,

"I never remember," writes the
Due, "to have felt my spirits so
excited as on that evening ; we were
like so many boys released from
school, jostling each other as we
reeled or ran down the flight of seven
or eight stairs that led from the
colonnade into the garden, — some
laughing, some whooping, some
scolding, some babbling. The wine
had brought out, as it were, each
man's inmost chsoracter. Some were
loud and quarrelsome, others senti-
mental and whining ; some whom we
had hitherto thought dull, most
mirthful; some whom we had ever
regarded as discreet and taciturn^
most garrulous and uproarious. I
remember that in the midst of our
clamorous gaiety, my eye fell upon
the cavalier. Signer Zanoni, whose
conversation had so enchanted ns all ;
and I felt a certain chill come over
me to perceive that he wore the same
calm and unsympathising smile upon
his countenance which had charac-
terised it in his singular and curious
stories of the Court of Louis XIV. I
felt, indeed, half inclined to seek a
quarrel with one whose composure
was almost an insult to our disorder.
Nor was such an effect of this irri-
tating and mocking tranquillity con-
fined to myself alone. Several of the
party have told me since, that, on
looking at Zanoni, they felt their
blood yet more heated, and gaiety
change to resentment. There seemed
in his icy smile a very charm to
wound vanity and provoke rage. It
was at this moment that the Prince
came up to me, and, passing his arm
into mine, led me a little apart, from,
the rest. He had , certainly indulged
in the same excess* as ourselves, but
it did not produce the same effect of

ZANONI.

138

xkoisy excitement. There was, on the
contrary^ a certain cold arrogance and
snperciHons scorn in his bearing and
language, which, even while affecting
80 much caressing courtesy towards
xne, roused my self-loye against him.
He seemed as if Zanoni had infected
liim; and in imitating the manner of
lujs guest, he surpassed the original.
He rallied me on some court gossip,
irhich had honoured my name by
associating it with a certain beautiful
and distinguished Sicilian lady, and
affected to treat with contempt that
which, had it been true, I should
have regarded as a boast. He spoke,
indeed, as if he himself had gathered
all the flowers of Naples, and left us
foreigners only the gleanings he had
scorned. At this, my natural and
national gallantry was piqued, and I
retorted by some sarcasms that I
should certainly have spared had
my blood been cooler. He laughed
heartily, and left me in a strange fit
of resentment and anger. Perhaps
(I must own the truth) the wine had
produced in me a wild disposition
to take offence and provoke quarrel.
As the Prince left me, I turned, and
saw Zanoni at my side.

" ' The Prince is a braggart,' said
he, with the same smile that displeased
me before. 'He would monopolise
all fortune and all love. Let us take
our revenge.'

'"Andhowr ^

" ' He has, at this moment^ in his
house the most enchanting singer in
Naples — the celebrated Viola PisanL
She is here, it is true, not by her own
choice; he carried her hither by
force, but he will pretend that she
adores him. Let us insist on Ms
producing this secret treasure, and
when she enters, the Due de B
can have no doubt that his flatteries
and attentions will charm the lady,
and provoke all the jealous fears of
our host. It would be a fair revenge
upon his imperious self-conceit'

" This suggestion delighted me. I
hastened to the Prince. At that
instant the musicians had just com-
menced ; I waved my hand, ordered
the music to stop, and addressing
the Prince, who was standing in the
centre of one of the gayest groups,
complained of his want of hospitality
in affording to us such poor proficients
in the art, while he reserved for his
own solace the lute and voice of the
first performer in Naples. I demanded,
half hmghingly, haJf seriously, that
he should produce the Pisani. My
demand was received with shouts of
applause by the rest. We drowned
the replies of our host with uproar,
and would hear no denial. ' Gentle-
men,' at last said the Prince, when he
could obtain an audience, * even were
I to assent to your proposal, I could
not induce the Signora to present her-
self before an assemblage as riotou-
as they are noble. You have too
much chivalry to use compulsion

with her, though the Due de B

forgets himself sufficiently to admi-
nister it to me.'

" I was stung by this taunt, however
weU deserved. 'Prince,' said I, *I
have for the indelicacy of compulsion
so illustrious an example, that I
cannot hesitate to pursue the path
honoured by your own footsteps. All
Naples knows that the Pisani despises
at once your gold and your love — that
force alone could have brought her
under your roof; and that you refuse
to produce her, because you fear her
complaints, and know enough of the
chivalry your vanity sneers at to feel
assured that the gentlemen of France
are not more disposed to worship
beauty than to defend it from wrong.'

" 'Yon speak well, sir,' said Zanoni
gravely. 'The Ftince dares not
produce his prize ! '

"The Prince remained speechless
for a few moments, as if with indig-
nation. At last he broke out into
expressions the most injurious and

iZi'

ziL^om:

insuUing^ agaioBt Signor Zanoni and
mjself. Zanoai replied not'; I was
more- hot and hastj. Tho guesia
appeared to delight in our dispute.
None, except Mascari, whom we
pushed aside and disdained to hear/
strove to conciliate; some took one
side, some another. The issue may
be well foreseen. Swords were called
for and procased. Two were offisred
me by one of the party. I was about
to choose one, whenZanoni plaeed in
mj hand the other, which, from its
hilty appeared, of antiquated work*
manship. At the same moment,
looking towards the Prince, he- said,
snuMngly, ' The Ducdakes yonr gcandn
sire's sword. Frince> you are too
brave a. man for superstition ; you^
have* forgot the> forfeit t ' Our host-
seemed to me to recoil and .turn pale
at those words; noTertheless, he<
returned -Zanoni's sm^ with a look of
defiance. The next moment aU was
broil and disorder. There might, be
some six- or eight persona engaged in/
a strange and .confused kind of mSl^i
but the Prince and myself only
sought each other. The noise around
us, the confusion of the g^uestSj the
cries of the musicians,- the clash of
our own swocds, only served to
stimulate our* unhapi^ fury. We
feared to bo interrupted by* the
attendants, and fought 'like madmen*,
without skill or method. I thrust
and parried t mechanically, blind and'
fiaatic as if a4emon had entered into
mo, till I saw the Prince stretefaad at
my feety bathed. in* his blood, and
Zanoni bendmg over him and
wlyspering in his ear. Tiiat sight
cooled us all. The stri£& ceased; w«
gathered in. shame^- renu>cse,. and
horror round our illrfated host^but it
was too late — his eyes rolled fearfally «
in his head. I have seen many men.
die, but' never ono who wore such
horror on his counteaaaee. At hist,
all was over! Zanoni rose from the-
c<»*wA. aBdy taking^ with great com*

po8nre> the simrdfrommy hand, mim
calmly>— >'To are witnesses, gentlemeii,
that the Prinee brought his fateupoa
himsel£' The last of that iUustiioiis
house has perished in a bmwL'

''I saw no more of Zanoni I
hastened to our envoy to. narrate the
event, and abide the issue. I. as
grateful to the. Neapolitan- goverwi
meni, and to the illustrious, heir of
tho unfortunate nobleman, for the
lenient and generous, yet just^ inter*
prejsition put upon a misfortune, tl»
memory of which will afflict . me to«
the last hour of my life^
(Signed)
" Louis Viotob, Duo m R."

In the above memorial, the rwder
will find the most exact and amnnte'
account yet given of an ^ event .Tv^oeh
created the most lively sensation' at
Naples in that day.

Glyndon had taken no partyittth»
affiray, neither, had he partieipated
lai^^yin the .excesses of the.reveL
For his exemption from both, he was
perhaps indebted to the whispered
exhortations of Zanoni*. Whea the
last rose from the corpse, and withdreve
from that scene.o^conlnslon^ Qlyndon
remarked ihat in passing the crowd
he. touched < Mascaxi on the>shonlder^
and said something which the£ngiish^
man did not overhear. GUjyndon
followed Zanoni into the bui^ot-
room, which, save where' 'that- moon-
light slept on the mari)le-.flooc, was
wrapt in; the sad and gloomy ehadows*
of the advaiicing n%ht.

'' Hew. could' you fcMretell thia fearfdl
eventl He feU not by< your armi *'
said Olyndoa, in a., tremulous . and
hollowaonoi

''The general wko. calsulate&onthe*
victory does, noti fight in person^"
answered 21anoni; "let •the past sleep
withithe^deadj Meet meatmidnight
by the seashore, half a mile to the
left of yoor hotel.. Tou will know
the spot by a rude pillar^l^- only

Zc^ONL

185

one near — to which a broken chain is
attached. There and then, if thou
wonldst learn our lore, thou shalt find
the master. Go; — I have business
here yet. Bemember, Viola is still in
the house of the dead man ! **

Here Mascari approached, and
Zanoni, turning to the Italian, and
leaving his hand to Glyndon, drew
the former, aside. Glyndon slowly
departed.

''liascari/' said ZaiiMift, "yonr
psfcroci is no move; yimr servkes will
be mlaeleflB to im httix ; a«ob«r mail,
wJuMft. poverty has presenred frooi
Tioe. Bor yoiuielf, thank me that; I
do aie4 Igire yen np to th* eKeeoiioner ;

recollect the wine of Cyprus. Well,
never tremble, man ; it could not act
on me, though it might re-act on
others ; in that it is a common type
of crime. I forgive you ; and if the
wine should kill me, I promise you
that my ghost shall not haunt so
worshipful a penitent. Enough of
this ; conduct me to the chamber of
YiolaPisani. You have no further
need of her. The death of the gaoler
opens the eell of. the capftxTt.. BA
qmck, I wioiild be goiubJ*

Maacaii' mattered sone iiiMMUbie
word% bomd lew, a&d led the unQp
to.thechaabor in wUob Yiola wia

COB&Md.

186

ZAKONL

CHAPTER XVIir.

MsRC Tell me, therefore^ what thou seekest after, and what thou wilt have.

What doBt thou desut to make ?
ArcH. The PhiloMDlier's F'' ne. SAimiToonft.

was, perhaps, beneath his roof. Who-
ever has, in the course of his life,
indulged the absorbing passion of
the gamester, will remember how all
other pursuits and objects Taniahed
from his mind; hittr solely he was
wrapped in the one wild delusion;
^with what a sceptre of magic power
the despot-daemon ruled eyery feeling
and eveiy thought Far more intense
than the passion of the gamester was
the frantic, yet sublu|^desire >hat
mastered the breast ofll^don. He #
would be the rival of Zanoni, not in.'
human and perishable affections, b^t
in preternatural and eternal lore. He
would have laid down life with Con-
tent — ^nay, rapture, as the price of
learning those solemn secrets which
separated the stranger from mankind.
Enamoured of the goddess of
goddesses, he stretched forth his
arms — ^the wUd Ixion — and embraced
a cloud !

The night was most lovely and
serene, and the waves scarcely rippled
at his feet, as the Englishman glided
on by the cool and starry beach. At
length he arrived at the spot, and
there, leaning against the broken
pillar, he beheld a man wrapped in
a long mantle, and in an attitude of
profound repose. He approached
and uttered the name of Zanoni The
figure turned, and he saw the foce of
a stranger; a &ce not stamped by
the glorious beauty of Zanoni, but
equally miyestic in its aspect, and
perhaps still more impressive from
the mature age and the passionless

It wanted several minutes of mid-
night, and Glyndon repaired to the
appointed spot The mysterious
empire which Zanoni had acquired
over him, was^ still more solemnly
confirmed by the events of. the last
few hours; the sudden fote of the
Prince, so deliberately foreshadowed,
and yet so seemingly accidental,
brought out by causes the most
common-place, and yet associated with
words the most prophetic, impressed
him with the deepest sentiments of
admiration and awe. It was as if this
dark and wondrous being could con-
vert the most ordinary events and
the meanest instruments into the
agencies of his inscrutable will ; yet
if so, why have permitted the capture
of Viola 1 Why not have prevented
' the crime, rather than punish the
criminal ? And did Zanoni really feel
love for Viola? Love, and yet offer
to resign her to himself; to a rival
whom his arts could not have failed to
baffle. He no longer reverted to the
belief that Zanoni or Viola had sought
to dupe him into marriage. His fear
and reverence for the former now
forbade the notion of so poor an
imposture. Did he any longer love
Viola himself! No; when that
morning he had heard of her danger,
he had, it is true, returned to the
sympathies and the fears of affection ;
but with the death of the Prince her
image faded again from his heart,
and he felt no jealous pang at the
thought that she had been saved by
^%noni, — ^that at that moment she

ZANONL

137

depth of thought that charaeterised
-tlie expanded forehead, and deep-set
>>iit piereing eyes.

"Yon seek Zanoni," said the
stranger, ** he will be here anon ; but,
p«rhapsy he whom you see before you,
is more connected with your destiny,
SLud more disposed to realise your
dreams/'

<• . ** Hath the earth then another
-Zanonif

"If not," replied the stranger,
" why do you cherish the hope and
the wild faith to be yourself a Zanoni?
Think you that none, others have
burned with the same godlike dream 1
Who, indeed, in his first youth —
youth when the soul is nearer to the
heayen from which it sprung, and its
diyine and primal longings are not all
efiaoed by the sordid passions and
petlj^ares that are begot in time —
wh^^th«M|| youth that has not

%nounBhed tMRlief that the uniyerse
has secrets not known to the common
fa»rd, and panted, as the hart for the
water-springs, for the fountains that
lie hid and far away amidst the broad
wildemess of trackless science ? The
music of the fountain is heard in the
Bonl wUhin, till the steps, deceiyed
and erring, roye away from its waters,
and the wanderer dies in 'the mighty
desert Think you that none who
haye cherished the hope haye found
the truth ] or that the yearning after
the Ineflbble Knowledge was giyen to
UB utterly in yain 1 No ! iSyery
desire in human hearts is but a glimpse
of things that exists alike distant and
diyine. No ! in the world there haye
been from age to age, some brighter
and happier spirits who haye attained
to the air in which the beings aboye
mankind moye and breathe. Zanoni,
great though he be, stands not alone.
He has had his predecessors, and long
lines of successors may be yet to
come."

''And will you tell me," said
Glyndon, ''that in yourself I .behold

one of that mighty few'^oyer whom
Zanoni has no superiority in power
and wisdom ? "

^'In me," answered the stranger,
'* you see one from whom Zanoni him-
self learned some bf * his loftiest
secrets. On these siljt A| on this spot
haye I stood in ^ ages that your
chroniclers but feebly reach. The
Phoenician, the^reek, the Oscan, the
Roman, the L^bard, I haye seen
them all ! — ^leayes gay and glittering
on the trunk of the uniyersal life,
scattered in due season and again
renewed; tUl indeed, the same race
that gaye its glory to the ancient
world bestowed a second youth upon
the new. For the pure Greeks, the
Hellenes, whose ori^n has bewildered
your dreaming scholars, were of the
same great family as the Norman
tribe, bom to be the lords of the
uniyerse, and in no land on earth
destined to become the ' hewers of
wood. Even the dim traditions of
the learned, which bring the sons of
Hellas from the yast and undeter-
mined territories of northern Thrace,
to be the yictors of the pastoral
Pelasgi, and the founders of the line
of demi-gods ; — ^which assign to a
population bronzed beneath the suns
of the west, the blue-eyed Minerva
and the yellow-haired Achilles (phy-
sical characteristics of the north) ; —
which introduce amongst a pastoral
people, warlike aristocracies, and
limited monarohies, the feudalism of
the classic time ; even these might
serve you to trace back the primeval
settlements of the Hellenes to the
same region whence/ in later times,
the Norman warriors broke on the
dull and savage hordes of the Celt,
and became the Greeks of the Chris-
tian world. But this interests you
not, and you are wise in your indif-
ference. Not in the knowledge of
things without, but in the perfection
of the soul within, lies the empire
of man aspiring to be more than men "

isa

ZANONi.

''And whiU lM«k£ coniiaiB thai I
seieoiee — fron whai laboralory' ia^ it
wrought 1 "

^ Nature supines the materiak ;
thi^> are around yoa in yoor< daily
waUca* In the herbs that the beaat
deyour&and the ch^niat disdaioa to
coll; in the elementsy from which
xnatter in its meaoftst and its mightiest
shapes is deduced ; ii^he wide bosomc
of the air ; in the mack abysses of
the earth ; everywhere are given to
mortals the resources and libraries of
immortallore. . Bat as the simj^t
problems in the simplest of all
studies are obscure to one who braces
not his mind to their comtpvebension*
as the rower in ypnder vessel canned
tell you whgr two drdes^can toneh
each . other only in. one poiofi ; so^
though all earth wem carved over >attd
inscribed with the letters of diviner
kinoiivledge^ the diaraetcrs wcnild be
valueless to himwhodoesnotipoiiBO
to inquire the language, aswl meditate
tho truth*. Young man, if thy ima-
ginaticHx is vivid, if thy heart' is
daring, if thy- curiosity is insatiate,
I will accept thee as my pupil. But
the first lessens axe .stem <and <kead/f

*' If thou hast'mastered them, why
not I K'. ansiRcred Glyndon, boldly.
''I:hav»felt from my boyhood that
strango mysteries were reserved for
my career; and from the pfoudest
ends of ordinary, ambition^ I have
carried my gaee mto the <doud and
darkless that stretch* beyond. The
instant I.beheld Zasyom, I Mi- as if I
had discovered the guide, and the
tutor, fort which my< youth had ^ idly
laagnifihed And vainly burned."

"And to mo his duty is trans-
ferred," replied the stranger. "Yonder
lies, anchored in . the bay, the vessel
in. which Zanoai aeeks a £urer home^
a Jlittlo while and the .breeae wiU rise,
the sail will swell, and. the stranger
will have passed, like a wind, amy.
Still, like, the wind, ho leaves in tb^
heart the seeds that may bear> the

bksBomand.tbo frnil Zan<fld baib
performed . his task«he>' is wanted no
more ; the perfecter of his w<»k is at

thy sido.' ^He comes! I hear the

dash of. the ook. You will have yoiur
choice submitted to you. Accoiding
as you decide, we shall meet agaia."
With these words the strange moved
slowly away, and disappeared beneailL
the shadow of the clifi& A boat
glided rapidly across the watoa;
it touched land*; a. man leapt on.
shore, and Glyndon reoogniaed
ZanonL

"I give :thee>. Glyndon, I. give thee
no ottore the optioa of happy.lonroami
serene enjoyment. That hoar is past^
and &to has linked, tho hand that
mighi haaroibeen thine owai,itanune.
But! have ample giflstobestow.upgia
thee, if. thou wilt abandon the. hopo
that gnawB thy heart, and the realisar
tion of which, even LJmf^ ncft the
poipor to ifotesee. BoflHae ambitioii *
human, asucl I can .gratify> it to the
full. Men desire f omr thingsiini lifer-
love, wcalthr&mc^ ppirer« The fiiat
I cannot give th«^ .the rest ace aA mj,
disposal. Sdeet .whieh of them tiioa
wilt, and let: us purtria peaoe.^

"Such are not. the gifkal covet.
Idxoose knowled^ that kmMvledgo
mast be thine oitak. Eov this^ andfor
tMs alone, Xsurrend^^' the Iv^e-oi
Yi^lkk; ,thi^ and}, this. akMc^ ^nnat be
m^TTeeoni^iensei"

"I cannot jgiiimay the^ i^Mvgl^ I
can. warn. The desire to leaon does
not always contain thiO'&oBlty to
aoqidrck'. I caa: gi!ve thee^ it is^true^
the teaehei^the rest jnust'.dep^nd toa
iheo. Bo wise in time, ^nditaloe that
whieh I caa aesutet to tl^eJ!

** Ansirer me but : thea» qipeatfoBs,
and' according, to /your answer IxwiU
decide.. Is it .in tho> power of- man
to attain, inteveonrae iwxth thotjbeiags
of other worlds ? . Ia> it in the power
of man to influence the element^ and
toucnsaie. life against tba. sword and
iBgaiBStdiBeaaol"

ZANONL

18d'

** All thismaj be possible^'* answered
YaoLom, eyasively^ "to the few. But
for one who attains such secrets,
millions may perish in the attempt."

*' One question more. Thou ."

*^ewarel Of myself, as I have
said, before, I render no account."

" Well, then, the stranger I have
met this night, are his boasts to be
believed % Is he in truth one of the
chosen seers whom you allow to have
mastered the mysteries I yearn to
&thomr

"Bash man," said Zanoni, in a
tone of compassion, "thy crisis is
past, and thy choice made ! I can
only bid thee be bold and prosper ;
yes, I resign thee to a master who has
the power and the will to open to
thee the gates of an awful world.
Thy weal or woe are as nought in the
eyes of his relentless wisdom. I would
bid him spare thee, but he will heed
me not. Mejnour, receive thy pupil ! "
Glyndon turned, and his heart beat
when he perceived that the stranger,
whose footsteps he had not heard upon
the pebbles, whose approach he had
not beheld in the moonlight, was once
more by his side !

"Farewell," resumed Zanoni; *thy
trial commences. When next we
meet, thou wilt be the victim or the
Tictor."

Glyndon*s eyes followed the re-
ceding form of the mysterious stranger.
He saw him enter the boat, and he ti^en
for the first time noticed that besides
the rowers there was a female, who
stood up as Zanoni gained the boat.
Even at the distance he recogii^sed
the once-adored form of Yiola. ^he
waved her hand to him, and across
the still and shining air, came her
voice, mournfully and sweetly in
her mother's tongue — "Parewett,
Clarence — ^I forgive thee! — ^fiEurewell,
fiirewelll"

He strove to answer, but the voice
touched a chord at his heart, and the

words fiiiled him. Yiohi was then lost
for ever; gone with this dread
stranger; darkness was round her
lot! And he himself had decided
her fate and his own! The boat
bounded on, the soft waves flashed
and sparkled beneath the oars, and it
was along one sapphire track of
moonlight that the frail vessel bore
away the lov^. Farther, and
farther from his ^e, sped the boat,
till at last the speck, scarcely visible,
touched the side of the ship that lay
lifeless in the glorious bay. At that
instant, as if by magic, up sprang,
with a glad murmur, the playful and
freshening wind: And Glyndon
turned to Mejnour and broke the
silence.

" Tell me, (if thou canst read the
future,) tell me that her lot will be Mr,
and that her choice at least is wise % '*,

"My pupil!" answered Mejnour,
in a voice, the calmness of which well
accorded with the chilling words,
" thy first task must be to withdraw
all thought, feeling, sympathy from
others. The elementary stage of
knowledge is to make self, and self
alone, thy study and thy world.
Thou hast decided thine own career;
thou hast renounced love ; thou hast
rejected wealth, fame, and the vulgar
pomps of power. What then are all
mankind to thee? To perfect thy
faculties, and concentrate thy emo-
tions, is henceforth thy only aim ! "

"And will happiness be the end % "

"If happiness exist," answered
Mejnour, " it must be centred in a
SBLV to which all passion is unknown.
But happiness is the last state of
being; and as yet thou art on the
threshold of the first."
, '. As Mejnour spoke, the distant
vessel spread its sails to the wind,
and moved slowly along the deep.
Glyndon sighed, and the pupil and
the master retraced their steps
towards the city.

BOOK THE FOURTH.

THE DWELLER OF THE THRESHOLD.

— *

Scy hinter ihm was will ! Ich heb ihn auf. *

Das ybrsculbijbrte Bild zu Sais.

* Be behind what there may^I raise the veil.

ZA'iroiri.

143

BOOK THE POURa?H.

CHAPTER I.

Comme tlttima io Tengo liU'.aric.*

Hktaw., At. iL-«c. 7.

irvwBB : akMmi a^mottth alitor > the tiate

iKtvodaciaeHL to MejiioqiT, .wJientwo
Tg«gli8h«ea 'were walkiag, aim in
nm^ tknmgh: tibe Tdcdo.

'Ilvtell you," Bald one (who q>oke
««anily,) ^^ that if you have a partiole
of common/ eeiBfle left in you,.you vill
aooom|Mtfiy me to Eaglaad. This
Hgnour isaa impostor more danger-
ous, because more int. eaniest, than
Zanoni. After jdl, 'what odo his
ptoma863tsmomitto? Youihllow that
Botfaapg oaa be more eqazvocaL Tou
«ay that he haa 1^ Napies-^tfaat he
has selectedia retreat- more congenial
than iibe crowded tborough&res of
men to the stadies in whieh < he ' is to
initfate you; and this retreat is
among the hannts of the fieroest
faawiitB of Italy — ^haunis which justice
itseif dares not penetrate. Fittrag
hemdtage for a sage! I tremblei<for
yon. Whatiif this stranger— of whom
notUng is known — ^be leagued with
the rubbers; and ihese hires for your
credaliiy bait but the< traps for your
propoj^— perhaps yoor life] You
might oome off cheaply by a ransom
of half your fortune. You smile

t.^a Tiotfm I go to the attar.

indignantly! Well; put common
seaue out of .thci^ueBtion ; take your
^ywn Tie w of the matter. You: are to
undergo an ordeal .whi^ Mejnour
himself (does not profess, to describe
as a Tery tempting one. It may, or
it may not succeed; if it does not,
you are menaced with the darkest
evils ; and if it does, you cannot be
better off than the dull and joyless
mystic whom you have taken for a
master. Away with this folly ; enjoy
youth while it is left to you. Beturn
with me to Sngland; forget these
dreams, ikter your proper career;
form affections more respectable than
those whidi lured you awhile to an
Italian adventuress. Attend to your
fortune, make money, and become a
happy and distinguished man. This
is the advice of sober friendship ; yet
the promises I hold out to you are
Surer than those of Mejnour."

" Mervale," said Glyiiion, doggedly,
" I cannot, if I would, yield to your
wishes. A power that is above me
uiges me on; I cannot resist its
influence. I will procecKb to 'the > last
in the -straage career il.hjn^eccom-
menced. Think of -»e lao imavn.
VoUow yourself the ildvtee »yoa ^gm
to me, jutd be' happy."

Ui

ZANONI.

" This is madness/' said Merrale ;
"your health is already foiling; you
are so changed I should scarcely know
you. Come ; I have already had your
name entered in my passport; in
another hour I shall be gone, and you,
boy that you are, will be left without
a Mend, to the deceits of your own
&ncy and the machinations of this
relentless mountebank."

" Enough 1 " said Glyndon, coldly ;
" you cease to be an effective coun-
sellor when you suffer your prejudices
to be thus evident I have already
had ample proof," added the English-
man, and his pide cheek grew more
pale, " of the power of this man — ^if
man he be, which I sometimes doubt
— and, come life, come death, I will
not shrink from the paths that allure
me. Farewell, Mervale, if we never
meet again, — ^if you hear, amidst our
old and cheerful haunts, that Clarence
Glyndon sleeps the last sleep by the
shores of Naples, or amidst yon
distant hills, say to the friends of our
youth — * He died worthily, as
thousands of Hartyr-students have
died before him, in the pursuit of
knowledge.' "

He wrung Mervale's hand as he
spoke, darted from his side, and
disappeared amidst the crowd.

By the comer of the Toledo, he was
arrested by Nicot.

"Ah, Glyndon! I have not seen
you this month. Where have you hid
yourself] Have you been absorbed
in your studies ] "

" Yes."
' "I am about to leave Naples for
Paris. Will yon accompany me?
Talent of all order is eagerly
sought for there, and will be sure
to rise."

" I thank you ; I have other schemes
for the present."

'^ So laconic 1 — what ails you 1 Do
you grieve for the loss of the Pisani ]
Take example by me. I have already
consoled myself with Bianca Sacchini

— a handsome woman — enlightened —
no prejudices. A valuable creature I
shall find her, no doubt. But as for
this Zanoni I " —

"Whatof himr

''If ever I paint an aU^;orical
subject, I will take his likeness as
Satan. Ha, hal a true painter'a
revenge — ehl And the way of the
world, too I When we can do nothing
else against a man whom we hate, we
can at least paint his effigies as the
Devil's. Seriously, though : I abhor
that man"

"Wherefore?"

" Wherefore ! Has he not carried
off the wife and the dowry I had
marked for myself? Tet after all,"
added Nicot, musingly, "had he
served instead of inju^ me, I should
have hated him all the same. His
very form, and his very &ce,made me
at once envy and detest him. I feel
that there is something antipathetic
in our natures. I feel, too, that we
shall meet again, when Jean Nicotls
hate may be less impotent. We, too,
dier co7|/r^e— we, too, may meet
again! Vive la Bipubliquel I to
my new world!" —

" And I to mine. FareweU ! "

That day Mervale left Naples ; the
next morning Glyndon also quitted
the City of Delight, alone, and on
horseback. He bent his way into
those picturesque, but dangerous parts
of the country, which at that time
were infested by banditti, and which
few travellers dared to pass, even in
broad daylight, without a strong
escort. A road more lonely cannot
well be conceived than that on which
the hoofs of his steed, striking upon
the fragments of rock that encumbered
the neglected way, woke a dull and
melancholy echo. Large tracts oc
waste land, varied by the rank and
profuse foliage of the south, lay before
him ; occasionally, a wild goat peeped
down from some rocky crag, or the
discordant cry of a bird of prey

ZANONI.

145

3i»jrtled in its sombre haunt, was heard
atbo^e the hills. These were the only
signs of life ; not a human being was
Txte'fc — ^not a hut was visible. Wrapped
in. tils own ardent and solemn
tli.O'o.ghts, the young man continued
I&Ib -way, till the sun had spent its
noom-day heat, and a breeze that
axiXLOunced the approach of eve sprung
Tip from the unseen ocean which lay
fax- distant to his right. It was then
t^hat a turn in the road brought before
liixn one of those long, desolate,
gloomy villages which are found in
-tKe interior of the Neapolitan domin-
ions ; and now he came upon a small
cliapel on one side the road, with a
gaudily painted image of the Virgin
in the open shrine. Around this
spot, which, in the heart of a
Christian land, retained the vestige of
the old idolatry, (for just such were
the chapels that in the pagan age
were dedicated to the demon-saints of
mythology,) gathered six or seven
miserable and squalid wretches, whom
the Curse of the Leper had cut off
from mankind. They set up a shrill
cry as they turned their ghastly
visages towards the horseman ; and,
without stirring from the spot,
stretched out their gaunt arms, and
implored charity in the name of the
Merciful Mother! Glyndon hastily
threw them some small coins, and,
turning away his &ce, clapped spurs
to his horse, and relaxed not his
speed till he entered the village. On
either side the narrow and miry
street, fierce and haggard forms —
some leaning against the ruined walls
•of blackened huts, some seated at the
threshold, some lying at full length
in the mud — ^presented groups that at
once invoked pity and aroused alarm :
pity for their squalor, alarm for the
ferocity imprinted on thein savage
aspects. They gazed at him, grim
and sullen, as he rode slowly up the
rugged street ; sometimes whispering
«ignifieantly to each other, but with-
Ko. 268. 1

out attempting to stop his way*
Even the children hushed their
babble, and ragged urchins, devouring
him with sparkling eyes^ muttered
to their mothers, ''We shall feast
well to-morrow 1" It was, indeed,
one of those hamlets in which Law
sets not its sober step, in which
Yiolence and Murder house secure
— hamlets common then in the wilder
parts of Italy — in which the peasant
was but the gentler name for the
robber.

Glyndon's heart somewhat failed
him as he looked around, and the
question he desired to ask died upon
his lips. At length, from one of the
dismal cabins emerged a form superior
to the rest. Instead of the patched
and ragged overall, which made the
only garment of the men he had
hitherto seen, the dress of this person
was characterised by all the trappings
of the national bravery. Upon his
raven hair, the glossy curls of which
made a notable contrast to the matted
and elfin locks of the savages around,
was placed a cloth cap with a gold
tassel that hung down to his shoulder,
his mustaches were trimmed with
care, and a silk kerchief of gay hues
was twisted round a well-shaped but
sinewy throat ; a short jacket of rough
cloth was decorated with several rows
of gilt filagree buttons ; his nether
garments fitted tight to his limbs,
and were curiously braided; while,
in a broad parti-coloured sash, were
placed two silver-hilted pistols, and
the sheathed knife, usually worn by
Italians of the lower order, mounted
in ivory elaborately carved. A small
carbine of handsome workmanship
was slung across his shoulder, and
completed his costume. The man
himself was of middle size, athletic
yet slender, with straight and regular
features, sun-burnt, but not swarthy;
and an expression of countenance
which, though reckless and bold, had
in it frankness rather than ferocity,
10

146

ZANOOT.

and, if defying, was not altogether
unprepoflBesfiing.

Glyndon, after eyeing this figure
for some moments with great atten-
tion, checked his rein, and asked the
way to the " Castle of the Mountain."

The man lifted his cap as he heard
the question, and, approaching Glyn-
don, laid his hand upon the neck of
the horse, and said, in a low voice,
"Then you are the cavalier whom
our patron the signer expected. He
bade me wait for you here, and lead
you to the castle. And indeed, signer,
it might have been unfortunate if I
had neglected to obey the command."

The man then, drawing a little
aside, called out to the by-standers,
in a loud voice, " Ho, ho ! my friends,
pay henceforth and for ever all respect
to this worshipful cavaUer. He is
the expected guest of our blessed
patron of the Castle of the Mountain.
Long life to him ! May he, like his
host, be safe by day aikd by night —
on the hill and in the waste — against
the dagger and the bullet— in limb
and in life! Cursed be he who
touches a hair of his head, or a
baioccho in his pouch. Kow and'for
ever we will protect and honour him
— ^for the law or againBt the law —
with the faith, and to the death.
Amen! Amen!"

" Amen ! " responded, in wild
chorus, a hundred voices; and the
ficatteied and straggling groups
pressed up the street, nearer and
nearer to the horseman.

"And that he may be known,"
continued the Englishman's strange
protector, " to the eye and to the ear,
I place around him the white saah,
and I give him the sacred watchword
-^* Pecuie to tJve BraveJ Signer, when
yon wear this sash, the proudest in
these parts will bare the head and
bend the knee. Signer, when you
utter this watchword, the bravest
hearts will be bound to your bidding.
T»-Hire you safety, or ask you revenge

— ^to gain a beauty, or to lose a fo^—
speak but the word, and we are
yours, — ^we are yours ^ Is it not «o,
comrades 1" And again the hoarse
voices shouted " Amen, Amen ! **

" Now, signer," whispered the
bravo, '^ if you have a few coinB to
spare, scatter them amongst the
crowd, and let us be gone."

Glyndon, not displeased at the con-
cluding sentence, emptied his purse
in the streets ; and while, with mingled
oaths, bles^ngs, shrieks, and yeUsi,
men, women, and childrox scrambled
for the money, the bravo, taking the
rein of the horse, led it a few paoes
through the village at a bri^ trot,
and then, turning up a narrow lane
to the left, in a few minutes ndiher
houses nor men were visible, and the
mountains closed their path on either
side. It was. then that, releasing the
bridle and slackening his. pace, the
guideHumed his dark eyes onGlyndoft
with an arch expression, and said —

'' Your Excellency was not, perhafiB,.
prepared for the hearty welcome w*
have given you."

« Why, in truth, I ought to hare
been prepared for it, since the sigaor,
to whose house I am bound,, did not
disguise from me the character of the
neighbourhood. And your name, my
friend, if I may so call you ? "

"Oh, no ceremonies with me.
Excellency. In the village I am.
generally called Maestro Paolo. I
had a surname once, though a ver^r
equivocal one; and I have forgotten
that since I retired from the world."

"And was it from disgust^ . frwik
poverty, or from some — some ebuUi-
tion of passion which entailed puniBh*
ment, that you betook yourself to the
mountains 1"

" Why, signer," said the bravo, with
a gay laugh, " hermits of my class
seldom love the con£s8sional. Hotir-
ever, I have no seerets while my step
is in these defiles, my whistle in my
pouch, and mj carbine at my back.'*

aiNOM.

147

^W^ith iliat the robber, as if he loved
permiflBion to talk at his will, hemmed
i^lurioe^ and began with much humour ;
UifMom^h as his tale proceeded, the
xnemoiies it roused seemed to carry
liim iiuther than he at first intended,
and reckless and light-hearted ease
gave way to thaifieroe and varied play
of conntenanoe and passion of gesture
^whieh charaicteriae the emotions of
liis coimtiymen.

" I was bom at Terracina — a fair
spoty is it noti ' My father was a
learned monk, of high birth ; my
mother— Heaven rest heri — ^aa inn-
keeper's pretty daughter. Of course
there could be no marriage in the
case ; and when I was bom, the monk
gravely declared my appeacance to be
mixacolous. I was dedicated from
my cradle to the altar; and my head
was universally decUired to be the
orthodox shape for a cowL As I
grew up, the monk took great pains
with my education; and I learned
Jjntia and psalmody as soon as less
minMulous infants learn crowing.
'Ninr did the holy man's care stint
itself to my interior acoomplishmente.
Although vowed to poverty^ healways
contrived that my mother should
LftTe her pockets full : and, between
her podcets and mine, there was soon
established a clandestine communicar
tion ; according, at fourteen, I wore
my cap. on one side, stuck pistols in-
my belt, and assumed the swagger of
a cavalier and a gallanl. At that age
my poov mother died ; and about the
same period, my &ther, having written
a History of the Pontifical Bulls, in
forty volumes, and being, as I said, of
high birth, obtained a Oarduud's hat.
Vnm, that time he thought fit to
disowni your^ humble servant.' He
bomid mO' over to an honest notary
at Naples j and gave me two hundred
crowns by way of provision. Well,
Signor, I saw enough of the law to
convince me that I should.never.be
rogne enough to shine in the psofes-

sion. So, instead of spoiling parch-
ment, I made love to the notazy's
daughter. My master discovered our
innocent amusement, and turned me
out of doors; that was disagreeable.
But myiNinetta loved me, and took
care that I should not lie out in the
streets with the lazzeroni. Little jade,
I think I see her now, with her bare
feet and her finger to her lips, opemng
the door in the summer nights, and
bidding me creep softly into the
kitchen, where, praised be the saints!
a flask and a manchet always awaited
the hungry amoroso. At last, how-
ever, Ninctta grew cold. It is the
way of the sex, signer. Her father
found her an excellent marriage in
the person of a withered old picture-
dealer. She took the spouse, and
very properly clapped the door in the
face of the lover. I was not dis-
heartened. Excellency; no, not I.
Women are plentifiil while we are
young. So, without a ducat in my
pocket, or a crust for my teeth, I set
out to seek my fortune on board of
a ^Minish merchantman. That was
duller work than I expected; but
luckily we were attacked by a pirate
-—half the crew were butchered, the
rest captured. I was one of the last
— always in luck, you see, signer —
monks' sons have a knack that way !
The captain of the pirates took a
fancy to me. 'Serve with usV said
he. 'Too happy,' said I. Behold
me, then, a pirate t jolly life 1 how
I blest the old notary for turning me
out of doors! Wiiat feasting, what
fighting, what wooing, what quar-
relling 1 Sometimes we ran ashore
and enjoyed ourselves like princes:
sometimes we lay in a calm for days
together on the loveliest sea that man
ever traversed. And then, if the
breeze rose and a sail came in sight,
who so merry as we 1 I passed three
yean in that c h a rm i n g profesaion^
and then, signor, I.grsw ambitious.
I. caballed against tht captain; 7
L 2

us

ZAl^ONI.

wanted his post One Billl night we
Btnick the blow. The ship was like
a log in the wa, no. land to be seen
from the mast-head^ the wares like
gXtM, and the moon at its full. Up
we rose ; thirty of us and more. Up
we rose with a shout ; we poured into
the captain's cabin, I at the head.
The brave old boy had caught the
alarm, and there he stood at the door-
way, a pistol in each hand ; and his
one eye (he had only one !) worse to
meet than the pistols were.

" ' Yield ! * cried I, 'your life shall
be safe.'

'' ' Take that/ said he, and whiz
went the pistol ; but the saints took
care of their own, and the ball passed
by my cheek, and shot the boatswain
behind me. I closed with the captain,
and the other pistol went off without
mischief in the struggle. Such a
fellow he was — six feet four without
his shoes! Over we went, rolling
each on the other. Santa Maria 1 no
time to get hold of one's knife.
Meanwhile, all the crew were up,
some for the captain, some for me —
clashing and firing, and swearing and
groaning, and now and then a heavy
splash in the sea ! Fine supper for
the sharks that night ! At last old
Bilboa got uppermost; out flashed
his knife ; down it came, but not in
my heart. No ! I gave my left arm
as a shield; and the blade went
through to the hilt, with the blood
spirting up like the rain from a
whale's nostril 1 With the weight of
the blow the stout fellow came down,
so that his face touched mine ; with
my right hand I caught him by the
throat, turned him over like a lamb,
signer, and faith it was soon all up
with him — the boatswain's brother, a
fat Dutchman, ran him through with
a pike.

" ' Old fellow,' said I, as he turned
his terrible eye to me, * I bear you no
malice, but we must try to get on in
the world, you know.' The captain

grinned and gave np the ghost I
went upon deck — what a nght!
Twenty bold fellows stark and cold,
and the moon sparkling on the pad-
dles of blood as calmly as if it were
water. Well, signer, the victory waa
ours, and the ship mine; I niled
merrily enough for six months. We
then attacked a French ship twice
our size; what sport it was! And
we had not had a good fight so long,
we were quite like virgins at it ! We
got the best of it> and won ship and
cargo. They wanted to pistol the
captain, but that was against my
laws; so we gagged him, for he
scolded as loud as if we were married
to him ; left him and the rest of his
crew on board our own vessel, which
was terribly battered; clapped our
black flag on the Frenchman's, and
set off merrily, with a brisk wind in
our £a,vour. But luck deserted us on
forsaking our own dear old ship. A
storm came on, a plank struck;
several of us escaped in the boat ; we
had lots of gold with us, but no water!
For two days and two nights we
suffered horribly ; but at last we ran
ashore near a French seaport. Our
sorry plight moved compassion, and
as we had money we were not sus-
pected — ^people only suspect the poor.
Here we soon recovered our fetigues,
rigged ourselves out gaily, and your
humble servant was considered as
noble a captain as ever walked deck.
But now, alas, my fate would have it
that I should fall in love with a silk
mercer's daughter. Ak; how I loved
her ! — the pretty Clar^ I . Yes, I loved
her so well, that I was, -seized with
horror at my past life ! I resolved to
repent, to marry her, and settle down
into an honest man. Accordingly, I
summoned my messmates, told them
my resolution, resigned my command,
and persuaded them to depart. They
were good fellows; engaged with a
Dutchman, against whom I heard
afterwards they made a successfnl

ZAKOKI.

149

mntiny, bat I never saw them more.
I had two thonsand crowns BtUl left ;
irith this sam I obtained the consent
of the Bilk-mercer^ and it was agreed
that I should become a partner in the
firm. I need not say that no one
enspected that I had been so great a
man, and I passed for a Neapolitan
goldsmith's son instead of a cardinal's.
I was yeiy happy then, signor, very
— I conld not have harmed a fly !
Had I married Clara, I had been as
gentle a mercer as ever handled a
measure."

The bravo paused a moment, and
it was easy to see that he felt more
than hb words and tone betokened.
" Well, well, we must not look back
at the past too earnestly — -the sun-
light upon it makes one's eyes water.
The day was fixed for our wedding —
it approached. On the evening before
the appointed day, Clara, her mother,
her little sister, and myself, were
walking by the port, and as we looked
on the sea I was telling them old
gossip-tales of mermaids and sea-
serpents, when a red-faced bottle-
nosed Frenchman clapped himself
right before me, and placing his
spectacles very deliberately astride his
proboscis, echoed out *Sacr4, miUe
tahnerres, this is the damned pirate
who boarded the Niche !*

"'None of your jests,' said I,
mildly. ' Ho, ho ! ' said he ; ' 1 can't
be mistaken ; help there ! ' and he
griped me by the collar. I replied,
as you may suppose, by laying him
in the kennel^ but it would not do.
The French captain bad a French
lieutenant at his back, whose memory
wasjas goQd as his chief's. A crowd
assembled; other sailors came up;
the odds were against me. I slept that
night in prison ; and in a few weeks
afterwards, I was sent to the galleys.
They spared my life, because the old
Frenchman politely averred that I
had made my crew spare his. Ton
may believe that the oar and the

chain was not to my taste. I and
two others, escaped, they took to the
road, and have, no doubt, been long
since broken on the wheel. I, soft
soul, would not commit anotiier crime
to gain my bread, for CUra was still
at my heart with her sweet eyes : so,
limiting my rogueries to the theft of
a beggar's ragsj which I compensated
by leaving him my galley attire
instead, I begged my way to the town
where I left Clara. It was a clear
winter's day when I approached the
outskirts of the town. I had no fear
of detection, for my beard and hair
were as good as a mask. Oh, Mother
of Mercy ! there came across my way
a funeral procession ! There, now
you know it ; I can tell you no more.
She had died, perhaps of love, diore
likely of shame. Can you guess how
I spent that night — I stole a pickaxe
from a mason's shed, and aU alone
and unseen, under the frosty heavens,
I dug the fresh mould from the grave ;
I lifted the coffin, I wrenched the lid,
I saw her again — again ! Decay had
not touched her. She was always pale
in life ! I could have sworn she lived !
It was a blessed thing to see her once
more, and all alone too ! But then,
at dawn, to give her back to the earth
— ^to close the lid, to throw down the
mould, to hear the pebbles rattle on
the coffin — that was dreadful ! Signor,
I never knew before, and I don't wish
to think now, how valuable a thing
human life is. At sunrise I was
again a wanderer ; but now that Clara
was gone, my scruples vanished, and
again I was at war with my betters.

I contrived at last, at , to get

taken on board a vessel bound to
Leghorn, working out my passage.
From Leghorn I went to Rome, and
stationed myself at the door of the
cardinal's palace. Out he came, his
gilded coach at the gate.

"' Ho, father ! ' said I ; ' don't you
know me r

*" Who are your

15D

ZAKONI.

" ' Your son,* said I, in* a whisper.

"The eardhial drew back, looked
at me earnestly, and mesed a moment.
' All men are my sons,' qnoth he then,
veiy mildly, ' there is gold for thee !
To him who begs once, alms are due ;
to him who begs twice jails are open.
Take the hint, and molest me no
more. Heaven bles# thee ! ' With
that he got into his coach, and drove
off to the Vatican. His purse which he
^had left behind was well supplied. I
was grateful and contented, and took
my way to Terracina. I had not long
passed the marshes, when I saw two
horsemen approach at a canter.

" 'You look poor, friend,' sidd one of
them, halting ; 'yet you are strong.'

* ' Poor men and strong are both
serviceable and dangerous, Signer
Cavalier.' "

"'Well said; follow us.'

"I obeyed, and became a bandit.
I rose by degrees; and as I have
always been mild in my calling, and
have taken purses without cutting
throats, I bear an excellent character,
and can eat my macaroni at Naples
without any danger to life and limb.
Eor the last two years I have settled
in these parts, where I hold sway,
and where I have purchased land. I
am called a farmer, signer ; and I
myself now only rob for amusement,
and to keep my hand in. I trust I
have satisfied your curiosity. We are
within a hundred yards of the castle."

" And how," asked the Englishman,
whose interest had been much excited
by his companion's narrative, "and
how came you acquainted with my
host? — ^and by what means has he so
well conciliated the good will of your-
self and your friends ? "

Ha&tro Pdolo turned his black
eyes very gravely towards his ques-
laoner. " Why, signer," said he, " you
must surely know more of the foreign
cavalier with the hard name than I
do. All I can say is, that about a
forinio'iif «jgo I chanced to be standing

by a booth in the Toledo; at Napiies,
when a 8ober4ooking gentieman
touched me by the arm, and ndd,
'Maestro Fliolo, I want to make jyvot
acquaintance; do me the &voiir to
come into yonder tavern, and drink
a flask of l&crima.'. 'Willingly,' waid I.
So we entered the iayem. When we
were seated, my new acquaintance thus

accosted me: 'The Count d'O has

offered to let me hire his old castle
near B . You know the spot 1 '

"'Extremely well; no one has
inhabited it for a century at least ; it
is half in ruinsy signer. A queer place
to hire ; I hope thei«nt is not heavy.'

" ' Maestro P§x>lo,' said he, ' I am &
philosopher, and don't care for lux-
uries. I want a quiet retreat for some
scientific experiments. The castle
will suit me veiy well, provided yon
will accept me as a neighbour, and
place me and my Mends under your
special protection. I am rioh ; but I
shall take nothing to the eastle worth
robbing. I will pay one rent to the
count, and another to you.'

" With that we soon came to terms;
and as the strange signer doubled the
sum I myself proposed, he is in hig^
favour with all his neighbours. We
would g^ard the old castle against
an army. And now, signer, that I
have been thus frank, be frank with
me. Who is this singular cavalier % "

"Who?— he himself told you, a
philosopher."

"Hem! searching for the philo-
sopher's stotte,— eh ? a bit of a magi-
cian ; afraid of the priests ?"

" Precisely. You have hit it"

"I thought so; and you are his
pupil?"

"lam."

" I wish you well through it>". said
the robber seriously, and crossing him-
self with much devotion : " I am not
much better than other people, but
one's soul is one's soul. I 'do net
mind a little honest robbery, or
knocking a man on the head if need

•ZAKONI.

151

^e— but to make a bargain with the
devil ! — ^Ah ! take care^ young gentle-
soan^ take care.**

" You need notfear/'Jsaid Glyndon,
smiling; "my preceptor is too wise
^uid too good for such a compact. But
liere we are, I suppose. A noble ruin
— a glorious prospect ! "

Glyndon paused delightedly, and
Buireyed the scene before and below
with the eye of a painter. Insensibly,
while listening to the bandit, he had
wound up a considerable ascent, and
now he was upon a broad ledge of
rock covered with mosses and dwarf
shrubs. Between this eminence and
another of equal height upon which
the castle was built, there was a deep
but narrow fissure, overgrown with
the most profuse foliage, so that the
^e could not penetrate many yards
below the rugged surfkce of the abyss;
but the profoundness might be well
conjectured by the hoarse, low, mono-
tonous roar of waters unseen that
rolled below, and the subsequent
eourse of which was visible at a dis-
tance in a perturbed and rapid stream,
that intersected the waste and desolate
valleys. To the left, the prospect
seemed almost boundless; the extreme
clearness of the purple air serving to
render distinct the features of a range
of country that a conqueror of old
might have deemed in itself a king-
dom. Lonely and desolate as the
road Which Glyndon had passed that
day had appeared, the landscape now
seemed studded with castles, spires, and
villages. Afar oif, Naples gleamed
whitely in the last rays of the sun,
and the rose-tints of the horizon
melted into the azure of her glorious
bay. Tet morie remote, and in another
part of the prospect, might be caught,
dim and shadowy, and backed by the
darkest foliage, the ruined pillars of
the ancient Posidonia. There, in the
midst of his blackened and sterile
realms, rose the dismal Mount of Fire;
while, on the other hand, winding

through variegated pUdns, to which
distance lent all its magic, glittered
many and many a stream, by which
Etruscan and Sybarite, Boman and
Saracen, and Norman, had, at intervals
of ages, pitched the invading tent.
All the visions of the past — ^the stormy
and dazzling histories of southern
Italy — rushed over the artist's mind
as he gazed below. And then, slowly
turning to look behind, he saw the
grey and mouldering walls of the
castle, in [which he sought the secrets
that were to give to hope in the
Future a mightier empire than me-
mory owns in the Past. It was one
of those baronial fortresses with which
Italy was studded in the earlier middle
ages, having but little of the Gothic
grace or grandeur which belongs to
the ecclesiastical architecture of the
same time; but rude, vast, and me-
nacing, even in decay. A wooden
bridge was thrown over the chasm,
wide enough to admit two horsemen
abreast ; and the planks tremble(i and
gave back a hollow sound as Glyndon
urged his jaded steed across.

A road which had once been broad
and paved with rough flags, but which
now was half obliterated by long
grass and rank weeds, conducted to
the outer court of the castle hard by ;
the gates were open, and half the
building in this part was dismantled ;
the ruins partially hid by ivy that
was the growth of centuries. But on
entering the inner court, Glyndon
was not sorry to notice that there was
less appearance of neglect and decay ;
some wild roses gave a smile to the
grey walls, and in the centre there
was a fountain, in which the waters
still trickled coolly, and with a pleas-
ing murmur, from the jaws of a
gigantic Triton. Here he was met by
Mejneur with a smile.

" Welcome, my friend and pupU,"
said he ; "he who seeks for Truth can
find in these solitudes an immortal
Academe."

152

ZANONL

CHAPTBB II.

And Aliaris, so far from eBteeming Pythagorae, wlio taught these things, a necromancer
or wizard, rather revered and admired him as something diTine^^lAamucH.
ViU Pythag.

The attendants whom Mejnour had
engaged for his strange abode, were
such as might suit a philosopher of
few wants. An old Armenian^ whom
Glyndon recognised as in the mystic's
service at Kaples; a tall, hard-fea-
tured woman, from the village, recom-
mended by Maestro Paolo, and two
long-haired, smooth-spoken, bat fierce-
visaged youths from the same place,
and honoured by the same sponsor-
ship, constituted the establishment.
The rooms used by the sage were
commodious and weather-proof, with
some remains of ancient splendour in
the faded arras that clothed the walls,
and the huge tables of costly marble
and elaborate carving. Glyndon's
sleeping apartment communicated
with a kind of Belvidere, or terrace,
that commanded prospects of unri-
valled beauty and extent, and was
separated on the other side by*a long
gallery, and a flight of ten or a dozen
stairs, from the private chambers of
the mystic. There was about the
whole place a sombre and yet not
displeasing depth of repose. It suited
well with the studies to which it was
now to be appropriated.

For several days Mejnour refused
to confer with Qlyndon on the subjects
nearest to his heart.

"All without," said he,' "is pre-
pared, but not all within ; your own
soul must grow accustomed to the
spot, and filled with the surrounding
nature; for nature is the source of
all inspiration.'*

With these words Mejnour turned to

lighter topics. He made the English
man accompany him in long rambles
through the wild scenes around,
and he smiled approvingly when the
young artist gave way to the enthu-
siasm which their fearful beauty could
not have failed to rouse in a duller
breast; and then Mejnour poured
forth to his wondering pupil the
stores of a knowledge that seemed
inexhaustible and boundless. He
gave accounts the most curious, gra-
phic, and minute, of the various
races, (their characters, habits, creeds,
and manners,) by which that fair land
had been successively overrun. It is
true, that his descriptions could not
be found in books, and were unsup-
ported by learned authorities ; but he
possessed the true charm of the tale-
teller, and spoke of all with the ani-
mated confidence of a personal witness.
Sometimes, too, he would converse
upon the more durable and the loftier
mysteries of Nature with an eloquence
and a research which invested them
with all the colours rather of poetry
than science. Insensibly the young,
artist found himself elevated and
soothed by the lore of his companion ;
the fever of his wild desires was
slaked. His mind became more and
more lulled into the divine tranqail-
lity of contemplation ; he felt himself
a nobler being ; and in the silence of
his senses he imagined that he heard
the voice of his soul.

It was to this state that Honour
evidently sought to bring the Keo*
phyte, and in this elementary initia-

ZANONI.

15$

tion the mystic was like every more
ordinary eage. For he who seeks to
]>xsooYXB, must first reduce himself
into a kind of abstract idealism, and
l>e rendered up, in solemn and sweet
bondage, to the faculties which ooh-

TXKPLATE and IXAOIKE.

Glyndon noticed that, in their
rambles, Mejnour often paused where
tlie foliage was rifest, to gather some
lierb or flower; and this reminded
liim that he had seenZanoni similarly
occupied. "Can these humble
children of nature," said he one day
to Mejnour, "things that bloom and
-wither in a day, be serriceable to the
science of the higher secrets 1 Is
there a pharmacy for the soul as well
as the body, and do the nurslings of
the summer minister not only to
human health but spiritual immor-
taUtyr*

"If," answered Mejnour, " a stranger
had visited a wandering tribe before
one property of herbalism was known
to them ; if he had told the savages
that the herbs, which every day they
trampled under foot, were endowed
with the most potent virtues ; that
one would restore to health a brother
on the verge of death ; that another
would paralyse into idiocy their
wisest sage ; that a third would strike
lifeless to the dust their most stalwart
champion; that tears and laughter,
vigour and disease, madness and
reason, wakefulness and sleep, exist-
ence and dissolution, were coiled up
in those unregarded leaves, — would
they not have held him a sorcerer or
a liar % To half the virtues of the
vegetable world mankind are yet in
* the darkness of the savages I have
supposed. There are faculties within
us with which certain herbs have
affinity, and over which they have
power. The moly of the ancients is
not all a fable."

The apparent character of Mejnour
differed in much from that of Zanoni ;
and while it fascinated Glyndon less.

it subdued and impressed him more.
The conversation of Zanoni evinced a
deep and general interest for man-
kind — a feeling approaching to en-
thusiasm for Art and Beauty. The
stories circulated concerning his
habits elevated the mystery of his
life by actions of charity and bene-
ficence. And in all this, there was-
sometliing genial and humane that
softened the awe he created, and
tended, perhaps, to raise suspicions a&
to the loftier secrets that he arrogated
to himself. But Mejnour seemed
wholly indifferent to all the actual
world. If he committed no evil, he
seemed equally apathetic to good.
His deeds relieved no want, his words
pitied no distress. What we call the
heart appeared to have merged into
the intellect. He moved, thought,
and lived, like some regular and calm
Abstraction, rather than one who yet
retained, with the form, the feelings-
and sympathies of *his kind !

Glyndon once, observing the tone
of supreme indifference with which
he spoke of those changes on the face
of earth, which he asserted he had
witnessed, ventured to remark to him
the distinction he had noted.

* It is true," said Mejnour, coldly.
" My life is the life that contemplates
— Zanoni's is the life that enjoys;
when I gather the herb, I think but
of its uses; Zanoni will pause to
admire its beauties."

"And you deem your own the-
superior and the loftier existence 1 "

"No. His is the existence of
youth— mine of age. We have culti-
vated different faculties. Each has
powers the other cannot aspire to.
Those with whom he associates, live
better — those vho associate with me,
know more."

"I have heard, in truth," said
Glyndon, "that his companions at
Naples were observed to lead purer
and nobler lives after intercourse with
Zanoni; yet were they not strange

154

ZANONI.

ocnnpaaions, at the hist, ibr a sage?
This terrible power, too^ tbat he
exercises at will, as in the ^eath of
the Prince di ■ , and that of the
Count Ughelli, scarcely becomes the
tranquil seeker after good."

"True/* said Mejnour, with an icy
smile ; "such must ever be the error
of those philosophers who would
meddle with the active life of man-
kind. You cannot serve some without
injuring others; you cannot protect
the good without warring on the bad;
and if you desire to reform the faulty,
why you must lower yourself to live
with the faulty to know their faults.
Even so saith Paracelsus, a great
man, though often wrong.* Not
mine this folly ; I live but in know-
ledge — I have no life in mankind ! "

Another time, Glyndon questioned
the mystio as to the nature of that
union or fraternity to which Zanoni
had once referred.

** I am right, I suppose," said he,
" in conjecturing that you and himself
profess to be the brothers of the
Rosy Cross 1"

"Do you imagine,'* answered Mej-
nour, "that there were no mystic and
solemn unions of men seeking the
same end through the same means,
before the Arabians of Damns, in
1878, taught to a wandering German
the secrets which founded the Insti-
tution of the Rosicrucians ] I allow,
however, that the Rt)8icrncians fonned
a sect descended from the greater and
earlier school. They were wiser than
the Alchemists — their masters are
wiser than they."

"And of this early and primary
order how many still exist t "

" Zanoni and myself."

" What, two only ! — and you profess
the power to teach to all the secret
that bIdOles Death r'

* (* It is as neoeesary to know evil things
as good, for who can know what is good
without the knowing what is evil ? " &c. —
J>n*-neeUus De Nat. Rer., lib. 3,^

"Your ancestor attained tliat
secret; he died rather than Barvire^
the only thing h^ loved. We have, '
my pupil, ao arts by which we «»»
put Deaih out of our option, or out
of the will of Heaven. These walls
may crush me as I stand. All that
we profess to do is but this — to find
out the secrets of the human fHone,
to knew why the paarts ossify and the
blood stagnates, and to apply con-
tinual preventives to the efiects of
Time. TMs is not Magic ; it is the
Art of Medicine rightly understood.
In our order we hold most noUe —
first, that knowledge which elevates
the intellect; secondly, that which
preserves the body. But the mere
art (extracted from the juices and
simples) which recruits the animal
vigour and arrests the progress of
decay, or that more noble secret which
I will only hint to thee at present, by
which HEAT or caloric, as ye call it,
being, as Heraclitus wisely taught,
the primordial principle of life, can
be made its perpetual renovator —
these, I say, would not suffice for
safety. It is ours also to disarm and
elude the wrath of men, to turn the
swords of our foes agwnst each other,
to glide (if not incorporeal) invisible
to eyes over which we can throw a
mist and darkness. And this some
seers have professed to be the virtue
of a stone of agate. Abaris placed it
in his arrow. I will find you a herb
in yon valley that will give a surer
charm than the agate and the arrow.
In one word, know this, that the
humblest and meanest products of
Nature are those from wMch the
sublimest properties are to be drawn."

" But," said Glyndon, "if possessed
of these great secrets, why so churlish
in withholding their diffusion. Does
not the false or charlatanic science
difier in thra from the true and indis-
putable — that the last commtmieates
to the world the process by which it
attains its discoveries; the first

ZAKONI.

155

'boasts of marvellous results, and
xefuses to explain the causes 1 "

"Well said, O Logician of the
Schools ; — ^but think again. Suppose
ire were to impart all our knowledge
to all mankind, indiscriminately, alike
to the vicious and the virtuous —
should we be benefiirCtora or scourges 1
Imagine the tyrant, the sensualist, the
evil and corrupted being possessed of
these tremendous powers; would he
not be a demon let loose on earth 1
Grant that the same privilege be
accorded also to the good; and in
whatBtate would be society 1 Engaged
in a Titan war—the good for ever on
the defensive, the bad for ever in
asBanlt. In the present condition of
the earth, evil is a more active
principle than good, and the evil
would prevail It is for these reasons
that we are not only solemnly bound
to administer our lore only to those
who will not misuse and pervert it ;
but that we place our ordeal in tests
that purify the passions, and elevate
the desires. And Nature in tHis
eontrols and assists us : for it places
awful guardiaBS and insurmountable
barriers between the ambition of
'Vice and the heaven of the loftier
eeience.'*

Such made a small part of the
numerous conversations Mejnour held
with his pupil, — conversations that,
while they appeared to address them-
selves to the reason, inflamed yet
more the fency. It was the very
.ducUuming of all powers which

Nature, properly investigated, did not
suffice to create, that gave an air of
probability to those which Mejnour
asserted Nature might bestow.

Thus days and weeks rolled on ; and
the mind of Glyndon, g^dually fitted
to this sequestered and musing life,
forgot at last the vanities and chimeras
of the world without.

One evening he had lingered alone
and late upon the ramparts, watching
the stars as, one by one, they broke
upon the twilight. Never had he felt
so sensibly the mighty power of the
heavens and the earth upon man!
how much the springs of our intel-
lectual beii^g are moved and acted
upon by the solemn influences of
nature! As a patient on whom,
slowly and by degrees, the agencies of
mesmerism are brought to bear, he
acknowledged to his heart the grow-
ing force of that vast and universal
magnetism which is the life of creation,
and binds the atom to the whole. A
strange and inefiable consciousness of
power, of the soMBTHiNa great within
the perishable clay, appealed to feel-
ings at once dim and glorious,— like
the ftiint recognitions of a holier and
former being. An impulse, that he
could not resist, led him to seek the
mystic. He would demand, that
hour, his initiation into the worlds
beyond our world— he was prepared
to breathe a diviner air. He entered
the castle, and strode the shadowy
and star-lit gallery which conducted
to Mejnour's apartment.

156

ZAKOKI.

CHAPTER III.

Man is the eye of thing8.^£uRTPH. de Vit. Hum,

it •»^ * There is, therefore, a certain ecstatical or transporting power which, if at any
time it shall he excited or stirred up hy an ardent desire and most strong imaginatioo,
is ahle to conduct the spirit of the more outward, even to some absent and far distant
object— YoN Helmont.

The rooms that Mejnour occupied
consisted of two chambers communi-
cating with each other, and a third in
which he slept. AH these rooms
were pbiced in the huge square tower
that beetled over the dark and bush-
grown precipice. The first chamber
which Glyndon entered was empty.
With a noiseless step he passed on,
and opened the door that admitted
into the inner one. He drew back at
the threshold, overpowered by a strong
fragrance which filled the chamber :
a kind of mist thickened the air,
rather than obscured it, for this yapour
was not dark, but resembled a snow-
cloud moTing slowly, and in heavy
undulations, wave upon wave, regularly
over the space. A mortal cold struck
to the Englishman's heart, and his
blood froze. He stood rooted to the
spot; and, as his eyes strained involun-
tarily through the vapour, he fancied
(for he could not be sure that it was
not the trick of his imagination) that
he saw dim, spectre-like, but gigantic
forms floating through the mist ; or
was it not rather the mist itself that
formed its vapours fantastically into
those moving, impalpable, and bodi-
less apparitions 1 A great painter of
antiquity, is said, in a picture of
Hades, to have represented the mon-
sters, that glide through the ghostly
lliver of the Dead, so artfully, that
the eye perceived at once that the
river itself was but a spectre, and the
bloodless things that tenanted it had

no life, their forms blending with the
dead waters till, as the eye continued
to gaze, it ceased to discern them from
the preternatural element they were
supposed to inhabit. Such were the
moving outlines that coiled and
floated through the mist; but before
Glyndon had even drawn breath in
this atmosphere — for his life itself
seemed arrested or changed into a
kind of horrid trance — he felt hid
hand seized, and he was led from that
room into the outer one. He heard
the door close — his blood rushed again
through his veins, and he saw Miejnoor
by his side. Strong convulsions then
suddenly seized his whole frame-
he fell to the ground insensible. When
he recovered, he found himself in the
open air, in a rude balcony of stone
that jutted from the chamber; the
stars shining serenely over the dark
abyss below, and resting calmly upon
the &ce of the mystic, who stood
beside him with folded arms.

''Young man,'* said Mejnour,
"judge by what you have just felt,
how dangerous it is to seek knowledge
until prepared to receive it. Another
moment in the air of that chamber
and you had been a corpse."

"Then of what nature was the
knowledge that you, once mortal like
myself, could safely have sought in
that icy atmosphere, which it was
death for me to breathe ? — ^Mejnour,"
continued Glyndon, and his wild
desire, sharpened by the very danger

ZANONI.

157

he had passed, once more animated
and nerved him ; " I am prepared, at
least for the first steps. I come to
yoa as, of old, the pupil to the
Hierophant, and demand the initia-
tion."

Mejnour passed his hand over the
•youag man's heart — it beat loud,
regxtlarlj, and boldly. He looked at
him ifith something almost like
admiration in his passionless and
frigid features, and muttered, half to
himself — ''Surely, in so much
courage the true disciple is found at
last." Then, speaking aloud, he
added — ^' Be it so ; man's first initia-
tion is in TRAHd. In dreams com-
mences all human knowledge; in
dreams hovers over measureless space
the first fidnt bridge between spirit
and spirit — this world and the worlds
beyond 1 Look steadfastly on yonder
star!"

Qlyndon obeyed, and Mejnour

retired into the chamber ; from which

there then slowly emerged a vapour,

somewhat paler and of fiunter odour

than that which had nearly produced

so fiital an effect on his frame. This,

on the contrary, as it coiled around

him, and then melted in thin spires

into the air, breathed a refreshing and

healthful fragrance. He still kept his

eyes on the star, and the star seemed

gradually to fix and couunand his

gaze. A sort of languor next seized

his frame, but without, as he thought,

communicating itself to the mind;

and as this crept over him, he felt his

temples sprinkled with some volatile

and fiery essence. At the same

moment, a slight tremor shook his

limbs, and thrilled through his veins.

The languor increased ; still he kept

lbs gaze upon the star ; and now its

luminous circumference seemed to

expand and dilate. It became

gradually softer and clearer in its

light ; spreading wider and broader,

it diffiised all space — all space seemed

swallowed up in it. And at last, in

the midst of a silver shining atmos-
phere, he felt as if something burst
within his brain — as if a strong chain
were broken ; and at that moment a
sense of heavenly liberty, of unutter-
able delight, of freedom from the
body, of birdlike lightness, seemed to
float him into the space itself.
''Whom, now upon earth dost thon
wish to see 1 " whispered the voice of
Mejnour. "Viola and Zanoni!"
answered Glyndon, in his heart ; but
he felt that his lips moved not.
Suddenly at that thought — through
this space, in which nothing save one
mellow, translucent light had been
discernible, — a swift succession of
shadowy landscapes seemed to roll :
trees, mountains, cities, seas, glided
along, like the changes of a phantas-
magoria ; and at last, settled and stap
tionary, he saw a cave by the gradual
marge of an ocean shore — myrtles
and orange trees clothing the gentle
banks. On a height, at a distance,
gleamed the white but shattered
relics of some ruined heathen edifice ;
and the moon, in calm splendour,
shining over all, literally bathed with
its light two forms without the cave,
at whose feet the blue waters crept,
and he thought that he even heard
them murmur. He recognised both
the figures. Zanoni was seated on a
fragment of stone ; Yiola, half reclin-
ing by his side, was looking into his
face, which was bent down to her,
and in her countenance was the
expression of that perfect happi-
ness which belongs to perfect love.
"Wouldst thou hear them speak?"
whispered Mejnour; and again,
without sound, Glyndon inly answered,
" Yes ! " Their voices then came to
his ear, but in tones that seemed to him
strange ; so subdued were they, and
sounding, as it were, so hr off, that
they were as voices heard in the
visions of some holier men, from a
distant sphere.
" And how is it," said Viola, " tha*

158

zAJjiom.

thdu canst find pleasure in listening
to the ignorant 1 "

"Because the heart is never igno-
rant; because the mysteries of the
feelings are as full of wonder as those
of the inteUect. If at times thou
canst not comprehend the language of
my thoughts^ at times, also, I hear
sweet enigmas in that of thy emo-
tions."

" Ah, say not so ! '* said Viola,
windiivg her arm tenderly round his
neck, and under that heavenly light
her face seemed lovelier for its
blushes. "For the enigmas are but
love's common language, and love
should solve them. TiU I knew thee
— ^till I lived with thee — ^tiU I learned
to watch for thy footstep when absent
— ^yet even in absence to see thee
everywhere! — I dreamed not how
strong and all-pervading is the con-
nexion between nature and the human
soul!

"And yet," she continued, "I am
now assured of what I at first believed
—that the feelings which attracted
me towards thee at first were not
those^f love. I know thcU, by com-
paring the Present with the Past, — ^it
was a sentiment then wholly of the
mind or the spirit! I could not hear
thee now say, ' Viola, be happy with
another!'"

*' And I could not now tell thee so !
Ah, Viola! never be weary of assuring
me that thou art happy !"

" Happy, while thou art so. Yet,
at times^ Zanoni, thou art so sad 1 "

" Because human life is so short;
because we must part at last ; because
yon moon shines on when the night-
ingale sings to it no more ! A little
while, and thine eyes wUl grow dim,
and thy beauty haggard, and these
locks that I toy with now will be grey
and loveless."

" And thou, cruel one ! " said Viola»
touchingly, "I shall never see the
signs of age in thee ! Bui fihall we
not grow old together, and our eyes

be aecusiomed to a change i^iidi the
heart shall not share !"

Zanoni sighed ! He turned away,
and seemed to commune with himself.

Glyndon's attention, grew yet more
earnest.

" But were it so," muttered Zanoni ;
and then. looking steadfaatly at Yiola^
he said, with a . half smile, *' Hast
thou no curiosity to learn more of the
Lover thou once couldst belieTe the
agent of the evU one 1 "

" None ; all that one wishes to know
of the beloved one, I know,— that
thou lovest me I "

" I have told thee that my life is
apart from others. Wouldat thou not
seek to share it 1"

" I share it now ! "

" But were it possible to be thus
young and £a.ir for ever, till the
world blazes round us as one funend
pyre ! "

'' We shall be so, when we leave the
world!"

Zanoni was mute for some moments,
and at length he said —

"Canst thou recall those brilliant
and aerial dreams which once visited
theOj when thou didst fancy that
thou wert pre-ordained to some fate
aloof and a&v from the common
children of the earth ! "

" Zanoni, the fate is found."

"And hast thou no tenor of the
future \ "

"The future! I forget it J Time
past, and present, and to come,(Tepo0eB
in thy smile. Ah! Zanoni, plaj not
with the foolish credulities- of my
youth! I have been better and
humbler since thy presence ha& dis-
pelled the mist of the air. The
Future ! — ^well, when I have 'cause to
dread it, I 'will look up to heaven^
and'remember .who guides our Iftte I*

As she lifted* her eyes above, adttk
cloud swept suddenly over the scene.
It wrapt the orange trees, the azure
ocean, the dense sands; but still the
last images that it veiled from the

ZANONI.

169

clianned eyes of Glyndon were the
forms of Yiola and ^noni. The face
of the one rapt, serene, ahd radiant ;
-tHe face of the other, dark, thoughtful,
asid locked in more than its usual
irigidness of melancholy beauty and
profound repose.

"Eouse thyself," said M^nour,
'' thy ordeal has commenced i There
are pretenders to the solemn science,
-who could have shown thee the absent;
and prated to thee, in their charla-
tanic jargon, of the secret electricities
and the magnetic fluid, of whoae true
properties they know but |the germs
and el^oaents. I will lend thee the
books of those glorious dupes, and
tliou wilt find, in the dark ages, how
many erring steps have stumbled
upon the threshhold of the mighty
learning, and fimcied they had pierced
the temple. Hermes, and Albert, and
Paracelsus, I knew ye all ; but, noble
as ye were, ye were fated to be de-
ceiyed. Ye had not souls of faith,
and daring fitted for the destinies at
which ye aimed! Yet Paracelsus —
modest Paracelsus, — had an arro-
gance that soared higher than all our
knowledge. Ho! ho! — he thought
he eould make a race of men from
chemistry ; he arrogated to him-
self the Divine gifb^-the breath of

life.* He would hare made men, and,
after all, confessed that they could be
buj pigmies !' My art is to make men
above mankind. But you are im-
pati^t of my digressions. Forgive
me. All tliese men (they were great
dreamers, as you desire to be,) were
intimate friends of mine. But they
are dead and rotten. They talked of
spirits — but they dreaded to be in
other company than that of men.
Like orators whom I have heard, when
I stood by the Pnyx of Athens, blazing
with words like cometsin theasaembly,
and extinguishing their ardour like
holyday rockets when they were in
the field. Ho! hoi Demosthenes,
my hero-coward, how nimble were thy
heels at Cheeroneal And thou art
impatient still ! Boy, I could tell
thee such truths of the Past, asVould
make thee the luminary of schools.
But thou lustest only for the shadows
of the Future. Thou shalt have thy
wish. But the mind must be first
exercised and trained. Gfo to thy room,
and sleep; &st austerely; read no
books; meditate, imagine^^ dream,
bewilder thyself, if thou wilt. Thought
shapes out its own chaos at last.
Before midnight, seek me again 1"

* Paraoelsus, De Nat. Ber., Ub. i.

160

ZANONI.

CHAPTER IV. y

it is fit that we who endeavoar to rise to an elevation so sablime, should study first to leave
behind carnal affections, the frailty of the senses, the passions that belong to mattw ;
secondly, to leam by what means we may ascend to the climax of pore intellect,
united with the powers above, without which never can we gain the lore of secret
things, nor the magio that effects true wonders.— 'Tsitkiiius on Secret Things and
Secret Spirits.

It wanted still many minutes of mid-
night, and Glyndon was once more in
the apartment of the mystic. He
had rigidly observed the fast ordained
to him ; and in the rapt and intense
reveries into which his excited fancy
had plunged him, he was not only
insensible to the wants of the flesh —
he felt above them.

Mejnour, seated beside his disciple,
thus addressed him : — .

" Man is arrogant in proportion to
his ignorance. Man's natural tendency
is to egotism. Man in his infancy of
knowledge, thinks that all creation
was formed for him. For several
ages he saw in the countless worlds,
that sparkle through space like the
bubbles of a shoreless ocean, only the
petty candles, the household torches,
that Providence had been pleased to
light for no other purpose but to
make the night more agreeable to
man. Astronomy has corrected this
delusion of human vanity : And man
now reluctantly confesses that the
stars are worlds, larger and more
glorious than his own, — that the
earth on which he crawls is a scarce
visible speck; on the vast chart of
creation. But in the small as in the
vast, Qod is equally profase of- life.
The traveller looks upon the tree, and
fancies its boughs were formed for
his shelter in the summer sun, or
his fuel in the winter frosts. But in
each leaf of these boughs the Creator
has made a world, it swarms with

innumerable races. Each drop of
the water in yon moat is an orb more
populous than a kingdom is of men.
Everywhere, then, in this immense
Design, Science brings new life to
light. Life is the one i^rvading prin-
ciple, and even the thing that seems
to die and putrify, but engenders
new life, and changes to fresh farms
of matter. Reasoning, then, by evi-
dent analogy — ^if not a leaf, if not a
drop of water, but is, no less tiikn
yonder star, a habitable and breathi][|g
world — nay, if even man "himself is
a world to other lives, and millions
and myriads dwell in the rivers of
his blood, and inhabit man's frame
as man inhabits earth, common sense
(if your schoolmen had it) would sufi&ce
to teach that the circumfluent infinite
which you call space— the boundless
Impalpable which divides earth frx>m
the moon and stars — ^is filled also with
its correspondent and appropriate life.
Is it not a visible absurdity to suppose
that Being is crowded upon every leaf,
and yet absent from the immensities
of space] The law of the Great
System forbids the waste even of an
atom ; it knows no spot where some-
thing of life does not breathe. In
the very charnel-house is the nurseiy
of production and animation. Is that
true 1 Well, then, can you conceive
that space which is the Infinite itself
is alone a waste, is alone lifeless, is
less useful to the one design of uni-
versal being than the dead carcass of

ZANONI.

161

a dog, than tho peopled leaf^ than the
sinrarming globule? The microscope
shows you the creatures on the leaf;
no mechanical tube is yet invented to
ciiscoyer the nobler and more gifted
tMngB that hover in the illimitable
air. Tet between these last and man
is a mysterious and terrible affinity.
And hence, by tales and legends, not
•wholly false nor wholly true, have
arisen from time to time, beliefs in
apparitions and spectres. If - more
common to the earlier and simpler
tribes tham to the men of your duller
age, it is but that, with the firsL
the senses aro more keen and quick!*
And as the savage can see or scent,
miles away, the traces of a foe, invi-
sible to the gross sense of the civilised
animal, so the barrier itself between
him and the creatures of the airy
world is less thickened and obscured.
Do you listen?"

"With my soul!"

" But first, to penetrate this barrier,
the soul with which you listen must
be sharpened by intense enthusiasm,
purified from all earthlier desires.
Not without reason have the so-styled
magicians, in all lands and times,
insisted on chastity and abstemious
reverie as the communicants of inspi-
ration. When thus prepared, science
can be brought to aid it ; the sight
itself may be rendered more subtle,
the nerves more acute, the spirit
more alive and outward, and the
element itself — the air, the space —
may be made, by certain secrets of
the higher chemistry, more palpable
and clear. And this, too, is not magic
as the credulous call it ; — as I have so
often said before, magic (or science
that violates Nature) exists not; — it
is but the science by which Nature
can be controlled. Now, in space
there are millions of beings, not lite-
rally spiritual, for they have all, like
the animalculse unseen by the naked
eye, certain forms of matter, though
matter so delicate, air-drawn, and

No. 269. ]

subtle, that it is, as it were, but a
film, a gossamer that clothes the
spirit. Hence the Rosicrucian's lovely
phantoms of sylph and gnome. Yet,
in truth, these races and tribes differ
more widely, each from each, than
the Calmuck from the Greek — differ
in attributes and powers. In the
drop of water you see how the ani-
malculee vary, how vast and terrible
are some of those monster-mites as
compared with others. Jlqually so
with the Inhabitants of the atmo-
sphere : some of surpassing wisdom,
some of horrible malignity; some
hostile as fiends to men, others gentle
as messengers between earth and
heaven. He who would establish
intercourse with these varying beings,
resembles the traveller who would
penetrate into unknown lands. He
is exposed to strange dangers and
unconjectured terrors. Thai inter-
course once gained, I cannot secure
tliee from the diances to which thy
journey is exposed, I cannot direct
thee to paths free from the wan-
derings of the deadliest foes. Thou
must alone, and of thyself, face and
hazard all. But if thou art so ena*
moured of life, as to care only to live
on, no matter for what ends, recruit-
ing the nerves and veins with the
alchemist's vivifying elixir, why seek
these dangers from the intermediate
tribes 1 Because the very elixir that
pours a more glorious life into the
frame, so sharpens the senses that
those larvae of the air become to thee
audible and apparent ; so that, unless
trained by degrees to endure the
phantoms and subdue their malice,
a life thus gifted would be the most
awful doom man could bning upon
himself. Hence it is that though
the elixir be compounded of the
simplest herbs, his frame only is
prepared to receive it who has gone-
through the subtlest trials. Nay,
some, scared and daunted into the
most intolerable horror by the sigh* -
11

162

ZANONI.

that burst upon their eyes at the first
draught, have found the potion lees
pawerful to save than the 4gony aod
travail (tf Nature, to destroy. To the
unprepared the dixir is thus but the
deadliest poison. Amidst the dwellers
of the threshold is 0N£, too, sur-
passing in malignity and hatred all
her tribe — one whose eyes have
paralysed the bravest, and whose
power increases over the spirit pre-
cisely in proportion to its fear. . l>oes
thy courage falter 1 "

" N*y ; thy words but kindle it."

^'FoUowme, then; and submit to
the initiatory labours." \

With that, Mejnour led him into
the interior chamber, and proceeded
to explain to him certain chemical
operations, which, though extremely
simple in themselves, Glyndon soon
perceived were capable of very extra-
ordinary results.

" In the remoter times," said Mej-
iiour, smiling, " our brotherhood were
often compelled to recur to delusions
to protect realities ; and, as dexterous
mechanicians or expert chemists,
they obtained t*he name ^i sorcerers.
Observe how easy to construct is
the Spectre Lion that attended the
renowned Leonardo da Vinci ! "

And Glyndon beheld with delighted
surprise, the simple means by which
the wildest cheats of the imagination
can be formed. The magical land-
scapes in which Baptista Porta
rejoiced ; the apparent change of the
seasons with which Albertus Magnus
startled the Earl of Holland ; nay,
even those more dread delusions of
the Ghost and Image with which the
Necromancers of Heraclea woke the
conscience of the Conqueror of
Piateea * — all these, as the showman

* Pftusaniaa— see Pltttaroh.

enchants some trembling Ghiidr«a on
a Chiistmas Eve with his lanihom
and pjbantasmagoiia, Mejnour exhi-
bited to his {HipiL

^' And now laugh for everatnuigic!
when these, the very tricks, the very
sports and frivolities of science, were
the very acts which men viewed with
abhorrence; and Inqmsitors and
Kings rewarded with the zaok aad
the stake."

"But the Alchemist's tranaoatfr-
tion of metals—- — ''

^ Nature herself is a laboratory in
whi^ UkCtals, and all elemie&tB, are
for ever at change. Easy to naake
gold, — easier, more commodious^ aad
cheaper still, to make the pearl, the
diamond, and the ruby. 0\x, yes;
wise men found sorcery in thb, too ;
but they found no sorcery in the
discovery, that by the simpdest oom-
bination of things of every-day use
they could Bsise a Devil that "would
sweep away thousands of thdr kkd
by the breath of consuming fire.
Discover what will destroy Ufe, and
you are a great manl — what will
prolong it, and you are an impostc^ !
— Discover some invention in
machinery that will make the nch
more rich and the poor more poor,
and they will build you a statue!
Discover some mystery in art, that
will equalise physical disparities, and
they will pull down their own houses
to stone you ! Ha, ha, my pnpU !
sueh is the world Zanoni still cares
for ! you and I will leave this world
to itself. And now that you have
seen some few of the effects of
science, begin to learn its granHaarJ'^

Mejnour then set before his pupil
certain tasks, in which the rest of
the night wore itaelf away.

MNO^I.

1€3

CHAPTER Y.

Oreftfr trnvell batfa the gentle Csdidore,
And toyle endured ******
There on a day-
He chaunst to spy a sort of ahepheard groomee.
Playing on pipes and caroling apace.
-* * * * He, there, besyde
Sanr.a fake dameell.

SvaNSxa, Fderie ((^eene, cant. ix«

FoK a considerable period, the pupil
of Mejnour was ayow absorbed in
labour dependent on the most vigUa&t
attention, on the most minute aad
subtle oalculatioin. Results astonish-
ing and various rewarded his toils
and sUxaulated his i&tereat. Nor
were these studies li^nited to ohemieal
disooveiy — ^in whioh it is permitted
me to say that the greatest marvels
upon the organisation of pl^sieal
life seemed wrought by experiments
of the vivifyifflg influ«aoe of Heat.
Mejnour professed to find a linik
between all intellectual beings in the
existence of a certain all-pervading
and invisible fluid resembling elec-
tricity, yet distinct from the known
operations of that myaterioas agency
— a fluid that connected '.thought to
thought with the rapidity and pro-
fusion of the modem telegraph, and
the influence of this influence, accord-
ing to Mejnour, extended to the
remotest past — ^that is to say, when-
ever and wheresoever manhad thought.
Thus, if the doctrine were true, all
human knowledge became attainable
through a medium established be-
tween the brain of the individual
inquirer and all the farthest and
obscurest regions in the universe of
ideas. Glyndon was surprised to find
Hejnour attached to the* abstruse
mysteries whieh the Pythagoreans
ascribed to the ocoult science of

NfncsEiRfi. In this last, new lights
giimmered dimly on his eyes; and
he began to perceive that even the
power to predict, or rather to cal-
culate, Jesuits, might by *

* « * *

But he observed that the last brief
process by which, in each of these
experiments, the wonder was aehieved,
Mejnour reserved for himself, and
refused to oommunioate the secret.
The answer he obtained to his
remonstrances on this head was more
stem than satisfactory : —

" Dost thou think," said Mejnour,
" that I would give to the mere pupil,
whose qualities are not yet tried,
powers that might chan^ the face
of the social world? The last secrets
are entmsted only to him of whose
virtue the Master is convinced.
Patience ! It is labour itself that is
the greats purifier of the mind ; and
by degrees the secrets will grow upon
thyself afi thy miud becoanes riper to
receive them."

At laat Mejnour professed himself
satisfied with the progress made by
his pupil. « The hour now arrives,"
he said, " when thou mayst pass the
great but airy barrier, — ^when thou
mayest gradually confront the terrible
Dweller of the Threshold. Continue
thy labours — continue to supioess

* Here there lB.an eoMsiire in the MS.
M 2

164

ZANONL

thine impatience for results until thou
canst fathom the causes. I leave thee
for one month ; if at the end of that
period, when I return, the tasks set
thee are completed, and thy mind
prepared by contemplation and
austere thought for the ordeal, I
promise thee the ordeal shall com-
mence. One caution alone I give
thee, regard it as a peremptory com-
mand — Enter not this chamber!"
(They were then standing in the room
where their experiments had been
chiefly made, and in which Glyndon,
on the night he had sought the
fiolitude of the Mystic, had nearly
&llen a victim to his intrusion.)

"Enter not this chamber till my
return ; or, above all, if by any search
for materials necessary to thy toils,
thou shouldst venture hither, forbear
to light the naphtha in those vessels,
and to open the vases on yonder
shelves. I leave the key of the room
in thy keeping, in order to try thy
abstinence and self-control. Young
man, this veiy temptation is a part
of thy trial."

With that, Mejnour placed the
key in his hands; and at sunset he
left the castle.

For several days Glyndon continued
immersed in employments which
strained to the utmost all the faculties
of his intellect. Even the most
partial success depended so entirely
on the abstraction of the mind, and
the minuteness of its calculations,
that there was scarcely room for any
-other thought than those absorbed in
the occupation. And doubtless this
perpetual strain of the faculties was
the object of Mejnour in works that
did not seem exactly pertinent to the
purposes in view. As the study of
the elementary mathematics, for
example, is not so profitable in the
solving of problems, useless in our
after-callings, as it is serviceable in
training the intellect to the compre-
hension and analysis of general truths.

But in less than half the time
which Mejnour had stated for the
duration of his absence, all that the
Mystic had appointed to his toils was
completed by the Pupil ; and then
his mind, thus relieved from the
drudgery and mechanism of employ-
ment, once more sought occupation
in dim conjecture and restless fancies.
His inquisitive and rash nature grew
excited by the prohibition of Mejnour,
and he found himself gazing- too
often, with perturbed and daring
curiosity, upon the key of the for-
bidden chamber. He began to feel
indignant at a trial of constancy
which he deemed frivolous and
puerile. What nursery tales of Blue-
beard and his closet were revived to
daunt and terrify him I How could
the mere walls of a chamber, in which
he had so often securely pursued his
labours, start into living danger 1 If
haunted, it could be but by those
delusions which Mejnour had taught
to despise. A shadowy lion — ^a che-
mical phantasm ! Tush ! he lost
half his awe of Mejnour, when he
thought that by such tricks the sage
could practise upon the very intellect
he had awakened and instructed!
Still he resisted the impulses oT his
curiosity and his pride, and, to escape
from their dictation, he took long
rambles on the hills, or amidst the
valleys that surrounded the castle ; —
seeking by bodily fatigue to subdue
the unrepoding mind. One day,
suddenly emerging from a dark
ravine, he came upon one of those
Italian scenes of rural festivity and
mirth in which the classic age appears
to revive. It was a festival, partly
agricultural, partly religious, held
yearly by the peasants of that district.
Assembled at the outskirt-s of a
village, animated crowds, just re-
turned from a procession to a neigh-
bouring chapel, were now forming
themselves into groups — ^the old to
taste the vintage, the young to dance

ZANONL

105

— all to be gay and happy. This
eudden picture of easy joy, and care-
less ignorance, contrasting so forcibly
-frith the intense studies and that
parching desire for wisdom which
had 60 long made up his own life,
and bnmed at his own heart, sensibly
affected Glyndon. As he stood aloof
and gazing on them, the young man
felt once more that he was young!
The memory of all he had been
content to sacrifice spoke to him like
the sharp voice of remorse. The
flitting forms of the women in their
picturesque attire, their happy
laughter ringing through the cool,
BtUl air of the autumn noon, brought
back to the heart, or rather perhaps
to the senses, the images of his
past time, the '* golden shepherd
hours," when to live was but to
enjoy.

He approached nearer and nearer
to the scene, and suddenly a noisy
group swept round him ; and Maestro
Paolo, tapping him familiarly on the
shoulder, exclaimed, in a hearty voice,
" Welcome, Excellency! — we are
rejoiced to see you amongst us."
Glyndon was about to reply to this
salutation, when his eyes rested upon
the face of a young girl, leaning on
Paolo's arm, of a beauty so attractive,
that his colour rose and his heart beat
as he encountered her gaze. Her eyes
sparkled with a roguish and petulant
mirth, her parted lips showed teeth
like pearls, — as if impatient at the
pause of her companion from the
revel of the rest, her little foot beat
the ground to a measure that she
half hummed, half chanted. P60I0
laughed as he saw the effect the girl
had produced upon the young
foreigner.

"Will you not dance, Excellency ]
Come, lay aside your greatness, and
be merry, like us poor devils. See
how our pretty Pillide is longing
for a partner. Take compassion on
her."

Fillide pouted at this speech ; and,
disengaging her arm from Paolo's,
turned away, but threw over her
shoulder a glance half inviting, half
defying. Glyndon, almost invo-
luntarily, advanced to her, and
addressed her.

Oh yes, he addresses her! She
looks down, and smiles. P^olo leaves
them to themselves, sauntering off
with a devil-me-carish air. Pillide
speaks now, and looks up at the
scholar's face with arch invitation.
He shakes his head : Fillide laughs,
and her laugh is silvery. She points
to a gay mountaineer, who is tripping
up to her merrily. Why does Glyndon
feel jealous 1 Why, when she speaks
again, does he shafke his head no
morel He offers his hand; Fillide
blushes, and takes it with a demure
coquetry. What ! is it so, indeed I
They whirl into the noisy circle of
the revellers. Ha ! ha ! is not this
better than distilling herbs, and
breaking thy brains on Pythagorean
numbers ? How lightly Fillide bounds
along! How her lithesome waist
supples itself to thy circling arm !
Tararra-tara, ta-tara, rararra! What
the devil is in the measure, that it
makes the blood course like quick-
silver through the veins 1 Was there
ever a pair of eyes like Fillide's?
Nothing of the cold stars there!
Yet how they twinkle and laugh at
thee! And that rosy, pursed-up
mouth, that will answer so sparingly
to thy flatteries, as if words were a
waste of time, and kisses were their
proper language. Oh, pupil of
Mejnour ! oh, would-be Kosicrusian —
Platonist — Magian — I know not
what! I am ashamed of thee!
What, in the names of Averroes, and
Burri, and Agrippa, and Hermes,
have become of thy austere contem-
plations ? Was it for this thou didst
resign Viola 1 I don't think thou
hast the smallest recollection of the
I elixir or the cabala. Take care !

166

ZAHFONL

Wfaai are jw aboii, sirl WV <lo
you claap that small hand looked
within ywir own? Why do y«»--
G^ua-rara tara^ra> tara-rarahra, rarsra,
tarT* a-ra I Keep yomr eyes off those
slowier ankles, and that crimaon
hoddice ! Tara-rara-ra ] There they
go again ! And now thej rest under
the broad trees. l%e re^el has
wldrled away from them. TlMy
hear— or do they not h«ar— the
laughter afc the distance 1 They see
— <w if they have their eyes a^nt
them, they should see — oouple alter
couple, gliding by, love^talfcing and
loT«4ooking. But I will lay a wager,
as they sit under that tree, and the
roond sun goes down behind the
mountains, that they see or hear rery
little except theraselTos !

« Hollo, , Signer Exoelleney i and
how does your partner please youl
Come and join our feast. Loiterers ;
one dances more merrily after wine."

Down goes the round sun; up
comes the autumn moon. Tars, tara,
rarara, rarara, tarara-ra! Daaeing
again ; is it a dance, or some more-
ment gayer, noisier, wilder still ] How
they glance and gleam through the
night-shadows — those flitting forms!
What confiision! — what order! Ha^
that is the Tarantula dance; Ma^tro
Paolo foots it bravely ! Dia-vdo, what

fory I the tanmtnla haa stong tbm
all. Danee, or die ; it is fiti^F— 4he
Corybantea — ^the Mten&dhH-^;h»->-%
Ho, ho} mare wine! the Sabbat of
the Witches at BeneveKto is a joke to
this ! From clond to cloud wsAders
the moon — bow shining, bow lost
Dimoess while the nnid«a Modies;
ligkt when the maiden smilee*

'' FilUde^ thou art an euehaslKss!"

" Buona notte^ ErceHeB«y; ytm
will see me again!"

''Ah, young man," said an oid
decrepit, hoUow^eyed octog«nffian,
leaning on his stadS^ ''make the best
of your yowth. I, too, once had a
Filhde ! I was hiandtomer than yo«
then! Aiaal if we eould be siwiqm
yoiang!"

"Always young!" Qlynd<Mi started,
as he turned his gaze &om the fresh
fair rosy face of the girl, and saw the
eyes dropping rheum — the ydlow
wrinkled skin-^be toitering frame of
the old man.

" Ha, ha !" said the decrejiit crea-
ture, hobbiing near to him> and with
a malicious lai^h. " Yet I, too, was
young o&ee ! Give me a baiocoho for
a glass of ae<|aa vita ! "

Tara> rara, ;^ra-rara, tara, ramrra !
There dances Youth ! Wrap thy
rj^ rouad thee> and totter off. Old
Age!

ZAWOKI.

l&T

CHAFTER TI.

Whilest CalidoM doM foUovr tfa«t faiie mayd.
Unmindful of hie vow and high behMBt
Which by the Faerie Queene was on him layd.

SnBNSKR, Faerie Queene, cant. x. s. 1 .

Ii* was tlist grej, indisimci, strnggih^
iniervftl between ikie night and the
dftWB, wbea Clarenee stood once more
in bis chamber. Tliie abstruse caleo-
laffciotis lying on hie table caiif^ht his
eye^ and filled him with a sefttisiMit
of weariness and distaste. But —
" AJLu, if we conld be alwa3r6 yoong 1
Ob^ thou horrid sjpectre of the cAA
rbesm-eyed laa&l What apparHion
can the mystic efaamber sbad<^w lerth
more ugly and more hatefol than
thou 1 Oh, yes ; if we conld be always
yevng ! Bat not (thinjcs the Keephyte
new) — not to labour for ever at these
crabbed figures and tbe^e cold oom-
penndsof herbs and drugs. No ; bn-t
to. enjoy, to love, to revel! What
shenld be the companion of youth
bvt pleasure ? — ^And the gift of eternal
yontb may be mine this very hour !
Wlwt means this prohib^on of
Mejiiein*'s? is it not of the same
complexion sa his nngenerona reserve
CTen in the minutest secrets of
chemistry, or the nmnbers of bis
cabala ? — compelling me to perform
aH the toils, and yet withhcdding
from me the knowledge of the crown-
ing result 1 No doubt Ue will still,
on his return, show me that the
great mystery can be attained ; but
will still forbid me to attain it. . Is it
nst as if be desired to keep my youth
the slave to his age? — to make me
dependent solely on himself? to bind
me to a journeyman's service by
perpetual excitement to coriosity,
and the sight of the fruits he places

beyond ay l^sf These, and mai^
reflections still more repining, dis^
turbed aad irritated him. Heated
with wine — excited by the wild revels
he had left — he was unable to skep.
Tbe image of that revolting Old Age
which Time^ unless defeated, oust
brin^ upon hinuwi^ quickened the
eagerness of his desire for tbe dazzling
and imperis^bl* Yonth he ascribed
to Zanonl The prohibiti«n («ly
served to create a spirit of defiance.
Tiue reviving day, laughing jocundly
throng his lattice, dispelled all the
feairs and superstitions' that belong to
nigihi. The mystic chounber presented
to his imagination nothing to diiler
from aay- other apartmeoft in the
castle. What foul or nodignant
apparition could harm him in the
light of that blessed son ! It was the
peonliar, and on the whole most
unbi^py, centradietion in Glyndon't;
nature> that while bis reascmings led
him to dembt^—and doubt rendered
him in moroA conduct irresolnte and
unsteady — ^he was physiccUly brave to
rashness. Nor is this unoemmon:
scepticism and presumption aire often
twins. When a man of this character
determines upon any action, personal
fear never deters him; and for the
mioral fear, any sophistry saffices to
setf-will. Almost without analysing
himsdf' the mental process by whieh
his nerves hardened tbttnsclws and
his limbs moved, he traversed the
corridor, gained Meinour's afartment,
and opened the forbidden doos. All

168

ZANONI.

was as he lutd been accustomed to see
it, save that on a table in the centre
of the room lay open a large volume.
He approached, and gazed on the
characters on the page ; they were in
a cipher, the study of which had made
a part of his labours. With but
slight difficulty he imagined that he
interpreted the meaning of the first
sentences, and that they ran thus : —

"To quaff the inner life, is to see
the outer life ; to live in defiance of
time, is to lire in the whole. He who
discovers the elixir, discovers what
lies in space; for the spirit that
vivifies the frame strengthens the
senses. There is attraction in the
elementary principle of light. In the
lamps of Rosicrusius, the fire is the
pure elementary principle. Kindle
the lamps while thou openest the
vessel that contains the elixir, and
the light attracts towards thee those
beings whose life is that light. Beware
of Fear : Fear is the deadliest enemy
to Knowledge." Here the ciphers
changed their character, and became
incomprehensible. But had he not
read enough ? Did not the last sen-
tence suffice] — "Beware of Fear!"
It was as if Mejnour had purposely
left the page open — as if the trial was,
in tnith, the reverse of the one pre-
tended — as if the Mystic had designed
to make experiment of his courage
while affecting but that of his for-
bearance. Not Boldness, but Fear was
the deadliest enemy to Knowledge.
He moved to the shelves on which
the, crystal vases were placed; with
an untrembling hand he took from
one of them the stopper, and a
delicious odour suddenly diffused
itself through the room. The air
A sparkled as if with a diamond dust.
A sense of unearthly delight — of an
existence that seemed all spirit,
flashed through his whole frame;
and a faint, low, but exquisite 'music
crept, thrilling, through the chamber.

At^this moment he heard a voice in
the corridor, calling on his name ;
and presently there was a knock ftt
the door without. "Are you there.
Signer V said the clear tones of
Ma^tro Paolo. Glyndon hastily ze*
closed and replaced the vial; and
bidding Pdolo await him in his own
apartment, tarried till he heard the
intruder's steps depart ; he then*
reluctantly quitted the room. As he
locked the door, he still heard the
dying strain of that fairy music ; and
with a light step, and a joyous heart,
he repaired to P&olo, inly resolving to
visit again the chamber at an hour
when his experiment would be safe
from interruption.

As he crossed his threshold, Paolo
started back, and exclaimed, " Why,
Excellency ! I scarcely recognise you !
Amusement I see is a great beautifier
to the young. Yesterday you looked
so pale and haggard; but Fillide's
merry eyes have. done more for yon
than the philosopher's stone (Saints,
forgive me for naming it !) ever did
for the wizards." And Glyndon,
glancing at the old Venetian mirror,
as P§,olo spoke, was scarcely less
startled than Paolo himself at the
change in his own mien and bearing.
His form, before bent with thought,
seemed to him taller by half the head,
80 lithesome and erect rose his slender
stature; his eyes glowed, his cheeks
bloomed with health and the innate
and pervading pleasure. If the mere
fragrance of the elixir was thus
potent, well might the alchemists
have ascribed life and youth to the
draught !

, " You must forgive me, Excellency,
for disturbing you," said Pg.olo, pro-
ducing a letter from his pouch ; "but
our Patron has just written to me to
say that he will be here to-morrow,
and desired me to lose not a moment
in giving to yourself this billet, which
he enclosed."
"Who brought the letter]"

ZANONI.

169

*" " A horseman, who did not wait for
any reply."

Glyndon opened the letter, and read
as follows : —

" I return- a Week sooner than I
had intended, and you will expect me
to-morrow. You will then enter on
the ordeal you desire ; but remember
that, in doing so, you must reduce
Being as far as possible into Mind.
The senses must be mortified and
subdued — not the whisper of one
passion heard. Thou mayst be master
of the Cabala and the Chemistry ; but
thou must be master also over the
Flesh and the Blood — over Love and
Vanity, Ambition and Hate. I will
trust to find thee so. Fast and medi-
tate till we meet ! "

Glyndon crumpled the letter in his
hand with a smile of disdain. What !
more drudgery — more abstinence !
Youth without love and pleasure!
Ha, ha! baffled Mejnour, thy pupil
shall gain thy secrets without thine
aid!

" And Fillide ! I passed her cottage
in my way — she blushed and sighed
when I jested her about you. Excel-
lency!"

"Well, Piolo ! I thank thee for so
charming an introduction. Thine
must be a rare life."

"Ah, Excellency, while we are
young, nothing like adventure — except
love, wine, and laughter ! "

"Very true. Farewell, Maestro
Paolo ; we will talk more with each
other in a few days."

All that morning Glyndon was
almost overpowered with the new
sentiment of happiness that had
entered into him. He roamed into
the woods, and he felt a pleasure that
resembled his earlier life of an artist,
but a pleasure yet more subtle and
vivid, in the various colours of the
autumn foliage. Certainly, Nature
seemed to be brought closer to him ;

he comprehended better all that
Mejnour had often preached to him
of the mystery of sympathies and
attractions. He was about to enter
into the same law as those mute
children of the forests ! He was to
kSiow the r&mwal of life) the seasons
that chilled to winter should yet
bring again the bloom and the mirth
of spring. Man's common existence
is as one year to the vegetable world :
he has his spring, his summer, his
autumn, and winter — ^but only owx.
But the giant oaks around him go
through a revolving series of verdure
and youth, and the green of the
centenarian is as vivid in the beams
of May as that of the sapling by its
side. "Mine shall be your spring,
but not your winter 1" exclaimed the
Aspirant.

Wrapt in these sanguine and joyous
reveries, Glyndon, quitting the woods,
found himself amidst cultivated fields
and vineyards to which his footstep
had not before wandered : and there,
stood, by the skirts of a green lane
that reminded him of verdant England,
a modest house — half cottage, half
farm. The door was open, and he
saw a girl at work with her distaff.
She looked up, uttered a slight cry,
and, 'tripping gaily into the lane to
his side, he recognised the dark-eyed
Fillide.

"Hist!" she said, archly putting
her finger to her lip ; ** do not speak
loud — my mother is asleep within;
and I knew you would come to see
me. It is kind ! "

Glyndon, with a little embarrass-
ment, accepted the compliment to his
kindness, which he did not exactly
deserve. *' You have thought, then,
of me, feir Fillide 1"

" Yes," answered the girl colouring,
but with that frank, bold, ingenuous-
ness which characterises the females
of Italy, especially of the lower class,
and in the southern provinces — " Oh
yes! I have thought of little else.

17t>

ZANONI.

PMo said he knew you would visit
me."

"And wfaftt relation is F&ok> to
yonr*

"None; but a geed friend to ns
all. My brotber is one of Ms band."

" One of his bond !— A robber 'i'^

" "We, of the monntains, do not call
a mountaineer ' a robber/ Signor.**

"I ask pardon. I)o ye« not
tremble eometimes for yow brother's
life? The law *'

**Law neyer ventures into these
d^es. Tremble for him ! No. My
&tber and grandsire were of the same
caUing. I often wish I were a
man!"

"By these lips, I am enchaarted
that yocr wish cannot be realised ! "

" Fie, Signer ! And do you really
love me ? "

" With my whole heart ! "

"And I thee r said the girl, with
a candour that seemed innocent, as
she suffered him to clasp her hand.

** But," she added, *" thou wilt soon

leave us; and I " She stopped

short, and the tears stood in her eyes.

There was something dangerous in
this, it must be confessed. Certainly i
Fillide had not the seraphic loveliness ]
of Tiola ; but hers was a beauty that
equally at least touched the senses.
Perhaps Glyndon had never really
loved Viola; perhaps the feelings
with which she had inspired him were
not of that ardent character which
deserves the name of love. However
that be, he thought as he gased on
those dark eyes that he had never
loved before.

"And couldst thou not leave thy
mountains ? " he whispered, as he
drew yet nearer to her.

" Dost thou ask me ? " she said,
retreating, and looking him stead-
fastly in the face. " Dost thou know
what we daughters of. the mountains
■&re? You gay, smooth cavaliers of
cities seldom mean what yon speak.
Wifh you, love is amusement ; with

uB, it ifl life. Leave these meimtaiiis !
Well ! I should not leave my natare.*

"Keep thy nature ever — ^it is a
sweet one."

"Yes, sweet while thou art true;
stern, if thou art futbless. Shall I
tell thee whsit I — ^wfaai the girls of
this country, are 1 Daughters of men,
whom you call robbers, we aspire to
be the companions of our lovers or
o«r husbands. We love ardently, we
own it boldly. We stand by yotir
side in danger; we serve you as slaves
in safety ; we never change, and we
resent change. You may reproaeii,
strike us, trample us as a dog, — ^we
bear all without a mnrmnr; betray
us, and no tiger is more relentless.
Be tree, and onr hearts reward yon :
be false, and our hands revenge! —
Dost thou love me now 1 "

During this speech, the Itaiisn's
countenance had most eloquently
aided her words— by turns soft, frank,
fierce, — ^and, at the last question, she
inclined her head humbly, and stood,
as in fear of his reply, before hira.
The stem, brave, wild spirit, in which
wiait seemed unfeminine was yet, if I
may so say, still womanly, did not
recoil, it rather captivated Glyndon.
He answered readily, briefly, and
freely—" Fillide— yes ! "

Oh, " yes ! " forsooth, Claienee
Glyndon ! Every light nature answers
"yes " lightly to such a question from
lips so rosy ! Have a care — ^have a
care ! Why the deuce, Mejnour, do
you leave your pupil of fonr-and-
twenty to the mercy of these wild
cats-a-mountain ! Preach fast, and
abstinence, and sublime renunciati<»i
of the cheats of the senses ! Very
well in you, sir, heaven knows how
many ages old! but, at four-and-
twenty, your Hierophant would have •
kept you out of Fillide's way, or yon
would have had small taste for the
cabala!

And so they stood, and talked, and
vowed, and whispered, till thegiri^

ZANOM.

171

motlier made sonre noise mlMn the
btrase, and Fillide bounded back to
the distafij her finger once more on
her lip.

** There is more magic in Pillide
than in Mejnour," said Glyndon to
lunxBelf^ walking gaily home; "yet,
on second thoughts, I know not if I
quite «o well like a character so ready

for revenge ! Bnt he who has the
real secret can baffle even the ven-
geance of a woman, and disarm all
danger ! "

Sirrah ! dost thou even already
meditate the possibility of treason?
Oh, well said Zanoni, " to pour pure
water into the muddy well does but
disturb the mud ! "

CHAPTER rn.

• OBmis, custodia quails

YeBtibolo aedoai? facMS quee luaiaa Bervet? *

MsKU), lib. vi. 574.

Awe it is ptofownd night. All is at
rest within the old castle — all is
breathless under the melancholy stars.
I^ow is the time. Mejnour with his
austere wisdom — Mejnour, the enemy
to love — ^Mejnour, whose eye will read
thy heart, and refase thee the pro-
mised secrets, because the sunny faoe
of Fillide disturbs the lifeless shadow
that he calls repose — MeJBOur comes
to-fflorrow ! Seize );he night ! Beware
of fear! Never, or this hour! So,
brave youth, — brave despite all thy
enrofs — so, with a steady pulse, thy
hand uaiOcks once more the forbidden
d«wr!

He placed his lamp on the taWe
beside the book, which still lay there
opened; he turited over the leaves,
but could not decipher their mean-
ing tin he came to the following
paasage:—

"When, then, the pupil is thus
iiBtiated and prepared, let him open
the casement, light the lamps, and
bathe his tempUs with tho elixir.
He »ii8t beware how he presume yet
to qiitff tho volatile and fiery spirit.

* See you, what porter sita within the
TMtihuIe ? — what face watches at the
threshold ?

To taste, till repeated inhalations have
accustomed the frame gradually to
the ecstatic liquid, is to know not life,
but death."

He could penetrate no farther into
the instructions; the cipher again
clianged. He now looked steadily
and earnestly round the chamber.
The moonlight came quietly through
the lattice as his hand opened it, and
seemed, as it rested on the floor and
filled the walls, like the presence of
some ghostly and mournful Power.
He riaiged the mystic lamps (nine
in number), round the centre of
the room, and lighted them one by
ono. A flame of silvery and azure tints
sprung up from each, and lighted the
apartment with a calm and yet most
dazzling splendour; but presently this
light grew more soft and dim, as a
thin grey doud, like a mist, gradually
spread over the room ; and an icy
thrill shot through the heart of the
Englishman, and quickly gathered
over him like the coldnefis of death. .
Instinctively aware of his danger, he
tottered, though wHh difficulty, for
life limbs seemed rigid and stone-lik^
to the shelf that contained the crystal
via*8 ; hastily he inhaled the spirit,
and laved bis temples yfiih the i^)ark-

172

ZANONI.

ling liquid. The same sensation of
vigour, and youth, and joy, and airy
lightness, that he had felt in the
mormng, instantaneously replaced the
deadly numbness that just before had
invaded the citadel of life. He stood,
with his arms folded on his bosom,
erect and dauntless, to watch what
should ensue.

The vapour had now assumed
almost the thickness and seeming
consistency of a snow-cloud; the
lamps piercing it like stars. And
now he distinctly saw shapes, some-
-what resembling in outline those of
\he human form, gliding slowly and
with regular evolutioi^ through the
cloud. They appeared bloodless;
their bodies were transparent, and
contracted or expanded, like the folds
of a serpent. As they moved in
majestic order, he heard a low sound
— ^the ghost as it were of voice — which
each caught and echoed from the
other; a low sound, but musical,
which seemed the chant of some
unspeakably tranquil joy. None of
these apparitions heeded him. His
intense longing to accost them, to be
of them, to make one of this move-
ment of aerial happiness — for such it
seemed to him — made him stretch
forth his arms and s^ek to cry aloud,
but only an inarticulate whisper passed
his lips ; and the movement and the
music went on the same as if the
mortal were not there. Slowly they
glided round and aloft, till, in the
same majestic order, one after one,
they floated through the casement
and were lost in the moonlight ; then,
as his eyes fdllowed them, the case-
ment became darkened with some
object undistinguishable at the first
gaze, but which sufficed mysteriously
to change into ineffable horror the
delight he had before experienced.
By degrees, this object shaped itself
to his sight. It was as that of a
human head, covered with a dark veil,
through whichr glared with livid and

demoniac fire, eyes that froze tlie
marrow of his bones. Nothing else

of the face was distinguishable

nothing but those intolerable eyes;
but his terror, that even at the first
seemed beyond nature to endure, was
increased a thousand-fold, when, after
a pause, the Phantom glided slowly
into the chamber. The cloud re-
treated from it as it advanced ; the
bright lamps grew wan, and flickered,
restlessly as at the breath of its
presence. Its form was veiled as the
&ce, but the outline was that of a
female; yet it moved not as move
even the ghosts that simulate the
living. It seemed rather to crawl as
some vast misshapen reptile; and
pausing, at length it cowered beside
the table which held the mystic
volume, and again fixed its eyes
through the filmy veil on the rash
invoker. All fancies, the most gro-
tesque, of Monk or Painter in the
early North, would have failed to give
to the visage of imp or fiend that
aspect of deadly malignity which
spoke to the shuddering nature in
those eyes alone. All else so dark —
shrouded — ^veiled and larva-like. But
that burning glare so intense, so livid^
yet so living, had in it something that
was almost huTnan, in its passion of
hate and mockery — something that
served to show that the shadowy
Horror was not all a spirit, but par-
took of matter enough, at least, to
make it more deadly and fearful an
enemy to material forms. As, cling-
ing with the grasp of agony to the
wall — his hair erect — his eyeballs
starting, he still gazed back upon that
appalling gaze— the Image spoke to
him — his soul rather than his ear
comprehended the words it said.

" Thou hast entered the immeasur-
able region. I am the Dweller of the
Threshold. What wouldst thou with
me? Silent] Dost thou fear me?
Am I not thy beloved 1 Is it not for
me that thou hast rendered up the

ZANOKI.

173

delights of thy race? Wouldst thou
"be wise ? Mine is the wisdom of the
countless ages. Kiss me^ my mortal
lover." And the Horror crawled
near and nearer to him ; it crept to
bis side, its breath breathed upon his
cheek! With a sharp cry he fell to
the earth insensible^ and knew no

more till, &r in the noon of the next
day, he opened his eyes and found
himself in his bed, — ^the glorious sun
streaming through his lattice, and the
bandit Pfi>olo by his side, engaged in
polishing his carbin^ and whistling
a Calabrian love air.

CHAPTER Vni. '

Thus Man pursiAs hia weary callinfr*
Aod wrings the hard life from the sky;

While Happiness unseen is falling *
Down from God's bosom silently.

ScaiLLSR.

Is one of those islands whose history
the imperishable literature and
renown of Athens yet itlvesf with
melancholy interest, and on which
Kature, in whom "there is nothing
melancholy," still bestows a glory of
scenery and climate equally radiant
for the freeman or the slave — ^the
Ionian, the Yenetian, the Gaul, the
Turk, or the restless Briton, — Zanoni
had fixed his bridal Home, There
the air carries with it the perfumes of
the pUins for miles along the blue
translucent deep.* Seen from one of
its green sloping heights, the island
he had selected seemed one delicious
garden. The towers and turrets of its
capital gleaming amidst groves of
oranges and lemons ; — ^vineyards and
olivewoods filling up the valleys, and
clambering along the hill-sides ; and
villa, farm, and cottage covered with
luxuriant trellises of dark green leaves
and purple fruit. . For, there, the
prodigal beauty yet seems half to
justify those graceful superstitions of a
creed that, too enamoured of earth,
rather brought the deities to man.

• See Dr. Holland's Travels to the Ionian
Iil«,&c.,p.l8.

than raised the man to their less
alluring and less voluptuous Olympus.

And still to the fishermen, weaving
yet their antique dances on the sand
— ^to the maiden, adorning yet, with
many a silver fibula, her glossy tresses
under the tree that overshadows her
tranquil cot — the same Great Mother
that watched over the wise of Samos
— the democracy of Corcyra — the
graceful and deep-taught loveliness of
Miletus — smiles as graciously as of
yore. For the North, philosophy and
freedom are essentials to human
happiness. In the lands which
Aphrodite rose from the waves to
govern, as the Seasons, hand in hand,
stood to welcome her on the shores,+
Kature is all-Buf&cient.

The isle which Zanoni had selected
was one of the loveliest in that divine
sea. His abode, at some distance
from the city, but near one of the
creeks on the shore, belonged to a
Yenetian, and though small, had
more of elegance than the natives
ordinarily cared for. On the seas,
and in sight, rode his vessel. His
Indians, as before, ministered in

t Homerio Hymn.

174

ZANONI.

mute gravity to the service of the
household. Ko spot could be moxe
beautifal — no solitude less invaded.
To the mysterious knowledge of
Zanoni — ^to ihe harmless ignorance of
Viola — the babbling and garish world
of civiMsed mA, was alike unheeded.
The loving sky and the lovely earth
are companions enough to Wisdom
and to Ignorance while they love !

Although, as I have before said,
there was nothing in the visible occu-
pations of Zanoni that betrayed a
cultivator of the occult sciences, his
habits were those of a man who
remembers or reflects. He loved to
roam alone, chiefly at dawn, or at
night, when the ilioon was clear
(especially in each month, at its rise
and full), miles and miles away over
the rich inlands of the island, and to
cull herbs and flowers, which he
hoarded with jealous care. Some-
times at the dead of night, Yiola
would wake by an instinct that told
her he was not by her side, and,
stretching out her arms, And that the
instinct had not deceived her. But
she early saw that he was reserved on
his peculiar habits, and if at times a
chill, a foreboding, a suspicious awe
crept over her, she forbore to question
him. But his rambles were not
always unaccompanied — he took plea-
sure in excursions less solitary. Often,
when the sea lay before them like a
lake, the barren dreariness of the
opposite coast of Cephallenia con-
trasting the smiling shores on which
they dwelt, Viola and himself would
pass days in cruising slowly around
the coast, or in visits to the neigh-
bouring isles. Every spot of the
Greek soil, "that fair Fable-Land,"
seemed to him familiar; and as he
conversed of the Past, and its ex-
quisite traditions, he taught Viola
to love the race from which have
descended the poetry and the wisdom
of the world. There was much in
Zanoni, as she knew him better^ that

deepex^ the fascination in whieh
Viola was from the first enthralled-
His love for herself was so tender, so
vigilant, and had that best and most
enduring attribute, that it seemed
rather grateful for the happiness in
its own cares than vain of iixe
happiness it created. His habitual
mood with all who approached him
was calm and gentle, almost to
apathy. An angry word never passed
his lips — an angry gleam never shot
from his eyes. Once they had been
exposed to the danger not uncommon
in those then half-savage lands. Some
pirates who infested the neighbouring
coasts had heard of the arriyal of
the strangers, and the seamen Zanoni
employed had gossiped of their
master's wealth. One night after
Viola had retired to rest, she vis
awakened by a slight noise below.
Zanoni was not by her side; she
listened in some alarm. Was ibtt
a groan that came upon her nasi
She started up, she went to the
door ; all was stdlL A footstep bow
slowly approached, and Zanoni enterod
calm as usual, and seemed lUMon-
scious of her fears. The next momiiig',
three men were found dead at the
threshold of the princ^al entrance,
the door of which had been Ibroed.
They were recognised in the ne^h-
bourhood as the most sangainaiy
and terrible marauders of the ooaats
< — men stained with a thooaaad
murders, and who had never hitherto
failed in any attempt to whieh the
lust of rapine had impelled then.
The footsteps of many others wore
tracked to the sea-shore. It seemed
that their accomplices must have fled
on the death of their leaders. But
when the Venetian Proveditor^ or
authority, of the island, came to. ex-
amine into the matter, the most
unaccountable mystery was the
manner in which these ruffians liad
met their fate. Zanoni had not
stirred from the apartment in. which

ZANONI.

1T6

be ordiaarilj fMursued lus ehemkal
Btudies. None of il&e servBnts had
even been disturbed from tbeir
slambers. No mArks of human
violence were on the bodies of the
dead. They died, smd made no fiign.
From that moment Zanoni's house
— ^nay, the whole vicinity, was sacred.
The neighbouring villages, rejoiced to
be delivered from a scourge, regarded
the stranger as one whom the Pagia&a
(or Yirgin) held under her especial
protection. In truth, the lively
Qreeks around, faeUe to all external
impresBions, and struck with the
singalar and majestic beauty of the
man who knew their language as a
native, whose voice often cheered
them in their humble sorrows, and
whose hand was never closed to their
usants, long after he had left their
shore preserved his memory by
grateful traditions, and still point to
the lofty platanus beneath which they
had often seen him seated, alone and
thoughtful, in the heats of noon.
But Zanoni had haunts less open to
the gaze than the shade of the pla-
tanus. hi that isle there are the
bituminous springs which Herodotus
has commemorated. Often at night,
the moon, at least, beheld him emerg-
ing from the myrtle and cystus that
clothe the hillocks around the marsh
that embeds the pools con;taining
the inflammable materia, all the
medical uses of which, as applied to
the nerves of organic life, modern
science has not yet perhaps explored.
Tetmore often would he pass his hours
in a cavern, by the loneliest part of
the beach, where the stalactites seem
almost arranged by the hand of art,
and which the superstition of the
peasants associate, in some ancient
legends, with the numerous and almost
incessant earthquakes to which the
island is so singularly subjected.

Whatever the pursuits that insti-
gated these wanderings and favoured
these haunts, either they were linked

with, or etee sabordinate to, one main
and mastdr desire, which every i^h
day, passed in the sweet httman
company of Viola, coufirmed iwd
strengthened.

The scene that 61|»don had wit-
nessed in his trance was faithful to
truth. And some little time after
the date of that night, Viola was
dimly aware that an influence, she*
knew not of what nature, was
struggling to establish itself over her
happy life. Visions, indistinct and
beautiful, soeh as those she had
known in her earlier days, but more
constant and impressive, began to
haunt her night and day when Zanoni
was absent, to fade in his presence,
and seem less fair than that. Zanoni
questioned her eagerly and minutely
of these visitations, but seemed dis-
satisfied, and at times perplexed, by
her anawera.

''Tell me not," he said, one day,
" of those unconnected images, those
evolutions of starry shapes in a
choral dance, or those delicious
melodies that seem to thee of the
music aflid the language of the distant
spheres. Has no one shape been to
thee more distinct and more beautiful
than the rest — no voice uttering, or
seeming to utter, thine own tongue
and whispering to thee of strange
secrets and solemn knowledge 1"

"No'; all is confused in these
dreams, whether of day or night;
and when at the sound of thy foot-
steps I recover, my memory retains
nothing but a vague impreasion of
happiness. How different — ^how cold
—to the rapture of hanging on thy
smile, and listening to thy voioe,
when it^ys — *I love thee ! '"

"Yet, how is it that visions loss
£air than these once seemed to thee
80 alluring 1 How is it that they then
stirred thy fancies and filled d thy
heart ] Once thou didst desire a £eui7
land, and now thou seemest ao con-
texkted with common life 1 "

17«

ZANONI.

" Have I not explaineMt to thee
before % Is it common Ure, then, to
love and to live with the one we love 1
My true faiiy-land is won ! Speak to
me of no other."

And BO Nig^t surprised them by

the lonely beach ; and Zanoni, allured
from his sublimer projects^ and
bending over that tender face, forgot
that, in theHarmonions Infinite which
spread around, there were other
worlds than that one human heart !

CHAPTER IX.

There is a principle of the soul, superior to all nature, through which we are capable of
surpassing the order and systems qf the world. When the soul is elevated to natures
better than itself, then it is entirely separated from subordinate natures, exduun^es
this for another life, and, deserting the order of things with which it was connected,
links and mingles itself with another.— Iahblichcs.

"Adon-Ai! Adon-Ai! — appear, ap-
pear!"

And in the lonely cave, whence
once had gone forth the oracles of a
heathen god, there emerged from the
shadows of fantastic rocks a luminous
and gigantie column, glittering and
shifthig. It resembled the shining
but misty spray, which, seen afar off,
a fountain seems to send up on a
starry night. The radiance lit the
stalactites, the crags, the arches of the
cave, and shed a pale and tremulous
splendour on the features of Zanoni.

"Son of Eternal Light," said the
invoker, " thou to whose knowledge,
grade after grade, race after race, I
attained at last, on the broad Ohaldsean
plains — thou from whom I have
drawn so largely of the unutterable
knowledge, that yet eternity alone
can suffice to drain — thou who, con-
genial with myself, so far as our
various beings will permit, hast been
for centuries my familiar and my
friend — ^answer me and counsel ! "

From the column there emerged a
shape of unimaginable glory. Its
&ce was that of a man in its first
youth; but solemn, as with the
consciousness of eternity and the
tranquillity of wisdom; light, like
starbeams, flowed through its trans-
*^"rejxt veins; light made its limbs

themselves, and undulated, in restless
sparkles, through the waves of its
dazzling hair. With its arms folded
on its breast, it stood distant a few
feet from Zanoni, and its low voice
murmured gently — " My counsels
were sweet to thee once ; and once,
night after night, thy soul could follow
my wings through the untroubled
splendours of the Infinite. Now thou
hast bound thyself back to the earth
by its strongest chains, and the attrac-
tion to the clay is more potent than
the sympathies that drew to thy
charms the Dweller of the Starbeam
and the Air! "When last thy sonl
hearkened to me, the senses alrea<ly
troubled thine intellect and obscured
thy vision. Once again I come to
thee ; but thy power even to summon
me to thy side is fading from thy
spirit, as sunshine fades from the
wave, when the winds drive the
cloud between the ocean and the
sky."

"Alas, Adon-Ai!" answered the
seer, mournfully, " I know too well
the conditions of the being which
thy presence was wOnt to rejoice. I
know that our wisdom comes but
from the indifference to the things of
the world which the wisdom masters.
The mirror of the soul cannot reflect
both earth and heaven ; and the one

ZANONI.

177

T'oniBhes from the surface as the other

Ib glassed npon its deeps. Bat it is

not to restore me to that sublime

abstraction in which the Intellect^

free and disembodied^ rises, region

after region, to the spheres, — that once

again, and with the agony and

travail of enfe.ebled power, I have

called thee to mine aid. I love ; and

in love I begin to live in the sweet

humanities of another ! If wise, yet

in all which makes danger powerless

against myself, or those on whom I

can gaze from the calm height of

indifferent science, I am blind as the

merest mortal to the destinies of the

creature that makes my heart beat

with the passions which obscure my

gaze."

* What matter ! " answered Adon-
Ai "Thy love must be but a
mockery of the name; thou canst
not love as they do for whom there
are death and the grave. A short
time ! — ^like a day in thy incalculable
life, and the form thou dotest on is
dust ! Others of the nether world go
hand in hand, each with each, unto
the tomb ; hand in hand they ascend
from the worm to new cycles of
existence. For thee, below are ages ;
for her, but hours. And for her and
thee — poor, but mighty one ! — ^will
there be even a joint hereafter!
Through what grades and heavens of
spiritualised being will her soul have
passed when thou, the solitary
Loiterer, comest from the vapours of
the earth to the gates of .light ! "

"Son of the Starbeam, thinkest thou
that this thought is not with me for
ever ; and seest thou not that I have
invoked thee to hearken and minister
to my design? Beadest thou not my
desire and dream to raise the condi-
tions of her bein^o my own ? Thou,
Adon-Ai, bathing the celestial joy
that makes thy life in the oceans of
eternal splendour, — thou, save by the
sympathies of knowledge, canst con-
jecture not what I, the offspring of
No. 270. :

mortals, feeJ^<lebarred yet from the
objects of tnRremendous and sublime
ambition that first winged my desires
above the clay — ^when I see myself
compelled to stand in this low world
alone. — I have sought amongst my
tribe for comrades, and in vain. At
last I have found a mate ! The wild
bird and the wild beast have theirs*;
and my mastery over the malignant
tribes of terror can banish their larvee
from the path that shall lead her
upward till the air of eternity fits
the frame^ for the elixir that baffles
death."

" And thou hast begun the initia-
tion, and thou art foiled ! I know it.
Thou hast conjured toj^er sleep the
fairest visions ; thou has invoked the
loveliest children of the air to mur-
mur their music to her trance, anil
her soul heeds them not; and, return-
ing to the earth, escapes from their
control. Blind one, wherefore 1 Canst
thou not perceive? Because in her
soul all is love. There is no inter-
mediate passion with which the things
thou wouldst charm to her have asso-
ciation and affinities. Their attraction
is but to the desires and cravings of
the intellect. What have they with
the passiwi that is of earth, and the
hope that goes direct to Heaven ? "

" But can there be no medium — no
link — in which our souls, as our
hearts, can be united, and so mine
may have influence over her own 1"

" Ask me not — thou wilt not com-
prehend me!"

" I adjure thee !=— speak !"

"When two souls are divided,
knowest thou not that a third in
which both meet and live is the link
between them !"

" I do comprehend thee, Adon-Ai,"
said Zanoni, with a light of more
human joy upon his face than it had
ever before been seen to wear ; " and
if my destiny, which here is dark to
mine eyes, vouchsafes to me the happy
lot of the humble— if ever there be a
12

Ut

uK '

178

ZANONL

child thai I may daep i^my bosom
and call my own ! ■■■ " ^

« And is it to be man at last, that
thopi hast aspired, to be more tfaaa
maul"

"But a child ^-« second Viola!"
murmured Zanoni, scarcely heeding
the Son of Light; "a young soul
firesh from Heaven, that I may rear
from the first moment it touches
earth— ^hose wings I may train to
follow mine through the glories of
creation; and through whom the

mother herself may be led upwttd

oyer the realm of death 1 "

" Beware— -reflect ! Snoweet thou
not that thy darkest enemy dwells in
the Real? Thy wishes bring thee
near and nearer to humanity.''

" Ah, Humanity is sweet ! " answered
Zanoni.

And as the Se^ spoke, on the
glorious fkce of Adon-Ai there broke
a smiles

CHAPTER X.

JRterta eHesntos tHbuit, tnortalfa cnnfert
MortaUs; divina D«U8, peritura caduoiUi*

AVBSb. FBOOp OONTAiL QvuMMttuimt lib. iL

BXSBAOTS FBOM THB LBTTBBS OF Zi^ONI
10 UBJHOV&

LETTBR I.

Thou hast not informed me of the
progress of thy pupil ; and I fear that
so diflerently does Circumstance shape
the minds of the generations to which
we are descended, from the intense
and earnest children of the earlier
world, that even thy most careful and
elaborate guidance would fail, with
loftier and purer natures than that of
the Neophyte thou hast admitted
within thy gates. Even that third
state of being, which the Indian sagef
rightly reoognises as being between
the sleep and the waking, and de-
scribes imperfectly by the name of

* The Eternal gives eternal things, the
Mortal gathers mortal things: God, that
vrhioh is divino, and the peristaaUe that
which is perishable.

t The Brahmins, speaking of Bzahm, say

^«< To the Omniscient the three modes of

being— sleep, waking, and tranoe,>-«re not ;"

dlstiiietlyreoDgiilahig trance asa third and

-^nal oeadMoB •fbeiag*

lAAKOB, is unknown to the children
of the northern world ; and few but
would recoil to indulge it, regarding
its peopled calm, as the rrU^d and
delusion of the mind.. Instead of
ripening and culturing that aiiy soil,
from which nature;, duly known, can
evoke fruits so rich and flowers so
fair, they strive but to exclude it
from their gasee ; they esteem thai
struggle of the intellect from men's
narrow world, to the spirit^s infinite
home, as a disease which the leech
must extirpate with pharmacy and
drugs, and know net eyen that it if
from this coi^dition of their bein^, in
its most imperfect and in&nt £c»nn,
that Poetry, Music, Art— all that
belong to an Idea of Beauty, to whieh
neither sleeping nor waJting can fur-
nish archetype and actual semblance
—take their immortal birth* When
we^ Mcgnour, in^lhe far time, were
ourselves the Neophytes and Aspirants
— ^we were of a class to which the
actual world was shot and barred.
Our fore&thers had no object in life
] but kaowledga From the eradle we

ZANOKL

179

^wesQ predestdnedand reared to w]sdoxn>
as to a priesthood. We commenoed
research where modem Conjeotuze
closes its futiiless winga. And with
TIB, those were the common el^neats
of science which the sages of to-daf
a^aHain as wild chimeras^ or despair
of as im&thomable mysteries. Eren
the fundamental principles, the large,
yet simple theories of Slectricity and
Magnetism, rest obscure and dim in
the disputes of their blinded schools ;
yet, even in our youth, how few ever
attained to the first circle of the
brotherhood, and, after wearily eiyoy-
ing the sublime privileges they sought,
they voluntarily abandoned the light
of the sun, and sunk, without effort,
to the grave, like pilgrims in a track-
less desert, overawed by the stillness
of their solitude, axui appalled by the
absence of a goal. Thou, in whom,
nothing seems to live but the desire to
know — thou, who, indiflferent whether
it leads to weal or to woe, lendest
thyself to all who would tread the
path of mysterious'science, — a Human
Book, insensate to the precepts it
enounces ; thou hast ever sought, and
often made, additions to our number.
But to these have only been vouch-
safed partial secrets; vanity and
passion unfitted them for the rest;
and now, without other interest than
that of an experiment in science,
without love, and without pity, thou
exposest this new soul to the hazards
of the tremendous ordeal) Thou
thinkest that a zeaL so inquisitive, a
oonrage so absolute and dauntless,
may suffice to conquer, where austeref
intellect and purser wtue have so
often failed. Thou thinkest, too,
that the germ of art that lies in the
Painter's mind, as it comprehends in
itself the entire ehibryo of Power and
Beauty, may be expanded into the
stately flower of the Goldep Science.
It is a new experiment to thee. Be
gentle with thy Keophyte, and if his
nature disappoint liiee in the first

stages^ tkQj)iK>cess, dismiss him ba^
to the Real, while it ib yet time to
enjoy the brief and outwavd life whidi
dwells- in the seufles, and closes witli
the tomb. And as I thus admonish
thee, McjueuF, wilt thou smile at
my iaconaisteut hopes ? I, who have
so invariably refused to initiate others
into our mysteries, I begin at last to
comprehend why the great law, which
binds man to his kind, even when
seeking most to set himself alo«^
from their condition, has made thj
cold, and bloodless science the link
between thyself and thy race ;— ^hy
thou hast sought converts and pupils
— why, in seeing life alter Itfe volun-
tarily dropping from our starry order,
thou still aspirest to renew the
vanished, and repair the lost — ^why^
amidst thy calculations, restless anid
unceasing as the wheels of Nature
herself, thou recoilest from the thought
TO BB ALoiTBl So with mysolf; at
last I, too, seek a convert — an equal
— I, too, shudder to be alone ! What
thou hast warned me of has come to
pass. Love reduces aU things to itself.
Either must I be drawn down to the
nature of the beloved, or hera must
be lifted to my own. As whatever
belongs to true Art has always neces-
sarily had attraction for vs, whose
very being is in the ideal whence art
descends, so in this fair creature I
have learned, at last, the secret that
bound me to her at the first glance.
The daughter of music — music passing
into her beings became poetry. It
was not the stage that attracted her,
with its hollow falsehoods ; it was the
land in her own fancy which the stage
seemed to centre and represent. There
the poetry found a voice — ^there it
struggled into imperfect shape ; and
then (that land, insufficient for it) it
fell back upon itself. It coloured her
thoughts, it suffused her soul ; it aaked
not words, it created not things ; it
gave birth but to emotions, and
lavished itaelf on dreams^ At y
N 2

180

ZANONI.

alas ! the extension of onr existence
robs ns of a country and a home;
though the Uw that places all science^
as all art, in the abstraction from the
noisy passions and turbulent ambi-
tion of actual life, forbids ns to
influence the destinies of nations, for
which Heaven selects ruder and
blinder agencies ; yet, wherever have

came love'; and there, as a river into
the sea, it poured its restless waves, to
become mute, and deep, and still —
the everlasting mirror of the heavens.
And is it not through this poetry
which lies within her that she may
be led into the large poetry of the
universe ! Often I listen to her care-
less talk, and find oracles in its

unconscious beauty, as we find strange ' been my wanderings, I have sought
virtues in some lonely flower. I see ' to soften distress, and to convert from
her mind ripening under my eyes j ' sin. My power has been hostile only
and in its fair fertility what ever- ! to the guilty ; and yet, with all our
teeming novelties of thought ! ! lore, how in each step we are reduced
Mejnour ! how many of our tribe have to be but the permitted instruments
unravelled the laws of the universe, ' of the Power, that vouchsafes our
havQ solved the riddles of the exterior own, but only to direct it. How all
nature — and deduced the light from our wisdom shrinks into nought,
darkness ! And is not the POET, ' compared with that which gives the
who studies nothing but the human \ meanest herb its virtues, and peoples
heart, a greater philosopher than all 1 , the smallest globule with its appro-
Knowledge and atheism are incom- priate world. And while we are
patible. To know nature is to know ' allowed at times to influence the
that there must be a Gk)d ! But does happiness of others, how mysteriously
it require this to examine the method the shadows thicken round our own
and architecture of creation ? Me- future doom ! We cannot be prophets
thinks, when I look upon a pure ' to ourselves ! With what trembling .
mind, however ignorant and childlike, ' hope I nurse the thought that I may
that I see the August and Immaterial ' preserve to my solitude the light of a
One, more clearly than in all the orbs living smile!
of matter which career at His bidding
through the space.

Bightly is it the fundamental decree
of our order, that we must impart our extracts pbom lbttkr ii.

secrets only to the pure. The most Deeming myself not pure enough
terrible part of the ordeal is in the to initiate so pure a heart, I invoke
temptations that our power aflbrds to to her trance those fairest and most
the criminal. If it were possible that ^ tender inhabitants of space that have
a malevolent being could attain to furnished to Poetry, which is the
our faculties, what disorder it might instinctive guess into creation, the
introduce into the globe ! Happy that ideas of the Glendoveer and Sylph,
it is not possible ,- the malevolence ! And these were less pure than her
would disarm the power. It is in the j own thoughts, and less tender than
purity of Viola that I rely, as thou , her own love ! They could not raise
more vainly hast relied on the courage her above her human heart, for that
or the genius of thy pupils. Bear me has a heaven of its own.
witness, Mejnour 1 Never since the
distant day in which I pierced the
Arcana of our knowledge, have I ever I have just looked on her in sleep
soufcht to make its mysteries subser- — I have heard her breathe my name,
unworthy objects ; though, Alas ! that which is so sweet to others

ZANONI.

181

lias iia bitterness to me ; for I think
bow soon the time may come when
ttk2,i sleep will be without a dream —

us, and the more immediately does
our happiness seem to emanate from
Him. But, on the other hand, how

^frhen the heart that dictates the name many virtues must lie dead in those,
Dvlli be cold, and the lips that utter it ' who live in the world of death, and
l>e dumb. What a twofold shape there refuse to die ! Is not this sublime
is in love ! If we examine it coarsely ' egotism, this state of abstraction and
— ^if we look but on its fleshly ties — | reverie — this self-wrapt and self-
its enjoyments of a moment — its dependent majesty of existence, a
turbulent fever and its dull reaction, resignation of that nobility which
how strange it seems that this passion j incorporates our own welfare, our
should be the supreme mover of the joys, our hopes, our fears with others?
world — that it is this which has To live on in no dread of foes, unde-
dictated the greatest sacrifices, and graded by infirmity, secure through
uifluenced all societies and all times ; | tiie cares, and free from the disease of
that to this the loftiest and loveliest ' flesh, is a spectacle that captivates
genius has ever consecrated its devo- our pride. And yet dost thou not
tion ; that but for love there were no : more admire — him who dies for
civilisation— no music, no poetry, another] Since I have loved her,
no beauty, no life beyond the brute's. ! Mejnour, it seems almost cowardice
But examine it in its heavenlier to elude the grave which devours the
shape — in its utter abnegation of self hearts that wrap us in their folds.
— ^in its intimate connexion with all I feel it — the earth grows upon my
that is most delicate and subtle in spirit. Thou wert right,* eternal age,
the spirit — ^its power above all that is serene, and passionless, is a happier
sordid in existence — ^its mastery over , boon than eternal youth, with its
the idols of the baser worship— its , yearnings and desires. Until we can
ability to create a palace of the cot- j be all spirit, the tranquillity of solitude
tage, an oasis in the desert, a summer must be indifierence.
in the Iceland — where it breathes,
and fertilises, and glows; and the
wonder rather becomes how so few
regard it in its holiest nature. What

EXTEACTS FBOM LETTEB IV.

^, 1 11 .X . 1 I I have received thy communication.

^!,!!!f":?;.!^L!'"SJJ?iT^f',t:^lWhatl is H sol 'Has thy p»pil

the least of its joys. True love is less
a passion than a symbol. Mejnour,
shall the time come when I can
speiJL to thee of Yiola as a thing
that was ?

EXTRACT FROM LETTER III.

Knowest thou that of late I have
sometimes asked myself, ' Is there no
guilt in the knowledge that has so
divided us from our raceV It is true
that the higher we ascend, the more
hateful seem to us the vices of the
short-lived creepers of the earth —
the more the sense of the goodness of
the All-good penetrates and suffuses

disappointed theel Alas, poor pupil !

But—

* * * *

(Here follow comments on those
passages in Glyndon's life already
known to the reader, or about to be
made so, with earnest adjurations to
Mejnour to watch yet over the fate of

his scholar.)

* « * *

But I cherish the same desire, with a
warmer heart. My pupil ! how the
terrors that shall encompass thine
ordeal warn me from the task ! Once
more I will seek the Son of Light. ^

1&2

ZAKOa^I.

Tes, Adon-rAi, long >deaf to my call,
st last has deecended to my yiBion,
and left behind him the glory of his
presenee in the shape of Hope. Oh,
not impossible, Viola, not impossible,
that ire yet m&y be united, aoul with
aouL

BXTBACT PBOM lETTBR V. — {Many

moTfUhs after the last)

' Mcylnonr, awake from thine apathy
—rejoice ! A new soul will be bom to
the world. A new soul that shall call
me Father. Ah, if they for whom
exist all the occupations and ts-
aoupees of human life — if they can
thrill, with exquisite emotion, at the
thought of hailing again their own
ehildhood in the faces of their chil-
dk«B~^if, in that birth, they are bom

once mote into the holy Inneceace
which is ike fint state of exktenee—
if they eaii feel that on man devoWes
almost an Aagers duty, when he has
a life to gttide f^om the cradle, and a
soul to xmvtare for the Heaven — ^what
to me must be the rapture, to welcome
an Inheritor of all the gifts which
double themselves in being Bhared !
How sweet the power to watch, and
to guard — ^to instil the knowledge, to
avert the evil, and to guide baok the
river of life in a richer, and broader,
and deeper stream, to the paradise
from which it flows! And bende
that river our souls shall meet, sweet
Mother. Our child shall supply ^e
sympathy that fails as yet ; and what
shape shall haunt thee, what terror
shall dismay, ^when thy initiation is
beside the cradle of thy child !

ZANt)NI.

183

OHAPTBE XI.

Jfh9y abtVB beguile the wtsr
IbitUl the Unstring stoiane is ovevblowne,
lifQieii weeaing to retume whence they did stray
Xhey cannot flnde that path which first was showne.
But wandor to and fro in waies unknowne.

Bpbnskr'b Faerie Queau, book i> canto i..8t. s.

Yes, Yiola, tfaon art aAoiber being
ibaa ^hea, by the thiesbold of thy
.Ijtaiian home, thou didat follow thy
dim. fiuicies through the Jjand of
Shadow; or when thou didst ivaAuly
seek to give voice to an Ideal beauty,
ou the boards where Illuaion eouAter-
£eits Earth and Heaven for an hour,
iilL the weary sense, awaking, sees
but the tinsel and the seene-shifter.
Thy spirit reposes in its awn happi-
ness, its wanderings have found a
goal. In a moiaent, there often
dwdteihe sense of eternity; for when
profoundly happy, we know that it is
impossible to die. Whenever the
soul fe&s itself, it feels everlasting
life!

The initiation is deferred— « thy
daya^ind nights are left to no other
'vi8ioai& than those with which a con-
tented heart enchants a guileless
fmej. Olendoveers and sylphs, par-
don me if I question whether those
visions are not loyelier than your-
aeives!

{Fheytatand bytibe beach, and see
the sun sinking into the sea. How
kng now have they dwelt on that
island? What matters 1-^it may be
ncmths, or y^us'^what matters!
Wliy should I, or iks^, keep account
of ^at ha{>py time ? As in the .dreoiin
of a moment ages may seem to pass,
so shall we measure tiansport or woe
m^'k^ the length of the dream, or the
number of emotions that the .dream
involves 1

The sun sinks slowly down ; the
air is arid and oppressive; on the
sea, the stately vessel lies motionless ;
on the shore, no leaf trembles on the
trees.

Yiola drew neajrer to Zanoni; a
presentiment she could not define
made her heart beat more quickly;
and, looking into his face, ahe was
struck with its expression; it was
ansious, abstracted, perturbed.

*'This stillnefis awes me," she
whispered.

Zanoni did not seem to hear her.
He muttered to himself, and his eyes
gazed round restlessly. She knew
not why, but that gaze, which seemed
to pierce into space, that muttered
voice in some foreign language,
revived dimly her earlier super-
stitions. She was more fearful since
the hour when she knew that she was
to be a mother. 8trange crisis in the
life of woman, and in her love!
Something yet unborn begins already
to divide her heart with that which
had been before its only monarch !

"Look on me, Zanoni," ^e said,
pressing his hand.

He turned—*' [Thou.art pale, Viola;
thy hand trembles !"

"It is true. I .feel as if some
enemy were .creeping near us."

"And the iustinct deceives thee
not. An enemy is .indeed at hand.
I ^ee it through the heavy air; I hear
it through the silence : the Qhostly
One^the Destroyer-'the FssTifiWoic !

184

ZANONI.

Ah, geest thou how the leftves Bwarm
with insects, only by an eflfort yisible
to the eye. They follow the breath
of the plague !" As he spoke, a bird
fell from the boughs at Yiola's feet ;
it fluttered, it writhed an instant^ and
was dead.

"Oh, Viola!" cried Zanoni, pas-
sionately, " that is death. Dost thou
not fear to diel"

** To leave theel Ah, yes ! "

''And if I conld teach thee how
Death may be defied — if I could arrest
for thy youth the course of time — ^if I
could — "

He paused abruptly, for Yiola's
eyes spoke only terror ; her cheek and
lips were pale.

** Speak not thus — ^look not thus,"
she said, recoiling from him. " You
dismay me. Ah, speak not thus, or I
should tremble — ^no, not for myself,
but for thy child."

" Thy child ! But wouldst thou
reject for thy child the same glorious
boonl"

*' Zanoni ! "

"Well!"

" The sun has sunk from our eyes,
but to rise on those of others. To
disappear from this world, is to live
in the world a&r. Oh, lover — oh,
husband ! " she continued, with sudden
energy, " tell me that thou didst but
jest, that thou didst but trifle with
my folly ! There is less terror in the
pestilence than in thy words."

Zanoni's brow darkened ; he looked
at her in silence for some moments,
and then said, almost severely —

" What hast thou known of me to
distrust 1"

''Oh pardon, pardon !— nothing ! "
cried Yiola, throwing herself on his
breast, and bursting into tears. '^ I
will not believe even thine own words,
if they seem ,to wrong thee 1 " He
kissed the tears from her eyes, but
made no answer.

" And ah 1 " she resumed, with an
-^chanting and child-like smile, *'if

thou wouldst ^veme a charm against
the pestilence, see, I will take it from
thee." And she laid her hand on a
small antique amulet that he wore on
his breast

" Thou knowest how often this has
made me jealous of the past : snrely,
some love-gift, Zanoni 1 But no, thou
didst not love the giver as thou dost
me. Shall I steal thine amulet 1 "

"In£Etnt!" said Zanoni, tenderly;
" she who placed this round my neck
deemed it indeed a charm, for e^e had
superstitions like thyself; but to me
it is more than the wizard's spell —
it is the relic of a sweet vaniahed
time, when none who loved me could
distrust."

He said these words in a tone of
such melancholy reproach, that it
went to the heart of Yiola ; but the
tone changed into a solemnity which
chilled back the gush of her feelings
as he resumed: "And this, Yiola,
one day, perhaps, I will transfer from
my breast to thine; yes, whenever
thou shalt comprehend me better —
whenever the latps o/ottr being t^U
he the same!"

He moved on gently. They re-
turned slowly home; but fear atiU
was in the heart of Yiola, though she
strove to shake it off, Italian and
Catholic she was, with all the super-
stitions of land and sect. She stole
to her chamber, and prayed before a
little relic of San Gennaro, which the
priest of her house had ^ven to her
in childhood, and which had accom-
panied her in all her wanderings.
She had never deemed it possible to
part with it before. Now, if there
was a charm against the pestilence,
did she fear the pestilence for herself?
The next morning when he woke,
Zanoni found the relic of the saint
suspended, with his mystic amulet,
round his neck.

" Ah ! thou wilt have nothing to
fear from the pestilence now," eaid
Yiola, between tears and smileB,*

Z AN ONI.

185

and when' thou wonldst talk to me
again as thou didst last night, the
Baint shall rebuke thee."

Well, Zanoni, can there ever indeed
be commune of thought and spirit,
€xc«pt with equals ]

Yes, the Plague broke out — the
island home must be abandoned.
Mighty Seer, thou hjost no power to
9ave those whom thou lovest! Fare-
well, thou bridal roof 1— sweet resting
place from Care, farewell ! Climates
as soft may greet ye, lovers — skies
as serene, and waters as blue and
calm. But th€U time, can it ever
more return] Who shall say that
the heart does not change with the
scene — the place where we first dwelt
with the beloved one? Every spot
there has so many memories which
the 'place only can recal. The past
that haunts it, seems to command
auch constancy in the future. If a
thought less kind, less trustful, enter
within us, the sight of a tree under
which a vow has been exchanged, a
tear has been kissed away, restores
UB again to the hours of the first
divine illusion. But in a home,
where nothing speaks of the first
nuptials, where there is no eloquence
of association, no holy burial places
of emotions, whose ghosts are angels I
— ^yes, who that has gone through

the sad history of Affection will tell
us, that the heart changes not with
the scene ! Blow fair, ye favouring
winds; cheerily swell, ye sails ; away
fi^m the land where Death has come
to snatch the sceptre of Love i The
shores glide by ; new coasts succeed
to the green hills and orange groves
of the Bridal Isle. From afiir now
gleam in the moonlight the columns,
yet extant, of a temple which the
Athenian dedicated to Wisdom :
and, standing on the bark that
bounded on in the freshening gale,
the votary who had survived the
goddess murmured to himself —

' Has the wisdom of ages brought
me no happier hours than those
common to the shepherd and the
herdsman, with no world beyond
their village — ^no aspiration beyond
the kiss and the smile of home 1 "

And the moon resting alike over
the ruins of the temple of the departed
Creed— over the hut of the living
peasant — over the immemorial moun-
tain top, and the perishable herbage
that clothed its sides, seemed to smile
back its answer of calm disdain to the
being who, perchance, might have
seen the temple built, and who, in
his inscrutable existence, might
behold the mountain shattered from
its base.

BOOK THE FIFTH.

THE EFFECTS OF THE ELIXIE.

♦

Frommt's den Schleier aufzuhebei;.
Wo das nahe Schreckniss droht ?
Nur das Irrthum 1st das Leben
Und das Wissen ist der Tod.*

Schiller, Kasiandra.

Delusion Is the life we live

And knowledge death : oh wherefore, 4hen,
To sight the coming evils give

And lift the veil of Fate to Men ?

BOOK THE FIFTH.

CHAPTER I.

Zvrei Seelen wolinen, aoh ! in mefner Brust.

* * * Hi

Was stehst du so, und blickst erstaunt hinaus ? *

Faust.

It will be remembered that we left
Master Paolo by the bedside of
Glyndon; and as, waking from that
profound slumber, the recollections
of the past night came horribly back
to Ms mind, the Englishman uttered
a cry, and covered his face with his
hands.

"Good morrow, Excellency," said
P&olo, gaily. "Corpo di Bacco, you
hare slept soundly ! "

The sound of this man's voice, so
lusty, ringing, and healthful, served
to scatter before it the phantasma
that yet haunted Glyndon's memory.
He rose erect in his bed. "And
where did you find me? Why are
you here]"

" Whfere did I find you !" repeated
P&olo, in surprise ; " in your bed,
to be sure. Why am I here! —
because the Padrone bade me await
your waking, and attend your com-
mands."

"The Padrone, Mejnour! — is he
arrived]"

* Two souls dwell, alas ! in my breast.

« * « *

Why standest thou so, and lookest out
astonished?

"Arrived and departed. Signer.
He has left this letter for you."

" Give it me, and wait without till
I am dressed."

" At your service. I have bespoke
an excellent breakfast : you must be
hungry. I am a very tolerable cook :
a monk's son ought to be ! You will
be startled at my genius in the
dressing of fish. My singing, I trust,
will not disturb you. I always sing
while I prepare a salad; it harmonises
the ingredients." And slinging his
carbine over his shoulder, P&olo
sauntered from the room, and closed
the door.

Glyndon was already deep in the
contents of the following letter : —

** When I first received thee b& my
pupil, I promised Zanoni, if convinced
by thy first trials that thou couldst
but swell, not the number of our
order, but the list of the victims who
have aspired to it in vain, I would
not rear thee to thine own wretched-
ness and doom ; I would dismiss thee
back to the world. I fulfil my
promise. Thine ordeal has been the
easiest that Neophyte ever knew.
I asked for nothing but abstinence

190

ZANONL

from the sensual, and a brief experi-
ment of thy patience and thy faith.
Go back to thine own world; thou
*ha6t no nature to aspire to oars !

"It was I who prepared Pllolo to
receive thee at the revel. It was I
who instigated the old beggar to ask
thee for alms. It was I who left open
the book that thou couldst not
read without violating my command.
Well, thou hast seen what awaits thee
at the threshold of knowledge. Thou
hast confronted the first foe that
meni^es him whom the senses yet
grasp and enthraL Dost thou wonder
that I close upon thee the gates for
ever! Dost thou not comprehend,
at halt, that it needs a soul tempered,
and purified, and nused, not by exter-
nal spells, but by its own sublimity
and valour, to pass the threshold,
and disdain the foel Wretch 1 all
my science avails nothing for the
rash, for the sensual— for him who
desires our secrets but to pollute
them to gross enjoyments and selfish
vice } How have the impostors and
sorcerers of. the earlier times perished
by their very attempt to penetrate
the mysteries that should purify, and
not deprave ! They have boasted of
the philosopher's stone, and died in
rags; of the immortal elixir, and
sank to th^ grave, gray before their
time. Legends tell you, that the
fiend rent them into fragments. Yes;
the fiend of their own unholy desires
and criminal designs! What they
coveted thou coveteat ; and if thou
hadst the wings of a. seraph, thou
couldst soar not from the (Aough of
thy mortality. Thy dcwre for know-
ledge, but petulant presimiption ; thy
thirst for happiness, but the diseased
longing for the unclean and muddied
waters of corporeal pleasure ; thy very
love, which usually elevatea even the
mean, a passion that calculates
treason, amidst the first glow of
lust; — ihou, one of usl Thou, a
brother of the August Order ! Thou,

an Aspirant to the Stars that shine
in the Shemai& of the Chaldsean lore !
The eagle can raise but the eaglet to
the sun. I abandon thee to thy
twilight !

''But, alas, for thee, disobedient
and profane ! thou hast inhaled the
elixir; thou hast attracted to thy
presence a ghastly and remorseless
foe. Thou thyself must exorcise the
phantom thou hast raised. Thou
must return to the world; but not
without punishment and strong effort
canst thou regain the calm and the
joy of the life thou hast left behind.
This for thy comfort will I tell thee :
he who has drawn into his frame
even so little of the volatile and vital
energy of the aerial juices as thyself,
has awakened fiiculties that cannot
sleep— faculties that may yet, with
patient humility, with sound fiuthy
and the courage that is not of the
body like thine^ but of the resolnte
and virtuous mind, attiun, if not to
the knowledge that reigns above, to
high achievemesit in the career of
men. Thou wilt find the restless
influence in all that thou wouldat
undertake. Thy heart, amidst vtdgar
joys, win aspire to something holier;
thy ambition, amidst coarse excite-
ment, to something beyond thy reach.
But deem not that this of itself will
suffice for glory. Equally may the
craving lead, thee to shame and guilt.
It is but an imperfect and new-bom
energy, which will not sufifer thee to
repose. As thou directest^it^ must
thou believe it to be the en|uiation
of thine evil genius or thy good,

" But woe to thee ! insect meshed
in the web in which thou, haat
entangled limbs and wings 1 Thou
hast not only inhaled the elixir, thou
hast conjured the spectre ; of all the
tribes of the space, no foe is so malig-
nant to man — ^and thou hast lifted
the veil from thy gaze. I cannot
restore to thee the happy dimness of
thy vision. Enow, at leasts that all

ZANONI.

191

of na — ihe highest and the wiBWt-— |
wIm hare, m sober truth, pamed 1
beyond the thre^iold, have had, aB i
oiir first fearful task, to master asd I
subdue ite griesly and a^palliikg
goaiTdian. Know that thou oaTtet '
deliver thyself from those livid eyes
—know that, while they haunt, they
cannot harm, if thou reflistest the
theaghta to which they tempt, and
the horror they engender. Dread
them moat when tfuxu beholdest them
noL And thus, son of the worm^ we
part \ All that I can tell thee to
eneoutttge, yet to warn and to guide,
I have told thee in these lines. Not
from me, from thyself has come the
gloomy trial, from which I yet trust
thou wilt emerge into peace. Type
of the knowle4ge that I serve, I
withhold no lesson from the pure
aapinnt ; I am a dark enigma to the
general seeker. As man's only inde-
structible possession ia hismemoiy, so
it is not in mine art to crumble into
matter the immaterial thoughts that
have sprung up within thy breast-
The tyro might shatter this castle to
the dust, and topple down the moun-
tain to the plain. The master has no
power to say, ' Exist no more,' to one
THovoHX that his knowledge has in-
^ired. Thou mayst chaoge the
thought into new forms ; thou mayst
rarify and suUimato it into a finer
spirit, but thou canst not annihilate
that which has no home but in the
memory — ^no substance but the idea.
EvEsr sHotTGHS IS A soulI Vainly,
therefofe^ would I or thou undo the
past, or restore to thee the gay blind-
ness of thy youth. Thou must
endure the influence of the elixir
thou hast inhaled ; thou must wrestle
with the spectre thou hast invoked ! "
The letter fell from Glyndon's hand.
A sort of stupor succeeded to the
vairioua emotions which had chased
each other in the perusal — a stupor,
resembling that which foUoim the
sadden destruetion of any ardent and

long-nunt hope in the human heart,
whether it be of love, of avarice, of
ambition. The loftier world for which
he had so thirsted, sacrificed, and
toiled, wa^ dosed upon him "for
ever," and by his own faults of rash-
ness and presxmuption. But Glyndon's
was not of that nature which submits
long to condemn itself. His indig-
nation began to kindle against
Mejnour, who owned he had tempted,
and who now abandoned him —
abandoned him to the presence of a
spectre. The Mystic's reproaches
stung, rather than humbled him.
What crime had he committed to
desire language so harsh an^ dis-
dainful 1 Was it so deep a debase-
ment to feel pleasure in the smile and
the eyes of Eillide ? Had not Zanoni
himself confessed love for Viola 1 —
had he not fled with her as his
companion 1 Glyndon never paused
to consider if there are no distinotiom
between one kind of love and another
Where, too, was the great offence of
yielding to a temptation which only
existed for the brave 1 Had not the
mystic volume which Mejnour had
purposely left open, bid him, but
"Beware of fear]" Was not, th^n,
every wilful provocative held out to
the strongest influences of the human
mind, in the prohibition to enter the
chamber — in the possession of the
key which excited his curiosity — ^in
the volume which seemed to dictate
the mode by which the curiosity was
to be gratified? As, rapidly, these
thoughts passed over him, be began
to consider the whole conduct of
Mejnour either as a perfidious design
to entrap him to his own misery, or
as the trick of an impostor, who
knew that he could not realise the
great professions he had made. On
glancuig agun over the more mys-
terious threats and warnings in
M^nour'a letter, they seemed to
assume the language of mere parable
and allegoiy — the jargon of the Pla-

192

ZANONI.

tonists and Pythagoreans. By little
and little, he began to consider that
the very spectra he had seen— even
that one phantom so horrid in its
aspect — were but the delusions which
Mejnour's science had enabled him
to raise. The healthful sunlight,
filling up every cranny in his cham-
ber, seemed to laugh away the terrors
of the past night. His pride and
his resentment nerved his habitual
courage; and when, having hastily
dressed himself, he rejoined Pdolo,
it was with a flushed cheek, and a
haughty step.

"So, Paolo," said he, "the Padrone,
as you call him, told you to expect
and welcome me at your village
feast r*

" He did so, by a message from a
wretched old cripple. This surprised
me at the time, for I thought he was
far distant. But these great philoso-
phers make a joke of two or three
hundred leagues."

" Why did you not tell me you had
heard from Mejnourr'

"Because the old cripple forbade
me."

*' Did you not see the man after-
wards during the dance ?"

'' ISTo, Excellency."

"Humph!"

"Allow me to serve you," said
P^olo, piling Glyndon's plate, and
then filling his glass. "I wish.
Signer, now the Padrone is gone, —
not " (added Pdolo, as he cast rather a
I frightened and suspicious glance
round the room), "that I mean to
say anything disrespectful of him, — I
wish, I gay, now that he is gone, that
you would take pity on yourself, and
ask your own heart what your youth
was meant for ] Not to bury yourself
alive in these old ruins, and endanger
body and soul by studies which I am
sure no saint could approve oil"

"Are the saints so partial, then,
to your own occupations, Master
P&olol"

"Why," answered the bandit, a
little confused, "a gentleman with
plenty of pistoles in his purse, need
not, of necessity, make it^ his pro-
fession to take away the pistoles of
other people 1 It is a different thing
for us poor rogues. After all, too, I
always devote a tithe of my gains to
the Virgin; and I share the rest
charitably with the poor. But ^t,
drink, enjoy yourself^be absolved by
your confessor for any little pecca-
dilloes, and don't run too long scores
at a time — ^that's my advice. Your
health. Excellency! Pshaw, Signer,
fasting, except on the days prescribed
to a good Catholic, only engenders
phantoms."

"Phantoms!"

" Yes ; the devil always tempts the
empty stomach. To covet — to hate
— to thieve — ^to rob, and to murder —
these* are the natural desires of a man
who is fejnishing. With a full belly,
Signer, we are at peace with all the
world. That's right : you like the
partridge ! Cospetto ! When I myself
have passed two or three days in the
mountains, with nothing from sunset
to sunrise but a black crust and an
onion, I grow as fierce as a wolf.
That's not the worst, too. In these
times I see little imps dancing before
me. Oh, yes; fasting is as full of
spectres as a field of battle."

Glyndon thought there was some
sound philosophy in the reasoning of
his companion; and, certainly, the
more he ate and drank, the more the
recollection of the past night and of
Mejnour's desertion faded from his
mind. The casement was open — the
breeze blew — the sun shone — all
Nature was merry; and merry as
Nature herself grew Madstro P&olo.
He talked of adventures, of travel, of
women, with a hearty gusto that had
its infection. But Glyndon listened
yet more complacently when P&olo
turned with an arch smile to praises
of the eye, the teeth, the ankles,

ZANOKI.

193

and the shape of the handsome
Fillide.

This man, indeed, seemed the very

personation of animal sensual life.

He would have heen to Faust a more

dangerous tempter than Mephisto-

pbeles. There was no sneer on his

lip at the pleasures which animated

his voice. To one awaking to a sense

of the vanities in knowledge, this

reckless ignorant joyousness of temper

was a worse corrupter than all the icy

mockeries of a learned Fiend. But

when Paolo took his leave, with a

promise to return the next day, the

mind of the Englishman again settled

back to a graver and more thoughtful

mood. The elixir seemed, in truth,

to have left the refining effects

Mejnour had ascribed to it. As

Glyndon paced to and fro the solitary

corridor, or pausing, gazed upon the

extended and glorious scenery that

stretched below, high thoughts of

enterprise and ambition — bright

visions of glory — passed in rapid

succession through his soul.

"Mejnour denies me his science.
Well," said the painter, proudly, " he
has not robbed me of my art."

What! Clarence Glyndon! dost
thou return to that from which thy
career commenced? Was Zanoni right
after alii

He found himself in the chamber of

Thou art again in thine own chamber
— the white wall thy canvass — a
fragment of charcoal for thy pencil.
They suffice, at least, to give outline
to the conception, that may otherwise
vanish with the morrow.

The idea that thus excited the
imagination of the artist was unques-
tionably noble and august. It was *
derived from that Egyptian ceremo-
nial which Diodorus has recorded —
the Judgment of the Dead by the
Living:* when the corpse, duly
embalmed, is placed by the margin
of the Acherusian Lake, and before it
may be consigned to the bark which
is to bear it across the waters to its
final resting-place, it is permitted to
the appointed judges to hear all
accusations of the past life of the
deceased, and, if proved, to deprive
the corpse of the rites of sepulture.

Unconsciously to himself, it was
Mejnour's description of this custom,
which he had illustrated by several
anecdotes not to be found in books,,
that now suggested the design to the
artist, and gave it reality and force.
He supposed a powerful and guilty
king whom in life scarce a whisper
had dared to arraign, but against
whom, now the breath was gone, came
the slave from his fetters, the muti-
lated victim from his dungeon, livid
and squalid as if dead themselves.

the Mystic : not a vessel — not a herb ! invoking with parched lips the justice
the solemn volume is vanished — the I that outlives the grave.

elixir shall sparkle for him no more !
But still in the room itself seems to
linger the atmosphere of a charm.
Faster and fiercer it burns within
thee, the Desire to achieve, to create 1
Thou longest for a life beyond the
sensual! — but the life that is per-
mitted to all genius — that which
breathes thmugh the immortal work,
and endures in the imperishable
name.

Where are the implements for thine
art] Tush! — ^^vhen did the true
workman ever fail to find his tools ?

No. i?7:.

Strange fervour this, Artist I
breaking suddenly forth from the
mists and darkness which t^e occult
science had spread so long over thy
fancies — strange that the reaction of
the night's terror and the day's dis-
appointment should be back to thine
holy art! Oh, how freely goes the
bold hand over the large outline !
How, despite those rude materials,
speaks forth no more the pupil, but the
master! Fresh yet from the glorious

* Diod., lib. 1.

13

IH

ZANO^L

elixir, how thou giycst to thy crea-
tures the finer life denied to thyself?
— some power not thine own writes
the grand symbols on the wall.
Behind, rises the mighty sepulchre,
on the building of which repose to
the dead, the lives of thousands had
been consumed. There, sit in a semi-
circle the solemn judges. Black and
sluggish flows the lake. There lies the
mummied and royal dead. Dost thou
quail at the frown on his life-like
browl Ha !— bravely done, Artist !
— up rise the haggard forms !— pale
speak the ghastly faces! Shall not
Humanity after death avenge itself on
Power 1 Thy conception, Clarence
Glyndon, is a sublime truth; thy
design promises renown to genius.
Better this magic than the charms
of the volume and the vessel. Hour
after hour has gone; thou hast lighted
the lamp ; night sees thee yet at thy
labour. Merciful heaven ! what chills
the atmosphere 1 — why does the lamp
grow wan? — why does thy hair bristle]
There !— there ! — there ! at the case-
ment! — It gazes on thee, the dark,
mantled, loathsome Thing! There,
with their devilish mockery and hateful
craft, glare on thee those horrid eyes !
He stood and gazed. It was no
delusion— It spoke not, moved not,
till, unable to bear longer thaik steady
and burning look, he covered his face
with his hands. With a start, with a
thrill he removed them ; he felt the
nearer presence of the Nameless.
There, it cowered on the floor beside

his deaign; and, loi the figoraa
seemed to start from the wall 1 Thoae
pale accusing figures, the shapes he
himself had raised, frowned at him
and gibbered. With a violent effort
that convulsed his whole being;, a&d
bathed his body in the sweat of agony,
the young man mastered his horror.
He strode towards the Phantom ; he
endured its eyes ; he accosted it nith
a steady voice; he demanded its
purpose and defied its power.

And then, as a wind from a chamel,
was heard its voice. What it aaid,
what revealed, it is forbidden the
lips to repeat, the hand to reoord.
Nothing, save the subtle life that yet
animated the frame, to which the
inhalations of the elixir had given
vigour and energy beyond the strength
of the strongest, could have survived
that awful hour. Better to wake in
the catacombs and see the buried
rise from their cerements^ and hear
the ghouls, in their horrid orgies,
amongst the festering ghastlinesa of
corruption, than to front those featmea
when the veil was lifted, aiui listen to
that whispered voice !

The next day Glyndon fled from the
ruined castle. With what hopes of
starry light had he crossed the
threshold; with what memories to
shudder evermore at the darkness,
did he look back at the frown of Ito
time-worn towers.

ZAJSFONI.

195

CHAPTER II.

S^LVST. Woliiiisollesiiimgehn?

Wohin es Dir gefftllt.
Wlr sebn dte kleine, daim die grosse Wdi*

FAvsr.

Baaat your chair to the fireside,
bmdi clean the hearth, and trim the
lights* Oh, home of sleekness, order,
snbatance, comfort! Oh, excellent
thing art thon. Matter of Fact !

It ia some time after 4he date of the
last ^chapter. Here we are, [not in
moonlit islands, or mouldering castles,
<bat in a room twenty-six feet by
'twenty-two — well carpeted — well
<;QBhioned— solid arm chain, and
eight such bad pictures, in such fine
frames, upon the walls! Thomas
Merrale, Esq., merchant of London,
you are an enviable dog !

It was the easiest thing in the
world for Mervale, on returning from
bis continental episode of life to
«ettle down to his desk — his heart
had been always there. The death of
his &ther gave him, as a lMa:thright,
a high position in a respectable,
though second-rate firm. To make
this establishment first-rate, was an
honourable ambition — it was his!
He had lately married, not entirely
for money — no ! he was worldly
rather than mercenary. He had no
romantic ideas of love; but he was
too sensible a man not to know that
a wife should be a companion — ^not
merely a speculation. He did not
care for beauty and genius, but he
liked health and good temper, and a
certain proportion of useful under-

♦ P. Whither go now ?
M. Whither it pleases thee.

W« na the small world, then the
great.

standing. He chose a wife from his
reason, not his heart, and a very good
choice he made. Mn. Mervale was
an excellent young woman— bustling,
managing, economical, but affectionate
and good. She had a will of her own, but
was no shrew. She had a great notion
of the rights of a wife, and a strong
perception of tiie qualities that ensure
comfort She would never have for-
given her husband, had she found him
guUty of the most passing fancy for
another; but, in returlk,.she had the
most admirable sense of propriety
herselC She held in id)horrence all
levity, all flirtation, all coquetry —
small vices, which often ruin domestic
happiness, but which a giddy nature
incurs without consideration. But
she did not think it right to love a
husband over much. She left a sur-
plus of affection for all her relations,
all her .friends, some of her acquaint-
ances, and the possibility of a second
marriage, should any accident happen
to Mr. M. She kept a good table,
for it suited their station, and her
temper was considered even, though
firm ; but she could say a sharp thing
or two, if Mr. Mervale was not
punctual to a moment. She was
very particular that he should change
his shoes on coming home — the car-
pets were new and expensive. She
was not sulky, nor passionate — ^Heavm
bless her for that! — but when dis-
plesaed, she showed it, administered
a dignified rebuke— alluded to her
own virtnee--to her unole, who wa^
o 2

196

ZANONL

an ftdmiral, and to the thirty thoosand
pounds which she had brought to the
object of her choice. But as Mr. Ker-
Tale was a good-humoured man,
owned his &ults, and subscribed to
her excellence, the displeasure was
soon oyer.

Erexy household has its little dis-
agreements, none fewer than that of
Mr. and Mrs. Mervale. Mrs. Mervale,
without being improperly fond of
dress, paid due attention to it. She
was never seen out of her chamber
with papers in her hair, nor in that
worst of disillusions — a morning
wrapper. At half-past eight every
morning Mrs. Mervale was dressed
fos the day — ^that is, till she re-dressed
for dinner ; — her stays well laced, —
h^r cap prim, — ^her gowns, winter and
summer, of a thick, handsome silk.
Ladies at that time wore very short
waists; so did Mrs. Mervale. Her
morning ornaments were a thick gold
chain, to which was suspended a gold
watch — ^none of those fragile dwarfs
of mechanism, that look so pretty,
and go so ill — ^but a handsome
repeater, which •chronicled Father
Time to a moment; also a mosaic
brooch ; also a miniature of her uncle,
the admiral, set in a bracelet. For
the evening, she had two handsome
sets— necklace, earrings, and bracelets
complete — one of amethysts, the other
topazes. With these, her costume,
for the most part, was a gold-coloured
satin and a turban, in which last her
picture had been taken. Mrs. Mer-
vale had an aquiline nose, good teeth,
Mi hair, and light eyelashes, rather a
high complexion, what is generally
called a fine bust, full cheeks, large
useful feet, made for walking, large
white hands, with filbert nails, on
which not a speck of dust had, even
in childhood, ever been known to
alight. She looked a little older than
she really was ; but that might arise
from a certain air of dignity, and the

"'^resaid aquilinenose. She generally

wore short mittens. She never read
any poetxy but Goldsmith's and Ck>w>
per's. She was not amused by novels,
though she had no prejudice against
them. She liked a play and a
pantomime, with a slight sapper
afterwards. She did not tike con-
certs nor operas. At the beginning
of the winter, she selected some book
to read, and some piece of work to
commence. The two lasted her till
the spring, when, though she con-
tinued to work, she left off reading.
Her favourite study was history,
which she read through the medium
of Dr. Goldsmith. Her fayoorite
author in the belles lettres -was, of
course. Dr. Jt>hnson. A worthier
woman, or one more respected, was
not to be found, except in an
epitaph !

It was an autumn night Mr. and
Mrs. Mervale, lately returned from
an excursion to Weymouth, are in
the drawing-room — "the dame sate
on this side — the man sat on
that."

"Yes, I assure you, my dear, that
Glyndon, with all his eccentricities,
was a very jengaging, amiable fellow.
You would certainly have lik^i him"
— all the wemen did."

*' My dear Thomas, you will forgive
the remark, — but that expression of
yours — ' all the women ' '*

"I beg your pardon, — ^you an?
right. I meant to say that he was a
general favourite with your charming
sex."

" I understand, — ^rather a frivolous
character."

"Frivolous! no, not exactly; a
little unsteady — ^very odd — ^but cer-
tainly not frivolous; presumptuous
and headstrong in character, but
modest and shy in his manners, rather
too much so— just what you like.
However, to return; I am seriously
uneasy at the accounts I have heard of
him to-day. He has been living, it
seems, a very strange and irregular

ZANONI.

197

life, travelling from place to place^
and most have spent already a great
deal of money."

"Apropos of money," said Mrs.
Mervale; "I fear we mnst change
our butcher : he is certainly in league
with the cook."

"That ifi a pity; his beef is re-
markably fine. These London servants
uTe as bad as the Carbonari. But, as
I was saying, poor Glyndon '*

Here a knock was heard at the
door. " Bless me," said Mrs. Mervale,
** it is past ten ! Who can that pos-
aiblybel"

" Perhaps your uncle, the admiral,"
said the husband, with a slight
peevishness in his accent. "He
•generally favours us about this hour."

* I hope, my love, that none of my
relations are unwelcome visitors at
your house. The admiral is a most
entertaining man, and— his fortune is
Aitirely at his own disposal."

" No one I respect more," said Mr.
Mervale, with emphasis.

The servant threw open the door,
and announced Mr. Glyndon.

"Mr. Glyndon 1— what an extra-
ordinary — " exclaimed J^rs. Mervale,
but before she could conclude the
sentence, Glyndon was i^ the room.

The two friends greeted each other
with all the warmth of early recol-
lection and long absence. An appro-
priate and proud presentation to Mrs.
Mervale ensued; and Mrs. Mervale,
^th a dignified smile, and a furtive
glance at his boots, bade her husband's
friend welcome to England.

Glyndon was greatly altered since
Mervale had seen him last. Though
less than two years had elapsed since
then, his fair complexion was more
bronzed and manly. Deep lines of
«care, or thought, or dissipation, had
replaced the smooth contour of happy
youth. To a manner once gentle and
polished, had succeeded a certain
recklessnesa of mien, tone, and bear-
ing, which bespdke the habits of a

society that cared little for the calm
decorums of conventional ease. Still
a kind of wild nobleness, not before
apparent in him, characterised his
aspect, and gave something of dignity
to the freedom of his language* and
gestures. * >

" So, then, you are settled, Mervale
— I need not ask you if you. are
happy. Worth, sense, wealth', cha-
racter, and 80 fair a coi^panion,
deserve happiness, and command it."

* Would you like some tea, Mr.
Glyndon?" asked Mrs. Mervale,
kindly.

"Thank you — ^no. I propose a
more convivial stimulus to my old
friend. Wine, Mervale — ^wine,eh.! —
or a bowl of old English punch.
Your wife will excuse us — ^we will
make a night of it ! "

Mrs. Mervale drew back her chair,
and tried not to look agha|9t. Glyn-
don did not give his Mend* time to
reply—

" So at last I am in England," he
said, looking round the room, with a
slight sneer on his lips; "surely
this sober air must have its influence ;
surely here I shall be like the rest."

"Have you been Ul, Glyndon 1 "

"111! yes. Humph! you have
a fine house. Does it contain a spare
room for a solitary wanderer? "

Mr. Mervale glanced at his wife,
and his wife looked steadily on the
carpet. "Modest and shy in his
manners — rather too much so ! "
Mrs. Mervale was in the seventh
heaven of indignation and amaze !

"My dear?" said Mr. Mervale at
last, meekly and interrogatingly.

" My dear ! " returned Mrs. Mervale,
innocently and sourly.

" We can make up a room for my
old friend, Sarah r'

The old friend had sunk back on
his chair; and, gazing intently on
the fire, with his feet at ease upon
the fender, seemed to have forgotten
his question.

198

ZANOITL

" Mis. Hervale bit her Hps, looked
Uiongbtful, and at last coldly replied
— ** Certainly, Mr. Mervale; your
Mends do right to make themselves
at home/',

With that she lighted a candle, and
moyed majestically from the room.
When she returned, the two friends
had yanished into Mr. Mervale's
study.

Twelve o'clock struck — one o'clock
—two! Thrice had Mrs. Mervale
sent into the room to know — first, if
they wanted anything; secondly, if
Mr. Glyndon slept on a mattress or
feather-bed; thirdly, to inquire if
Mr. Glyndon's trunk, which he had
brought with him, should be un-
packed. And to the answer to all
these questions, was added, in a loud
Toice from the visitor — a voice that
pierced from the kitchen to the attic
— ** Another bowl ! stronger, if yo«
please; and be quick with it ! " ^

At last/ Mr. Mervale appeared in
the conjugal chamber— not penitent.,
not apologetic — ^no, not a bit of it
His eyes twinkled, his cheek flushed..
his feet reeled ; he sung — ^Mr. Thomas
Mervale positively sung !

«Mr. Mervale! is it possible,
sir! "

» < Old King dole wBsa menyold aoul ' "

''Mr. Mervale! sir! — leave me
alone, sir ! "

« ♦ And a merry old aoul was he * "

'^What an example to the ser-
vants!"

« *And he oaOed for hia pipa,«ad heoaUed
for hia bow l ■ ' **

* If you don't behave yourself, sir.
I shaU call **

«< Call for his flddlers three r * "^

ZANONI.

199

CHAPTER III.

In der Welt weit,
Au8 der Einsamkeit
Wollea sie Dioh lockcn.* ,

Faiwt.

The next morning, at breakfast, Mrs.
Hervale looked as if all the wrongs of
injured woman sat upon her brow.
Mr. Mervale seemed the picture of
remorseful guilt and avenging bile.
He said little, except to complain of
headache, and to request the eggs to
be removed from the table. Clarence
Glyndon — impervious, unconscious,
unailing, impenitent — was in noisy
spirits and talked for three.

"Poor Mervale 1 he has lost the
habit of good fellowship, madam.
Another night or two, and he will be
himself again ! "

" Sir/* said Mrs. Mervale, launching
a premeditated sentence with more
than Johnsonian dignity; "permit
me to remind you that Mr. Mervale
is now a married man, the destined
father of a family, and the present
master df a household."

" Precisely the reasons why I envy
him so much. I myself have a great
mind to marry. Happiness is con-
tagious."

" Do you still take to painting 1 "
asked Mervale, languidly, endeavour-
ing to turn the tables on his guest.

"Oh, no; I have adopted your
advice. Ko art, no ideal — nothing
loftier than Common-place for me
now. If I were to paint again, I
positively think you would purchase
my pictures. Make haste and finish
your breakfast, man ; I wish to con-

* In the wide world, out of the solitude,
will these sllure thee.

suit you. I have come to England to
see after my affairs. My ambition is
to make money; your counsels and
experience cannot fail to assist me
here."

" Ah ! you were soon disenchanted
of your Philosopher's stone. You
must know, Sarah, that when I last
left Glyndon, he was bent upon
turning alchemist and magician."

"You are witty to-day, Mr. Mer-
vale."

*' Upon my honour it is true.
I told you so before."

Glyndon rose abruptly.

'* Why revive those recollections of
folly and presumption. Have I not
said that I have returned to my native
land to pursue the healthful avocations
of my kind ! yes ! what so health-
ful, so noble, so fitted to our nature,
as what you call the Practical Life ]
If we have faculties, what is their use,
but to sell them to advantage 1 Buy
knowledge as we do our goods ,♦ buy
it at the cheapest market, sell it at
the dearest. Have you not break-
fasted yet 1"

The friends walked into the
streets, and Mervale shrunk from the
irony with which Glyndon compli-
mented him on his respectability,
his station, his pursuits, his happy
marriage, and his eight pictures in
their handsome frames. Formerly
the sober Mervale had commanded
an influence over his friend ; hia
had' been the sarcasm; Glyndon's
the irresolute shame at his own

200

ZANONI.

peculiarities. Now this position was ' devoted himself to tlie monej-market';
reversed. There was a fierce earnest- 1 he seemed to have become a man of
ness in Glyndon's altered temper : business ; his schemes were bold and
which awed and silenced the quiet ! colossal ; his calculations rapid and
common-place of his friend's character, {profound. He startled Mervale by
He seemed to take a malignant delight I his energy, and dazzled him by his
in persuading himself that the sober success. Mer^'ale began to envy him
life of the world was contemptible — to be discontented with hia own
and base. | regular and slow gains. When Glyn-

** Ah I " he exclaimed, " how right i don bought or sold in the funds,
you were to tell me to marry respect- ; wealth rolled upon him like the tide

ably ; to have a solid position ; to live

in decorous fear of the world and

lone's wife ; and to command the envy

,.of Ifhfi poor, the good opinion of the

^. ritfh. You have practised what you

preadh. Delicious existence! The

,/nerchanfs desk, and the curtain

. lecture ! Ha ! ha ! Shall we have

^^ . .another night of it ? '*

Mervale, embarrassed and irritated,
r turned the conversation upon Glyn-
. don's affairs. He was surprised at
.the knowledge of the world which
ithfi iirtiist seemed to have suddenly
licqulred ; surprised still more at the
acuteness and energy with which he
spoke of the speculations most in
vogue at the market. Yes ; Glyndon
was certainly in earnest ; he desired
(^ be rich and respectable,— and to
;?oate at lea»t ten per cent, for his
■pioney I

of a sea ; what years of toil could not
have done for him in art, a few
months, by a succession of lucky
chances, did for him in speculation.
Suddenly, however, he relaxed his
exertions; new objects of ambition
seemed to attract him. If he heard a
drum in the streets, what glory like
the soldier's I If a new poem were
published, what renown like the
poet's 1 He began works in literature,
which promised great excellence, to
throw them aside in disgust. All at
once he abandoned the decorous and
formal society he had courted; he
joined himself with young and riotous
associates; he plunged into the wildest
excesses of the great city, where Gold
reigns alike over Toil and Pleasure.
Through all, he carried with him a
certain power and heat of soul. In
all society he aspired to command-

Afte.r mending some days with the | in all pursuits to excel. Yet whatever
merchant, .during which time he | the passion of the moment, the

- .contrived to disorganise all the I reaction was terrible in its gloom,
jnechanismof the house, to turn night He sunk, at times, into the most
, into day, harmony into discord, to I profound and the darkest reveries.

^ drive popr Mrs. Mervale half dis- 1 His fever was that of a mind that
tracted, and to convince her husband | would escape memory — his repose,
/hftt be was horribly hen-pecked, | that of a mind which the memory
'thfs ill-omened visitor left them as' seizes again, and devours as a prey,
suddenly as he had arrived. He took | Mervale now saw little of him ; they
a house of his own ; he sought the shunned each other. Glyndon had
society of persons of substance ; he no confident; and no friend.

ZANONI.

201

CHAPTER IV.

fell fUhlc Dich niir nahc,
Die Einsamkeit belebt ;

Wio Uber seinen Weltcn
Der Unstchtbareachwebt.*

Uhland.

From this state of restlessness and
agitation rather than continuous
■action, Glyndon was aroused by a
visitor who seemed to exercise the
most salutary influence over him.
His sister, an orphan with himself,
had resided in the country with her
aunt. In the early years of hope and
home, he had loved this girl, much
jrounger than himself, with all a
l>rother's tenderness. On his return
to England, he had seemed to forget
her existence. She recalled herself
to him on her aunt's death by a
touching and melancholy letter; —
ihe had now no home but his — ^no
-dependence save on his affection;
he wept when he read it, and was
impatient till Adela arrived.

This girl, then about eighteen,
concealed beneath a gentle and calm
-exterior much of the romance or
enthusiasm that had, at her own age,
characterised her brother. But her
enthusiasm was of a far purer order,
and was restrained within proper
l)Oimds, partly by the sweetness of a
very feminine nature, and partly by a
Mtrict and methodical education. She
•differed from him especially in a
timidity of character, which exceeded
that usual at her age, but which the
iiabit of self-command concealed no
. Jess carefully, than that timidity itself

* I feol thee near to me ;

The loneliness takes life-
Ad over its world
The Invisible hoTers.

concealed the romance I have ascribed
to her.

Adela was not handsome ; she had
tho complexion and the form of
delicate health; and too fine an
organisation of the nerves rendered
her susceptible to every impression
that could influence the health of the
frame through the sympathy of the
mind. But as she never complained,
and as the singular serenity of her
manners seemed to betoken an equa-
nimity of temperament which, with
the vulgar, might have passed for
indifference, her sufferings had so
long been borne unnoticed, that it
ceased to be an effort to disguise
them. Though, as I have said, not
handsome, her countenance was inter-
esting and pleasing; and there was
that caressing kindness, that winning
charm about her smile, her manners,
her anxiety to please, to comfort, and
to soothe, which went at once to the
heart, and made her lovely — because
so loving.

Such was the sister whom Glyndon
had so long neglected, and whom he
now so cordially welcomed. Adela
had passed many years a victim to
the caprices, and a nurse to the
maladies of a selfish and exacting
relation. The delicate, and. generous,
and respectful affection of her brother
was no less new to her than delightful.
He took pleasure in the happiness he
created ; he gradually weaned himself
from other society ; he felt the Charm
of Home. It is not surprising then.

202

ZANONI.

that tills young creature, free and
virgin from every more ardent attach-
ment, concentrated all her grateful
love on thia cherished and protecting
relative. Her study by day, her
dream by night was to repay him for
his affection. She was proud of his
talents, devoted to his welfare; the
smallest trifle that could interest him
swelled in her eyes to the gravest
affairs of life. In short, all the loug-
hoarded enthusiasm which was her
perilous and only heritage she investud
in this one object of her holy tender-
ness, her pure ambition.

But in proportion as Glyndon
ishunned those excitements by which he
had so long sought to occupy his time,
or distract his thoughts, the gloom of
his calmer, hours became deeper ahd
more continuous. He ever and espe-
cially dreaded to be alone ; he could
not bear his new companion to be
absent from his eyes ; he rode with
her, walked with her, and it was with
visible reluctance, which almost par-
took of horrory that he retired to rest
at an hour wfaeft.£vea revel grows
fatigued. This glodtn was not that
which could be called by> the soft
name of melancholy — it was far more
intense ; it seemed rather like despair.
Often after a silence as of death, — sa
heavy, abstracted, motionless, did il
appear, — he would start abruptly, ant|
cast hurried glances around him — his
limb9 trembling, his lips livid, his
brows bathed in dew. Convinced
that some secret sorrow preyed: upon
his mind, and would consitine his
health, it was the dearest as the most
natural desire of Adela to become
his confidante and consoler. She
observed, with the quick tact of the
delicate, that he disliked her to seem
affected by, or even sensible of, his
darker moods. She schooled herself
to suppress her fears, and her feelings.
She would not ask his confidence —
she sought to steal into it. * By little
and Htae, she felt that she was snc-

ceeding. Too wrapped in his own
strange existence to be acutely
observant of the character of others,
Glyndon mistook the self-content of a
generous and humble affection for
constitutional fortitude; and thi»
quality pleased and soothed him. It
is fortitude that the diseased mind
requires in the confidant whom it
selects as its physician. And how
irresistible is that desire to communi-
cate! How often the lonely man
thought to himself, " My heart would
be lightened of its misery, if once
confessed ! " He felt, too, that in tlie
very youth, the inexperience, the
poetical temperament of Adela, he
could find one who would comprehend
and bear with him better than any
sterner and more practical nature.
Mervale would have looked on hi&
revelations as the ravings of madness,
and most men, at best; as the ^cklied
chimeras^ the optical delusions^ of
disease. Thus gradually preparing
himself for that relief for which he
yearned, the moment for his disclosaie
arrived thus : — -

' One evening, as they sat alone
together, Adela, who inherited some
portion of her brother's talent in art,
was employed in drawing, and Glyn-
don, rousing himself from meditations
less gloomy than usual, rose, and
affectionately passing his arm round
her waist, looked over her as she
sat. An exclamation of dismay broke
from his lips — he snatched the
drawing from her'^hand: "What
are you about? — what portrait is
this?"

'' Dear Clarence do you not remem-
ber the original ^it is a copy from
that portrait of our wise ance»to]>
which our poor mother used to-aay so
strongly resembled you. 1 thought
it would please you if I copied it from
memory.'*

" Accursed was the likeness ! " said
Glyndon, gloomily. ** Guess you not
the reason why I have shunned to

ZANONI.

203

return to the home of my fathers 1 —
becanse I dreaded to meet that
portrait ! — becauBe — because — but
pardon me — I alarm you ! "

"Ah, no — ^no, Clarence, you never
alarm me when you speak, only when
you are silent ! Oh, if you thought
me worthy of your trust ! oh, if you
had given me the right to reason with
you in the sorrojrs that I yearn to
share ! "

Glyndon made no answer, but paced
the room for some moments with
diBordered strides. He stopped at
lafit, and gazed at her earnestly.
" Yea, you, too, are his descendant !
you know that such men have lived
and suffered — ^you will not mock me
— you will not disbelieve ! Listen !
hark .t— what sound is that]"

"But the wind on the house-top,
Clarence — but the wind."

" Give me your hand, let me feel
its liying clasp, and when I have told
you, never revert to the tale again.
Conceal it from all — swear that it
shall die with us — the last of our
predestined race ! "

" Never will I betray your trust —
I swear it — never!" said Adela firmly;
and she drew closer to his side : Then
Olyndon commenced his stoiy. That
which, perhaps in writing and to
minds prepared to question and
disbelieve, may seem cold and terror-
less, became far different when told
by those blanched lips, with all that
truth of suffering which convinces and
appals. Much, indeed, he concealed,
much he involuntarily softened ; but
he revealed enough to make his tale
intelligible and distinct to his pale
and trembling listener. "At day-
break," he said, "I left that unhal-
lowed and abhorred abode.* I had
one hope still — I would seek Mejnour
through the world. I would force
him to lay at rest the fiend that
haunted my soul. With this intent
I journeyed from city to city. I
iBBtitiited the most vigilant researches

through the police of Italy. I even
employed the services of the Inqui-
sition at Rome, which had lately
asserted its ancient powers in the
trial of the less dangerous Oagliostro.
All was in vain ; not a trace of him
could be discovered. I was not alone,
Adela." Here Olyndon paused a
moment, as if embarrassed; for in
his recital, I need scarcely say that
he had only indistinctly alluded to
Fillide, whom the reader may surmise
to be his companion. "I was not
alone, but the associate of my wan-
derings was not one in whom my soul
could confide — faithful and affec-
tionate, but without education, with-
out faculties to comprehend me,,
with natural instincts rather than
cultivated reason— -one in whom the
heart might lean in its careless hours,,
but with whom the mind could have
no commune, in whom the bewildered
spirit could seek no guide. Yet in
the society of this person the daemon
troubled me not. Let me explain yet
more fully the dread conditions of its
presence. In coarse excitement, in
common-place life, in the wild riot, in
the fierce excess, in the torpid lethaigy
of that animal existence which we
share with the brutes, its eyes were
invisible, its whisper was unheard.
But whenever the soul would aspire,
whenever the imagination kindled to-
the loftier ends, whenever the con-
sciousness of our proper destiny
struggled against the unworthy life
I pursued, then — Adela, then, it
cowered by my side in the light of
noon, or sat by my bed— a Darkness
visible through the Dark. If, in the
galleries of Divine Art, the dreams of
my youth woke the early emulation
— if I turned to the thoughts of sages
— if the example of the great, if the
converse of the wise, aroused the
silenced intellect, the dsemon was
with me as by a spell. At last, one
evening, at Genoa, to which city I had
travelled in pursuit of the Mystic,.

201

ZAXONI.

suddenly, and when least expected, he
appeared before me. It was the time
of the Carnival. It was in one of
those half-frantic scenes of noise and
revel, call it not gaiety, which establish
a heathen saturnalia in the midst of a
Christian festival. Wearied with the
dance, I had entered a room in which
several revellers were seated, drinking,
fiinging, shouting ; and in their fan-
tastic dresses and hideous masks, their
orgy seemed scarcely human. I
placed myself amongst them, and in
that fearful excitement of the spirits
which the happy never know, I was
soon the most riotous of all. The
conversation fell on the Revolution of
Prance, which had always possessed
for mc an absorbing fascination. The
/masks spoke of the millenium it was
to bring on earth, not as philosophers
rejoicing in the advent of light, but
as ruffians exulting in the annihilation
of law. I know not why it was, but
their licentious language infected
myself; and, always desirous to be
foremost in every circle, I soon
exceeded even these rioters in de-
(^lamations on the nature of the
liberty which ^as about to embrace
all the families of the globe — a liberty
that should pervade not only public
legislation, but domestic life — an
emancipation from every fetter that
men had forged for themselves. In
the midst of this tirade one of the
masks whispered me —

" * Take care. One listens to you,
who seems to be a spy ! '

"My eyes followed those of the
mask, and I observed a man who
took no part in the conversation, but
whose gaze was bent upon me. He
was disguised like the rest, yet I
found by a general whisper that none
had observed him enter. His silence,
his attention, had alarmed the fears
of the other revellers — they only
excited me the more. Bapt in my
subject, 1 pursued it, insensible to
♦K« -Sflrng of those about me; and,

addressing myself only to the silent
mask who sat alone, apart from the
group, I did not even observe that,
one by one, the revellers slunk off.
and that I and the silent listener
were left alone, until, pausing from
my heated and impetuous declama-
tions, I said —

" * And you^ Sig|>or, — ^what is your
view of this ipighty era? Opinion
without persecutSn — brotherhood
without jealousy — love without bond-

« 'And life without God,' added (
the mask, as I hesitated for new
images.

"The sound of that well-known
voice changed the current of my
thought. I sprung forward, and cried —

" ' Impostor or Fiend, we meet at
last!*

"The figure rose as I advanced,
and, unmasking, showed ihe features
of Mejnour. His fixed eye — his
majestic aspect awed and repelled
me. I stood rooted to the ground.

" ' Yes,' he said, solemnly, ' we
meet, and it is this meeting that
I have sought. How hast thou
followed my admonitions! Are these
the scenes in which the Aspirant for
the Serene Science thinks to escape
the Ghastly Enemy ] Do the thoughts
thou hast uttered — ^thoughts that
would strike all order from the uni-
verse — express the hopes of the sage
who would rise to the Harmony of the
Eternal Spheres?*

"'It is thy fault— it is thine!'
I exclaimed. * Exorcise the phantom !
Take the haunting terror from my
soul !*

" Mejnour looked at me a moment
with a cold and cynical disdain, which
provoked at once my fear and rage,
and replied —

" ' No, fool of thine own senses !
No ; thou must have full and entire
experience of the illusions to which
the Knowledge that is without Faith
climbs its Titan way. Thou pantest

ZANONL

205

for this Miilenium — thon slialt
behold it ! Thou shalt be one of the
agents of the era of Light and Reason.
I see, while I speak, the Phantom
thou fliest, by thy side — it marshals
thy path — it has power over thee as
yet — ^a power that defies my own. In
the last days of that Revolution which
thou hailest, amidst the wrecks of the
Order thou cursest as Oppression,
seek the fulfilment of thy destiny,
and await thy cure/

" At that instant a troop of masks,
clamorous, intoxicated, reeling, and
rushing as they reeled, poured into
the room, and separated me from the
Mystic. I broke through them, and
sought him everywhere, but in vain.
All my researches the next day were
equally fruitless. Weeks were con-
sumed in the same pursuit — ^not a
trace of Mejnour could be discovered.
Wearied with false pleasures, roused
by reproaches I had desei-ved, recoil-
ing from Mejnour's prophecy of the
scene in which I was to seek deliver-
ance, it occurred to me, at last, that
in the sober air of my native country,
and amidst its orderly and vigorous
pursuits, I might work out my own
emancipation from the spectre. I left
all whom I had before courted and
clung to : — I came hither. Amidst
mercenary schemes and selfish specu-
lations, I found the same relief as in
debauch and excess. The Phantom
was invisible, but these pursuits soon

became to me distasteful as the rest.
Ever and ever I felt that I was born
for something nobler than the greed
of gain — that life may be made
equally worthless, aud the soul
equally degraded by the icy lust of
Avarice, as by the noisier passions.
A higher Ambition never ceased to
torment me. But, but" — continued
Glyndon, with a whitening lip and a
visible shudder, "at every attempt to
rise into loftier existence came that
hideous form. It gloomed beside me
at the easel. Before the volumes of
Poet and Sage it stood with its burn-
ing eyes in the stillness of night, and
I thought I heard its horrible whis-
pers uttering temptations never to be
divulged." He paused, and the drops
stood upon his brow.

" But I," said Adela, mastering her
fears, and throwing her arms around
him — " But I henceforth will have no
life but in thine. And in this love so
pure, so holy, thy terror shall fade
away."

"No, no!" exclaimed Glyndon,
starting from her. " The worst reve-
lation is to come. Since thou hast
been here — ^since I have sternly and
resolutely refrained from every haunt,
every scene in which this preter-
natural enemy troubled me not, I —
I — have — Oh, heaven ! Mercy —
mercy ! There it stands — there, by
I thy side — there — there!" And he
I fell to the ground insensible.

206

2;akoni.

CHAPTEB V.

Dooh wander1>ar ergriff mieh's diem Nafikt ;
Die Glieder schienen schon in Todes Mactit.»

Uax.AM>.

A wsvjOL, attended with deliriaxn,
for several days deprived Olyndon of
consciousness ; and when, by Adela's
care, more than the skill of the phy-
sicians, he was restored to life and
reason, he was unutterably shocked
by the change in his sister's appear-
ance ; at first, he fondly imagined
that her health, affected by her vigils,
would recover with his own. But he
soon saw, with an anguish which
partook of remorse, that the malady
was deep-seated — deep, deep beyond
the reach of Jisculapius and his drugs.
Her imagination, little less lively than
his own, was awfully iiii pressed by the
strange confessions she had heard, —
by the ravings of his delirium. Again
and again, had he shrieked forth,
" It is there — there, by thy side, my
sister!" He had transferred to her
fancy the spectre, and the horror that
cursed himself. He perceived this, not
by her words, but her silence — by
the eyes that strained into space — by
the shiver that came over her frame —
by the start of terror — by the look that
did not dare to turn behind. Bitterly
he repented his confession— bitterly
he felt that between his sufferings and
human sympathy, there could be no
gentle and holy commune ; vainly he
sought to retract— to undo what he
had done — to declare all was but the
chimera of an over-heated brain.
And brave and generous was this

* This night it fearfully seized on me ;
Biy limtM appeared already in the power of
death.

denial of himself; for, often and often,
as he thus spoke, he saw the Thiog of
Dread gliding to her aide, and glaring
at him as he disowned its being. But
what chilled him, if possible, yet more
than her wasting form and trembling
nerves, was the change in her love
for him; a natural terror had re-
placed it. She turned paler if he
approached — she shuddered if he took
her hand. Divided from the rest of
earth, the gulf of the foul remem-
brance yawned now between his sister
and himself. He could endure no
more the presence of the one whose
life hds life had embittered. He made
some excuses for departure, and
writhed to see that they were greeted
eagerly. The first gleam of joy he
had detected, since that fittal night,
on Adela's face, he beheld when he
murmured " Farewell." He travelled
for some weeks through the wildest
parts of Scotland ; scenery,, which
makes the artist, was loveless to his
haggard eyes. A letter recalled him
to London, on the wings of new agony
and fear ; he arrived to find his sister
in a condition both of mind and health
which exceeded his worst appre-
hensions.

Her vacant look — her lifeless pos-
ture, appalled him; it was as one
who gazed on the Medusa's head,
and felt, without a struggle, the
human being gradually harden to
the statue. It was not frenzy, it
was not idiotcy— it was an abstrac-
tion, an apathy, a sleep in waking.
Only as the night advanced towards

ZAKONf.

207

tJie eleventh hour, — the hoar in
"which Glyndon had concluded
liis tale, — she grew visibly uneasy,
&nxiou9,^nd perturbed. Then her
lips muttered, her hands writhed;
«he looked round with a look of un-
speakable appeal for succour — for
protection; and suddenly, as the
dock stniek, fell with a shriek to the
^ound, cold and lifeless. With diffi-
culty, and not until after the most
earnest prayers, did she answer the
agonised questions of Glyndon; at
last she owned that at that hour, and
that hour alone, wherever she was
placed, however occupied, she dis-
tinctly beheld the apparition of an
old hag ; who, after thrice knocking
at the door, entered the room, and
hobbling up to her with a counte-
nance distorted by hideous rage and
menace, laid its icy fingers on her
forehead; fVom that moment she
declared that sense forsook her ; and
when she woke again, it was only to
wait, in suspense that froze up her
blood, the repetition of the ghastly
visitation.

The phyucian who had been
summoned before Olyndon's return,
and whose letter had recalled him to
London, was a common-place prac-
titioner; ignorant of the case, and
honestly anxious that one more
experienced should be employed.
Clarence called in one of the most
eminent of the faculty, and to him he
recited the optical delusion of his
sister. The physician listened atten-
tively, and seemed sanguine in his
hopes of cure. He came to the
honse two hours before the one so
dreaded by the patient. He had
quietly arranged that the clocks
should be put forward half an hour,
unknown to Adela, and even to her
brother. He was a man of the most

extraordinary powers of conversation,
of surpassing wit, of all the faculties
that interest and amuse. He first
administered to the patient a harm-
less potion, which he pledged himself
would dispel the delusion. His
confident tone woke her own hopes —
he continued to excite her attention,
to rouse her lethargy; he jested, he
laughed away the time. The hour
struck. "Joy, my brother !" she ex-
claimed, throwing herself in his
arms; "the time is past!" And
then, like one released from a spell,
she suddenly assumed more than her
ancient cheerfulness. " Ah, Clarence ! '*
she whispered, "forgive me for my
former desertion — forgive me that I
feared you, I shall live — I shall live !
in my turn to banish the spectre that
haunts my brother !'* And Clarence
smiled and wiped the tears from his
burning eyes. The physician renewed
his stories, his jests. In the midst of
a stream of rich humour, that seemed
to carry away both brother and sister,
Glyndon suddenly saw over Adela's
face the same fearful change, the
same anxious look, the same restless,
straining eye, he had beheld the night
before. He rose — he approached her.
Adela started up. "Look — look —
look!" she exclaimed. "She comes!
Save me — save me ! " and she fell at
his feet in strong convulsions ; as the
clock, falsely and in vain put back,
struck the half-hour.

The physician lifted her in his arms.
"My worst fears are confirmed," he
said, gravely ; the disease is epilepsy."*

The next night at the same hour,
Adela Glyndon died.

* The most celebrated practitioner in
Dublin related to the Bditor a fttory of
optical delusion, precisely similar in its-
circumstances and its physical cause, to the
one here narrated.

208

ZANONI.

CHAPTER VIJ^

La loi dout le r^gne yous epouvante a son glaive levc sur vous : elle vous frappera tou& ;
iti genre humain a besoin de cet excmple.=t'— Couthon.

" Oh, joy, joy ! — thou art come again !
This is thy hand — these thy lips.
Say that thoa didst not desert me from
the love of another ; say it again — say
it ever ! — ^and I will pardon thee all
the rest!'*

" So thou hast mourned for me ? "

" Mourned ! — and thou wert cruel
enough to leave me gold — there it is
— there— untouched ! "

" Poor child of Nature ! how, then,
in this 'strange town of Marseilles,
hast thou found bread and shelter ] "

"Honestly,soulof my soul! honestly,
but yet by the face thou didst once
think so fair : thinkest thou iJiat
now ? '*

" Yes, Fillide, more fair than ever.
But what meanest thou 1 '*

"There is a painter here — a great
♦ man, one of their great men at Paris
— I know not what they call them ;
but he rules over all here — ^life and
death; and he has paid me largely
but to sit for my portrait. It
is for a picture to be given to the
Nation, for he paints only for glory.
Think of thy Fillide's renown I "
And the girl's wild eyes sparkled;
her vanity was roused. *' And he
would have married me if I would ! —
divorced his wife to marry me ! But
I waited for thee, ungrateiful ! "

A knock at the door was heard — a
man entered.

"Nicot!"

* The law, whose reign terrifies j-ou*
has its sword raised against you; it will
strike you all ; humanity has need of this
example.

" Ah, Glyndon ! — hum ! — welcome -
What! thou art twice my rival .*
But Jean Nicot bears no malice. Vir-
tue is my dream — my country, my
mistress. Serve my country, citizen ;
and I forgive thee the preference of
beauty. Ca ira I ca ira / "

But as the painter spoke, it hymned,
it rolled through the streets — the fiery
song of the Marseillaise ! There wai>
a crowd — a multitude—a people up,
abroad, with colours and arms, enthu-
siasm and song; — with song, with
enthusiasm, with colours and arms!
And who could guess that that martial
movement was one, not of war, but
massacre — Frenchmen against French-
men] For there are two parties in
Marseilles — and ample* work for
Jourdan Coupe-t^te! But this, the
Englishman, just arrived, a stranger
to all factions, did not as yet compre-
hend. He comprehended nothin;::
but the song, the enthusiasm, the
arms, and the colours that lifted to
the sun the glorious lie — *' Le peupie )
Franpais, debout contre les tyrans ! "* )

The dark brow of the wretched
wanderer grew animated; he gazed
from the window on the throng that
marched below, beneath their waving
Oriflamme. They shouted as they
beheld the patriot Nicot, the friend of
Liberty and relentless Hebert, by tlie
stranger's side, at the casement.

" Ay, shout again 1 " cried the
painter — " shout for the brave
Englishman who abjures his ritt<

* Vft, Frenchmen, against tjTants.

ZANONI.

209

SLJkd hk Coburgs to be a c'tizcu of
Liberty and France ! '*

A thousand voices rent the air, and
the hjmn of the Marseillaise rose in
majesty again.

" Well, and if it be among these
high hopes and this brave people that
the phantom is to vanish, and the cure
to comeT" muttered Glyndon; and
he thought he felt again the elixir
sparkling through his veins.

** Thou shalt be one of the Conven-
tion with Paine and Clootz — I will
manage it all for thee ! " cried Nicot,
flapping him on the shoulder ; " and
Paris "

"Ah, if I could but see Paris!"
cried Fillidc, in her joyous voice.
Joyous ! the whole time, the town,
the air — save where, unheard, rose
the cry of agony and the yell of mur-
der — were joy! Sleep unhaunting
in thy grave, cold Adela. Joy, joy !
In the Jubilee of Humanity all private
griefs should cease! Behold, wild
Mariner, the vast whirlpool draws
. thee to its stormy bosom. There,

the individual is rot. All things are
of the whole ! Open thy gates, fair
Paris, for the stranger- citizen! Receive
in your ranks, meek Republicans,
the new champion of liberty, of reason,
of mankind ! " Mejnour is right ; it
was in virtue, in valour, in glorious
struggle for the human race, that
the spectre was to shrink to her kin-
dred darkness.'*

And Nicot's shrill voice praised
him ; and lean Robespierre — " Flam-
beau, colonne, pierre angulaire de
r§difice de la Republique " •■—smiled
ominously on him from his 'bloodshot
eyes; and Fillide clasped him with
passionate arms to her tender breast.
And at his up-rising and down-sitting,
at board and in bed, though he saw
it not, the Nameless One guided him
with the daemon eyes to the sea, whose
waves were gore.

* •< The light, column, and key-stone of

the Republic." Lettre du Citoyen P .

Papiers in^dits trouT^s ches Robespierre.—
Tom. II, p. 127.

Xo. 272.

li

BOOK THE SIXTH.

SUPERSTITION DESERTING FAITH.

Why do I yield to that suggestion.
Whose horrid image doth nnfiz my hair.

SHAKXSPKikRB.

P 2

ZANONI.

213

BOOK THE SIXTH.

CHAPTER I.

Therefore the Genii were painted with a platter fall of garlands and flowers in one
hand, and a whip in the other.— Albxandsr Ross, My stag. Poet.

AoooRDiNa to the order of the events
related in this narrative, the departure
of Zanoni an^ Yiola from the Greek
Isle, in which two happy years appear
to have been passed, must have been
somewhat later in date than the arrival
of Glyndon at Marseilles. It must
have been in the course of the year
1791 when Viola fled from Naples
with her mysterious lover, and when
Qlyndon sought Mejnour in the fatal
Castle. It is now towards the close of
1793, when our story again returns
to Zanoni. The stars of winter shone
down on the Lagunes of Venice. The
hum of the Kialto was hushed — the
last loiterers had deserted the place of
St. Mark's, and only at distant inter-
vals might be heard the oars of the
rapid gondolas, bearing reveller or
lover to his home. But lights still
flatted to and fro across the windows
of one of the Palladian palaces, whose
shadow slept in the great canal ; and
within the Palace watched the twin
Eumenides, that never sleep for Man,
— ^Pear, and Pain.

''I will make thee the richest
man in all Venice, if thou savest
her."

"Signor/' said the Leech; ''your

gold cannot control death, and the
will of Heaven — Signor, unless within
the next hour there is some blessed
change, prepare your courage."

Ho — ho, Zanoni ! man of mystery
and might, who hast walked amidst
the passions of the world, with no
changes on thy brow, art thou tossed
at last upon the billows of tempestuous
fearl — Does thy spirit reel to and
fro ? — knowest thou at last the strength
and the majesty of Death]

He fled, trembling, from the pale-
faced man of art— -fled through stately
hall, and long-drawn corridor, and
gained a remote chamber in the Pa-
lace, which other step than his was
not permitted to profane. Out with
thy herbs and vessels. Break from
the enchanted elements, silvery-
azure flame ! Why comes he not — the
Son of the Starbeam ! Why is Aden- Ai
deaf to thy solemn call 1 Ijt comes
not — the luminous and delightsome
Presence ! Cabalist I are thy charms
in vain ] Has thy throne vanished
from the realms of space 1 Thou
standest pale and trembling. Pale
trembler! not thus didst thou look,
when the things of glory gathered at
thy spell. Never to the pale trembler

214

ZANONI.

bow the things of gloiy : — the soul,
and not the herbs^nor the silvery-azare
fiame, nor the Bpells of the Cab&la,
commands the children of the air ;
and iJiy soul, by Love and Death, is
made sceptreless and discrowned !

At length the flame quivers — the
air grows cold as the wind in chamels.
A thing not of earth is present — a
mistlike, formless thing. It cowers
in the distance— a silent Horror! it
rises — it creeps — it nears thee — dark
in its mantle of dusky haze; and
under its veil it looks on thee with
its livid, malignant eyes — the thing
of malignant eyes !

" Ha, young Chaldasan ! young in
thy countless ages — ^young as when,
cold to pleasure and to beauty, thou
stoodest on the old Fire-tower, and
heardest the starry silence whisper to
thee the last mystery that baffles
Death, — fearest thou Death at length !
Is thy knowledge but a circle that
brings thee back whence thy wan-
derings began! Generations on
generations have withered since we
two met I Lo ! thou beholdest me
now I "

" But I behold thee without fear !
Though beneath thine eyes thousands
have perished; though, where they
tyttm, spring up the fotfl poisons of
the human heart, and to those whom
thou canst subject to thy will, thy
•presence glares in the dreams of the
laving maniac, or blackens the dnn-
Igeon of despairing crime, thou art
not my vanquisher, but my slave ! "

" And as a slave, will I serve thee I
Command thy slave, beautiful
Chaldsean !— Hark, the wail of women !
*— hark) the sharp shriek of thy
beloved one ! Death is in thy pahice !
Adon-Ai comes not to thy call. Only
"Where no cloud of the passion and the
•flesh veils the eye of the Serene
Intelligence can the Sons of the
iStarbeam glide to man. But / can
^idd thee!— hark!" And Zanoni
«k«M^..H distinctly in his heart, even at

that distance from the chamber, the
voice of Viola, calling in delirium on
her beloved one.

" Oh, Viola, I can save thee not I "
exclaimed the Seer, passionately;
"my love for thee has made me
powerless ! "

"Not powerless; I can gift thee
with the art to save her — I can place
healing in thy hand ! "

"For bothi child and mother — for
both!"

"Both!"

A convulsion shook the limbs of
the Seer — a mighty struggle shook
him as a child : the Humanity and
the Hour conquered the repugnant
spirit.

" I yield ! Mother and child — ^sare
both!"

In the dark chamber lay Viola, in
the sharpest agonies of travail; life
seemed rending itself away in the
groans and cries that spoke of pain
in the midst of frenzy; and still, in .
groan and cry, she called on Zanoni,
her beloved. The physician looked to
the clock ; on it beat— the Heart of
Time,— regularly and slowly — Heart
that never sympathised with Life, and
never flagged for Death ! " The cries
are fainter," said the leech ; "in ten
minutes more all will be past."

Fool ! the minutes laugh at thee ;
Nature even now, like a bine sky
through a shattered temple, is smiling
through the tortured frame. The
breathinggrows more calm and hushed
— ^the voice of delirium is dumb^-a
sweet dream has come to Viola. Is
it a dream, or is it the soul that sees?
She thinks suddenly that she is with
Zanoni, that her burning head is
pillowed on his bosom; she thinks,
as he gazes on her, that his eyes dispel
the tortures that prey upon her— ^e
touch of his hand cools the fever on
her brow; she hears his voice in

ZAKONI.

215

marmuTS — it is a music from which
the fiends fly. Where is the monntain
that seemed to press upon her temples?
Like a vapour, it rolls away. , In the
frosts of the winter night, she sees the
son hinghing in luxurious heaven —
she hears the whisper of green leaves;
the beautiful world, valley and stream,
and woodland, lie before, and with a
common voice speak to her — "We
ace.not yet past for thee ! " Fool of
dcQgsjmdicmttla^look to thy dial-

plate !— the hand has moved on; the
minutes are with Eternity ; the soul
thy sentence would have dismissed
still dweUs on the shores of Time.
She sleeps ; the fever abates ; the
convulsions are gone ; the living rose
blooms upon her cheek ; the crisis is
past ! Husband, thy wife lives ! lover,
thy universe is no solitude. Heart of
Time, .beat on ! A while—a little
while— joy 1 joy ! joy ! — ^fitther, em-
brace thy child!

216

ZANOKI.

CHAPTER II.

- tiistis Erinnys

Praetalit infaustas sanguinolenta faces.*

Ovid.

And they placed the child in the
iather'B arms ! As silently he bent
over it, tears — tears how human! —
fell from his eyes like rain ! And the
little one smiled through the tears
that bathed its cheeks! Ah, with
what happy tears we welcome the
stranger into our sorrowing world!
With what agonising tears we dismiss
the stranger back to the angels !
Unselfish joy ; but how selfish is the
sorrow I

And now through the silent chamber
a faint, sweet voice is heard — ^the
young mother's voice.

" I am l^ere : I am by thy side ! "
murmured Zanoni.

The mother smiled, and clasped his
hand, and asked no more ; she was
contented.

Viola recovered with a rapidity
that startled the physician ; and the
young stranger thrived as if it already
loved the world to which it had de-
scended. From that hour Zanoni
seemed to live in the infant's life ; and
in that life the souls of mother and
father met as in a new bond. —
Nothing more beautiful than this
infant, had eye ever dwelt upon. It
was strange to the nurses that it came
not wailing to the light, but smiled
to the light as a thing familiar to it

* Erinnys, doleful and bloody, extends
the unblessed torches.

before. It never uttered one cry of
childish pain. In its very repose it
seemed to be listening to some happy
voice within its heart : it seemed itself
so happy. In its eyes you would have
thought intellect already kindled,
though it had not yet found a lan-
guage. Already it seemed to recognise
its parents ; already it stretched forth
its arms when Zanoni bent over the
bed, in which it breathed and bloomed,
— ^the budding flower ! And from
that bed he was rarely absent : gazing
upon it with his serene, delighted
eyes, his soul seemed to feed its own.
At night and in utter darkness he was
still there; aAd Viola often heard him
murmuring over it as she lay in a half
sleep. But the murmur was in a lan-
guage strange to her ; and sometimes
when she heard, she feared, and vagne,.
undefined superstitions came back to
her — ^the superstitions of earlier youth.
A mother fears everything, even the
gods, for her new-born. The mortals
shrieked aloud, when of old they saw
the great Demeter seeking to make
their child immortal !

But Zanoni, wrapt in the Bublime
designs that animated the liuman
love to which he was now awakened,
forgot all, oven all he had forfeited or
incurred, in the love that blinded him.

But the dark, formless thing,
though he nor invoked nor saw it,
crept, often, round and round him ;
and often sat by the infant's couch,
with its hateful eyes.

ZAKONI.

217

CHAPTER III.
Fuscis tellurem amplectitur alis.*— Yiroil.

LETTER 7&0H ZAKOKI TO MBJNOUR.

Mejnour, Hamanitj, with all its
sorrows and its joys, is mine once
more. Day by day, I am forging my
own fetters. I live in other lives than
my own, and in them I have lost more
than half my empire. Not lifting
them aloft, they drag me by the strong
bands of the affections to their own
earth. Exiled from the beings only
yisible to the most abstract sense, the
grim Enemy that guards the Thres-
hold has entangled me in its web.
Canst thou credit me, when I tell thee
that I have accepted its gifts, and en-
dure the forfeit. Ages must pass ere
the brighter beings can again obey
the spirit that has bowed to the
ghastly one ! And —

In this hope, then, Mejnour, I
triumph still; I yet have supreme
po^irer over this young life. Insensibly
adU inaudibly my soul speaks to its
'0wni and prepares it even now. Thou
knowest that for the pure and unsul-
lied infant spirit, the ordeal has no
terror and no peril. Thus unceasingly
I nourish it with no unholy light; and
ere it yet be conscious of the gift, it
will gain the privileges it has been
mine to attain: the child, by slow
and scarce-seen degrees, will commu-
nicate its own attributes to the
mother; and content to see Youth
for ever radiant on thq brows if* the
two that now suffice to fill' up my
whole infinity of thought, shall I

* Embraces the Earth with gloomy wings.

regret the airier kingdom, that
vanishes hourly from my grasp ? But
thou, whose vision is still clear and
serene, look into the far deeps shut
from my gaze, and counsel me, or
forewarn ! I know that the gifts of
the Being whose race is so hostile to
our own, are, to the common seeker,
fatal and perfidious as itself. And
hencoi when, at the outskirts of know-
ledge, which in earlier ages men
called Magic, they encountered the
things of the hostile tribes, they be-
lieved the apparitions to be fiends,
and, by fancied compacts, imagined
they had signed away their souls ; as
if man could give for an eternity
that over which he has control but
while he lives 1 Dark, and shrouded
for ever from human sight, dwell the
daemon rebels, in their impenetrable
realm ; in them is no breath of the
Divine One. In every human crea-
ture the Divine One breathes ; and
He alone can judge His own hereafter,
and allot its new career and home.
Could man sell himself to the fiend,
man could prejudge himself, and arro-
gate the disposal of eternity! But
these creatures, modifications as they
are of matter, and some with more
than the malignity of man, may well
seem, to fear and unreasoning super-
stition, the representatives of fiends.
And from the darkest and mightiest
of them I have accepted a boon — the
secret that startled Death from those
so dear to me. Can I not trust that
enough of power yet remains to me»
to b^e or to daunt the Phantom, if
it seek to pervert the gifti Answer
me, Mejnour ; for in the darkness th? ^

218

^^ETOKI.

veils me^ I see only the pure eyes of
the new-bom; I hear only the low
beating of my heart. Answer me,
thou whose wisdom is without love !

MEjnOUB TO ZANOVI.

Rome.
Fallen One ! — I see before thee,
Bvil and Death, and Woe ! Thou to
have relinquished Adon-Ai, for the
-nameless Terror — ^the heavenly stars,
for those fearful eyes 1 Thou, at the
last to be the victim of the Larva of
the dreary Threshold, that, in thy
'first novitiate, fled, withered and
shrivelled, from thy kingly brow !
When, at the primary grades of initia-
tion, the pupil I took from thee on
the shores of the changed Parthenop6,
fell senseless and cowering before that
Phantom-Darkness, I knew that his
i^irlt was not formed to front the
^POiMs iieyond ; for isiR is the attmc-

tion of man to earthiest earth ; and
while he fears, he cannot soar. But
tJum, seest thou not that to love is but
to fear I— seest thou not, that the
power of which thou boastest over the
malignant one is already gonel It
awes, it masters thee ; it will mock
thee, and betray. Lose not a moment ;
come to me. If there can yet be suf-
ficient sympathy between us, through
my eyes shalt thou see, and perhaps
guard against the perils that, shapeless
yet, and looming through the shadow,
marshal themselves around thee and
those whom thy very love has doomed.
Come from all the ties of thy fond
humanity ; they will but obscure thy
vision ! Come forth from thy fears
and hopes, thy desires and passions.
Come, as alone, Mind can be the
monarch and the seer, shinitfthrough
the home it tenants — ^a puie, impres-
sionless, subtime Intelligence !

ZAyONL

219

CHAPTER IV.

Plus que V0U6 ne pensez ce moment est terrible. 'C

La Harpb, Le ComU de Warteick, Act 3, sc. 5.

Fob the first time since their union
"Zanoni and Viola were separated —
Zanoni went to Rome, on important
business. " It was," he said, " but for
a few days:" and he went so suddenly
that there was little time either for
surprise or sorrow. But first parting is
always more melancholy than it need
be; it seems an interruption to the
existence which Love shares with
Love ; it makes the heart feel what a
void life will be, when the last parting
frhall succeed, as succeed it must, the
first. But Viola had a new companion :
she was enjoying that most delicious
novelty which ever renews the youth,
and dazzles the eyes, of woman. As
the mistress — the wife — she leans on
another; from another are reflected
'her happiness, her being — as an orb
that takes light from its sun. But
tiow, in turn, as the mother, she is
raised from dependence into power ;
it is another that leans on her — a star
bas sprung into space, to which she
herself has become the sun !

A few days — but they will be sweet
through the sorrow I A few days —
every hour of which seeois an era to
the infant, over whom bend watchful
the eyes and the heart. From its
waking to its sleep, from its sleep to
its waking, is a revolution in Time.
Breiy gesture to be noted — every
smile to seem a new progress into the
world it has come to bless ! Zanoni
has gone — the last dash of the oar is
kdt— the last speck of the gondola

* The moment Is more terrible than jon
<h!nk.

has vanished from the ocean-streets of
Venice ! Her infant is sleeping in the
cradle at the mother's feet ; and she
thinks through her tears what tales
of the fairy-land, that spreads far and
wide, with a thousand wonders, in that
narrow bed, she shall have to tell the
father! Smile on — weep on, young
mother 1 Already the fairest leaf in
the wild volume is closed for thee!
and the invisible finger turns the
page!

By the bridge of the Rialto stood
two Venetians — ardent Republicans
and Democrats — looking to the Revo-
lution of France as the earthquake
which must shatter their own expiring '
and vicious constitution, and give
equality of ranks and rights to Venice.

"Yes, Cottalto," said one; "my
correspondent of Paris has promised
to elude all obstacles, and baffle all
danger. He will arrange with us the
hour of revolt, when Uie legions of
France shall be within hearing of our
guns. One day in this week, at this
hour, he is to meet me here. This is
but the fourth day."

He had scarce said these words
before a man, wrapped in his roque-
2atVe, emerging from one of the narrow
streets to the left, halted opposite the
pair, and eyeing them for a few mo-
ments with an earnest scrutiny, irYaa-
]^tred—" Salutr

" Et fraJt/emii^r answered the
speaker.

220

ZANONI.

•' You, then, are the brare Dandolo
with whom the ComiU deputed me to
correspond ? And this citizen V*

" Is Cottalto, whom my letters have
so often mentioned.'**

" Health and brotherhood to him !
I have much to impart to you both.
I will meet you at night, Dandolo.
But in the streets we may be ob-
served."

" And I dare not appoint my own
house; tyranny makes spies of our
very walla. But the place herein
designated is secure ;" and he slipped
an address into the hand of his
•orrespondent.

" To-night, then, at nine ! Mean-
while I have other business." The.
man paused, his colour changed, and
it was with an eager and passionate
voice that he resumed —

"Your last letter mentioned this
wealthy and mysterious visitor — this
Zanoni. He is still at Venice ? "

"I heard that he had left this
morning ; but his wife is still here."

« His wife !— that is well ! "

" "What know you of him 1 Think
you that he would join us] His
wealth would be "

"His house, his address— quick!"
interrupted the man.

" The Palazzo di , on the

Grand Canal."

" I thank you — at nine we meet."

The man hurried on through the
street from which he had emerged;
and, passing by the house in which
he had taken up his lodging (he had
arrived at Venice the night before), a
woman who stood by the door caught
his arm.

"Monsieur" she said, in French,
** I iave been watching for your

* I know not if the author of the origin%
MSS. desiKHS, under these name^ to intro-
duce the real Cottalto and the true Dandolo,
who, in 1797. disUnguished themselves by
their sympathy with the French, and their
democratio ardour.— Ed.
•

return. Do you understand me l I
will brave all, risk all, to go back with
you to France— to stand, through life
or in death, by my husband's side ! "

"CUoyenne, I promised your hus-
band that, if such your choice, I
would hazard my own safety to aid it.
But, think again ! Your husband is
one of the faction which Robespierre's
eyes have already marked : he cannot
fly. All France is become a prison to
the 'suspect.* You do but endanger
yourself by return. Frankly, citoi/-
enne, the fate you would share may
be the guillotine. I speak (as you
know by his letter) as your husband
bade me."

" Monsieur, I will return with you,"
said the woman, with a smile upon
her pale face.

"And yet you deserted your hus-
band in the fair sunshine of the
Revolution, to return to him amidst
its storms and thunder!" said the
man, in a tone half of wonder, half
rebuke.

" Because my father's days were
doomed; because he had no safety
but in flight to a foreign land;
because he was old and penniless, and
had none but me to work for him;
because my husband was not then in
danger, and my father was; he is
dead — dead ! My husband is in
danger now. The daughter's duties
are no more— the wife's return ! "

" Be it so, citoyenne ; on the third
night I depart. Before then you may
retract your choice,"

" Never ! "

A dark smile passed over the man's
face.

" guillotine ! " he said, " how ,
many virtues hast thou brought to,
light ! Well may they call thee 'A
Holy Mother/ gory guillotine ! "

He passed on, muttering to himself,
hailed a gondola, and was soon amidst
the crowded waters of the Grand
Canal.

ZANOKI.

221

CHAPTER V.

CequeJ'ignore
Est plus triste peut-£tre et plus affreux encore. 't'

La Haxpk, Le Comte de Warwick, Act 5, so. 1.

Tus casement stood open, and Yiola
' was seated by it. Beneath sparkled
the broad waters, in the cold but
cloudless sunlight; and to that fair
form, that half- averted face, turned
the eyes of many a gallant cavalier,
as their gondolas glided by.

But at last, in the centre of the
canal, one of these dark vessels halted
motionless, as a man fixed his gaze
from its lattice upon that stately
palace. He gave the word to the
rowers — the vessel approached the
marge. The stranger quitted the
gondola; he passed up the broad
stairs; he entered the palace. Weep
on ! — smile no more, young mother I
— the last page is turned !

An attendant entered the room,
and gave to Viola a card, with these
words in English — "Viola, I must
see you ! Clarence Glyndon."

Oh, yes, how gladly Viola would
see him ! — how gladly speak to him
of her happiness— of Zanoni ! — how
gladly show to him her child ! Poor
Clarence ! she had forgotten him till
now, as she had all the fever of her
earlier life— its dreams, its vanities,
its poor excitement, the lamps of the
gaudy theatre, the applause of the
noisy crowd.

He entered. She started to behold
him, so changed were his gloomy
brow, his resolute, care-worn features,
from the graceful form and careless
countenance of the artist-lover. His

* That which I know not is, perhapSj
more sad and fearful still.

dress, though not mean, was rude,
neglected, and disordered. A wUd,
desperate, half -savage air had sup-
planted that ingenuous mien — diffi-
dent in its grace, earnest in its
diffidence, — which had once charac-
terised the young worshipper of Art,
the dreaming Aspirant after some
starrier lore !

"Is it youl" she said, at last.
" Poor Clarence, how changed ! "

" Changed ! " he said, abruptly, as *
he placed himself by her side. "And
whom am I to thank, but the fiends —
the sorcerers — who have seized upon
thy existence, as upon mine 1 Viola,
hear me. A few weeks since, the news
reached me that you were in Venice.
Under other pretences, and through
innumerable dangers, I have come
hither, risking liberty, perhaps life,
if my name and career are knowir in
Venice, to warn and save you.
Changed, you call me ! — changed
without; but what is that to the
ravages within ? Be warned, be
warned in time ! "

The voice of Glyndon, sounding
hollow and sepulchral, alarmed Viola
ev^n more than his words. Pale,
haggard, emaciated, he seemed almost
as one risen from the dead, to appal
and awe her. "What," she said, at
last, in a faltering voice, " what wild

jjrords do you utter ! Can you "

' " " Listen ! " interrupted Glyndon,
laying his hand upon her arm, and its
touch was as coid as death — " listen !
You have heard of the old stories of
men who have ' * te&gued themselves

ZANONL

vith devils for the attainment of 01yndon*s awful nar'-'itiYe filled her
preternatural powers. Those stories with contagious dread, half unbonsd
are not fitbles. Such men live. Their . the very spells they had woven before,
delight is to increase the unhallowed , — Yiola started up in fear — not for
circle of wretches like themselves. If . Keradf; and clasped her child in her
their proselytes fail in the ordeal, the arms !

daemon seizes them, even in this life, I '' Unhappiest one ! " cried Glyndon,
as it hath seized me ! — if they succeed, shuddering, ''hast thou indeed giren

woe, yea, a more lasting woe ! There
is another life, where no spells can
charm the evil one, or allay the
torture. I have come from a scene

where
Death

birth to a victim thou canst not aare !
Refuse it sustenance — let it look to
thee in vain for food ! In the grave,
at least, there are repose and peace ! '*

blood flows in rivers — ^where

stands by the side of the | Then there came back to Yiola's

bravest and the highest, and the one mind the remembrance of Zanoni^s
monarch is the Guillotine ; but all the night-long watches by that cradle,
mortal perils with which men can be ^ and the fear which even then had
beset, are nothing to the dreariness of crept over her as she heard his mar-

a chamber where the Horror that
passes death moves and stirs ! "

It was then that Qlyndon, with a
cold and distinct precision, detailed,
as be had done to Adela, the initiation
through which he had gone. He
described, in words that froze the
blood of his listener, the appearance
of that formless phantom, with the
eyes that, seared the brain and con-
gealed the marrow of those who
beheld. Once seen, it never was to be
exorcised. It came at its own will,
prompting black thoughts — ^whisper-
ing strange temptations. Only in
scenes of turbulent excitement was it
absent ! Solitude — serenity — the
struggling desires after peace and
virtue — these were the elements it
loved to haunt! Bewildered, terror-
stricken, the wild account confirmed
by the dim impressions that never, in
the depth and confidence of- affection,
had been closely examined, but rather
banished as soon as felt, — that the life
and attributes of Zanoni were not like
those of mortals, — impressions which

mured — ^half-chanted words. And, as
the child looked at her with ita dear,
steadfast eye, in the strange intelli-
gence of that look there was same-
thing that only confirmed her awe.
So there both Mother and Forewamer
stood in silence, — the sun smiling
upon them through the casement,
and dark, by the cradle, though they
saw it not, sate the motionless veiled
Thing !

But by degrees better, and juster,
and more grateful memories of the
past returned to the young mother.
The features of the infant, as she
gazed, took the aspect of the absent
father. A voice seemed to break fi*om
those rosy lips, and say, mournfully —
"I speak to thee in thy child. In
return for all my love for thee and
thine, dost thou distrust me, at the
first sentence of a maniac who
accuses ] "

Her breast heaved — her stature
rose — ^her eyes shone with a sere&e
and holy light.
"Go, poor victim of thine own
her own love had made her hitherto delusions," she said to Glyndon ; " I
censure, as suspicions that wronged would not believe mine own senses, if*
and which, thus mitigated, had per- they accused ^ fether! And vhatj^"
haps only served to rivet the fasci- knowest thou of Zanoni 1 What re- Jl;
nated chains in which he bound her lation have Mejnour and the griesly "
heart and senses, but which now, as spectres he invoked, with the radiant

ZANOHI.

22a

image wkk which thoa woaldst con*
nect them ! "

" Thou wilt learn too soon/* replied
Glyndon, gloomily. " Ajod the very
phantom that haunts me, whitpors^

with its blo'^dless lips, that ita
horrors await both thine and thee!
I take not thy decision yet ; before I
leave Yenice we shall meet agiuiw."
He Bsiid, and departeds

CHAPTER VI.

Quel est T^garement oil ton ftme bo Uvre?^

La Harpb, Le Comte de Warwick, Act 4, so. 4.

AhAS, Zanonil the Aspirer, the
dark bright one ? — didst thou think
tliat the bond between the survivor
of ages and the daughter of a day
oould endure) Didst thou not fore-
see that, until the ordeal was past,
there could be no equality between
thy wisdom and her love 1 Art thou
absent now, seeking, amidst thy
solemn secrets, the solemn safeguards
for child and mother, and forgettest
thou that the phantom that served thee
hath power over its own gifts — over
the lives it taught thee to rescue from
the grave 1 Dost thou not know that
Fear and Distrust, once sown in the
heart of Love, spring up from the
seed into a forest that excludes the
stars ? Dark bright one ! the hateful
eyes glare beside the mother and the
child!

All that day, Viola was distracted
by a thousand thoughts and terrors,
irhich fled as she examined them, to
settle back the darklier. She remem-
bered that, as she had once said to
Glyndon, her very childhood had
been haunted, with strange forebod-
ings, that she was ordained fof some
preternatural doom. She ilunem-
bered that, as she had tolMim this,
ntting by the seas that sluntbered in
the arms of the Bay of Naples, he, too.

* To wbat'delnsion does tby soul abalidon

iteelf?

had acknowledged the same forebod'
ings, and a mysterious sympathy had
appeared to unite their fates. She
remembered, above all, that com-
paring their entangled thoughts, both
had, then, said that with the first
sight of Zanoni the foreboding, the
instinct, had spoken to their hearts
more audibly than before, whispering
that ''with Hix was connected the
secret of the unconjectured life."

And now, when Glyndon and'
Viola met again, the haunting fears
of childhood, thus referred to, woke
from their enchanted sleep. With
Glyndon's terror she felt a sympathy,
against which her reason and her love
struggled in vain. And still, when
she turned her looks upon her child,
it watched her with that steady,
earnest eye, and its lips moved as if
it sought to speak to her ; — ^but no
sound came. The infant refused to
sleep. Whenever she gazed upon its
face, still those wakeful, watchful
eyes ! — and in their earnestness, there
spoke something of pain, of upbraid-
ing, of accusation. They chilled her
as she looked. Unable to endure, of
herself, this sudden and complete
revulsion of all the feelings which
had hitherto made up her life, she
formed the resolution natural to her
land and creed; she sent for the
priest who had habitually attended
her at Venice, and to him she con-

ZAKONI.

with paBsi-mate sobs and
intense terror, t]ie doubts that had
broken upon her. The good father,
a worthy and pious man, but with
little education and less sense, one
who held (as many of the lower
Italians do to this day) even a poet
to be a sort of sorcerer, seemed to
shut the gates of hope upon her
heart. His remonstrances were urgent,
for his horror was unfeigned. He
joined with Glyndon in imploring
her to ily if she felt the smallest
doubt that her husband's pursuits
were of the nature which the Boman
church had benevolently burned so
many scholars for adopting. And
even the little that Yiola could com-
municate, seemed to the ignorant
ascetic, irrefragable proof of sorcery
and witchcraft ; he had, indeed, pre-
viously heard some of the strange
rumours which followed the path
of Zanoni, and was therefore pre- 1
pared to believe the worst ; the
worthy Bartolomfio would have made ,
no bones of sending Watt to the i
stake had he heard him speak of the i
steam-engine ! But Viola, as untu- j
tored as himself, was terrified, by his
rough and vehement eloquence;
terrified, for by that penetration
which catholic priests, however dull,
generally acquire, in their vast expe-
rience of the human heart hourly
exposed to their probe, Bartolomdo
spoke less of danger to herself than
to her child. ^'Sorcerers," said he,
* have ever soughT^he most to decoy
and seduce the souls of the young —
nay, the infant;" and therewith he
entered into a long catalogue of
legendary fables, which he quoted as
historical facts; all at which an
English woman would have smiled,
appalled the tender but superstitious
Neapolitan ; and when the priest left
her, with solemn rebukes and grave
accusations of a dereliction of her
duties to her child, if she hesitated
to flv with it from an abode polluted

by the darker powers and unhallowe*l
arts, Viola, still clinging to the imaore
of Zanoni, sunk into a passire
lethargy, which held her very reason,
in suspense.

The hours passed ; night came on ;
the house was hushed; and Viola^
slowly awakened from the numbness
and torpor which had usurped her
faculties, tossed to and fro on her
couch, restless and perturbed. The
stillness became intolerable ; yet more
intolerable the sound that alone
broke it, the voice of the clock, knell-
ing moment after moment to its
grave. The Moments, at last, seemed
themselves to find voice, to gain
shape. She thought she beheld them
springing, wan and fairy-like, from
the womb of darkness ; and ere they
fell again, extinguished, into that
womb, their grave, their low, small
voices murmured — " Woman ! we
report to eternity all that is done in
time I What shall we report of thee,
guardian of a new-born sonU'*
She became sensible that her fancies
had brought a sort of partial delirium,
that she was in a state between sleep
and waking, when suddenly one
thought became more predominant
than the rest. The chamber which,
in that and every house they had
inhabited, even that in the Greek
isles, Zanoni had set apart to a soli-
tude on which none might intrude,
the threshold of which even Viola's
step was forbid to cross, and never,
hitherto, in that sweet repose of con-
fidence which belongs to contented
love, had she even felt the curious
desire to disobey — now, that chamber
drew her towards it. Perhaps, there,
might be found a somewhat to solve
the riddle, to dispel or confirm the
doubt: that thought grew and
deepened in its intenseness; it fas-
tened on her as with a palpable and
irresistible grasp ; it seemed to raise
her limbs without her will.

And now, through the chamber.

ZANONI.

^25

sklong the gallenes thou glidest,
lovely shape! sleep-walking, yet
airake. The moon shines on thee as
tboQ glldest by, casement after case-
ment, white-robed and wandering
spirit 1 — thine arms crossed upon thy
bosom, thine eyes fixed and open,
^th a calm, imfearing awe. Mother !
it is thy child that leads thee on.
The fairy Moments go before thee.

Thou hearest still the clock-knell
tolUng them to their graves behind.
On, gliding on, thou hast gained the
door ; no lock bars thee, no magic
spell drives thee back. Daughter of
the dust, thou standest alone with
Kight in the chamber where, pale
and numberless, the hosts of space
have gathered round the seer 1

CHAPTER Vir.

Des Erdenlebens
Schweres Ti-aumbild sinkt, und sinkt, und sinkt'*'

Das Idmal vsd oas Lbbbns.

Shb stood within the chamber,
and gazed around her; no signs by
which an Inquisitor of old could have
detected the Scholar of the Black
Art were visible. No crucibles and
caldrons, no brass-bound volumes and
ciphered gurdles, no sculls and cross-
bones. Qaietly streamed the broad
moonlight through the desolate cham-
ber with its bare white walls. A few
bunches of withered herbs, a few
antique vessels of bronze, placed
carelessly on a wooden form, were all
which that curious gaze could identify
with the pursuits of the absent owner.
The magic, if it existed, dwelt in the
artificer, and the materials, to other
hands, were but herbs and ^bronze.
So is it ever with thy works and
wonders, Genius — Seeker of the
Stars! Words themselves are the
common property of all men; yet,
from words themselves. Thou, Archi-
tect of Immortalities, pilest up
temples that shall outlive the Pyra-
mids, and the very leaf of the Papyrus
becomes a Shinar, stately with towers,
round which the Deluge of Agea shall
roar in vain !

« The Dream-Shape of the heavy earthly
life tinka. anl sinks, and sinks.
No. 278.

But in that solitude has the Pre-
sence that there had invoked its
wonders left no enchantment of its
own! It seemed so; for as Viola
stood in the chamber, she became
sensible that some mysterious change
was at work within herself. Her
blood coursed rapidly, and with a
sensation of delight, through her
veins — she felt as if chains were
falling from her limbs, as if cloud
after cload was rolling from her
gaze. All the confused thoughts
which had moved through her trance,
settled and centered^ themselves in
one intense desire to see the Absent
One — to be with him. The monads
that make up spao^bid air seemed
charged with a spiritual attraction, —
to become a medium through which
her spirit could pass from its clay,
and confer with the spirit to which
the unutterable desire compelled it.
A faintness seized her ; she tottered
to the seat on which the vessels and
herbs were placed, and, as she bent
down, she saw in one of the vessels a
small vase of crystal. By a mecha-
nical and involuntary impulse her
hand seized the vase ; she opened it,
and the volatile essence it contained
I 16

22d

ZAXOKI.

sparkled np^ and spread through
the room a powerful and delicious
fragrance. Bhe inhaled the odour,
she laved her temples with the liquid,
and saddenlj her life seemed to spring
up from the'preyious fiiintness — to,
spring, to soar, to floaty to dilate,
npott the wings of a bird.

The room ranished from her sjtB,
Away — away, over lands, and seas,
and space, on the rushing desire flies
the disprisoned mind !

Upon a stratum, not of this world,
stood the world-bom shapes of the
sons of Science; upon an embryo
wofld — upon a crude, wan, attenuated
mass of matter, one of the Nebulae,
which the suns of the myriad systems
throw off as they roll round the
Creator's throne,* to become them-
selves new worlds of symmetry and
glory — planets and suns, that for ever
and for erer shall m their turn
multiply their shining race, and be
the fethera of suns and planets yet to
come.

* ** Astronoiny instructs us, that in the
origins! ctmdition of tbe solar systeu, the
sun was the nuoleua of a nebulosity or
luminous naas8» which revolved on its axis,
and extended far beyond the orbits of all the
lilanets; the planets as yet having no exist-
ence. Its temperature gradually diminished,
and becoming centraeted by cooling, the
rotation increased in riqiidity, and zones of
nebulosity were suooeesively thrown off, in
consequence of the centrifugal force over-
powering the central attraction. The con-
d«isation of these separate masses consti-
tuted the lOanets and sateUite*. But tbis
view of the conversion of gaseous matter
into planetary bodies is not limited to our
own system ; it extends to the formation of
the innumerable suns and worlds which are
distributed throaghout the universe. The
sublime diaooveriea of modem aafttonomers
have shown that every paxt of the realms of
space abounds !n large expansions of at-
tenuated matter termed nebulce, which are
irrqgulsrfy reflective of light, of various
flgnrfs^ and in diffeient states of eondensa-
tion* from that of a diffused luminous mass
to suns and planets like our own."->From
Mantell'a eloquent and delightful work,
entitled, "The wonders of Geology," vol. 1.
D. 22.

There, in that enormous soHtude of
an infant world, which thonsands aad
thousaada of years can alone ripen
into form, the spirit of Yii^ helbeld
the shape of ^noni, or rather ike
likeness, the simulacrum,, the txmm9.
of his shape, not its humaa and cor-
poreal substance, — as if, like hers^the
Intelligence was parted from the Clay ;
— and as the sun, while it revolTea
and glows, had cast off into remotest
space that Nebular image of itself, so
the thing of earth, in the action of its
more luminous and enduring being;
had thrown its likeness into that new-
bom stranger of the heavens. There
stood the phantom — a phantom-
Mejnour, by its side. In the gigantic
chaos around raved and struggled the
kindling elements — water and fire,
darkness and light, at war — vapour
and eloud hardening into moiuitaiiia,
and the Breath of Life moving Mke a
stead&st splendour over all !

As the dreamer looked, and shirered,
she beheld that even there the two
phantoms of humanity were i^ot alone.
Dim monster-fbrms that that dis-
ordered chaos alone eooM engender,
the first reptile Colossal race that
wreathe and crawl through the earliest
stratum of a world labouring into life,
coiled in the oozing matter or hovered
through the meteorous vapours. But
these the two seekers seemed to heed
th^ gaze was fixed intent upon aa
object in the farthest space. With
the eyes of the spirit^ Yioia foUowed
theirs ; with a terror far greater than
the chaos and its hideous inhatntaats
produced, she beheld a shadowy like-
ness of the rery room in whieh bar
form yet dwelt, its white walls, the
moonshine sleeping oa its floor, ifts
open casement, with the quiet xooAi
and domes of Venice looming over
the sea that sighed below ,*^ — and is
that room the ghoaUike image of her-
self! This double phantom — ^bere
herself a phantom— gazing there epon
a phantom-sel^ had in it a hflnrar

ZAKOiJL

227

which no words can tell, no length of
life forego.

Bnt presently she saw this image
of herself rise slowly, leave the room
with its noiseless feet — ^it passes the
corridor — it kneels by a cradle!
Heaven of Heaven ! she beholds her
child ! — still with its wondrous child-
like beaaty and its silent wakeful eyes.
Bat beside that cradle there sits,
caweri&g, a mantled shadowy fbrm —
the more feufcd and ghastly, from its
indistiiict and ansnbstontial gloom.
The waUs of that chamber seem to
open as the scene of a theatre. Agrkn
duBgeoii — streets through which pour
shadowy crowds — wrath and hatred,
and the aspect ^ dcemons in their

ghastly visages — ^a place of death—
a murderous instrument — a shamble-
house of human flesh — ^herself— her
child — all, all, rapid phantasmagoria,
chased each other; Suddenly the
phantom-Zanoni turned, it seemed to
perceive herself — ^her second self. It
sprang towards her; her spirit could
bear no more. She shrieked, she
woke ! She found that in truth she
had left that dismal chamber; the
cradle was before her— the child 1 all
— aU as that trance had seen it, and,
vanishing into air, even that dark
formlefls Thing t

''My child! my child! thy mother
shall save thee yet!"

q2

ZANONI.

CHAPTER VIII.

** Q,ui? Toi ! m*abandonner» oix va8-tu ? non ! demeore,
Demeure r* 4t

Lahahpk, £0 Comte de Warwick, Act. 3, sc 5w

LBTTS& FBOU YIOLA TO ZAITONI.

" It has come to this ! — ^I am the first
to part ! I, the unfaithfal one, bid
thee farewell for ever. When thine
eyes fall upon this writing, thou wilt
liow me as one of the dead.' For
thou that wert, and still art my life —
I am lost to thee ! lover! hus-
band ! still worshipped and adored !
if thou hast ever loved me, if thou
canst still pity, seek not to discover
the steps that fly thee. If thy charms
can detect and track me, spare me —
spare our child ! Zanoni, I will rear
it to love thee, to call thee father !
Zanoni, its young lips shall pray for
thee ! Ah, spare thy child, for in-
fants are the saints of earth, and their
mediation may be heard on high!
ShaU I teU thee why I part? No ;
thou, the wisely terrible, canst divine
what the hand trembles to record;
and* while I shudder at thy power —
T^hile it is thy power I fly, (our child
upon my bosom,) — it comforts me
still to think that thy power can
read the heart ! Thou knowest
that it is the faithful mother that
writes to thee, it is not the faithless
wife I Is there sin in thy knowledge,
Zanoni ? Sin must have sorrow ; and
it were sweet — oh, how sweet, to.be
thy comforter. But the child, the
infant, the souUhat looks to mine for
its shield 1 Magician, I wrest from
thee that soul ! Pardon, pardon, if
my words wrong thee. See, I fall on
my knees to write the rest I

* Who ? Thou abandon me I — Where
goest thou ? No, stey. stay !

" Why did I never recoil before from
thy mysterious lore? — ^why did the
very • strangeness of thine unearthly
life only fiEiscinate me with a delightful
fear 1 Because, if thou wert sorcerer
or angel-dsemon, there was no peril
to other but myself : and none to me,
for my love was my heavenliest part ;
and my ignorance in all things, ex*
cept the art to love thee, repelled
every thought that was not bright
and glorious as thine image to my
eyes. But now there is another !
Look, why does it watch me thus —
why that never-sleeping, earnest, re-
buking gaze? Have thy spells en-
compassed it already? Hast thou
marked it, cruel one, for the terrors
of thy unutterable arti !Do not
madden me — do not madden me ! —
unbind the spell !

" Hark ! the oars without ! They
come — ^they come, to bear me from
thee! I look round, and methinks
that I see thee everywhere. Thoa
speakest to me from every shadow,
from every star. There, by the case-
ment, thy lips last prest mine — ^there,
there by that threshold didst thou
turn again, and thy smile seemed so
trustingly to confide in me ! Zanoni
— Husband ! — I will stay ! I cannot
part from thee ! No, no 1 I will go
to the room where thy dear voice,
with its gentle music, assuaged the
pangs of travail! — where, heard
through the thrilling darkness, it first
whispered to my ear 'Viola, thou art
a mother!* A mother! — ^yes, I rise
firom my knees — I am a mother ?
They come t I am firm ; farewell ! **

ZANONI.

229

Tea; thus suddenly, thus cruelly,
irhether in the delirium of blind and
unreasoning superstition, or in the
resolve of that conyiction which
springs from duty, the being for
whom he had resigned so qiuch of
empire and of glory forsook Zanoni.
This desertion, never foreseen, never
anticipated was yet but the constant
fate that attends those who would
place Mind beyond the earth, and yet
treasure the Heart wUikin it. Igno-
rance everlastingly shall recoil from
knowledge. But never yet, from
nobler and purer motives of self-sacri-
fice, did human lovo link itself to
another, than did the forsaking wife
now abandon the absent. For rightly
had she said, that it was not the faith-
less wife, it was the faithful mother

that fled from all in which her earthly
happiness was centered.

As long as the passion and fervour
that impelled the act animated her
with &Ise fever, she cUsped her in&nt
to her breast, and was consoled — ^re-
signed. But what bitter doubt of her
own conduct> what icy pang of jemorse
shot through her heart, when, as they
rested for a few hours on the road to
Leghorn, she heard the woman who
accompanied herself and Glyndon,
pray for safety to reach her husband's
side, and strength to share the perils
that would meet, her there ! Terrible
contrast to her own desertion I She
shrunk into the darkness of her own
heart, — and then no voice from within
consoled her.

280

ZANOKI.

CHAPTRR IX.

Zttkmilt bast du aoir mebcn
Dooh du Bthniat den Aunenblick^

Kassandba.

"M«JiroTm, behold tliy irork! Out,
out upon our little yanitics of wifidom t
—out, upon our ages of lore and life !
To save her from Peril I left her pre-
sence, and the Peril has seized her in
its grasp ! *

* Chide not thy wisdom, but thy
passions I Abandon thine idle hope
of the love of woman. See, for those
who would unite the lofty with the
lowly, the inevitable curse ; thy very
nature uncomprehended — ^thy sacri-
fices unguessed. The lowly one views
but in the lofty a necromancer or a
fiend. Titan, canst thou weep ? "

" I know it now — I see it all ! It
was her spirit that stood beside our
own, and escaped my airy clasp I
strong desire of motherhood and
nature! unveiling all our secrets,
piercing space and traversing worlds !
— Mejnour, what awful learning lies
hid in the ignorance of the heart that
loves!"

* Futurity hast thou given to me— yet
thou takest from me the Moment

*' The heart," answered the Myrtio^
coldly ; *' ay, for five thousand yeara
I have ransacked the mysteries of
creation; but I have not yet iBs-
covered all tbe wonders in the heart
of the simplest boor J "

* Yet our solemn rites deceived us
not ; the prophet-shadows, dark with
terror and red with blood, still fore-
told that, even in the dungeon, and
before the deathsman, I — I had the
power to save them both ! "

"But at some unconjectured and
most fatal sacrifice to thyself.**

" To myself ! Icy sage, there is no
self in love ! I go. Nay, alone ; I
want thee not. I want now no other
guide but the human instincts of
afiection. No cave so dark — ^no soli-
tude so vast, as to conceal her.
Though mine art fail me — though
the stars heed me not — though space,
with its shining myriads, is again to
me but the azure void, — I return but
to love, and youth, and hope ! when
have they ever failed to triumph and
to save ! "

BOOK THE SEVENTH.

THE REIGN OF TERBOR.

Orrida xnaesU nel fero aspetto
Terrore accresoe, e piii suporbo il rende ;
Rosseggian gli oochi. e di veneno infetto
Come infausta cometa, il guardo splende.
Gli involve il mento, e suU 'irsuto petto
Ispida e folta la gran barbe 8cende ;
E in guUa di voragine profonda
S'apre la bocca d'atro sangue immonda.*

Gbr. Lib., Cant iv. 7.

* A horrible majesty in the fierce aspect increases its terror, and renders

it more superb. Red glow the eyes, and the aspect infected, like a baleful

r comet, with envenomed influences, glares around. A vast beard covers the

chin— and, rough and thick, descends over the shaggy breast.— And like

a profound gulf .expand the jaws, foul with black gore.

^ANONI.

233

BOOK THE SEVENTH.

/

CHAPTER I.

<lai Bu!s-Je, moi qu'on accuse ? Vn esclave de la liberty, un martyr vivant de la
Republique.i'— DiBCOURS ds Robsspibrrb, 8 Thermidor,

Iz roars — the River of Hell, whose
first outbreak was chaunted as the
gush of a channel to Elysium. How
burst into blossoming hopes fair
hearts that had nourished themselves
on the diamond dews of the rosy
dawn, .when Liberty came from the
dark ocean, and the arms of decrepit
Thraldom — Aurora from the bed of
Tithon! Hopes! ye have ripened
into fruit, and the fruit is gore and
ashes! Beautiful Roland, eloquent
Vergmaud, visionary Condorcet, high-
hearted Malesherbes! — ^wits, philoso-
phers, statesmen, patriots, — dreamers!
behold the millennium for which ye
dared and laboured !

I invoke the ghosts ! Saturn hath
devoured his children,t and lives
alone — ^in his true name of Moloch !

It is the Reign of Terror, with
Robespierre the king. The struggles
between the boa and the lion are
past ; the boa has consumed the lion,
and is heavy with the gorge ; — ^Danton
has fallen, and Camille Desmoulins.
Danton had said before his death.

* Who am I, I whom they accuse ? A
slave of Liberty— a living martyr for the
Republic.

. t La Revolution est comme Satume, elle
Id^Torera tous sea enfaos.— YaROiriAUD.

"The poltroon Robespierre — ^I alone
could have saved him." From that
hour, indeed, the blood of the dead
giant clouded the craft of "Maxi-
nrflien the Incorruptible," as at last,
amidst the din of the roused Conven-
tion, it choked his voice.* If, after
that last sacrifice, essential, perhaps,
to his safety, Robespierre had pro-
claimed the close of the Reign of
Terror, and acted upon the mercy
which Danton had begun to preach,
he ' might have lived, and died a
monarch. But the prisons continued'
to reek — the glaive to &11; ana
Robespierre perceived not that his
mobs were glutted to satiety with
death, and the strongest excitement
a chief could give would be a return
from devils into men.

We are transported to a room in
the house of Citizen Dupleix, the
mSnuisier, in the month of July,
1794 ; or in the calendar of the Revo-

* ** Le sang de Danton t'^touffe ! ** <the
blood of Danton chokes thee.) said Gamier
de I'Aube, when, on the fatal 9th of Ther-
midor, Robespierre gasped feebly forth—
** Fova la demidre fois, President dcs Assas-
sins, je te demande la parole.** (For the last
time. President of Assassins, I demand to
speak.)

284

ZAKOOT.

IntioniBts it was the Thermidor of the
Second Tear of the Republic, One and
Indivisible ! Though the room was
small, it was famished and decorated
with a minnte and careful effort at
elegance and refinement. It seemed,
indeed, the desire of the owner to
avoid at once what was mean and
rude, and what was luxurious and
voluptuous. It was a trim, orderly,
precise grace that shaped the classic
chairs, arranged the ample draperies,
sunk the frameless mirrors into the
wall, placed bust and bronze on their
pedestals, and filled up the niches
here and there with well-bound books,
filed regularly in their appointed
ranks. An observer would hia.ve said,
" This man wishes to imply to you —
I am not rich ; I am not ostentatious;
I am not luxurious ; I am no indolent
Sybarite, with couches of down, and
pictures that provoke the sense; I
am no haughty noble, with spacious
halls, and galleries that awe the echo.
But BO much the greater is my merit
if I disdain these exoesses of the ease
or the pride, since I love the eiegant,
and have a taste! Others may be
simple and honest, from the very
coarseness of their habits ; if I, with
with BO much refinement and delicacy,
am simple and honesty — ^refleet, and
admire me I "

On the walls of this chaii^>er hung
many portraits, most of them repre-
sented but one face ; on Ibe foimal
pedestals were grouped many busts,
most of them sculptured but one
head. In that small •chamber Egotism
sat supreme, and made the Arts its
looking-glasses. £^ct in a chair,
before a large table spread with
letters, sat the original of bust and
canvass, the owner of the apartment.
He was alone, yet h^ sat erect, formal,
stiff, precise, as if in his very home
he was not at ease. His dress was in
harmony with his posture and his
chamber, it affiacted a neatness of its
own — ^foreign both to the sumptmms

fashions of the deposed nobles, and
the filthy ruggedness of the sans-
culottes. Frizzled and eo^S, not a
hair was out of order, not a speck
lodged on the sleek surface of the
blue coat, not a wrinkle crumpled the
snowy vest, with its under relief of
delicate pink. At the first glance,
you might have seen in that face
nothing but the ill-favoured features
of a sickly countenance. At a second
glance you would have perceived that
it had a power — a character of its
own. The forehead, though low and
compressed, was not without that
appearance of thought and intelli-
gence which, it may be observed, that
breadth betwe^Ei the eyebrows almost
invariably gives; the lips were firm
and tightly drawn together, yet ever
and anon Uiey tremUed, and wndwd
restlesdy. The eyes, sullen and
gloomy, were yet piercing, and AdI
of a conoentmled rigour, that did sot
seem supported by the thin, Ibeble
frame, or the green lividaess' of the
hues which told of anxiety and diseaw.
Such was Maximilien Robe^env y
such the chamber over the mSnuiaier's
i^op, whence issued the edicts that
launched armies on their career iif
glory, and ordained an artificial con-
duit to carry off the blood that
delaged the metxopolis of the most
martial people in the globe ! Soeh /
was the man who had resigind a/
judicial appointment (the eariyolgect
of his ambition), rather than violate/
his phUanthropical priboipleSyhgrsDh/
scribing to the deatih «f a. singleA
feUow-creature l-Hsuch mm theviigin )
enemy to eapital puniiAmeats, and
such, Butcher-Diotator now, was tiie
man whose pure and rigid maanen,
whose incomiptible honesty, wkose
hatred of the excesses that tempt to
love and wine, would — had he died five .
years eariier — ^haveleft him the model
for prudent fathers and careful ciU-
sens to i^ace before their sons. Such
was the man who seemed to hare fto

ziLSom.

285

YiM, till circmDsUnce, tluub hot-bed,
Irouglit forth the two wludi, in or-
dinary UmeB; lie ever the deepeii and
I most ktent ia a man'e heart —
Oowaxdice and JEhLTy. To one of
these Bonroee ie to be traced every
nurder that master-fieiid eommitted.
His cowardice was of a peculiar and
atrange aort ; for it waa accompanied
iritli the most unacrdpalona and
determined fM22 — a will that l^apoleon
reyeimoed, a will of iron, and yet
nenrea of aspen. Mentally, he was a
hero-^physically, a dastard. When
the veriest shadow of danger threat-
ened his person, the frame cowered,
bnt the will swe^ the danger to the
sUnghter-house. So there he sat,
bolt npright— his small, lean fingers
clenched convulsively — ^his snllen eyes
straining into space, their whites
yellowed vith streaks of corrupt
blood, his ears literally moving to
and fro like the ignobler animal's, to
catch every sound — a Dionysius in
his cave,— but his posture decorous
and collected, and every formal hair
. in its frizzled plaoe.

" Yes, yes," he said in a muttered
tone, ''I hear them; my good Jacobins
are at their post on the stairs. Pity
they swear so 1 1 have a law agiunst
oai^s— tiie manners of the poor and
▼irtnous people must be reformed.
When all is safe, an example or two
amongst those good Jacobins would
make effect. Faithful fellows, how
they love me ! Hum !^-what an oath
was tkat !— they need not swear so loud
•— npen the very staircase, too ! It
detracts from my reputation. Ha!
ttepa!"

The soliloquist gUnced at the oppo-
aite miiror, and took up a volume ;
be seemed absorbed in its contents, as
a tall fellow, a bludgeon in his hand,
a gir£e, adorned with pistols, round
bis waist, opened the door, and
annoimoed two visitors. The one was
a yoong man* said to resemble Bobes-
pierre in person; but of a fiff more

)

demded and resolute ezpreB8io& of
oountenaaee. He entered first, and
looking over the volume in Robe-
spierre's hand, for the latter seoned
still intent on his lectiffe, exdaimed —

<'What! Bonssean's H^Mse? A/
lovetBie!" '

** Dear Payan, it is not the love— it
is the philosophy that channs me.
What noble sentiments !— what ardour | ^
of virtue ) If Jean Jacques had but /'
lived to see. this day !"

While the Dictator thus commented | [
on his &vouiite author, irhom, in his I
orations, he laboured hard to imitate, ,
the second visitor was wheeled into/
the room in a chair. This man wa8
also in what, to most, is the prime of
life — ^vis., about thirty-eight ; but he
was literally dead in the lower limbs ;
Crippled, paralytic, distorted, he was
yet, as the time soon came to tell him
— a Hercules in Crime! But the
sweetest of human smiles dwelt upon
his lips, a beauty almost angelic cha-
racterised his features;* an inex-
pressible aspect of kindness, and the
resignation of suffering but cheerful
benignity, stole into the hearts of
those who for the first time beheld
him. With the most caressing, silver, ^
flute-like voice. Citizen Cgnthon •
saluted the admirer of Jean Jacques.

"Nay— do not say that it is not
iheZoi^e that attracts thee; it i^ the
love! but not the gross, sensual
attachment of man for woman. No !
the sublime affection for the whole
human race, and, indeed^ for all that
lives!"

* *'Figiira d'Ange/* says one of his oom-
tanporariflB, in dMoribinf Contbon. The
■ddreM, drswu up most pntbabljr by Fayaa,
<Thflnnldor 9»> after the anreet of Robes-
pierre, thus HMntfone his crippled coUeegne
— ^Oouthoa, ee oitoyen yertneux, 911^ n*a
que le cceur et la Ule de vivant, mais qui lea
a brSlaats de patriotismew"^

^ Coathon, that yirtvous cttisen. who haa
but the head and heart of the living, yet
poaocoieB these all on flame with patrietism.

ZANONI.

And Citizen Couthon, bending
down, fondled the little spaniel that
he invariablj carried in his bosom,
even to the Convention, as a rent for
the exuberant sensibilities which
overflowed his affectionate heart.*
" Yes, for all that lives," repeated
^ Bobespiecre, tenderly. "Good Con-
thon — ^poor Conthon 1 Ah, the malice
of men ! — ^how we are misrepresented !
To be calumniated as the executioners
of our colleagues I Ah,^ it is that
which pierces the heart !* To be an
object of tei^^or to the enemies of our
country — that is noble ,- but to be an
object of terror to the good, the
patriotic, to those one loves and
^ reveres — that is the most terrible of
' human tortures; at least, to a suscep-
tible and honest heart ! " f

" How I love to hear him J'* ejacu-
lated Couihon.

" Hem ! " said Payan, with some

impatience. " But now to business 1 "

"Ah, to business!" said Eobes-

* This tenderness for some pet animal
was by no means peculiar to Couthon ; it
seems ratber a comm<m fashion with the
gentle butchers of the revolution. M. George
Duval informs us ("Souvenirs de la Ter-
reur," vol. liL p. 183) ' that Chaumette had
an aviary, to which he devoted his harmless
leisure; the murderous Foumier carried,
on his shoulders, a pretty little squirrel,
attached by a silver chain ; Panis bestowed
the superfluity of his affections upon two
gold pheasants ; and Marati^ who would not
abate one of the three htmdred thousand
heads he demanded, reared doves I Apropos
of the spaniel of Couthon, Duval gives us an
amusing anecdote of SergeAt, not one of the
least relentless agents of the massacre of
•September. A lady came to implore his
protection for one of her rriations confined
in the Abbayei He scarcely deigned to speak
to her. As she retired in despair, she trod
by accident on the paw of his favourite
spaniel. Bergent, turning round, enraged
and' furious, exclaimed—" Madam^ have you
no humanity!'*

t Not to fatigue the reader with anno-
tations, I may here observe that nearly every
sentiment ascribed in the text to Robespierre,
is to be found expressed in his various dis-
OOUTsea.

pierre, with a sinister glance from
his bloodshot eyes.

" The time has come," said Payan*
''when the safety of the Republic
demands a complete concentration of
its power. These brawlers of the
ComiU du Sahit Public can only
destroy; they cannot construct. They
hated you, Maximilien, from the
moment you attempted to replace
anarchy by institutions. How they
mock at the festival which proclaimed
the acknowledgment of a Supreme
Being: they would have no ruler, even
in heaven ! Tour clear and vigorous
intellect saw that, havkig wrecked an
old world, it became necessary to shape
a new one. The first step towarda
construction must be to destroy the
destroyers. While we deliberate, your
enemies act Better this very night
to attack the handful of gensdarmes
that guard them, than to confront
the battalions they niay raise to-
morrow."

"No," said Eobespierre, who re-
colled before the determined spirit
of Payan; "I have a better and
safer plan.- This is the 6th of Ther-
midor; on the 10th— on the 10th,
the Convention go in a body to the
Fite Dicadaire. A mob shall form ;
the canonniers, the troops of Henriot,
the young pupils de VEcole de Mean,
shall mix in the crowd. Easy, then,
to strike the conspirators whom we
shall designate to our agents. On the
same day, too, Fouquier and Dumas
shall not rest; and a sufficient
number of ' Hue suspect * to maintain
salutary, awe, and keep up the revo-
lutionary excitement, shall perish by
the glaive of the law. The 10th shall
be the great day of action. — Payan, of
these last culprits, have you prepared
a list 1"

"It is here," returned Payan^
laconically, presenting a paper.

Robespierre glanced over it rapidly.
"CoUot d'HerboisI— goodi Barr^reJ
', it was Barr^re who said, ' Let

ZANOKI.

237

ns strike ; — the dead alone never
return.* * Vadier, the savage jester I
— good — good ! Vadier of the Moun-
tain. He has called me * Mahomet I '
SceUraJt! blasphemer]"

*^ Mahomet is coming to the Moun-
tain/' said Couthon, with his silvery
accent, as he caressed his spaniel.

"But how is thisi 1 do not see
the name of Tallien ! Tallien— I
hate that man ; that is/' said Robes-
pierre, correcting himself with the
hypocrisy or self-deceit which those
who formed the council of this phrase-
monger exhibited habitually, even
among themselves — " that is. Virtue
and our Country hate him! There
is no man in the whole Convention
who inspires me with the same horror
as Tallien. Couthon, I see a thousand
Dantons where Tallien sits 1 ".

"Tallien has the only head that
belongs to this deformed body," said
Payan, whose ferocity and crime, like
those of St. Just, were not unaccom-
panied by talents of no common order.
" Were it not better to draw away the
head, to win, to buy him, for the
time, and dispose of him better when
left alone ? He may hate you, but he
loves TMTtey I "

"No," said Robespierre, writing
down the name of Jean-Lambert
Tallien, with a slow hand, that shaped
each letter with stern distinctness;
" that one head is my TiecessUy!"

"I have a small list here," said
Couthon, sweetly — "a very small list.
Tou are dealing with the Mountain ;
it is necessary to make a few examples
in the Plain. These moderates are
as straws which follow the wind.
They turned kgainst us yesterday in
the Convention. A little terror, will
correct the weathercocks. Poor
creatures ! I owe them no ill-will ; I
could weep for them. But before all,
la ch^e patrie !**

I * "FrapponsI 11 n'y a que les mortp qui

The terrible glance of Robespierre
devoured the list which the man of
sensibility submitted to him. " Ah,
these are well chosen; men not of
mark enough to be regretted, which
is the best policy with the relics of
that party ; some, foreigners too ; —
yes, they have no parents in Paris.
These wives and parents are beginning
to plead against us. Their complaints
demoralise the guillotine ! "

" Couthon is right," said Payan ;
" my list contains those whopa it will
be safer to despatch en masse in the
crowd assembled at I the ?6te. His
list selects those whom we may pru-
dently consign to the law. Shall it
not be signed at once ] "

"It is signed/* said Robespierre,
formally replacing his pen upon the
inkstand. " Now to more important
matters. These, deaths will create no
excitement; but Collot d'Herbois,
Bourdon De TOise, Tallien " — the last
name Robespierre gasped as he pro-
nounced — "they are the heads of
parties. This is life or death to us as
well as them."

" Their heads are the footstools to
your curule chair," said Payan, in a
half whisper. " There is no danger
if we are bold. Judges, juries, all
have been your selection. You seize
with one hand the army, with the
other, the law. Your voice yet com-
mands the people "

"The poor and virtuous people,*
murmured Robespierre.

" And even," continued Payan, " if
our design at the F^te fail us, we
must not shrink from the resources
still at our command. Reflect !
Henriot, the general of the Parisian
army, famishes you with troops to
arrest ; the Jacobin club with a public
to approve; inexorable Dumas with
judges who never acquit. We must
behold!**

"And we are bold," exclaimed
Robespierre, with sudden passion, and
striking his hand on the table as

288

ZANOKL

he roflo, with his creat erects as a
aerp«nt in the act to strike. "In
seeing the multitude of vices that the
revolutionary torrent mingles with
civic virtues^ I tremble to be sullied
in the eyes of posterity by the impure
neighbourhood of these perverse men,
who thrust themselves among the
aine«re defenders of humanity. What!
— they think to divide the country
like a booty ! I thank them for their
hatred to all that is virtuous and
worthy! These men" — and he-
grasped the list of Payan in his hand,
— ** these I — not im— have 4rawn the
line of demarcation between them-
selves and the lovers of France ! ''

"True, we must reign alone!"
muttered Payan; *'in other words,
the state needs unity of will ; " work-
ing, with his strong practiciiL mind,
the corollary from the logic of his
word-compelling colleague !

''I will go to the Convention,"
continued Bobespierre. " I have
absented myself too long — lest I
might seem to overawe the Republic
that I have created. Away with such
scruples ! I will prepare the people !
I will blast the traitors with a look ! "

He spoke mth the terrible firmness
of the orator that had never failed —
of the moral will that marched like
a warrior on the cannon. At that
instant he waa interrupted; a letter

was brought to him; be opened it;
his foee fell — he shook from limb to
limb; it was one of the anonjBious
warnings by which the hate and
revenge of those yet left ative to
threaten tortured the death-giver.

** Thou art smeared," ran. the lines,
"with the best blood of France.
Read thy senlence t I await the hour
when the people shall knell thee to
the doomsman. If my Jiope decove
me, if deferred too long"— hearkeor-
read I This hand, which thine eyes
shall search in vain to ^scover, shatt
pierce thy heart I see thee eveiy
day — I am with thee every day. At
eadL hour my arm rises against thy
breast. Wretch t live yet a^diile,
though but for &w and miserable
days— live to think of me — sle^ to
dream of me ! Thy terror, and thy
thought of me, are the heralds of thy
doom. Adieu 1 this day itself, I go
forth to riot on thy fears ! "*

'' Your lists are not full enough!"
said the tyrant^ with a hollow Toice,
as the paper dropped from his tremb-
ling hand. " Give them to me !— give
them to me t Think again — ^think .
again! Barrdre is right — right !i
' Frappons ! il n'y a que les morts qui!
ne revient pas 1 ' "

♦ See Papiert inidits trouvSt ehex Robe»»
pierre, ftc— vol. ii. p. 155. (No. Ix.)

ZAXONL

23»

CHAPTEE XL

La haine dans ces lieux n'a qu'un glaiye a
Bile marohe dans rombre.*

Lakarpb, Jeanne d$ Napiet, Act It. bc. I.

(

VThxis such the designs and fears of
Maxlmilien Robespierre, common
<langer — common hatred, whatever
^wu jet left of mercy or of virtue, in
the agents of the Bevolntiony served
to unite strange opposltes in hostility
to the universal death-dealer. There
W9B, indeed, an actnal conspiracy at
work against him among men little
less bespattered than himsdf with
innocent blood. But that conspiracy
wofold have been idle of itself, despite
the abilities of Tallien and Barras
(the only men whom it comprised,
worthy^ by foresight and energy, the
names of "leaders.'') The sore and
dastroying elements that gathered
round the tyrant^ were Time and
N-atvre ; the one, which he no longer
stated; the other, which he ^
outfaged and stirred up in the hnman
l»tast The most atrocious party of
the Bevointion, the followers of
Hubert, gone to his last account, the
btttche^atheists, who, in desecrating
heaven and earth, still arrogated
inviolable sanctity to themselves, were
equally enraged at the execution of
their filthy chi6f,'and the proclamation
of a Saprone Being. The populace,
brutal as it had been, started as from
a dream of blood, when their huge
idol, Danton, no longer filled the stage
of terror, rendering crime popular by
that combination of careless frankness
and eloquent energy which endears
their heroes to the herd. The glaive.

* Hate, in theM :
mnrdof CIm

sbade.

baa bat tbe
Sbe BiofM in tlia

of the guillotine had turned against
themselvea. They had yelled and
shouted, and sung and danced, when
the venerable age, or the gallsAt
youth, of aristocraey or letters, passed
by their streets in the dismal turn- i
brils ; but they shut up their shops^ /
and murmured to each other, when'
their own order was invaded, and
tailors sad cobUen^ and journeymen
and labourers, were huddled off to the
embraces of the " Holy Mother Guillo-
tine," with as little ceremony as if
they had been ti)e Montmorencies or
the La Tr6mouiUee^ the Malesherbea-
or the Lavoisiers. "At this time/'
said Couthon, justly, " Lea ombree de
DantoTi, d:H6bert, de Chatm^tte, se
prominerU parrfU nous I"*

Among those who had shared the
doctrines, and who now dreaded the
fate of the atheist Hubert, was the
painter, Jean ^icot. Mortified and
enraged to find that, by the death of
his patron, his career was closed ; ttnd
that» in the zenith of the Revolution
for which he had laboured, he was
lurking in cares and cellars, more
poor, more obscure, more despicable
than he had been at the commence-
ment> — ^not daring to exercise even
his art, and fearM every hour that
his name would swell the lists of the
condemned ; he was naturally one of
the bitterest enemies of Robespierre
and his govehime&t. He held secret
meetings with CoUot d'Herbois, who
was animated by the same spirit ; and

* The shadca of Danton, H^birt^ ibA
Cbamattib walk amoogat na.

240

ZANONI.

with the creeping and furtive craft
that characteriBed his abilities, he
contriTed, undetected, to disseminate
tracts and invectiyes against the
Dictator, and to prepare, amidst ** the
poor and Tirtuous people,'' the train
for the grand explosion. But still so
firm to the eyes, even of profounder
politicians than Jean Nioot, appeared
the sullen power of the incorruptible
Maximilien; so timorous was the
movement against him, that Nicot, in
common with many others, placed his
hopes rather in the dagger of the
assassin, than the revolt of the multi-<
tude. But Nicot, though not actually
a coward, shrunk himself from braving
the fate of the martyr ; he had sense
enough to see that though all parties
might rejoice in the assassination, all
parties would probably concur in
beheading the assassin. He had not
the virtue to become a Brutus. His
object was to inspire a proxy-Brutus ;
and in the centre of that inflammable
population, this was no improbable
hope.

Amongst those loudest and sternest
against the reign of blood — amongst
those most disenchanted of the Revo-
lution — amongst those most appalled
by its excesses, was, as might be
expected, the Englishman, Clarence
Glyndon. The wit and accomplish-
ments) the uncertain virtues that had
lighted with fitful gleams the mind of
X^amille Desmoulins, had &scinated
Glyndon more than the qualities of
any other agent in the Revolution.
And when (for Camille Desmoulins
had a heart, which seemed dead or
dormant in most of his contempo-
raries) that vivid child of genius and of
error, shocked at the massacre of the
Girondins, and repentant of his own
efforts against them, began to rouse
the serpent malice ojf Bo'bespierre by
new doctrines of mercy and toleration,
Glyndon espoused his views with his
whole strength and soul. Camille
Desmoulins perished, and Glyndon,

hopeless at once of his own life and
the cause of humanity, from that
time, sought only the occasion of
flight from the devouring Golgotha.
He had two lives to heed br "•' a ^
own; for them he trembled, •'. •'. fi-'-
them he schemed and plot* . .jr
means of escape. Though Titlj\
hated the principles, the par-^,* and
the vices of Nicot, he yet extended to
the painter's penury the means of
subsistence ; and Jean Nicot in retuni,/
designed to exalt Glyndon to
very immortality of a Brutus,
which he moj^a^y recoiled
He founded his designs on the
physical courage, on the wild and
unsettled fancies of the English
artist ; and on the vehement hate, and
indignant loathing, with which he
openly regarded the government of
Haximilien.

At the same hour, on the. same day
in July, in which Robespierre con-
ferred (as we have seen), with his
allies, two persons were seated in. a
small room, in one of the streets
leading out of the Rue St Honor6:
the one, a man, appeared listening
impatiently, and with a sullen brow,
to his companion, a woman of singular
beauty, but with a bold and reckless
expression, and her face as she spoke
was animated by the passions of a
half savage and vehement nature.

/' Engl^hman," said the woman,
"beware! — ^you know that, whether
in flight or at the place of death, I
would brave all to be by your side —
you know tfuU/ Speak ! "

"Well, FilUde; did 1 ever donbt
your fidelity 1"

"Doubt it you cannot — betray it

* None were more opposed to the H^bert-
ists than CamQle Desmoulins and hisfriaids.
It is curious and amusing to see these
leaders of the mob, calling the mob '*the
penple," one day, and the ** canaille" the
next, according as it suits them. ** I know,"
says Camille, '* that they, the H^bertists*
have all the canaille with them*** (Us cot
toute la canaille pour eux.)

ZANONL

241

you may. You tell me that in flight not mix ydih. his train ; I could not
you must have a companion besides approach within a hundred yards of

myself, and that companion is a
female. It shall not be ! "

"Shall not 1"

"It shall not!" repeated FiUide,
iirmly, and folding her arms across
lier breast ; before Glyndon could
reply, a slight knock at the door was
lieard, and Nicot opened the latch
and entered.

Flllide sunk into her chair, and,
leaning her face on her hands,
appeared unheeding of the intinider,
and the conversation that ensued.

" I cannot bid thee good day, Glyn-
don," said Nicot, as in his sans-cidotte
&3liion he strode towards the artist;
his ragged hat on his head, his hands

his person, but I should be seized;
youj as yet, are safe. Hear me ! " and
his voice became earnest and expres-
sive — " hear me ! There seems danger
in this action; there is none. I
have been with CoUot d'Herbois and
Billaud-Varennes ; they will hold him
harmless who strikes the blow; the
populace would run to llhy support;
the Convention would hail thee as

their deliverer — the " «

"Hold man! How darest thou
couple my name with the act of an
assassin] Let the tocsin sound from
yonder tower, to a war between
Humanity and the Tyrant, and I will
not be the last in the field; but

in his pockets, and the beard of a , liberty never yet acknowledged a
week's growth ^upon his chin — " I defender in a felon.'

cannot bid thee good day, for while
the tyrant lives, evil is every sun that
sheds its beams on France."

" It is true ; what then ? We have
sowed the wind, we must reap the
whirlwind."

" And yet," said Nicot, apparently
not hearing the reply, and as if
musingly to himself, " it is strange to
think that the butcher is as mortal
as the butchered — that his life hangs
on as slight a thread — that between
the cuticle and the heart there is as
short a passage — that, in short, one
blow can free France, and redeem
mankind 1"

Olyndon surveyed the speaker with
a careless and haughty scorn, and
made no answer.

"And," proceeded Nicot, "I have
sometimes looked around for the man
born for this destiny, and whenever I
have done so, my steps have led me
hither!"

" Should they not rather have led
thee to the side of Maximilien Robes-
pierre ? " said Glyndon, with a
sneer.

"No," returned Nicot, coldly —
"no; for I am a 'suspect* — I could

No. 274. ]

There was something so brave and
noble in Glyndon's voice, mien, and
manner, as he thus spoke, that Nicot
at once was silenced ; at once he saw
that he had misjudged the man.

" No," said FiUide, lifting her face
from her hands — "no I your friend
has a wiser scheme in preparation :
he would leave you wolves to mangle
each other. He is right ; but "

"Flight!" exclaimed Nicot; "is
it possible? Flight! how?— when?
— ^by what means ? All France begirt
with spies and guards ! Flight !
would to Heaven it were in our
power ! "

"Dost thou, too, desire to escape
the blessed Revolution 1"

"Desire! Oh!" cried Nicot, sud-
denly, and, falling down, he clasped
Glyndon's knees — "Oh! save me
with thyself! My life is a torture;
every moment the guillotine frowns
before me. I know that my hours
are numbered ; I know that the tyrant
waits but his time to write my name
in his inexorable list; I know that
R6n6 Dumas, the Judge who never
pardons, has, from the first, resolved
upon my death. Oh ! Glyndon, by
16

2i2

ZASom.

our old friendship— by onr common
art— *b7 thy loyal English faith^ and
good English heart, let me share thy
flight!"

« If thou wilt, so be it."

"Thanks! — my whole life shall
ihank thee. Bat how hast thou
prepared the means — ^the passports,
the disguise, the "

"I will tell thee. Thou knowest

C , of the Conrention — he has

power, and he is coyetous. 'Qu*<m
me mejgfUe pourvu que je dme,* * said
he, when reproached for his avarice."

"Weill"

'* By the help of this sturdy repub-
lican, who has Mends enough in the
ComU6, I have obtained the means
necessary for flight; I have purchased
them. 'For a consideration, I can
procure thy passport also."

"Thy riches, then, are not in
OBsignaia ? "

"No, I have gold enough for us
all."

And here Glyndon, beckoning
Nicot into the next room, first briefly
and rapidly detailed to him the plan
proposed, and the disguises to be
assumed conformably to the passports,
and then added — " In return for the
service I render thee, grant me one
favour, which I think is in thy power.
Thou rememberest Viola Pisani 1 "

''Ah — remember! yes! — ^and the
lover with whom she fled."

" And from whom she is a fugitive
now."

" Indeed — what ! — I understand.
S<wr€ Ilea! but you are a lucky
fellow, cher confrere"

"SUence, man! with thy eternal
prate of brotherhood and virtue, thou
seemest never to believe in one kindly
action, or one virtuous thought ! "

Nicot bit his lip, and replied,
sullenly, "Experience is a great
undeceiver. Humph ! What service

* Let them despise me, provided that I

can I do ihee, with regard to the
Itali«nr'

" I b»Te been accesBary to her azrirai
in this city of snares and pitfalls. I
cannot leave her alone amidst daagers
from which neither innocence nor
obscurity is a safeguard. In your
blessed Bepublic, a good and unsus-
pected citizen, who casts a deeize on
any woman, maid or wife, has but to
say, ' Be mine, or I denoonoe yon ! '
•—In a word, Viola must share our
flight"

" What so easy? I see your pass-
ports provide for her."

"What so easy! What so diflienlt ?
This FUUde — would that I had never
seen her! — ^would that I had never en-
slaved my soul to my senses ! The love
of an uneducated, violent, unprinoipled
woman, opens with a heaven, to meige
in a hell ! She is jealous as all the
Furies, she will not hear of a female
companion ; — and when once she sees
the beauty of Viola I— I tremble to
think of it. She is capable (^ any
excess in the storm of her passions."

"Aha, I know what such women
are ! My wife, Beatrice Sacchini,
whom I took from Naples, when I
failed with this very Viola, divorced
me when my money failed, and, as
the mistress of a Judge, passes me in
her carriage while I crawl through
the streets. Plague on her!— but
patience,' patience ! such is the lot of
virtue. Would I were Robespiene
for a day ! "

"Cease these tirades!" exclaimed
Glyndon, impatiently; "and to the
point. What would you advise 1"

" Leave your PilUde behind."

.'/ Leave her to her own ignoianoe
— ^leave her unprotected even by the
mind — leave her in the Saturnalia of
Rape and Murder 1 No! I have
sinned against her once. Bat come
what may, I will not so basely desert
one who, with all her errors, trosted
her feite to my love."

" You deserted her at Marseille* '

ZANONL

243

'< True ; bot I left her in safety, and

I did not then believe her love to be

BO deep and faithful. I left her gold,

and I imagined ghe would be easily

consoled; but, since then, we have

hnown danger together ! And now to

leave her alone to that danger which

site would never have incurred but

for devotion to me! — no, that is

impossible ! A project occurs to me.

Canst thou not say that thou hast a

Bister, a relative, or a benefactress,

whom thou wouldst save? >Can we

not — ^till we have left France — ^make

Fillide believe that Yiola is one in

he muttered to himself, "can I not
turn all this to my account 1 Can I
not avenge myself on thee, Zaaoni, as
I have so often sworn — through thy
wife and child] Can I not possees
myself of thy gold, thy passports, and
thy Fillide, hot Englishman, who
wouldst humble me with thy loathed
benefits, and who hast chucked me
thine alms as to a beggar? And Fillide,
I love her ; and thy gold, I love ihat
more ! Puppets, I move your strings !**
He passed slowly into the chamber
where Fillide yet sat, with gloomy
thought on her brow and tears

^hom ihtm only art interested ; and standing in her dark eyes. She
whom, for thy sake only, I permit to looked up eagerly as the door opened.

share in our escape %

" Ha, well thought of 1— certainly ! "
"I will then appear to yield to
Fillide's wishes, and resign the pro-
ject, which she so resents, of saving
the innocent object of her frantic
jealousy. You, meanwhile, shall
yourself, entreat Fillide to intercede
with me, to extend the means of

escape to "

« To a lady (she knows I have no
sister) who has aided me in my dis-
tress. Tes, I will manage all, never
fear. One word more — what has
become of that Zanoni % "

" Talk not of him— -I know not."
" Does he love this girl stilU "
"It would seem so. She is his
wife, the mother of his infant, who is
with her."
" Wife I — ^mother I He loves her !

Aha ! And why "

" Ko questions now. I will go and
prepare Viola for the flight; you,
meanwhile, return to Fillide."

" But the address of the Neapolitan?
It is necessary I should know, lest
Fillide inquire."

«Rue M T -, No. 27.

Adieu."

Olyndon seized 'his hat, and
hastened from the house.

Nicot, left alone, seemed for a few
moments buried in thought. " Oho,"

and turned from the rugged face of
Nioot with an impatient movement
of disappointment.

" Glyndon," said the painter, draw-
ing a chair to Fillide's, " has left me
to enliven your solitude, fair Italian.
He is not jealous of the ugly Nicot;
— ha ! ha ! — ^yet Nicot loved thee well
once, when his fortunes were more
fair. But enough of such past follies."
"Your friend, then, has left the
house. Whither] Ah! you look
away — ^you falter — ^you cannot meet
my eyes ! Speak ! I implore, I com-
mand thee, speak ! "

"Enfant/ and what dost thou
fear?"

"jp^car/— yes, alas, I fear!" said
the Italian; and her whole frame
seemed to shrink into itself as she
fell once more back into her seat.

Then, after a pause, she tossed the
long hair from her eyes, and, starting
up abruptly, paced the room with
disordered strides. At length she
stopped opposite to Nicot, laid her
hand on his arm, drew him towards
an escritoire, which she unlocked,
and opening a well, pointed to the
gold that lay within, and said — "Thou
art poor — thou lovest money; take
what thou wilt, but undeceive me.
Who is this woman whom thy friend
visits? — and does he love herl"

r2 _

244

ZANONL

Nicot's eyes sparkled, and his hands
opened and clenched, and clenched
and opened, as he gazed upon the
coins. Bat reluctantly resisting the
impulse, he said with an affected
bitterness — " Thinkest thou to bribe
me? — ^if so, it cannot be with gold.
But what if he does lore a rival ] —
what if he betrays theel — what if,
wearied by thy jealousies, he designs
in his flight to leave thee behind] —
would such knowledge make thee
happier 1 "

" Yes ! " exclaimed the Italian,
fiercely ; " yes, for it would be happi-
ness to hate and to be avenged ! Oh,
thou knowest not how sweet is hatred
to those who have really loved."

" But wilt thou swear, if I reveal to
thee the secret, that thou wilt not
betray me — that thou wilt not fall, as
women do, into weak tears and fond
reproaches when thy betrayer re-
turns ? "

" Tears — reproaches ! — Revenge
.hides itself in smiles ! "

" Thou art a brave creature ! " said
Nicot, almost admiringly. " One
condition more : thy lover designs to
fly with his new love, to leave thee to
thy fate ; if I prove this to thee, and
if I give thee revenge against thy
rival, wilt thou fly with me ? I love
thee!— I will wed thee!"

Fillide's eyes flashed fire ; she
looked at him with unutterable dis-
dain, and was silent.

Nicot felt he had gone too far ; and
with that knowledge of the evil part

of our nature, which his own hear
and association with crime had taught
him, he resolved to trust the rest to
the passions of the Italian, whea
raised to the height to which he was
prepared to lead them.

" Pardon me/' he said : " my love
made me too presumptuous ; and yet
it is only that love, — my sympathy
for thee, beautiful and betrayed, that
can induce me to wrong, with my
revelations, one whom I have regarded
as a brother. I can depend upon
thine oath tor conceal all from
Glyndon ?"

" On my oath, and my wrongs, and
my mountain blood !"

''Enough ! get thy hat and mantle,
and follow me ! "

As Fillide left the room, Kicot*g
eyes again rested on the gold ; it was
much — much more than he had dared
to hope for; and as he peered into
the well, and opened the drawers, he
perceived a packet of letters in the
well-known hand of Camille Desmou-
lins. He seized — ^he opened the
packet,* his looks brightened as he
glanced over a few sentences. " This
would give fifty Glyndons to the
guillotine !" he muttered, and thrust
the packet into his bosom.

Artist ! — haunted one ! —
erring Genius ! — Behold the two
worst foes — t^e False Ideal that knows
no God, and the False Love that
bums from the corruption of the
senses, and takes no lustre from
the soul!

ZANONI.

245

CHAPTER III.
Liebe sonnt das Reich der Nacht*

DBR miUMPH DXR LIKBB.

LBTTEB TBOH ZANONI TO XBJNOUB.
Paris.

X)osT thou remember in the old time,
^hen the Beautifal yet dwelt in
Greece, how we two, in the vast
Athenian Theatre, witnessed the
"birth of Words as undying as our-
selves? Dost thou remember the
thrill of terror that ran through that
mighty audience, when the wild
Cassandra burst from her awful silence
to shriek to her relentless god ! How
ghastly, at the entrance of the House
of Atreus, about to become her tomb
— ^rang out her exclamations of fore-
boding woe — "Dwelling abhorred of
Heaven ! — human shamble-house, and
floor blood-bespattered !" + Dost thou
remember how, amidst the breathless
awe of those assembled thousands, I
drew close to thee, and whispered,
"Verily, no prophet like the Poet!
This scene of fabled horror comes to
me as a dream, shadowing forth some
likeness in my own remoter future I "
As I enter this slaughter-house, that
scene returns to me, and I hearken to
the voice of Cassandra ringing in my
ears. A [solemn and warning dread
gathers round me, as if I too were
come to find a grave, and '* the Net of
Hades " had already entangled me in
its web I What dark treasure-houses
of vicissitude and woe are our
memories become! What our lives,
but the chronicles of unrelenting
Death ! It seems to me as yesterday
when I stood in the streets of this

♦ Love illumes the realms of Night,
f iBBch. Again., 1098.

city of the Gaul, as they shone with ^
plumed chivalry, and the air rustled
with silken braveries. Toung Louis,
the monarch and the lover, was victor
of the Tournament at the Carousel ;
and all France felt herself splendid in
the splendour of her gorgeous chief !
Now there is neither throne nor altar ;
and what is in their stead 1 I see it
yonder — thb guillotinb! It is dis-
mal to stand amidst the ruins of
mouldering cities, to startle the ser-
pent and the lizard amidst the wrecks
of Persepolis and Thebes ; but more
dismal still to stand as I — the stranger
from Empires that have ceased to be
— stand now amidst the yet ghastlier
ruins of Law and Order, the shatter-
ing of mankind themselves ! Yet
here, even here. Love, the Beautifier,
that hath led my steps, can walk with
unshrinking hope through the wilder-
ness of Death ! Strange is the passion
that makes a world in itself, that
individualises the One amidst the
Multitude; that, through all the
changes of my solemn life, yet sur-
vives, though ambition, and hate, and
anger are dead; the one solitary
angel, hovering over an universe of
tombs on its two tremulous and
human wings — Hope and Fear !

How is it, Mejnour, that, as my
diviner art abandoned me — as, in my
search for Viola, I was aided but by
the ordinary instincts of the merest
mortalf-how is it that I have never
desponded, that I have felt in every
difficulty the prevailing prescience
that we should meet at last? So
cruelly was every vestige of her flight

246

ZANONI.

concealed from me — so suddenly, so
secretly had she fled, that all the
spies, all the Authorities of Venice,
could give me no clue. All Italy I
searched in vain ! Her young home
at Naples ! — how still, in its humble
chambers, there seemed to linger the
the fragrance of her presence 1 All
the Bublimest secrets of our lore failed
me — ^failed to bring her soul visible to
mine; yet morning and night, thou
lonse and childless one, morning and
night, detached from myself, I can
eonmrane with my child ! There in
that most blessed, typical and mys-
terious of all relations, iN'ature herself
appears to supi^y what Science would
refnse. ^pace cannot separate the
Father's watchful soul from the cradle
of kis first-bom ! I know not of its
resting-place and home — my visions
picture not the land— ^nly the small
and tender life to which all space is
as yet the heritage 1 For to the infant,
before reason dawns — before man's
bad passions can dim the essence that
it takes from the element it hath left,
there is no peculiar country, no native
city, and no mort^ language. Its
soul as yet is the denizen of all airs
and of every worlds and in space its
soul meets with mine — the Child com-
mnnes with the Father ! Cruel and
forsaking one — thou for whom I left
the wisdom of the spheres — thou,
whose fatal dower has been the weak-
ness and terrors of humanity — couldst
thou think that young soul less safe
on earth because I would lead it ever-
more up to heaven ! Didst thou think
that I could have wronged mine own]
Didst thou not know that in its
serenest eyes the life that I gave it
spoke to warn, to upbraid the mother
who would bind it to the darkness
and pangs of the prison-house of clay )
Didst thou not feel tha/t it wa;^ who,
permitted by the Heavens, smelded
it from suffering and disease? And
in its wondrous beauty, I blessed
the holy medium through which.

at last, my spirit might confer with
thine !

And how have I tracked them
hither 1 I learned that thy pupil had
been at Venice. I could not trace the
young and gentle Neophyte of Par-
thenope in the description of the
haggard and savage visitor who had
come to Viola before she fled; but
when I would have summoned his
IDEA before me, it refused to ob^;
and I knew then that his fate had
become entwined with Viola's. I
have tracked him, then, to this Laaar
House; I arrived but yesterday; I
have not yet discovered him.

I have just returned from tiieir
courts of justice — dena where tigen
arraign their prey. I find not wbom
I would seek. They are saved aa yet ;
but I recognise in the crimes of mor-
tals the dark wisdom, of the Er^v
lasting. Mejnour, I see here, for the
first time, how mi^estic and beauteous
a thing is Death ! Of what aublimo
virtues we robbed ourselves, when,
in the thirst for virtue, we attained
the art by which we can refuse to
die! — When, in some happy clime,
where to breathe is to enjoy, the
chamel-houae swallows up the young
and fair — ^when, in the noble pursuit
of knowledge. Death comes to the
student, and shuts out the enchanted
land, which was opening to his gase,
how natural for ns to desire to live ;
how natural to make perpetual life the
first object of research! But here,
from my tower of time, looking oyer
the darksome past, and into-the stan?
future, I learn how great hearts feel
what sweetness and glory there is to
die for the things they love t I saw a
father sacrificing himself for his son ;
he was subjected to charges which a
word of his- could dispel — ^he "was
mistaken for his boy. With what
joy he seized the error — confessedHhe
noble crimes of valour and fideli^

ZANONI.

247

/

which the soa had indeed committed
— «nd went to the doom, exulting
that his death saved the life he had
given, not in vain! I saw women,
young, delicate, in the bloom of their
beauty; they had vowed themselves
to the cloister. Hands smeared with
the blood of saints opened the grate
that had shut thetki from the world,
and bade them go forth, forget their
vows, forswear the Divine One these
daemons would depose, find lovers and
helpmates, and be free. And some
of these young hearts had loved, and
even, though in struggles, loved yet.
Did they forswear the vowl Did they
abandon the faith? Did even love
allure them? Mejnour, with one
voice they preferred to die I And
whence comes this courage ? because
anch hearts Uve in some more ahstrcust,
and holier life Hum their oten. But
to Uve for ever upon this earth, is to
Uve in nothing diviner than ourselves*
Te8> even amidst this gory butcher*
dom, God, the Ever-living, vindicates
to man the sanctiiy of. His servant,
I>eatii!

Again I have seen thee in spirit ;
I have seen and blessed thee, my sweet
«hild1 Dost thou not know me also
in thy dreams ? Dost thou not feel
the beating of my heart through the
Tell of thy ro^ slumbers % Dost thou
not hear the wings of the brighter
beings that I yet can conjure around
thee, to watch, to nourish, and to
aavel And when ihe spell fades at
thy waking, when thine eyes open to
the day, will they not look round
for me,, and ask thy mother, with
their mute eloquence, " why she has
robbed thee of a father?"

Woman, dost thou not repent thee?

Flying from imaginary fears, hast thou

not come to the very lair of terror,

^ where Danger sits visible and inear-

N nate? Oh, if we oould but meet,

wonldst then not fall upon the bosom

then hast so wronged, and feel, poor
wanderer amidst the storms, as if thou
hadst regained the shelter ? Mejnour,
still my researches fail me. I mingle
with all men, even their judges and
their spies, but I cannot yet gain the
clue. I know that she is here. I know
it by an instinct ; the breath of
my child seems warmer and more
familiar.

They peer at me with venomous
looks^ as I pass through their streets.
With a glance I disarm their malice,
andfascinate the basilisks. Everywhere
I see the track and scent the presence
of the Ghostly One that dwells on the
Threshold, and whose victims are the
souls that would aspire, and can only
fear, I see its dim shapelessness •
going before the men of blood, and
marshalling their way. Bobespierre
passed me with his furtive- step. Those
eyes ef horror were gnawing into his
heart. I looked down upon their
Senate ; the grim Phantom sat cower-
ing on its floor. It hath taken up its
abode in the city of Dread. And
whajti in tmth are these would-be
bnildeis of a new world ? Like the
students who have vainly struggled
after our supreij^e science, they have
attempted what is beyond their
power; they have passed from this
solid earth of usages and forms,
into the land of shadow; and its
loathsome keeper has seized them as f
its prey. I looked into the tyrant's
shuddering soul, as it trembled past
me. There, amidst the ruins of a
thousand systems which aimed at
virtue, sat Crime, and shivered at its
desolation. Yet this man is the only
Thinker, the only Aspirant, amongst '
them all. He stUi looks for a future
of peace and mercy, to begin — ay ! at
what date 1 When he has swept away
eveiT foe. Fool ! new foes spring^
fronPevery drop of blood. Led by
the eyes of the Unutterable, he is
walking to his doom.

Yiola^ thy innocence protects

248

ZANONI.

thee ! Thou wliom the sweet human-
ities of loye shut out eyen from the
dreams of aerial and spiritual beauty,
making thy heart an uniyerse of
yisions &irer than the wanderer oyer
he rosy Hesperus can suryey — shall
not the same pure affection encom-

pass thee eyen here, with a charmed
atmosphere ;^ and terror itself &11
harmless on fa life too innocent for
wisdom ? i

CHAPTER IV.

Ombra pifi che di notte, in cui di luce
Raggio misto non h ;

* * ♦ ♦

N^ pid il palagio appar, n^ piti le sue
Vestigia ; n6 dir puossi— cgli qui f ue.*

Oer. Lib., canto xtL — Ixix.

Thb dubs are noisy with clamorous
frenzy; the leaders are grim with
schemes. Black Henriot flies here
and there, muttering to his armed
troops — " Robespierre, your beloyed,
is in danger!" Robespierre stalks
perturbed, his list of yictims swelling
every hour. Tallien, the Macduff to
the doomed Macbeth, is whispering
courage to his pale conspirators.
Along the streets heayily roll the
tumbrils. The shops are closed — the
people are gorged with gore and
wUl lap no more. And night after
night, to the eighty theatres flock
the children of the Reyolution, to
laugh at the quips of comedy, and
weep gentle tears over imaginary
woes!

In a small chamber, in the heart of
the city, sits the mother, watching
over her child! It is quiet, happy
noon; the sunlight, broken by the
tall roofs in the narrow street, comes
yet through the open casement, the
impartial playfellow of the air, glee-
some alike in temple aad- prison, hall
and hovel ; as golden and as biithe,

* Darkness greater than of night, in
which not a ray of light is mixed ; * * * *
The palace appears no more— not even a
vestige— nor can one say that it has been.

whether it laugh over the first hour of
life, or quiver in its gay delight on
the terror and agony of the last ! The
child, where it lay at the feet of Viola,
stretched out its dimpled hands as if
to clasp the dancing motes that
revelled in the beam. The mother
turned her eyes from the glory; it
saddened her yet more. — She tamed,
and sighed.

Is this the same Yiola who bloomed
fairer than their own Idalia under the
skies of Greece 1 How changed f
How pale and worn I She sat list-
lessly, her arms dropping on her
knee ; the smile that was habitual to
her lips was gone. A heavy, dull
despondency, as if the life of life were
no more, seemed to weigh down her
youth, and make it weary of that
happy sun ! In truth, her existence
had languished away since it had
wandered, as some melancholy stream,,
from the source that fed it. The
sudden enthusiasm of fear or super-
stition that had almost, as if still in
the unconscious movements -.of a
dream, led her to fly from ^t^omi,
had ceased from the day wliich
dawned upon her in a foreign land.
Then — there — she felt that in the-
smile she had evermore abandoned

ZANONI.

249

lived her life. She did not repent —
she would not have recalled the im-
pulse that winged her flight. Though
the enthusiasm was gone, the super-
stition yet remained ; she still helieved
she had eared her child from that
dark and guilty sorcery, concerning
which the traditions of all lands are
prodigal, but in none do they find
such credality, or excite such dread,
as in the South of Italy. This im-
pression was confirmed by the mys-
terious conversations of Glyndon, and
by her own perception of the fearful
change that had passed over one who
represented himself as the victim of
the enchanters. She did not, there-
fore, repent — but her very volition
seemed gone.

On their arrival at Paris, Viola saw
her companion — ^the faithful wife— no
more. Ere three weeks were passed,
husband and wife had ceased to live.

And now, for the first time, the
drudgeries of this hard earth claimed
the beautiful Neapolitan. In that
profession, giving voice and shape to
poetry and song, in which her first
years were passed, there is, while it
lasts, an excitement in the art that
lifts it from the labour of a calling.
Hovering between two lives, the Eeal
and Ideal, dwells the life of music
and the stage. But that life was lost
evermore to the idol of the eyes and
ears of Naples. Lifted to the higher
realm of passionate love, it seemed as
if the fictitious genius which repre-
sents the thoughts o^ others was
merged in the genius that grows all
thought itself. It had been the worst
infidelity to the Lost, to have de-
scended again to live on the applause
of others. And so— for she would not
aocept alms from Glyndon — so, by
the commonest arts, the humblest
industry which the sex knows, alone
and unseen, she; who had slept on the
breast of Zanoni, found a shelter for
their child. As when, in the noble
verse prefixed to this chapter, Ar-

mida herself has destroyed her en-
chanted palace, — not a vestige of that
bower, raised of old by Poetry and
Love, remained to say " it had been I "

And the child avenged the father :
it bloomed — it thrived — it waxed
strong in the light of life. But still
it seemed haunted and preserved by
some other being than her own. In
its sleep there was that slumber, so
deep and rigid, which a thunderbolt
could not have disturbed; and in
such sleep often it moved its arms, as
to embrace the air: often its lips
stirred with murmured sounds of
indistinct affection — not for her ; and
all the while upon its cheeks a hue of
such celestial bloom — ^upon its lips, ■ a
smile of such mysterious joy I Then
when it waked, its eyes did not turn
first to A€r-»-wistful, earnest, wander-
ing, they roved around, to fix on her
pale face, at last, in mute sorrow and
reproach.

Never had Viola felt before how
mighty was her love for Zanoni ; how
thought, feeling, heart, soul, life — all
lay crushed and dormant in the icy
absence to which she had doomed
herself! She heard not the toar
without, she felt not one amidst those
stormy millions, — worlds of excite-
ment labouring through every hour.
Only when Glyndon, haggard, wan,
and spectre-like, glided in, day after
day, to visit her, did the fair daughter
of the careless South know how heavy
and universal was the Death- Air that
girt her round. Sublime in her
passive unconsciousness — her me-
chanic life — she sat, and feared not,
in the den of the Beasts of Prey !

The door of the room opened
abruptly, and Glyndon entered. His
manner was more agitated than usual.

** Is it you,'Oh»cnce]" she said, in
her soft, languid tones. "You are
before the hour I expected you."

" Who can count on his hours at
Paris]" returned Glyndon, with a
frightful smile. "Is it not enough

^0

ZANOKL

that I am here 1 Toar apathj in the
midst of these sorrows, appals me.
You sdy calmly, ' Farewell V — calmly
you bid me 'Welcome!' — as if in
eTeiy comer there was not a spy, and
aa if with every day there was not a
massacre 1"

*' Pardon me ! But in these walls
lies my world. I can hardly credit
all the tales you tell me. Everything
here, save that" (and she pointed to
the in&nt,) '' seems already so lifeless,
that in the tomb itself one could
scarcely less heed the crimes that are
done without"

Glyndon paused for a few moments,
and gazed with strange and mingled
feelings upon that £Eu;e and form, still
so young, and yet so invested with
that saddest of all repose, — ^when the
heart feels old.

"dh Viola !" said he, at last, and
in a voice of suppressed passion;
"was it thus I ever thought to see
you — ever thought to feel for you,
when we two first met in the gay
haunts of Naples? Ah! why then
did you refuse my love 1 — or why was
mine not worthy of you ] Nay, shrink
not ! — let me touch your hand. No
passion so sweet as that youthful love
can return to me again. I feel for
you but as a brother for some younger
and lonely sister. With you, in your
presence, sad though it be, I seem to
breathe back the purer air of my
early life. Here alone, except in
scenes of turbulence and tempest,
the Phantom ceases to pursue me.
I forget even the Death that stalks
behind, and haunts me as my shadow.
But better days may be in store for
us yet. Viola, I at last begin dimly
, to perceive how to baffle and subdue
tite Phantom that has cursed my life
— ^it is to* brave, and defy it. In sin
and in riot, as I have told thee, it
haunts me not. But I comprehend
now what Mejnour said in his dark
apothegms^ ' that I should dread the
speolreinoBtwJien unseen,* In virtuous

and calm resolution it appears-^sj,
I behold it now — ^there — ^there, with
its livid eyes!" (and the drops ftU
from his brow.) "But it shall no
longer daunt me from that resolution.
I face it, and it gradually darkens
back into the shade.'' He paused, —
and his eyes dwelt with a terrible
exultation upon the sunlit space;
then, with a heavy and deep-drawn
breath, he resumed — " Viola, I have
found the means of escape. We will
leave this city. In some other land
we will endeavour to comfort each
other, and forget the past.'*

"No," said Viola, calmly; "I have
no further wish to stir, till I am
borne hence to the last resting-place.
I dreamed of him last night, Clarence!
— dreamed of him for the first time
since we parted : and, do not mock
me, methought that he forgave the
deserter, and called me ' Wife.' That
dream hallows the room. Perhaps it
will visit me again before I die."

" Talk not of him — of the demi-
fiend!" cried Qlyndon, fiercely, and
stamping his foot. ''Thank the
Heavens for any fate that hath res-
cued thee from him."

"Hush!" said Viola, gravely. And
as she was about to proceed, her eye
fell upon the child. It was standing
in the very centre of that slanting
column of light which the sun poured
into the chamber; and the rays
seemed to surround it as a halo, and
settled, crown-like, on the gold of its
shining hair. In its small shape, so
exquisitely modelled — in its large,
steady, tranquil eyes, there was some-
thing that awed, while it charmed
the mother's piide. It gazed on
Glyndon as he spoke, with a look
wMch almost might have seemed
disdain, and which Viola, at least,
interpreted as a defence of the Absent,
stronger than her ^wn lips could
frame.

Glyndon broke the pause.

"Thou wouldst stay, —for whati

ZANONI/

251

To betray a mother's duty ! If any
evil happen to thee here, what
becomes of thine infant 1 — Shall it
be brought up an orphan, in a country
that has desecrated thy religion, and
where human charity exists no more !
Ah, weep, and clasp it to thy bosom !
But tears do not protect and save."

*' Thou hast conquered, my friend
—I will fly with thee."

"To-morrow night, then, be pre-
pared. I will bring thee the necessary
disguises."

And Glyndon then proc^eeded to
sketch rapidly the outline of the path
they were to take, and the story they
were to tell. Viola listfened, but
scarcely comprehended : he pressed
her hand to his heart, and departed.

252

ZANONI.

CHAPTER V.

•— — Tan aeco pur anco
Sd^^no ed Amor, quasi due Veltri al fianco.*

Gbr. Li& cant. xx. czrii.

Gltndon did not ' perceive, as he
hnrried from the house, two forms
prouchiug by the angle of the wall.
He saw still the spectre gliding by
his side, but he beheld not the yet
more poisonous eyes of human envy
and woman's jealousy that gUred on
his retreating footsteps.

Nicot advanced to the house;
Fillide followed him in silence. The
Painter, an old sans-culoUe, knew well
what language to assume to the porter.
He beckoned the latter from his lodge
—"How is this. Citizen? Thou
harbourest a * suspect.* "

"Citizen, you terrify me! — ^if so,
name him."

"It is not a man; a refugee — an
Italian woman, lodges here."

"Yes, au troisi^me — the door to
the left. But what of her?— she
cannot be dangerous, poor child ! "

" Citizen, beware ! Dost thou dare
to pity her V*

« I ? No, no, indeed. But "

"Speak the truth! Who visits
her?"

" No one but an Englishman."

''That is it — an Englishman, a
spy of Pitt and Qoburg."

" Just HeMgfT— is it possible ?"

"How, MP^n! dost thou speak
of Heaveii^^^hou must be an aris-
tocrat!"

"No. indeed; it was but an old,
bad habit, and escaped me un-
awares."

• There went with him still Disdain and
Love, like two greyhounds side hy side.

" How often does the Englishman
visit her ? "

"Daily."

Fillide uttered an exclamation.

"She never stirs out," said the
porter. "Her sole occupations axe
in work, and care of her infant."

" Her infant ! "

Fillide made a bound forward.
Nicot in vain endeavoured to arrest
her. She sprung up the stairs ; she
paused not till she was before the
door indicated by the porter; it
stood ajar — she entered, — she stood
at the threshold, and beheld that
face, still so lovely I The sight of so
much beauty left her hopeless. And
the child, over whom the mother
bent! — she who had never been a
mother ! — she uttered no sound — the
furies were at work within her breast.
Viola turned, and saw her; and,
terrified by the strange apparition,
with features that expressed the
deadliest hate, and scorn, and ven-
geance, uttered a cry, and snatched
the child to her bosom. The Italian
laughed aloud — turned, descended,
and, gaining the spot where Nicot
still conversed with the frightened
porter, drew* him from the house.
When they ^ere in the open street,
she halted abr)^)tly, and said,
" Avenge me, and name thy price ! "
. " My price, sweet one ! is but per-
mission to Jove thee. Thou wilt fly
with me to-morrow nijht ; thou wilt
poBsees thyself of the passports and
the plan."

"And they "

ZANOKL

253

''Shall, before then, find their
asjlum in the Conciergerie. The
guillotine shall requite thy wrongs."

'' Do this, and I am satisfied, ' said
Fillide, firmly.

And they spoke no more, till they
regained the house. But when she
there, looking up to the dull build-
ing, saw the windows of the room
which the belief of Glyndon's love
had once made a paradise, the tiger
relented at the heart ; something of
the woman gushed back upon her
nature^ dark and savage as it was.

She pressed the arm on which she
leant convulsively, and exclaimed —
" No, no ! — not him I denounce her —
let her perish ; but I have slept on
his bosom — not him I "

"It shall be as thou wilt," said
Nicot, with a devil's sneer ; " but he
must be arrested for the moment.
No harm shall happen to him, for no
accuser shall appear. But her — ^thou
wilt not relent for her 1 '^

Fillide turned upon him her eyes,
and their dark glance was sufficient
answer.

254

ZA90}$rL

CHAPTEK VI.

In poppa queDa
Cbe guMar <gli dovea, fatal Donzella.*

CtSR. Lib., oant. -xy. 3.

Thb Italian did not overrate that
craft of simulation proverbial with
her country and her sex. Kot fa
word , not a look that day revealed
to Glyndon the deadly change that
had converted devotion^ into hate.
He himself, indeed, absorbed in his
own schemes, and in reflections on
his own strange destiny^ was no nice
observer. But her manner, milder
and more subdued than usual, pro-
duced a softening effect upon his
meditations towards the evening;
and he then began to converse with
her on the certain hope of escape, and
on the future that would await them
in less unhallowed lands.

" And thy fair friend," said Fillide,
with an averted eye and a false smile,
"who was to be our companion.
Thou hast resigned her, Nicot tells
me, in favour of one in whom he is
interested. Is it so 1 "

"He told thee this!" returned
Glyndon, evasively. "Well! does
the change content thee?"

"Traitor!" muttered Fillide; and
she rose suddenly, approached him,
parted the long hair from his fore-
head, caressingly, and pressed her
lips convulsively on his brow.

" This were too fair a head for the
doomsman," said she, with a slight
laugh, and, turning away, appeared
occupied in preparations for their
departure.

The next morning, when he rose.

* By the prow was the fatal lady
ordained to he the guide.

Glyndon did not see the Italian ; she
was absent from the house wheai he
left it. It was necessaiy th&t he

should once more visit C , before

his final departure, not only to
arrange for Kicot's participation in
the flight, but lest any suspicion
should have arisen to thwart or
endanger the plan he had adopted*
C , though not one of the imme-
diate coterie of Robespierre, and
indeed secretly hostile to him, had
possessed the i^ of keeping well with
each Action as it rose to power.
Sprung from the dregs of the popu-
lace, he had, nevertheless, the grace
and vivacity so often found impar-
tially amongst every class in France.
He had contrived to enrich himself—
none kneV how — ^in the course of his
rapid career. He became, indeed,
ultimately one of the wealthiest pro-
prietors of Paris, and at that time
kept a splendid and hospitable man-
sion. He was one of those whom,
from various reasons, Robespierre
deigned to favour ; and he had often
saved the proscribed and suspected,
by procuring them passports under
disguised names, and advising their

method of escape. But C was a

man who took this trouble only for
the rich. *f The incorruptible Maxi-
milien," who did not want the tyrant's
faculty of penetration, probably saw
through all his manoeuvres, and the
avarice which he cloaked beneath his
charity. But it was noticeable, t&t
Robespierre frequently seemed to
wink at — ^nay, partially to encou-

ZA.KOKI.

255

rage—Buch vices in men whom he
meant hereafter to destroy, as would
tend to lower them in the public
estimation, and to contrast with hifi
own austere and unassailable integrity
and purism. And, doubtless, he
often grimly smiled in his sleere at
the sumptuous mansion, and the
griping coyetousness of the worthy
citizen C .

To this personage, then, Qlyndon
musingly bent his way, It was true,
as he had darkly said to Yiola, that
in proportion as he had resisted the
spectre, its terrors had lost their
influence. The time had come at
lasty when, seeing crime and yice in
all their hideousneaa^ and in so vast
a theatre, he had found that in rice
and crime there are deadlier horrors
than in the eyes of a phantom-fear.
His native nobleness began to return
to him. As he passed the streets, he
revolved in his mind projects of future
repentance and reformation. He
even meditated, as a just return for
Fillide's devotion, the sacrifice of all
the reasonings of his birth and
education. He would repair what-
ever errois he had committed against
her, by the self-immolation of marriage
with one little congenial with him-
seH He who had once revolted from
marriage with the noble and gentle
Yiola ! — he had learned in that world
of wrong to know that right is right,
and that Heaven did not make the
one sex to be the victim of the other.
The young visions of the Beautiful
and the Qood rose once more before
him; and along the dark ocean of
his mind lay the smile of re-awaken-
ing virtue, as a path ef moonlight.
Kever, perhaps, had the condition
of his soul been so elevated and un-'
selfish.

In the meanwhile, Jean Nicot,
equally absorbed in dreams of thQ
future, and already in his own mind
laying out to the best advantage the
gold of the friend he was about to

betray, took his way to the house
honoured by the residence of Bobes-
pierre. He had no intention to
comply with the relenting prayer of
Fillide, that the life of Glyndon
should be spared. He thought with
Barri^re, **il rCy a que Its morts qui
ne revient pas.** In all men who
have devoted themselves to any study,
or any art, with sufficient pains to
attain a certain degree of excellence,
there must be a fund of energy
immeasurably above that of the ordi-
nary herd. Usually, this energy is
concentred on the objects of their
professional ambition, and leaves
them, therefore, apathetic to the other
pursuits of men. But where those
objects are denied, where the stream
has not its legitimate vent, the eneigy,
irritated and aroused, possesses the
whole being, and if not wasted on
desultory schemes, or if not purified
by conscience and principle, becomes
a dangerous and destructive element
in the social system, through which
it wanders in riot and disorder.
Hence, in all wise monarchies— nay,
in all well constituted states, the
peculiar care with which channels are
opened for ' eveiry art and every
science; hence the*honour paid to
their cultivators by subtle and
thoughtful statesmen, who, perhaps,
for themselves, see nothing in a pic-
ture but coloured canvass — ^nothing
in a problem but an ingenious puzzle.
Ko state is ever more in danger than
when the talent, that should be con-
secrated to peace, has no occupation
but political intrigue or personal
advancement Talent unhonoured is
talent at war with men. And here
it is noticeable, that the class of
Actors having been the most degraded
by the public opinion of the old
rigime, their very dust deprived of
Christian burial, no men (with certain
r exceptions in the company especially
favoured by the Court) were more
relentless and revengeful among the

256

ZANONI.

BCourgeB of the revolution. In the
savage Collot d'Herbois, mauvaia
comidien, were embodied the wrongs
and the vengeance of a class.

Now the energy of Jean Nicot had
never been sufficiently directed to
the Art he professed. Even in his
earliest youth, the political disquisi-
tions of his master, David, had dis-
tracted him from the more tedious
labours. of the easel. The defects of
his person had embittered his mind ;
the Atheism of his bene&ctor had
deadened his conscience. For one
great excellence of Religion — above
all, the Religion of the Cross — ^is,
that it raises Patibnob first into a
Virtue, and next into a Hope. Take
away the doctrine of another life, of
requital hereafter, of the smile of
a Father upon our sufferings and
trials in our ordeal here, and what
becomes of Patience 1 But without
patience, what is man 1 — and what a
people 1 Without patience. Art never
can be high; without patience.
Liberty never can be perfected. By
wild throes, and impetuous, aimless
struggles. Intellect seeks to soar from
Penury, and a nation to struggle into
Freedom. And woe, thus unfortified,
guidelesB, and unenduring — woe to
both I

Nicot was a villain as a boy. In
most criminals, however abandoned,
there are touches of humanity — relics
of virtue ; and the true delineator of
mankind bften incurs the taunt of
bad hearts and dull minds, for show-
ing that even the worst alloy has
some particles of gold, and even the
best that come stamped from the mint
of Nature, have some adulteration of
the dross. But there are exceptions,
though few, to the general rule ; ex-
ceptions, when the conscience lies
utterly dead, and when good or bad
are things indifferent but as means to
some selfish end. So was it with the
proUgi of the atheist Envy and
hate filled up his whole being, and the

consciousness of superior talent only
made him curse the more all who
p;issed him in the sunlight with a
fairer form or happier fortunes.
But monster though he was, when
his murderous fingers griped the
throat of his benefactor. Time, and
that ferment of all evil passions — the
Reign of Blood, had made in the deep
hell of his heart a deeper still. Unable
to exercise his calling, (for even bad
he dared to make his name promi-
nent, revolutions are no season for
painters ; and no man — ^no ! not the
richest and proudest magnate of the
land, has so great an interest in peace
and order, has so high and essential a
stake in the well-being of society, as
the poet and the artist) — ^his whole
intellect, ever restless and nnguided,
was left to ponder over the images of
guilt most congenial to it. He had
no Future but in this life; and how
in this life had the men of power
around him, the great wrestlers for
dominion, thriven 1 All that was
good, pure, unselfish — ^whether among
Royalists or Republicans — swept to
the shambles, and the deathsmen left
alone in the pomp and purple of their
victims ! Nobler paupers than Jean
Nicot would despair; and Poverty
would rise in its ghastly multitudes
to cut the throat of Wealth, and
then gash itself limb by limb, if
Patience, the Angel of the Poor, sat
not by its side, pointing with solemn
finger to the life to come 1 And now
as Nicot neared the house of the Dic-
tator, he began to meditate a reversal
of his plans of the previous day : not
that he filtered in his resolution to
denounce Glyndon, and Viola would
necessarily share his fate, as a com-
panion and accomplice, — no, there he
was resolved ! for he hated both — (to
say nothing of his old, but never-to-
be-forgotten grudge against Zanoni)
— Viola had scorned him, Glyndon
had served, and the thought of grati-
tude was as intolerable to him as the

ZANONI.

257

inemory of insult. But why, now, I and miscellaneouB, Nicot forced his
should he fly from France 1 — he could | way ; and far from friendly or flatter-
possess himself of Glyndon's gold — he ing were the expressions that regaled
doubted not that he could so master his ears.

Fillide by her wrath and jealousy that | **Aha, le joli PolichineUe /" said a
he could command her acquiescence I comely matron, whose robe his ob-
in all he proposed. The papers he ' trusive and angular elbows cruelly
had purloined — Desmoulins' corres- 1 discomposed. " But how could one
pondence with Glyndon — while it expect gallantry from such a scare-
ensured the fate of the latter, might | crow ! "

be eminently serviceable to Kobes- " Citizen, I beg to ayise th^e * that
pierre, might induce the tyrant to thou art treading on my feet I beg
forget his own old liaisons with , thy pardon, but now I look at thine,
Hubert, and enlist him among the I see the hall is not wide enough for
allies and tools of the King of Terror. { them."
Hopes of advancement, of wealth, of
a career, again rose before him. This
correspondence, dated shortly before
Camille Desmoulins' death, was
written with that careless and daring
imprudence which characterised the
spoiled child of Danton. It spoke

openly of designs against Bobes-
pierre ; it named confederates whom
the tyrant desired only a popular pre-
text to crush. It was a new instru-
ment of death in the hands of the
Death-compeller. What greater gift
could he bestow on Maximilien the
Incorruptible ?

Kursiiig these thoughts, he arrived
at last before the door of Citizen
Dupleix. Around the threshold were
grouped, in admired confusion, some
eight or ten sturdy Jacobins, the
voluntary body-guard of Robespierre
— tall fellows, well armed, and inso-
lent with the power that reflects
power, mingled with women, young
and fair, and gaily dressed, who had
come, upon the rumour that Maxi-
milien had had an attack of bile, to
inquire tenderly of his health; for
Bobespierre, strange though it seem,
was the idol of the sex !

Through this corUge, stationed
without the door, and reaching up
the stairs to the landing-place, for
Robespierre's apartments were not
spacious enough to afford sufficient
ante-chamber for levies so numerous

No. 276.

"Ho! Citizen Nicot," cried a
Jacobin, shouldering his formidable
bludgeon, "and what brings thee
hither ) thinkest thou that Hubert's
crimes are forgotten already? Off,
sport of Nature 1 and thank the
Mre Suprime that he made thee in-
significant enough to be forgiven."

" A pretty iace to look out of the
National Window," + said the woman
whose robe the painter had ruffled.

" Citizens," said Nicot, whift with
passion^but constraining himself ilo
that his words seemed to come from
grinded teeth, " I have the honour to
inform you that I seek the Repr&-
sentant upon business of the utmost
importance to the public and himself;
and," he added, slowly, and malig-
nantly glaring round, " I call all good
citizens to be my witnesses when I
shall complain to Robespierre of the
reception bestowed on me by some
amongst you."

* The oourteons use of the plural was
proscribed at Paris. The SociSfis Populairet
had decided that whoever used it should be
prosecuted as iutpect et cuiulateur I At the
door of the public administrations and
popular societies was written up—*' Ici on
s'lionore du Citoyen. tt on se tutoye"!!!^
Take away Murder from the French Revo-
lution, and It becomes the greatest Farce
ever played before the Angela I

t The Guillotine.

1 *< Here they respect the title of CiftjjBcn,
and they thee and thvu one another.*

. 17

258

ZANONI.

There iras in the man's look and
his tone of voice so much of deep and
concentrated* malignity^ that the
idlers drew back ; and as the remem-
brance of the sudden npe and downs
of revolutionary life occurred to them,
several voices were lifted to assure the
squalid and ragged painter that no-
thing was farther from their thoughts
than to offer affront to a citizen^
whose very appearance proved him to
be an exemplary Saru-CuloUe. Kicot
received these apologies in sullen
silence ; and folding his arms, leant
against the wall, waiting in grim
patience for his admission.

The loiterers talked to each other
in separate knots of two and three ;
and through the general hum rung
the clear, loud, careless whistle of the
tall Jacobin who stood guard by the
stairs, ^ezt to Nicot, an old woman
and a young virgin were muttering
in earnest whispers, and the atheist
painter chuckled inly to overhear
their discourse.

" I assure thee, my dear," said the
<7one, with a mysterious shake of
head, "that the divine Catherine
Theot, whom the impious now perse-
cute, is really inspired. There can
• be no doubt that the elect, of whom
Dom Gerle and the virtuous Robes-
pierre are destined to be the two
grand prophets, will enjoy eternal life
here, and exterminate all their ene-
mies. There is no doubt of it— not
the least ! "

^^ " How delightful ! " said the girl ;
*' ce cher Bobeapierre ! — ^he does not
look very long-lived either ! "

*" The greater the miracle," said
the old woman. " I am just eighty-
one, and I don't feel a day older since
Catherine Theot promised me I should
be one of the elect!"

Here the women were jostled aside
by some new «omen, who talked loud
and eagerly.

" Yes,"" cried a brawny man whose
^yarb denoted him to be a butcher, with

bare arms, and a cap of libertf «n bis
head, " I am come to warn Botse^erre.
They lay a snare for iiim ; th^ •ifer
him the Palais Kationni. Onmepeut
itre ami du peujde et kabiier un
pcUais." *

" No, indeed," answered a cordou-
nier ; '^ I like him. best ia his little
lodging with the menuisiier : it looks
like one of us"

Another rush of the cnywd, and a
new group were thrown forward in
the vicinity of Kicot. And tlieae men
gabbled and chattered imtar and
louder than the rest.

" But my plan is **

" Au diaJtie with yowr pimn. i tell
you my scheme is -**

"Konsense!" cried a third. ''When
Robespierre understands mif new
method of making gunpowder, tke
enemies of France shall ■ ■ ^ "

" Bah ! who fears foreign enemies K'
interrupted .a fourth ; " the enewes
to be feared are at hocne. MyoAw
guillotine takes off fifty keads at a
time!"

''But my new CoBstiiutionf " ex-
claimed a fifth.

"My new Religion, eiticen \" nrar-
mured, complacently, a aixth.

" Sacre miUe Unmerrei, sitemce!"
roared forth one of Hie Jaeodbiu
guard.

And the crowd suddenly parted as
a fierce-looking man, bottoiked op to
the chin — his sword rattUng by his
side, his spurs dlnking at his h ooi—
descended the stain; his ehedos
swollen and purple with intempe-
rance, his eyes dead and savage sb a
vulture's. Itiere was a st^l pause, as
all, with pale cheeks made way for
the relentless HeBriot.t Seaiee !bad

* "No one oou be a friend of tlie people,
and dwell In a paUee." Papiert imSdU*
trouvis eha Bcbupierrt, &e.» voL it p. US.

t Or Bmntiot. U is ainguUu* how ub-
deteraained are not only the characters of
the French Revolution, but even the spelUng
of their names. Wttfa the faiatorianfl it is

ZANONI.

259

n

;this gruff and iron minion of the

tyrant stalked through the throng,
than a new moyement of respect, and
agitation, and fear, swayed the in-
creasing crowd, as there glided in,
with the noiselessnesB of a shadow, a
smiling, sober citizen, plainly, but
neatly clad, with a downcast, humble
eye. A milder, meeker face, no pas-

TcrgDiaiui»wi€h the JouniAlists of the time,
it is Vergniaiur. With one sutfaority it ie
Bobespierre— with another, Rohersplene.

toral poet could assign to Corydon or
Thyrsis — why did the crowd shrink
and hold their breath ? As the ferret
in a burrow crept that slight form
amongst the larger and rougher crea-
tures that huddled and pressed back
on each other as he passed. A wink
of his stealthy eye — and the huge
Jacobins left the paasage clear^ with-
out sound or question. On he went,
to the apartment of the tyrant ; and
thither will we follow him.

s2

260

ZANONI.

CHAPTER VII.

Ck)nstitutum est ut quisquis eum hatninem, dixisset, f uisse, capitalem penderet ponum.*'
St. AvQ.—0/the God Serapis, 1. 18, de Civ. Dei, c 6.

RoBESPiBBBE wa& recUning languidly
in his fiiuteuil, his cadaverous coun-
tenance more jaded and fatigued than
usual. He to whom Catherine Tl^eot
^ assured immortal life, looked, indeed,
/ like a man at death's door. On the
table before him was a dish heaped
wiih oranges, with the juice of which
it is said that he could alone assuage
the acrid bile that overflowed his sys-
tem. And an old woman, richly
dressed, (she had been a Marquise in
the old rigime,) was employed in peel-
ing the Hesperian fruits for the sick
Dragon, with delicate fingers covered
with jewels. I have before said, that
/ Bobespierre was the idol of the women.
( Strange, certainly! — but then they
were French women ! The old Mar-
quise, who, like Catherine Theot,
called him "son," really seemed to
love him piously and disinterestedly
as a mother ; and as she peeled the
oranges, and heaped on him the most
caressing and soothing expressions,
the livid ghost of a smile fluttered
about his meagre lips. At a distance,
Fayan and Couthon, seated at another
table, were writing rapidly, and occa-
sionally pausing from their work,to con-
sult with each other in brief whispers.
Suddenly, one of the Jacobins
opened the door, and approaching
Bobespierre, whispered to him the
name of Gu6rin.i- At that word the

y

* It was decreed, that whoso should say
that he had heen a man should suffer the
punishment of a capital offence.

t See, for the espionage on which Oufoin
was employed, Les Papiers InMits, &c.,

VLp.aes. Nczjcvm.

sick man 'started' up, as if new life
were in the sound.

" My kind friend," he ssdd to the
itfar^ise," forgive me; I must dis-
pense with thy tender cares. France
demands me. I am never ill when I
can serve my country ! "

The old Marquise li^ed up her eyes
to heaven, and murmured — ** ^^ud
Ange !"

Robespierre waved bib hand im-
patiently ; and the old w6man, with
a sigh, patted his pale cheek, kissed
his forehead, and submissively with-
drew. The next moment, the smiling,
sober man we have before described,
stood, bending low, before the tyrant
And well might Bobespierre welcome
one of the subtlest agents of his
power — one on whom he relied more
than the clubs of his Jacobins, the
tongues of his orators, the bayonets
of his armies; Qu^rin, the most
renowned of his icotUeurs, — the
searching, prying, universal, omni-
present spy, — ^who glided like a sun-
beam through chink and crevice, and
brought to him intelligence not only
of the deeds, but the hearts of men !

"Well, citizen, well I—and what of
Tallieni"

" This morning, early, two minutes
after eight, hge went out."

" So early 1 hem!"

"He passed Bue des Quatre Fils,
Bue du Temple, Bue de La B^union,
au Marals, Bue Martin; nothing
observable, except that "

"That what r'

"He amused himself at a stall,' in
baigaining for some books."

' ZANONI.

26t

^ Bargaining for books ! Aha, the
Charlatan! — he would cloak the in-
triffuant under the savant I Well ! "

''At last, in the Bue des Fosses
Montmartre, an individual, in a blue
sartout (unknown), accosted him.
They walked together about the
street some minutes, and were joined
by Legendre."

" Legendre ! approach, Payan ! Le-
gendre, thou hearest ! "

"I went into a fruit-stall, and
hired two little girls to go and play
at ball within hearing. They heard
Legendre say, ' I believe his power is
wearing itself out.' And Tallien
answered, ' And himndf, too. I would
not giv& three months' purchase for
his life.* I do. not know, citizen, if
they meant thee? "

" Nor I, citizen," answered Bobes-
pierre, with a fell smile, succeeded
by an expression of gloomy thought.
" Ha !.". he muttered, " I am young
yet — ^in the prime of life. I commit
no excess. No; my constitution is
sound — sound. Anything farther of
Tallien]"

" Yes. The woman whom he loves
— Teresa de Fontenai — ^who lies in
prison, still continues to correspond
with him ; to urge him to save her
by thy destruction. This, my listeners
overheard. His servant is the messen-
ger between the prisoner and himself."

" So ! The servant shall be seized
in the open streets of Paris. The
Beign of Terror is not over yet.
With the letters found on him, if
such their context, I will pluck
Tallien from his benches in the Con-
vention."

Bobespierre rose, and after walking
a few moments to and fro the room
in thought, opened the door, and
summoned one of the Jacobins with-
out. To him he gave his orders for
the watch and arrest of Tallien's ser-
vant ; and then threw himself again
into his chair. As the Jacobin de-
parted, Gki^rin whispered —

" Is not that the citizen Aristides 1 "

"Yes; a faithful fellow, if he
would wash himself, and not swear
so much."

"Didst thou not guillotine his
brother V

" But Aristides denounced him."

"Nevertheless, are sueh men safe
about thy person 1 "

"Humph! that is true." And
Bobespierre, drawing out his pocket<
book, wrote a memorandum in it^
replaced it in his vest, and resumed-^

"What else of Tallien 1"

"Nothing more.. He and Le-
gendre, with the unknown, walked to
the Jardin EgaliU, and there parted.
I saw Tallien to his house. But I
have, other news. Thou badst me
watch for those who threaten thee in
secret letters."

"Querin! Hast thou detected
them 1 Hast thou — hast thou "

And the tyrant, as he spoke, opened
and shut both his hands, as if already
grasping the lives of the writers, and
one of those convulsive grimaces,
that seemed like an epileptic affec-
tion, to which he was subject, dis-
torted his features.

"Citizen, I think I have found
one. Thou must know, that, amongst
those most disaffected, is the painter,
Nicot."

"Stay, stay!" said Bobespierre,
opening a manuscript book, bound in
red morocco, (for Bobespierre was
neat and precise, even in his death-
lists,) and turning to an alphabetical
index — " Nicot ! — I have him —
atheist, sana-cvloUe (I hate slovens)
friendofHebertI Aha! N.B. B^ne
Dumas knows of his early career, and
crimes. Proceed ! "

" This Nicot has been suspected of
diffusing tracts and pamphlets against
thyself, and the Comity, Yesterday
evening, when he was out, his porter
admitted me into his apartment, Rue
BeatirRepaire. With my master-key
I opened his desk and escritoire

2^2

ZANOKL

I found tberein a drawing of thyself,
at the gnillotine; and underneath
wag written — * Bourreau de km pays,
lis FarrSt de ton MUmerd / ' * I com-
pared the words with the fragments
of the various letters thou gavest me :
the hand-writing tallies with one.
See, I tore off the writing."

Robespierre looked, smiled, and, as
if his vengeance were already satisfied,
threw himself on his chair. * It is
well ! I feared it was a more power-
ful enemy. Tliis man must be ar-
rested at once."

'* And he waits below. I brushed
by him as I ascended the stairs."

" Does he so ? — admit ! — nay —
hold ! hold ! Gu^rin, withdraw into
the inner chamber till I summon thee
again. Dear Payan, see that this
Nicot conceals no weapons."

Payan, who was as brave as Robes-
pierre was pusillanimous, repressed
the smile of disdain that quivered on
his lips a moment, and left the room.

Meanwhile, Robespierre, with his
head buried in his bosom, seemed
plunged in deep thought. " Life is a
melancholy thing, Couthon ! * said
he, suddenly.

"Begging your pardon, I think
death worse," answered the philan-
thropist, gently.

Robespierre made no rejoinder, but
took from his portefenille that sin-
gular letter which was found after-
wards amongst his papers, and is
marked LXI. in the published col-
lection.

"Without doubt," it began, "you
are uneasy at not hating earlier
received news from me. Be not
alarmed; yon know that I ought
only to reply by our ordinary courier ;
and as he has been interrupted dans
sa demUre course, that is the cause
of my delay. When you receive this,

' * Executioner of tby country, read the
decree o{ thy punishment
* Papton hiMito, &o., vol. ii. p. 156.

employ all diligence to fly a theatre
where you are about to appear and
disappear for the last time. It w«re
idle to recal to you all the reasons
that expoM you to peril. The last
step that should plaee you Mir le
sopha de la pr^Mence, but briags
you to the scaffold; and the mob
will spit on your &ce as it has «patt
on those whom you have jnd^sdJ
Since, then, you have aecnmulatea
here a safficient treasure for existence,
I await you with great Impatienee,
to laugh with yon at the part yon
have played in the troubles of a
nation as ereduloQs as it is avid of
novelties. Take your part aecordisg
to our ammgements — ^all is prepared.
I conclude— our courier waits. I ex-
pect your reply."

Musingly and slowly the IHetator
devoured the contents of Mb epistle.
"No," he said to himself— " no ; he
who baa tasted power can no longer
enjoy repose. Yet, Danton, Danton !
thou wert right ; better to be a poor
fisherman, than to govern men."*

The door opened, and Payan re-
appeared and whispered Robespierre
— " All is safe ! See the man."

The Dictator, satisfied, sammoned
his attendant Jacobin to oondoct
Nicot to his presence. The painter
entered with a fearless expresMon ia
his deformed features^ and stood erect
before Robespierre, who scanned him
with a sidelong eye.

It is remarkable that most of the
principal actors of the Revolution ,
were singularly hideous in appear- '
ance — from the colossal ugliness of \ I
Mirabeau and Danton, or the villa- i
nous ferocity in the countenances of ' ,
David and Simon, to the filthy
squalor of Marat, the sinister and
bilious meanness of the Dictator's
features. But Robespierre, who was

♦ -II vaudraU miexix" said Danton , f n h is \'
dungeon, •• etre «n pauvre picheur qm de \
gouvemer let homme$.**

ZANOIfl.

said to iQtemUe a cat, liad also a cat's
clemmeflA ; attd kis prim and dainty
dreas» hk sliavan smoothness, the
womaalf whitiaoiB of his lean hands,
made yti mort remarkable the dia*
Mrderly roffiaainn that characterised
tb« attire tad mien of the painter-

" And so, citizen/' said Robespierre,
Bnldljf ''thoo wouldst speak with
me ? I knew thy merits and cirism
have been overlooked too long. Thou
wouJdat ask sooke suitable provision
in the state 1 Senile not — sajr on ! "

'^Ytrtaova Sobaepierre, toi qui
SdaireBl'univers,* I come not to ask a
hwwLT, hvki to render service to the
state. I faav« discovered a corre-
spendeihea that kiys open a conspiracy,
of which many oC the actors are yet
UDMi^tected." And he placed the
pikers on the table. Bobespierre
Niaed, and ran iiis eye over them
ra^dly and eagefly.

"Ooodl-ipood!" he muttered to
himsdf; — "this is all I wanted.
Barrfere — Legendra! I have them!
Camille Desmoulins was but their
dupe. I loved him once; I never
loved them ! Citizen Nicot, I thank
thee. I observe these letters are
addressed to an Englishman. What
Frenchman but must distrust these
English wolves in sheep's clothing I
France wants no longer citizens of the
world ; that farce ended with Anar-
charsis Clootz. I beg pardon, Citizen
Nicot ; but Clootz and Hebert were
thy friends."

" Nay," said Nicot, apologetically,
"we are all liable to be deceived.
I ceased to honour them when thou
didst declare against; for I disown
my own senses rather than thy
justice."

" Yes, I pretend to justice'; that is
the virtue I affect," said Robespierre,
meekly ; and with his feline propen-
sities he enjoyed, even in that critical

* Thou who enlightenest the world.

hour of vast schemes, of imminent
danger, of meditated revenge, the
pleasure of playing with a solitary
victim.* "And my justice shall no
longer be blind to thy services, good
Nicot. Thou knowest this Glyndon ]"

"Yes, well— intimately. He was
my friend, but I would give up my
brother if he were one of the ' inctul'
genta.* I am not ashamed to say,
that I have received favours from
this man."

" Aha ! — and thou dost honestly
hold the doctrine that where a man
threatens my life, all personal favours
are to be forgotten ] "

"All!"

"Good citizen! — kind Nicot I —
oblige me by writing the address of
this Glyndon."

Nicot stooped to the table; and,
auddenly, when the pen was in his
hand, a thought flashed across him,
and he paused^ embarrassed and coiv
fused.

" Write on, hind Nicot ! "

The painter slowly obeyed.

"Who are the other familiars of
Glyndon 1 "

" It was on that point I Was about
to speak to thee, JRepresentant" said
Nicot. " He visits daily a woman, a
foreigner, who knows all his secrets ;
she affects to be poor, and to support
her child by industry. But she is
the wife of an Italian of immense
wealth, and there is no doubt that
she has moneys which are spent in
corrupting the citizens. She should
be seized and arrested."

" Write down her name also."

"But no time is to be lost; for
I know that both 4iave a design to
escape from Paris this very night."

"Our government is prompt,

* The most detestable anecdote of this
peculiar hypocrisy in Robespierre is that in
which he is recorded to have tenderly
pressed the hand of his old school- friend, t
Camille Desmoulins, the day that he signed. \
the warrant for his arrest. /

264

ZANONI.

good Nicot — never fear. Humph !—
humph P and Robespierre took the
paper on which Nicot had written,
and stooping over it — for he was near-
sighted — added, smilingly, " Dost
thou always write the same hand,
eitizeni This seems almost like a
disguised character.'*

** I should not like them to know
who denounced them, Mepresentant."

*' Good ! good ! — Thy virtue shall
be rewarded, trust me. ScUut et
fratemiti ! "

Bobespierre half rose as he spoke,
and Nicot withdrew.

" Ho, there !— without ! " cried the
Dictator, ringing his bell ; and as the
ready Jacobin attended the summons
— ** Follow that man, Jean Nicot.
The instant he has cleared the house
seize him. At once to the Concier-
gerie with him ! Stay ! — nothing
against the law ; there is thy warrant.
The public accuser shall have my
instruction. Away ! — quick ! "

The Jacobin vanished. All trace
of illness, of infirmity, had gone from
the valetudinarian ; he stood erect on

the floor, his face twitching con-
vulsively, and his arms folded. '' Ho !
Gu6rin!" (the spy re-appeared) —
''take these addresses! Within an
hour this Englishman and this woman
must be in prison ; their revelations
will aid me against worthier foe«*.
They shall die — they shall perish
with the rest on the 10th — ^the third
day from this. There ! '* and he
wrote hastily — "there, also, is tby
warrant!— Off!"

**And now, Couthon — Payan — ^rc
will dally no longer with Tallien aid
his crew. I have information that
the Convention will not attend tkie
F6te on the 10th. We must trust
only to the sword of the law. I must
compose my thoughts — ^prepare my
harangue. To-morrow, I will re-
appear at the Convention — to-morrow,
bold St. Just joins us, fresh from our
victorious armies — to-morrow, from
the tribune, I will dart the thunder-
bolt on the masked enemies of France
— to-morrow, I will demand, in the
face of the country, the heads of the
conspirators."

ZANONI.

265

CHAPTER VIII.

Le glaive est contre toi tourn^ de toutes parties.*

Laharpa, Jeanne de Naples, Act iv. sc 4.

In the meantime, Glyndon, after an

audience of some length with C ,

in which the final preparations were
arranged, sanguine of safety, and fore-
seeing no obstacle to escape, bent his
way back to Fillide. Suddenly, in
the midst of his cheerful thoughts,
he fancied he heard a voice too well
and too terribly recognised, hissing in
his ear, — " What ! thou wouldst defy
and escape me! thou wouldst go
back to virtue and content. It is in
vain — it is too late. No, / will not
haunt thee ; — human footsteps, no
less inexorable, dog thee now. Me
thou shalt not see again till in the
dungeon, at midnight before thy

doom! Behold! "

And Glyndon, mechanically turn-
ing his head, saw, close behind him,
the stealthy figure of a man whom he
had observed before, but with little
heed, pass and repass him, as he

quitted the house of Citizen C .

Instantly and instinctively he knew
that he was watched — that he was
pursued. The street he was in was
obscure and deserted, for the day was
oppressively sultry, and it was the
hour when few were abroad, either on
business or pleasure. Bold as he was,
an icy chill shot through his heart.
He knew too well the tremendous
system that then reigned in Paris, not
to be aware of his danger. As the
sight of the first plague-boil to the
victim of the Pestilence, was the first
sight of the shadowy spy to that of

* The swortt Is raised against you on all

the Revolution — the watch, the arrest,
the trial, the guillotine — ^these made
the regular and rapid steps of the
monster that the anarchists called
Law! He breathed hard, he heard
distinctly the loud beating of his
heart. And so he paused, still and
motionless, gazing upon the shadow
that halted also behind him !

Presently, the absence of all allies
to the spy, the solitude of the streets,
reanimated his courage; he made a
step towards his pursuer, who re-
treated as he advanced. "Citizen,
thou foUowest me," he said. "Thy
business 1"

" Surely," answered the man, with
a deprecating smile, " the streets are
broad enough for both? Thou art
not so bad a republican as to arro-
gate all Paris to thyself 1 "

"Go on first, then. I make way
for thee."

The man bowed, doffed his hat
politely, and passed forward. The
next moment Glyndon plunged into
a winding lane, and fled fast through
a labyrinth of streets, passages, and
alleys. By degrees, he composed him-
self, and, looking behind, imagined
that he had baffled the pursuer ; he
then, by a circuitous route, bent his
way once more to his home. As
he emerged into one of the broader
streets, a passenger, wrapped in a
mantle, brushing so quickly by him
that he did not observe his counten-
ance, whispered — " Clarence Glyndon,
you are dogged — follow me ! " and
the stranger walked quickly before
him. Clarence turned, and sickened

s

266

ZAIfOlSL

once more to see at his heels, with
the same servile smile on his face,
the pursuer he fancied he had escaped.
He forgot the, injunction of the
stranger to follow him, and perceiv-
ing a crowd gathered close at hand,
round a caricature shop, dived amidst
them, and, gaining another street,
altered the direction he had before
taken, and, after a long and breath-
less course, gained, without once
more seeing the spy, a distant
quartier of the city. Here, indeed,
all seemed so, serene and fair, that
his artist eye, even in that imminent
hour, rested with pleasure on the
scene. It was a comparatively broad
space, formed by one of the noble
quais. The Seine flowed majestically
along, with beats and craft restmg
on its surface. The sun gilt a thou-
sand spires and domes, and gleamed
on the white palaces of a fallen
chivalry. Here, fatigued and panting,
he paused an instant, and a cooler air
from the river fanned his brow.
"Awhile, at least, I am safe here,"
he murmured; and as he spoke,
some thirty paces behind him, he
beheld the spy. He stood rooted to
the spot; wearied and spent as he
was, escape seemed no longer pos-
sible — the river on one side, (no
bridge at hand,) and the long row of

mansions closing up the other. As
he halted, he heard laughter and
obscene songs^ from a house a little
in his rear, between himself and the
spy. It was a cafe fearfully known
in that quarter. Hither often re-
sorted the black troop of Henriot —
the minions and huissiers of Bobes-
pierre. The spy, then, had hunted
the victim within the jaws of the
hounds. The man slowly advanced,
and pausing before the opened win-
dow of the cafi, put his head
through the aperture, as to address
and summon forth itsanned inmates.
At that very instant, and while the
spy's head was thus turned fr(»n him,
standing in the half-open gateway of
the house immediately before^ him,
he perceived the stranger who had
warned; the figure, scarcely distin-
guishable Idirough the mantle that
wrapped it, motioned to him to ^kter.
He sprang noiselessly through the
friendly opening; the door closed;
breathlessly he followed the stranger
up a flight of broad stairSy and
through a suite of empty rooms,
until, having gained a small cabinet,
his eonduetor doffed the large hat
and the long mantle that had hitherto
concealed his shape and featorea^ and
Glyndon beheld Zanoni.

ZANONL

267

CHAPTER IX.

Think not my magio wonders wronght by aid

Of Stygian angels summoned up from hoU ;

Scorned and aooorsed be those who have essay'd.

Her gkxnny Dives «nd Afrites to compel.

But by perception of the secret powers

Of mineral springs, in nature's inmost cell.

Of herbs in curtain of her greenest bowers,

And of the moving stars o'er mountain tops and towers.

WinTKN's Translation of Tatso, cant. xiv. xliii.

"You are safe here, yoimg English-
man ! " said Zanoni, motioning Glyn-
don to a seat. "* Fortunate for you
that I come on your track at ]aat ! "

** Far happier had it heen if we had
never met I Yet, eren in these last
hours of my fate, I rejoice to look
onoe more on the face of that ominous
and mysterious being to whom I can
ascribe all the sufferings I have
known. Here, then, thou shalt not
palter with or elude me. Here,
before we part, thou shalt unravel to
me the dark enigma, if not of thy
life, of my own ! "

"Hast thou suffered) Poor Neo-
phyte I" said Zanoni, pityingly.
"Yes — I see it on thy brow. But
wherefore wouldst thou blame mel
Did I not warn thee against the
whispers of thy spirit 1 — did I not
warn thee to forbear] Did I not
tell thee that the ordeal was one of
awful hazard and tremendous fears ? —
nay, did I not offer to resign to thee
the heart that was mighty enough,
while mine, Qiyndon, to content me 1
Was it not thine own daring and
resolute choice to brave the initiation 1
Of thine own free will didst thou
make Mejnour thy master, and his
lore thy study ! "

" But whence came the irresistible
desires of that wild and unholy
knowledge] I knew them not till

thine evil eye fell upon me, and I was
drawn into the magic atmosphere of
thy being ! "

"Thou errest! — the desires were
in thee ; and whether in one direction
or the other, would have forced their
way! Man! thou askest me the
enigma of thy fate and my own!
Look round all being, is there not
mystery everywhere ? Can thine eye
trace the ripening of the grain beneath
the earth ! In the moral and the physi-
cal world alike, lie dark portents, far
more wondrous than the powers thou
wouldst ascribe to me ! **

" Dost thou disown those powers ]
— dost thou confess thyself an impos-
tor 1 — or wilt thou dare to tell me that
thou art indeed sold to the Evil One ?
— a magician, whose familiar has
haunted me night and day !/'

"It matters not what I am,"
returned 2ianoni; '-it matters only
whether I can aid thee to exorcise thy
dismal phantom, and return once
more to the wholesome air of this
common life. Something, however,
will I tell thee, not to vindicate
myself, but the Heaven and the ISTatare
that thy doubts malign."*

Zanoni paused a moment, . and
resumed. With a slight smile —

"In thy younger days thou hast
doubtless read with delight the great
Christian poet, whose muse, like the

268

ZANONI.

mominsT it celebrated, came to earth i
' crowned with flowers culled in Para-
dise.** No spirit was more imbued \
with the knightly superstitions of the
time; and surely the Poet of Jerusalem ,
hath sufficiently, to satisfy even the
Inquisitor he consulted, execrated all
the practitioners of the unlawful spells .
invoked, —

* Per iafonar Cocito o Flegetonte.' f

But in his sorrows and his wrongs —
in the prison of his madhouse, know
you not that Tasso himself found his
solace, his escape, in the recognition
of a holy and spiritual Theurgia — of
a magic that could summon the Angel,
or the Good Genius, not the Fiend ?
And do you not remember, how he,
deeply versed as he was, for his age, in
the mysteries of the nobler Platonism,
which hints at the secrets of all the
starry brotherhoods, from the Chal-
daean Ito the later Bosicrucian,
discriminates, in his lovely verse,
between the black art of Ismeno, and
the glorious lore of the Enchanter
who counsels and guides upon their
errand the Champions of the Holy
Land 1 His, not the charms wrought
by the aid of the Stygian Rebels ; t
but the perception of the secret powers
of the fountain and the herb — the
Arcana of the unknown nature and
the various motions of the stars. His,
the holy haunts of Lebanon and Car-
mel — beneath his feet he saw the
clouds, the snows, the hues of Iris,
the generations of the rains and dews.
Did the Christian Hermit who con-
verted that Enchanter, (no fEtbulous

- I'anrea testa

Di rose colte in Paradiso infiora.

Tasso, Ger. Lib. iv. 1.
t To constrain Cocytus or Phlegethon.
* See this remarkable passage, which does
indeed not unfaithfully represent the doc.
trine of tlie Pythagorean and the Platoniut.
in Ta8B0, cant. ziv. stanzas xll. to xlvil.
(Ger. Lib.) They are beautifully translated
by Wiffen.

being, but the type of all spirit that
would aspire through Nature np to
God,) command him to lay aside these
sublime studies, ' Le solite arte e I'uso
mio V No ! but to cherish and direct
them to worthy ends. And in this
grand conception of the poet lies the
secret of the true Theurgia, which
startles your ignorance in a more
learned day with puerile apprehen-
sions, and the nightmares of a sick
man's dreams."

Again Zanoni paused, and again
resumed —

" In ages £ar remote — of a civilisa-
tion far different from that which now
merges the individual in the state,
there existed men of ardent minds,
and an intense desire of knowledge.
In the mighty and solemn kingdoms
in which they dwelt, there were no
turbulent and earthly channels to
work off the fever of their minds.
Set in the antique mould of castes
through which no intellect could
pierce, no valour could force its way,
the thirst for wisdom, alone, reigpied
in the hearts of those who received its
study as a heritage from sire to son.
Hence, even in your imperfect records
of the progress of human knowledge
you find that, in the earliest ages.
Philosophy descended not to the
business and homes of men. It dwelt
amidst the wonders of the loftier
creation; it sought to analyse the
formation of matter — the essentials of
the prevailing soul ; to read the mys-
teries of the starry orbs ; to dive into
those depths of Nature in which
Zoroaster is said by the schoolmen,
first to have discovered the arts which
your Ignorance classes under the name
of magic. In such an age, then, arose
some men, who, amidst the vanities
and delusions of their class, imagined
that they detected gleams of a brighter
and steadier lore. They fancied an
affinity existing among all the works
of Nature, and that in the lowliest lay
the secret attraction that might

ZANONL

269

conduct them upward to the loftiest.* !
Centuries passed, and lives were
inrasted in these discoveries ; but step
after step was chronicled and marked,
and became the guide to the few who
alone had the hereditary privilege to
track their path. At last from this
dimness upon some eyes the light
broke; but think not, young visionary, \
that to those who nursed unholy
thoughts, over whom the Origin of;
Evil held a sway, that dawning was j
vouchsafed. It could be given then,
as now, only to the purest ecstasies of ,
imagination and intellect,undistracted
by the cares' of a vulgar life, or the |
appetites of the common clay. Far |
from descending to the assistance of
a fiend, theirs was but the august
ambition to approach nearer to the
Fount of Good; the more they eman-
cipated themselves from this limbo of
the planets, the more they were
penetrated by the splendour and
beneficence of God. And if they
Bought, and at last discovered, how to
the eye of the Spirit all the subtler
modifications of being, and of matter
might be made apparent; if they
discovered how, for the wings of the
Spirit, all space might be annihilated ;
and while the body stood heavy and
solid here, as a deserted tomb, the
freed Idea might wander from star
to star ; — ^if such discoveries became
in truth their own, the sublimest
luxury of their knowledge was but
this — ^to wonder, to venerate, and

* Agreeably, it would teem, to the notion
of lamblichusand Plotinus, that theuniverse
is as an animal ; so that there is sympathy
and communication between one part and
the other ; in the smallest part may be the
subtlest nerve. And hence the uniyersal
magnetism of Nature. But man contem-
plates theuniverse as an animalcule would
an elephant The animalcule, seeing scarcely
the tip uf the hoof, would be incapable of
comprehending that the trunk belonged to
the same creature-~that the effect produced
upon one extremity would be felt in an
inatont by the other.

adore) For, as one not unlearned in
these high matters has expressed it,
' There is a principle of the soul
superior to all external nature, and
through this principle we are capable
of surpassing the order and systems
of the world, and participating the
immortal life and the energy of the
Sublime Celestials. When the soul is
elevated to natures above itself, it
deserts the order to which it is awhile
compelled, and by a religious magnet-
ism is attracted to another, and a
loftier, with which it blends and
mingles.'* Grant, then, that such
beings found at last the secret to arrest
death — to fiwcinate danger and the
foe — to walk the revolutions of the
earth unharmed ; think you that this
life could teach them other desire
than to yearn the more for the
Immortal, and to fit their intellect
the better for the higher being to
which they might, when Time and
Death exist no longer, be transferred ?
Away with your gloomy phantasies
of sorcerer and daBmon ! — the soul
can aspire only to the light ; and even
the error of our lofty knowledge was
but the forgetfulness of the weakness,
the passions, and the bonds, which
the death we so vainly conquered only
can purge away ! **

This address was so difierent from
what Glyndon had anticipated, that
he remained for some moments
speechless, and at lengh faltered
out —

" But why, then, to me "

"Why," added Zanoni, "why to
thee have been only the penance and
the terror — the Threshold and the
Phantom 1 Yain man 1 look to the
commonest elements of the commox
learning. Can every tyro at his mere
wish and will become the master 1 —
can the student, when he has bought
his Euclid, become a Newton ^--<»n

* From lamblich, on the Mysteries, c. 7»
ieoti7.

270

ZAKONL

the yonUi whom the MoBea haimt^
any, * I will equal Homer V — yea, ean
i yoa pale tyrant, with all the pareh-
\ ment-laws of a hundred sytttem-shapera,
/ and the pikes of his dauntless multl-
ittde, earve, at his will, a constitution
not more vicious than the one which
the madness of a mob could overthrow!
When, in that far time to which I
have referred, the student aspired to
the heights to which thou wouldst
have sprung at a single bound, he was
trained from his very cradle to the
earoer he was to run« The internal
and the outward nature were made
dear to his eyes, year after year, as
they opened on the day. He was
not admitted to the practical initiation
till not one earthly wish chained that
fiublimest faculty which you call the
I]CA.Gi]rATiov, one carnal desire clouded
the penetrative essence that you call
the Intellect. And even then, and
at the best, how few attained to the
last mystery I Happier inasmuch aa
^ey attained the earlier to the holy
glories for which Death is the heaven-
Uest gate."

Zanoni paused, and a shade of
thought and sorrow darkoied his
celestial beauty.

'' And are there, indeed, others,
besides thee and Mejnour, who lay
claim to thine attributes, and have
attained to thy secrets % "

" Others there have been before us,
bnt we two now are alone on earth."

*' Impostor ! thou betrayest thyself I
If they could conquer Death, why
live they not yet?"*

** Child of a day ! " answered Zanoni,
mournfully, ''Have I not told thee
the error of our knowledge was the
forgetfulness of the desires and pas-
sions which the spirit never can wholly
and permanently conquer, while this
matter elokes it] Canst thou think
that it is no sorrow, either to reject

* Glyndon appears to forget that Mejnour
had beforeanswored th^ very question which
^'~ " '*bt8, here, a second time suggest.

all human ties, all firittAdshipy and aU
love, or to see, day after day, firiendahip
and love wither fr(Hn our life, as
blossoms from the stem 1 Canst thou
wonder how, with the power to lire
while the world shall last, ere even
our ordinary date be finished we yet
may prefer to die ? Wonder mther
that there are two who have eloag so
faithfully to earth ! He, I eonCesB,
that earth can enamour yet. Attaining
to the last secret while youth was in
its bloom, youth sUll colours all around
me with its own luxuriant beauty ; to
me, yet, to breathe is to enjoy. The
freshness has not &ded from the faee
of Kature, and not a^erb in which I
cannot discover a new eharm— an
undetected wonder. 'As with my
youth, so with Mejnour^s age ; he will
tell you, that life to him is but a
power to examine; and not tUl he
has exhausted all the marvels whieh
the Creator has sown on earth, would
he desire new hal>itation8 for the
renewed Spirit to explore. We are
the types of the two essences of what
is imperishable — 'A^s, thst enjoys,
and ScisMCB, that contemplates!'
And now, that thou mayat be con-
tented that the secrets are not
vouchsafed to thee, learn Ubat
so utteriy must the idea detaeh
itself from what makes up the occupa-
tion and excitement of men, so must
it be void of whatever would covet,
or love, or hate ; that for the amUtioos
man, for the lover, the hater, the
power avails not. And I, at last,
bound and blinded by the most
common of household ties — ^I, dark-
ened and helpless^ adjure thee, the
baffled and discontenited— i adjure
thee to direct, to guide me ; — ^wbere
are they — Oh, tell me — speak ! My
wifo-^my child? Silent) — oh, thou
knowest now that I am no sorcerer,
no enemy. X cannot give thee what
thy ftculties deny — I cannot achicTC
what the passionless Hejnour failed
to accomplish; but I can give thee

ZANONI.

2T1

th^ next best boon, perhaps the
fairest — ^I can reconcUa thee to the
dftily world, and place peace between
lli7c<Hiscieace tod thyseli"

" Wilt tboa promise 1"

* By their sweet lives, I promise ! "

iGlpidon looked and belieFed. He
wbiApered the address to the house
^rluther his fatal step already had
toeught woe and doom.

^ Bless thee for this/' exckimed
Zanoni, passionately, ''and thoufihslt
be iAessed ! Wiiat ( tsouldst thon not
pereeive that at the entrance to all
the grander worlds dwell the race
that intimidate and awe? Who in
thy daily world ever,' left the old
regions of Custom and Prescription,
and felt not the first seizure of the
shapeless and nameless Fear ] Every-
-vvhere around thee, where men aspire
and labour, though they see it not —
in the closet of the sage, in the coun-
cil of the demagogue, in the camp of
the warrior, — everywhere cowers and
darkens the Unutterable Horror. But
there, where tliou hast ventured, alone
is the phantom visiMe ; and never will
it cease to haunt, till thou canst pass
to the Infinite, as the seraph, or return
to the Familiar, as a child!' But
answer me this, — When, seeking to
adhere to some calm resolve of virtue,
the Phantom hath stalked suddenly to
thy side ; when its voice hath whis-
pered thee despair ; when its ghastly
eyes would scare thee back to those
scenes of earthly craft or riotous
excitement, from which, as it leaves
thee to worse foes to the soul, its
presence is ever absent, hast thou
never bravely resisted the spectre and
thine own horror ? — ^hast thou never
said, ' Come what may, to Virtue I
will cling ? ' "

" Alas ! " answered Glyndon, " only
of late have I dared to do so."

*' And thou hast felt then that the
Phantom grew more dim and its
power more faint.**

"It is true."

"Bejoiee, theal-^hoa hast over-
come the true terror and mystery of
the ordeal. Besolve is the first suc-
cess. Bejoice, for the exorcism is
sare ! Thou art not of those, who,
denying a life to come, ure the
victims of the Inexorable Horror.
Oh, when shall men learn, at last,
that if the Great Beligion inculcates
so rigidly the necessity of faith, it is
not alone that faith leads to the
world to be ; but that without faith
there is no excellence in this — faith
in something wiser ^ happier, diviner,
than we see on earth l--1^e Artist
calls it the Ideal— the Priest, Faith.
The Ideal and Faith are one and the
same. Betum, wanderer ! return.
Feel what beauty and holiness dwell
in the Customary and the Old. Back
to thy gateway glide, thou Horror!
and calm, on the childlike heart,
smile again, azure Heaven, with
thy night and thy morning-star but
as one, though under its double name
of Memory and Hope 1 "

As he thus spoke, Zanoni laid his
hand gently on the burning temples
of his excited and wondering listener;
and presently a sort of trance came
over him : he imagined that he was
returned to the home of his infancy ;
that he was in the small chamber
where, over his early slumbers, his
mother had watched and prayed.
There it was — visible, palpable, soli-
tary, unaltered. In the recess, 'the
homely bed ; on the walls, the shelves
filled ¥rith holy books ; the very easel
on which he had first sought to call
the ideal to the canvas, dust-covered,
broken, in the corner. Below the
window lay the old churchyard; he
saw it green in the distance, the sun
glancing through the yew trees ; he
saw the tomb where father and
mother lay united, and the spire
pointing up to Heaven, the symbol
of the hopes of those who consigned
the ashes to the dust; in his ear
rang the bells, pealing, as on a

272

2AN0NI.

sabbath day ; hi fled all the visions
of anxiety and awe that had haunted
and convulsed; youth, boyhood,
childhood, came back to him with
innocent desires and hopes; he
thought he fell upon his knees to
pray. He woke — be woke in deli-
cious tears ; he felt that the phantom
was fled for ever. He looked round —
Zanoni was gone. On the table lay
these lines, the ink yet wet : —

"I will find ways and means for
thy escape. At nightfall, as the clock
strikes nine, a boat shall wait thee on
the river before this house, the boat-

man* will guide thee to a retreat
where thou mayst rest in safety, till
the Reign of Terror, which neare its
close, be past Think no more of
the sensuaj love that lured, and well
nigh lost, thee. It betrayed, and
would have destroyed. Thou wilt
regain thy land in safety, — ^long years
yet spared to thee to muse over the
past, and to redeem it !For thy
future, be thy dream thy guide, and
thy tears thy baptism.**

The Englishman obeyed the injunc-
tions of the letter, and found their
truth.

ZANONI.

373

CHAPTER X.

Quid mirare meas tot in nno corpore foraias ? *

PROPSftT.

ZANOHI TO XXJNOUR.

•' She is in one of their prisons— their
inexorable prisons. It is Robes-
pierre's order — I have tracked the
cause to Glyndon. This, then, made
that terrible connexion between their
fates which I could not unravel, but
-which (till severed as it now is)
^Trapped Glyndon himself in the same
cloud that concealed her. In prison —
in prison! — it is the gate of the
grave ! Her trial, and the inevitable
execution that follows such trial, is
the third day from this. The tyrant
has fixed all his schemes of slalughter
for the 10th of Thermidor. While
the deaths of the unoffending strike
awe to the city, his satellites are to
massacre his foes. There is but one
hope left— that the Power which now
dooms the doomer, may render me
an instrument to expedite his fall.
But two days left — two days ! In all
my wealth of time I see but two
days; all beyond— darkness — solitude.
I may save her yet. The tyrant shall
fall the day before that which he has
set apart for slaughter ! For the first
time I mix among the broils and
stratagems of men, and my mind
leaps up from my despair, armed and
eager for the contest."

A crowd had gathered round the
Rue St Honore— a young man was

* Why wonder fbat I have so many forms
in a single body?
No. 276.

just arrested by the order of Robes-
pierre. He was known to be in the
service of Tallien,.that hostile leader
in the Convention, whom the tyrant
had hitherto trembled to attack.
This incident had therefore produced
a greater excitement than a circum-
stance so customary as an arrest in
the Reign of Terror might be sup-
posed to create. Amongst the crowd
were many friends of Tallien, many
foes to the tyrant, many weary of
beholding the tiger dragging victim
after victim to its den. Hoarse, fore-
boding murmurs were heard; fierce
eyes glared upon the officers as they
seized their prisoner; and though
they did not yet dare openly to resist,
those in the rear pressed on those
behind, and encumbered the path of
the captive and his captors. The
young man struggled hard fdr escape,
and, by a violent effort, at last
wrenched himself from the grasp.
The crowd made way, and closed
round to protect him, as he dived
and darted through their ranks ; but
suddenly the trampling of horses was
heard at hand— the savage Henriot
and his troop were bearing down
upon the mob. The crowd gave way
in alarm, and the prisoner was again
seized by one of the partisans of the
Dictator. At that moment a voice
whispered the prisoner^-" Thou hast
a letter, which, if found on thee,
ruins thy last hope. Give it to me !
I will bear it to Tallien." The pri-
soner turned in amaze, read some-
thing that encouraged him in the
eyes of the stranger who thus accosted
T 18

274

ZANONL

him; the troop were now on the
spot ; the Jacobin who had seized the
prisoner released hold of him for a
moment, to escape the hoofs of the
horses, — ^in that moment the oppor-
tunity was found — ^the stranger had
disappeared.

At the honse of Tallien the prin-
cipal foes of the tyrant were assem-
bled. Common danger made common
fellowship. All factions laid aside
their feuds for the hour to unite
against the formidable man who was
marching over all factions to his
gory throne. There, was bold
Lecointre, the declared enemy —
there, creeping Barrfere, who would
reconcile all extremes, the hero of the
cowards ; Barras, calm and collected —
CoHot d'Herbois, breathing wrath
and vengeance, and seeiQg not that
the crimes of Kobespierre alone shel-
tered his own.

The council was agitated and irre-
solute. The awe which the uniform
success, and the prodigious energy of
Kobespierre excited, still held the
greater part under its control.
Tallien, whom the tyrant most feared,
and who alone could give head and
substance and direction to so many
contradictory passions, w^ too sullied
by the memory of his own cruelties,
not to feel embarrassed by his position
as the champion of mercy. " It is
true," he said, after an animating
harangue from Lecointre, "that the
Usurper menaces us all. But he is
still 80 beloved by his mobs — still so
supported hj his Jacobins — better
delay open hostilities till the hour is
ujore ripe. Tp attempt and not succeed
is to give us, bound hand and foot, to
the guillotine. Every day his power
must decline. Procrastination is our

best ally " While yet speaMug,

and wtile yet producing the effect of
water on the fire, it was announced
that a, stranger, demanded to see him

instantly on business that brooked no
delay.

"I am not at leisure," said the
orator, impatiently. The servant
placed a note on the table. TalUen
opened it, and found these words in
pencil, " From the prison of Teresa
de Fontenai." He turned pale,
started up, and hastened to the ante-
room, where he beheld a &ce entirely
strange to him.

" Hope of France !" said the viaator
to him, and the very sound of his
voice went straight to the heart—
"your servant is arrested in the
streets. I have saved your life, and
that of your wife who will be. I bring
to you this letter from Teresa de
E'ontenai."

Tallien, with a trembling band,
opened the letter, and read — " Am I
for ever to implore you in vaini Again
and again I say— Lose not an hour,
if you value my life and your own.
My trial and death are ^xed the
third day from this — ^the 10th Ther-
midor. Strike while it is yet tinae —
strike the monster! — ^you have two
days yet. If you fail — if you pro-
crastinate — ^see xne for the last time
as I pass your windows to the
guillotine 1 "

" Her trial will give proof against
you," said the stranger. " Her death
is the herald of your own. Fear not
the populace — ^the populace would
have rescued your servant. Fear
not Robespierre — he giv^ him-
self to your hands. To-morrow he
comes to the Convention — ^to-morrow,
you must cast the last throw for his
head or your own,*.

" To-morrow he comes to the Con-
vention ! And who are you, that know
so well what is concealed from me 1'*

" A man, like you, who would save
the woman he Ipves."

Before Tallien could recover his
surprise, the visitor was gone.

Back went the Avenger to his
conclave, an altei^man. ^I have

ZANONI.

27&

{

Iieard tidings — ^no matter what/' lie
cried, "that have changed my pur-
pose. On the 10th we are destined
-to the guillotine. I revoke my
counsel for delay. Robespierre comes
"to the Convention to-morrow ; there
^we must confront and crush him.
l^rom the Mountain shall frown
against him the grim shade of
Danton — from the Plain shall rise, in
their bloody cerements, the spectres
of Vergniaud and Condorcet. Fra^
pons ! "

" Frappons ! " cried even Barrfere,
Btartled into energy by th^ new daring
of his colleague, " Frappons ! il n'y
a que les morts qui ne reviennent pas"
V It was observable (and the fact n^ay
be found in one of the memoirs of
the time) that, during that day and
night (the 7th Thermidor), a stranger
to all the previous events of that
stormy time was seen in. various parts
of the city— in the cafes, the clubs,
th^ haunts of the various Actions —
. that, to the astonishment and di^ay
of his hearers, he talked aloud of the
crimes of Robespierre, and predicted
his coming fall ; and as he spoke;^ he
stirred up the hearts of men, he
loosed the bonds of their fear, he
inflamed them with unwonted rage
and daring, "^t what surprised

them most was, that no voice replied —
no hand was lifted against him — no
minion, even of the tyrant, cried,
" Arrest the Traitor." In that impu-
nity men read, as in a book, that the
populace had deserted the man of blood .

Once only a fierce, brawny Jacobin
sprung up from the table at which he
sat, drinking deep, and, approaching
the stranger, said, " I seize thee, in
the name of the Republic."

* Citizen Arist^des,", a,^iswered the
stranger, in a whimper, "go to the
lodgii^B of Robespierre; he is from
home, and in the left pocket of the
vest, which he cast off not an hour
since, thou wilt find a paper ^ when
thou hast read that, return. I will
await thee : and if thou wouldst then
seize me, I will go without a struggle.
Look roun4 on those lowering brow^
touch me now, and thou wilt be torn
to pieces."

The Jacobin felt as if compelled
to obey against M9 will. IJe wen^t
forth mutterix]^: he returned, the
stranger was still there: " Mille
tonnerresP he said to him — ** I thank
thee ; the poltroon had my name in
his list for the guillotine." ^

With that the Jacobin Aristidesi
sprang upon th^, table, and shouted,'
" Death to the Tywj^t ! "

T 2

276

ZANONI.

CHAPTER XL

Le lendemain, 8 Thennldor, Robespierre se dteida k prononcer aon fanieux diaconrs.*

Thisrs, Hist, de la Revolution,

/

The morning rose — the 8th of
Tfaermidor (July £6th.) Robespierre
has gone to the Convention. He has
gone, with his laboured speech ; he
has gone, with his phrases of philan-
thropy and virtue; he has gone to
single out his prey. All his agents
are prepared for his reception; the
fierce St. Just has arrived from the
armies, to second his courage and
inflame his wrath. His ominous
apparition prepares the audience for
the crisis. " Citizens ! " screeched the
shrill voice of Robespierre — "others
have placed before you flattering
pictures ; I come to announce to you

useful truths.

» * « «

And they attribute to me, to me
alone ! — whatever of harsh or evil is
committed; it is Robespierre who
wishes it; it is Robespierre who
ordains it. Is there a new tax 1— it
is Robespierre who ruins you. They
call me tyrant ! — and why] Because
I have acquired some influence ; but
how) in speaking truth; and who
pretends that truth is to be without
force in the mouths of the Represen-
tatives of the French people? Doubt-
less, Truth has its power, its rage, its
despotism, its accents, touching, —
terrible, which resound in the pure
heart, as in the guilty conscience;
and which Falsehood can no more
imitate than Salmoneus could forge
the thunderbolts of Heaven. What
am I, whom they accuse 1 A slave

* The next day, 8 Thermidor, Robespierre
rowdved to deUver his oelebrated discourse.

of liberty — ^a living martyr of the
Republic — the victim, as the enemy,
of crime ! All ruffianism affronts
me ; and actions legitimate in others,
are crimes in me. It is enough to
know me, to be calumniated. It is in
my very zeal that they discover my
guilt. Take from me my conscience,
and I should be the most miserable
of men ! "

He paused; and Couthon wiped
his eyes, and St. Just murmured ap-
plause, as with stem looks he gazed
on the rebellious Mountain; and
there was a dead, mournful, ' and
chilling silence through the audience.
The touching sentiment woke no
echo.

The orator cast his eyes around.
Ho ! he will soon arouse that apathy.
He proceeds : he praises, he pities
himself, no more. He denounces —
he accuses. Overfiooded with his
venom, he vomits it forth on all.
At home, abroad, finances, war — on
all! Shriller and sharper rose his
voice —

"A conspiracy exists against the
Public Liberty. It owes its strength
to a criminal coalition in the very
bosom of the Convention ; it has ac-
complices in the bosom of the Com-
mittee of Public Safety. . . .
What is the remedy to this evil ? To
punish the traitors; to purify this
committee ; to crush all factions by
the weight of the National Authority ;
to raise upon their ruins the power of
Liberty and Justice. Such are the
principles of that Reform. Must I be
ambitious to profess them? then the

ZANONI.

277

principles are proscribed, and Tyranny
reigns amongst usl For what can
yoa object to a man who is in the
right; and has, at least, this know-
ledge — he knows how to die for his
native land ! I am made to combat
crime, and not to govern it. The
time, alas] is not yet arrived when
men of worth can serve with im-
punity their country. So long as the
knaves rule, the defenders of liberty
will be only the proscribed."

For two hours through that cold
and gloomy audience, shrilled the
Death-speech. In silence it began,
in silence closed. The enemies of
the orator were afraid to express re-
sentment: they knew not yet the
exact balance of power. His parti-
sans were afraid to approve; they
knew not whom of their own friends
and relations the accusations were
designed to single forth. "Take
care I" whispered each to each, "it
is thou whom he threatens." But
silent though the audience, it was,
at the first, well-nigh subdued. There
was still about this terrible man the
spell of an over-mastering will.
Always— though not what is called a
I great orator — resolute, and sovereign
in the use of words, words seemed as
things when uttered by one who
with a nod moved the troops of Hen-
riot, and influenced the judgment of
B^n6 Dumas, grim President of the
Tribunal. Lecolntre of Yersailles
rose, and there was an anxious move-
ment of attention ; for Lecointre was
one of the fiercest foes of the tyrant
What was the dismay of the Tallien
faction, — ^what the complacent smile
of Couthon, when Lecointre demanded
only that the oration should be
printed] All seemed paralysed. At
length. Bourdon de TOise, whose
name was doubly marked in the black
list of the Dictator, stalked to the
tribune, and moved the bold counter-
resolution, that the speech should be
referred to the two Committees whom

that very speech accused. Still no
applause from the conspirators : they
sat torpid as frozen men. The shrink-
ing Barrdre, ever on the prudent side,
looked round before he rose. He
rises, and sides with Lecointre ! Then
Couthon seized the occasion, and from
his seat, (a privilege permitted alone
to the paralytic philanthropist,)* and
with his melodious voice, sought to
convert the crisis into a triumph.
He demanded, not only that the
harangue should be printed, but sent
to all the communes and all the
armies. It was necessary to soothe
a wronged and ulcerated heart.
Deputies, the most faithful, had been
accused of shedding blood. " Ah ! if
he had contributed to the death of
one innocent man, he should immo-
late himself with grief." Beautiful
tenderness ! — and while he spoke, he
fondled the spaniel in his bosom.
Bravo, Couthon! Bobespierre tri-
umphs ! The reign of Terror shall
endure! — the old submission settles
dove-like back in the assembly!
They vote the printing of the Death-
speech, and its transmission to all the
municipalities. From the benches
of the Mountain, Tallien, alarmed,
dismayed, impatient, and indignant,
cast his gaze where sat the strangers
admitted to hear the debates. And,
suddenly, he met the eyes of the
Unknown who had brought to him
the letter from Teresa de Fontenai,
the preceding day. The eyes fasci-
nated him as he gazed. In after
times, he often said, that their regard,
fixed, earnest, half reproachful, and
yet cheering and triumphant, filled
him with new life and courage. They
spoke to his heart as the trumpet

* M. Thiers in hto History, vol. iv. p. 79.
makes a curious blunder : be says, *' Couthon
s*elance d la tribune." (Qouthon darted
towards the tribune. ) Poor Couthon ! whose
half body was dead, and who was always
wheeled in his chair into the Convention
and spoke sitting.

278

ZANONI.

\

speaks to the imr-horse. He mored
from hifl seat ; he whispered with his
allies; the spirit he had drawn in
was contagious ; the m^n whom Robes-
pierre especially had denounced, and
who saw the sword over their heads,
woke from their torpid trance. Vadier,
Calnbon, Billaud-Varennes, Panis,
Amar, rose at once — all at once de-
manded speech. Yadier is first heard,
the rest succeed. It burst forth, the
Mountain, with its fires and con-
suming lava! flood upon flood they
rush, a legion of Ciceros upon the
startled Catiline ! Kobespierre falters
— hesitates — ^would qualify, retract.
They gather new courage from his
new fears ; they interrupt him ; they
drown his voice: they demafad the

reversal of the motion. Amar moves
again that the speech be referred to
the Committees — to the Committees
— to his enemies ! Confusion, and
noise, and clamour! Kobespierre
wraps himself in silent and superb
disdain. Pale, defeated, but not yet
destroyed, he stands, a storm in the
midst of storm !

The motion is carried. All men
foresee in that defeat the Dictator's
downfal. A solitary cry rose from
the galleries; it was caught up;
it circled through the hall — the^-
audience : "A baale tyrant I Five la
rSpublique!"* J

* Down with the tyrant ! Hurrah for the
republic !

zA^om.

279

CHAPTER XII.

Aupr^s d'un corps aussi avili que la Convention il restait des chances pour que
Robespierre sortit yainqueur de oette lutte.*— Lacbbtkllb, yoL xiu

As Bobespierre left the hall, there
was a dead and ominous silence in
the crowd without The herd, in
every country, side with success ; and
the rats run from the falling tower.
But Robespierre, who wanted courage,
never wanted pride, and the last often
supplied the place of the first :
thoughtfully, and with an impene-
trable brow, he passed through the
throng, leaning on St. Just, Payan
and his brother following him.

As they got into the open space,
Robespierre abruptly broke the silence.

''How many heads were to fall
upon the tenth 1 "

" Eighty," replied Payan.

*' Ah, we must not tarry so long ;
^ a day may lose an empire ; terrorism
' must serve us yet ! "

He was silent a few moments, and
his eyes roved suspiciously through
the street.

" St. Just," he said, abruptly, " they
have not found this Englishman,
whose revelations or whose trial
would have crushed the Amars and
the Talliens. Ko, no ! my Jacobins
themselves are growing dull and
blind. But they have seized a
woman — only a woman ! "

" A woman's hand stabbed Marat,"
^ said 6t. Just. Robespierre stopped
short, and breathed hard.

"St. Just," said he, "when this
peril is past, we will found the Reign
of Peace. There shall be homes and

4 ^ Amongst a body so debased as the Con-
Tention, there still remained some chances
that Robespierre would oome off victor in
the struggle.

gardens set apart for the old. David
is already designing the porticos.
Virtuous men shall be appointed to
instruct the young. AH vice and
disorder shall be not exterminated;
no, no ! only banished ! We must
not die yet. Posterity cannot judge-
us till our work is done. We have
recalled L'Etre Supreme; we must
now remodel this corrupted world.
All shall be love and brotherhood;
and — ho ! Simon ! Simon ! — hold !
Your pencil, St. Just ! " And Robes-
pierre wrote hastily. "This to
Citizen President Dumas. Go with
it quick, Simon. These eighty heads
must fall to-morrow — to-morrov),
Simon. Dumas will advance their
trial a day. I will write to Foiiquier
Tinville, the public accuser. We
meet at the Jacobins, to-night, Simon ;
there, we will denounce the Conven-
tion itself; there we will rally round vk
the last friends of liberty and France."

A shout was heard in the distance
behind — " Vive la ripvMique /"

The tyrant's eye shot a vindictive
gleam. " The republic ! — faugh ! We
did not destroy the throne of a thou-
sand years ibr that canaille I "

The triai, the execution of the
victims is advanced a day ! By the
aid of the mysterious intelligence
that had guided and animated him
hitherto, Zanoni learned that his arts
had been in vain. He knew that
Yiola was safe, if she could but sur-
vive an hour the life of the tyrant.
He knew that Robespierre's hours
were numbered; that the tenth of
Thermidor, on which he had originally

280

ZANONI.

designed the execation of his last
▼ictimS; woald see himself at the
scaffold. Zanoni had toiled, had
schemed for the fall of the Butcher
md his reign. To what end?
A single word from the tyrant had
baffled the result of all. The exe-

cution of Viola is advanced a day. is safe to-night ! ^

Vain seer, who wouldst make thyself
the instrument of the Eternal, the
very dangers that now beset the
tyrant but expedite the doom of his
victims! To-morrow, eighty heads,
and hers whose pillow has been thy
heart! To-morrow! and Mazimilien

CHAPTER XIII.

Brde mag zurUck in Erde stauben,

Fliegt der Geist doch aus dem monchen Haus !
Seine Asche mag der Sturmwind treiben,

Sein Leb^i dauert ewig aus I *

Elbois.

To-MORRow! — and it is already twi-
light. One after one, the gentle stars
come smiling through the heaven.
The Seine, in its slow waters, yet
tremiHes with the last kiss of the
rosy day ; and still, in the blue sky,
gleams the spire of Notre Dame;
and still in the blue sky, looms
the guillotine by the Barri^e du
Tr&ne. Turn to that time-worn
building, once the church and the
convent of the Freres-Pr^cheurs,
known by the then holy name of
Jacobins; there the new Jacobins
hold their club. There, in that oblong
hall, once the library of the peaceful
monks, assemble the idolaters of Saint
Robespierre. Two immense tribunes,
raised at either end, contain the lees
and dregs of the atrocious populace
— ^the m^ority of that audience con-
sisting of the furies of the guillotine
(furies de guillotine). In the midst
of the hall are the bureau and chair
of the president— the chair long pre-
served by the piety of the monks as
the relic of St. Thomas Aquinas!
Above this seat scowls the harsh bust

* Earth may crumble back into earth ; the
Spirit will still escape from its frail tcne-
ment. The wind of the storm may scatter
his ashes ; his being endures for ever. ^

of Brutus. An iron lamp, and two
branches, scatter over the vast room
a murky fuliginous ray, beneath the
light of which the fierce faces of that
Pandaemonium seem more grim and
haggard. There, from the orator's
tribune, shrieks the shrill wrath of
Robespierre !

Meanwhile, all is chaos, disorder,
half daring and half cowardice, in the
Committee of his foes. Rumours fly
from street to street, from haunt to
haunt, from house to house. The
swallows flit low, and the cattle group
together before the storm. And
above this roar of the lives and things
of the little hour, alone in his cham-
ber stood he on whose starry youth —
symbol of the imperishable bloom of
the calm Ideal amidst the mouldering
Actual — the clouds of ages had rolled
in vain.

All those exertions which ordinary
wit and courage could suggest had
been tried in vain. All such exertions
were in vain, where, in that Saturnalia
of death, a life was the object. Nothing
but the fall of Robespierre could have
saved his victims ; now, too late, that
fall would only serve to avenge.

Once more, in that last agony of
excitement and despair, the Seer had

ZANONL

281

planged into solitade^ to invoke
again the aid or counsel of those
mysterious intermediates between
earth and heaven who had renounced
the intercourse of the spirit when
subjected to the common bondage of
the mortal. In the intense desire and
anguish of his hearty perhaps, lay a
power not yet called forth ; for who
has not felt that the sharpness of ex-
treme grief cuts and grides away
many of those strongest bonds of in-
firmity and doubt which bind down the
souls of men to the cabined darkness of [
the hour ; and that from the cloud and
thunder-storm often swoops the Olym-
pian eagle that can ravish us aloft i

And the invocation was heard-^the
bondage of sense was rent away 'from
the visual mind. He looked, and
saw — no, not the being he had called,
with its limbs of light and unutter-
ably tranquil smile— not his familiar,
Adon-Ai, the Son of Glory and the
Star — but the Evil Omen, the dark
Chimera, the implacable Foe, with
exultation and malice burning in its
helMit eyes. The Spectre, no longer
cowering and retreating into shadow,
rose before him, gigantic and erect, —
the face, whose veil no mortal hand
had ever raised, was still concealed, but
the form was more distinct, corporeal,
and cast from it, as an atmosphere,
horror, and rage, and awe. As an
iceberg, the breath of that presence
froze the air ; as a cloud, it filled the
chamber, and blackened the stars
from heaven.

" Lo I " said Its voice, * I am here
once more. Thou hast robbed me of
a meaner prey. Now exorcise thyself
from my power! Thy life has left
thee, to live in the heart of a daughter
of the chamel and the worm. In
that life I come to thee with my
inexorable tread. Thou art returned
to the Threshold — thou, whose steps
have trodden the verges of the Infi-
nite! And, as the goblin of its
phantasy seizes on a child in the

dark, — mighty one, who wouldst
conquer Death, I seize on thee !"

"Back to thy thraldom, slave! if
thou art come to the voice that called
thee not, it is again not to command,
but to obey! Thou, from whose
whisper I gained the boons of the
lives lovelier and dearer than my
own — ^thou, — I command thee, not
by spell and charm, but by the force
of a soul mightier than the malice of
thy being, — thou serve me yet, and
speak again the secret that can res-
cue the lives thou hast, by permission
of the Universal Master, permitted
me to retain awhile in the temple of
the clay ! "

Brighter and more devouringly
burnt the glare from those lurid eyes ;
more visible and colossal yet rose the
dilating shape; a yet fiercer and
more disdainful hate spoke in the
voice that answered — ''Didst thou
think that my boon would be other
than thy curse? Happy for thee
hadst thou mourned over the deaths
which come by the gentle hand of
Nature — ^hadst thou never known
iiow the name of mother consecrates
the face of Beauty, and never, bending
over thy first-born, felt the imperish-
able sweetness of a father's love!
They are saved, for what? — the
mother, for the death of violence,
and shame, and blood — for the dooms-
man's hand to put aside that shining
hair which has entangled thy bride-
groom kisses, the child, first and
last of thine offspring, in whom thou
didst hope to found a race that should
hear with thee the music of celestial
harps, and float, by the side of thy
familiar, Adon-Ai, through the azure
rivers of joy, — the child, to live on a
few days, as a fungus in a burial
vault, a thing of the loathsome dun-
geon, dying of cruelty, and neglect,
and famine. Ha ! ha ! thou who
wouldst baffle Death, learn how the
deathless die if they dare to love the
mortal Now, Chaldaean, behold my

ZANONI.

boonB ! Now I seize and irrap thee
with the pestilence of my presence ;
now, evermore, till thy long race is
ran, mine eyes shall glow into thy
brain, and mine arms shall clasp thee,
when thou wonldst take the wings of
the Morning, and flee from the
embrace of Night ! "

"I tell thee, no! And again I
compel thee, speak and answer to the
lord who can command his slave. I
know, though my lore fails me, and the
reeds on which I leaned pierce my side,
I know yet that it is written that the
life of which I question can be saved
from the headsman. Thou wrappest
her future in the darkness of thy
shadow, but thou canst not shape it.
Thou majst foreshow the antidote;
thou canst not efiTect the bane. From
thee I wring the secret, though it
torture thee to name it. I approach
thee — I look dauntless, into thine
eyes. The soul that loves can dare
all things. Shadow, I defy thee, and
comipel 1 *

The spectre waned and recoiled.
Like a vapour that lessens as the
sun pierces and pervades it, the form
shrunk cowering and dwarfed in the
dimmer distance, and through the
casement again rushed the stars.

** Yes," said the Voice, with a faint
and hollow accent, '^ thou canst save
her from the headsman; for it is
written, that sacrifice can save. Hk!
ha ! " And the shape again suddenly
dilated into the gloom of its giant
stature, and its ghastly laugh exulted,
as if the Foe, a moment baffled, had
regained its might. "Hal ha!—
thou canst save her Bfe, if thou wilt
sacrifice thine own ! Is it for this
thou hast lived on through crumbling
empires and countless generations of
thy race? At last shall Death re-
claim thee? Wonldst thou save
'herl—die for her! Fall, stately
column, over which stars yet un-
formed may gleam— fall, that the
herb at thy base may drink a few

hours longer the snnlight and the
dews ! Silent ! Art thou ready for
the sacrifice 1 See, the moon moves
up through Heaven. Beautiful and
wise one, wilt thou bid her smile to-
morrow on thjr headless clay t"

"Back! for 'my soul, in answering
thee from depths where thou canst
not hear it, has regained its glory;
and I hear the wings of Adon-Ai
gliding musical through the air."

He spoke ; and, with a low shriek
of baffled rage and hate, the Thing
was gone, and through the room
rushed, luminous and sudden, the
Presence of silvery light.

As the Heavenly visitor stood in
the atmosphere of his own lustre, and
looked upon the face of the Theur^t
with an aspect of inefifkble tenderness
and love, all sp^ seemed lighted
from his smile. Along the blue air
without, from that chamber in which
his wings had halted, to the farthest
star in the kzure distance, ii seemed
as if the track of his flight were
visible, by a lengthened splendour in
the air, like the colunin of moonlight
oYi the sea. Like the flower that
diflftises perfume as the very breath of
its life, so the emanation of that
pt^sence was joy. Over the world, as
a million times swifter than Wght,
than electricity, the Son of Glory had
sped his way to the side of love, his
wings had scattered delight as the
morning scatters dew. For that
brief moment, Poverty had ceased to
mourn, Disease fled from its prey,
and Hope breathed a dream of
Ifieaven into the darkness of Despair.

** Thou art right," said the melo-
dious Yoice. "Thy courage has
restored thy power. Once more, in
the haunts of earth, thy soul charms
me to thy side. Wiser now, in the
moment when thou comprehendest
Death, than when thy unfettSrtd
spirit learned the solemn mystery of
Life ; the human affections &at
thralled and humbled thee awhile

ZANONI.

"bring to thee, in these last hours of
■thy mortality, the sublimest heritage
of thy race — the eternity that com-
xuences from the grave."

" O Adon-Ai," said the Chaldeean,

SLS, circamfused in the splendour of

the visitant, a glory more radiant

than human beauty settled round his

form, and seemed already to belong

to the eternity of which the Bright

One spoke, " as men, before they die,

see and comprehend the enigmas

hidden from them, before,* so in this

hour, when the sacrifice of self to

another brings the course of ages to

its goal, I see the littleness of Life,

compared to the majesty of Death ;

but oh. Divine Consoler, even here,

even in thy presence, the affections

that inspii'e me, sadden. To leave

behind me in this bad world, unaided,

unprotected, those for whom I die !

the wife ! the child ! — oh, speak

comfort to me in this ! "

" And what," said the visitor, with
a slight accent of reproof in the tone

* The greatest Poet, and one of the
noblest thinkers, of the last age, said, on his
death-bed, *'Many things obscure to me
l>efore, now clear up, uid become visible."-^ j
See the LrFB or Scbjexsr. |

of celestial pity, "what, with all thy
wisdom and thy starry secrets, with
all thy empire of the past, and thy
visions of the future — what art thou
to the All-Directing and Omniscient 1
Canst thou yet imagine that thy
presence on earth can give to the
hearts thou lovest the shelter which
the humblest take from the wings of
the Presence that lives in Heaven?
Fear not thou for their future.
Whether thou live or die, their future
is the care of the Most High ! In the
dungeon and on the scaffold looks
everlasting the Eye of Him, tenderer
than thou to love, wiser than thou to
guide, mightier than thou to save ! "

Zanoni bowed his head ; and when
he looked up again, the last shadow
had left his brow. The visitor was
gone; but still the glory of his presence
seemed to shine upon the spot ; still
the solitary air seemed to murmur
with tremulous delight. And thus
ever shall it be with those who have
once, detaching themselves utterly
from life, received the visit of the
Angel Faith. Solitude and space
retain the splendour, and it settles
like a halo roiihd their graves.

264

ZANOKI.

CHAPTER XIV.

Dann xur Blamenflur der Stern*
Aofgeaohauet liebewarm
Faas* ibn freundlioh Ann in Aim
Trag' ihn in die blaue Ferne.

Uhlamo, An den Tod.

Then towards the Garden of the Star

Lift up thine aspect warm with love.
And, friendlike link'd through space afar.

Mount with him, arm in arm, above.

. Uhlamo, Poem to Dsath.

Hb stood npon the lofty balcony that
overlooked the quiet city. Though
afar, the fiercest passions of men were^
at work en the web of strife and doom/
all that gave itself to his view was
calm and still in the rays of the
summer moon/for his soul was. wrapped
from man and man's narrow sphere/
and only the serener glories of crea-
tion were present to the yision of the
seer/ There he stood, alone and
thoughtful, to take the last farewell
of the wondrous life that he had
known.

Coursing through the fields of space,
he beheld the gossamer shapes, whose
choral joys his spirit had so often
shared. There, group upon group,
they circled in the starry silence mul-
tiform in the unimaginable beauty of a
being fed by ambrosial dews and
serenest light. In his trance, all the
universe stretched visible beyond ; in
the green valleys afar, he saw the
dances of the fairies ; in the bowels of
the mountains, he beheld the race
that breathe the lurid air of the volca-
noes, and hide from the light of
Heaven ; on every leaf in the number-
less forests, in every drop of the
unmeasured seas, he surveyed its
separate and swarming world ; far up,
in the farthest blue, he saw orb upon

orb ripening into shape, and planets
starting from the central fire, to mn
their day of ten thousand years. Per
everywhere in creation is the breath
of the Creator, and in every spot, where
the breath breathes is life ! And alone,
in the distance, the lonely man beheld
his Magian brother. There, at work
with his numbers and his cabala,
amidst the wrecks of Rome, passionless
and calm, sat in his cell the mystic
Mejnour ; living on, living ever while
the world lasts, indifierent whether
his knowledge produces weal or woe ;
a mechanical agent of a more tender
and a wiser Will, that guides every
spring to its inscrutable designs.
Living on — living ever—as Science
that cares alone for knowledge, and
halts not to consider how knowledge
advances happiness; how Human
Improvement, rushing through civili-
sation, crushes in its march all who
cannot grapple to its wheels ; * ever,

* ** You colonise the lands of the i
with the Anglo-Saxon— you oivilise that
portion of the earth; but is the eatage
civilised ? He is exterminated ! You acov-
mulate machinery—you increase the iotaX of
wealth : but what becomes of the labour
you displace ? One generation is sacrificed
to the next. You diffuse knowledge-and
the world seems to grow brighter ; but Dis.

ZANONI.

285

with its cabala and its numbers, lives
on to change, in its bloodless move-
ments, the foce of the habitable
world I

And, " Oh, farewell to life ! *' mur-
mured the glorious dreamer. ^ Sweet,
O life ! hast thou been to me. How
fathomless thy joys— how rapturously
has my soul bounded forth upon the
upwaid paths I To him who for ever
renews his youth in the clear fount of
Nature, how exquisite is the mere
happiness to be! Farewell, ye lamps
of heaven, and ye million tribes, the
Populace of Air. Not a mote in the
beam, not a herb on the mountain,
not a pebble on the shore, not a seed
far-blown into the wilderness, but
contributed to the lore that sought in
all, the true principle of life, the
Beautiful, the Joyous, the Immortal.
To others, a land, a city, a hearth, has
been a home; my home has been
wherever the intellect could pierce, or
the spirit could breathe the air.*'

He paused, and through the im-
measurable space, his eyes and his
heart, penetrating the dismal dungeon,
rested on his child. He saw it slum-
bering in the arms of the pale mother,
and his soul spoke to the sleeping
soul. " Forgive me, if my desire was
sin ; I dreamed to have reared and
nurtured thee to the divinest destinies

oontent at Poverty replaces Ignorance^ happy
rvrith its crust. Every improvement, every
advancement in civilisation, injures some,
to benefit others, and either cherishes the
want of to-day, or prepares the revolution of
to-morrow."— STKPBCir Mohtaoub.

my visions could foresee. Betimes,
as the mortal part was strengthened
against disease, to have purified the
spiritual from every sin ; to have led
thee, heaven upon heaven, through the
holy ecstasies which make up the
existence of the orders that dwell on
high; to have formed, from thy
sublime affections, the pure and ever-
living communication between thy
mother and myself. The dream was
but a dream — ^it is no more ! In sight
myself of the grave, I feel, at last,
that through the portals of the grave
lies the true initiation into the holy
and the wise. Beyond those, portals
I await ye both, beloved pilgrims I "

From lis numbers and his cabala,
in his cell, amidst the wrecks of Rome,
Mejnour, startled, looked up, and,
through th^ spirit, felt that the spirit
of his distant friend addressed him.

" Fare thee well for ever upon this
earth! Thy last companion forsakes
thy side. Thine age survives the
youth of all ; and the Final Day shall
find thee still the eontemplater of our
tombs. I go with my free-will into
the land of darkness ; but new suns
and systems blaze around us from the
grave. I go where the souls of those
for whom I resign the clay shall be
my co-mates through eternal youth.
At last, I recognise the true ordeal
and the real victory. Mejnour, cast
down thy elixir ; lay by thy load of
years ! Wherever the soul can wander,
the Eternal Soul of all things protects
it still!"

286

^NONL

CHAPTER XV.

Ha ne yealent plus perdre an n^oment d'une nuit si pr^deuse.'l^

Lacrbtxllk, tom* xiL

It was late that night, aad Rene-
Pran9oifi Dumas, President of the
Reyolutioiiary Tribunal, had re-entered
his cabinet, on his return from the
Jacobin club- With him 'v^ere two
men who might be said to represent,
the one t^e moral, the other the
physical force of the Heign of Terror :
Fouquier-Tinville, the Public Accuser,
and Fran9ois Henriot, the General of
the Parisian Kational Guard. This
formidable tji^mvirate were aasemtled
to debate on tte proceedings of the
next day ; and the three sister-witches,
over their hellish caldron, were scarcely
animated by a more fiend-like spirit,
or engaged in more execrable designs,
than these three heroes of the revolu-
tion in their premeditated massacre
of the moryow.

Dumas was but little altered in
a,ppearance since, in the earlier part
of this narrative^, he was presented to
the reader, except that his manner
was somewhat more short and severe,
and his eye yet more restless. But he
seemed sjmost a superior being by the
side of his associates. Ben^-Dumas,
born of respectable parents, and well-
educated, despite his ferocity, was not
without a certain refinement, which
perhaps rendered him the more
acceptable to the precise and formal
Robespierre.t But Henriot had been
a lackey, a thief, a spy of the police ;
he had drunk the blood of Madame

* They would not lose another moment of
BO precious a night.

t Dumas was a Bean in his way. His ffala
dress was a blood-red coatf with the finest
nilBea

de LamballCj apd had risen to his
present rank for no quality but his •
ruffianism ; and Fouquier-Tinville, the /
son of a provincial agriculturist, and ,
afterwards a clerk at the Bureau of the
Police, was little less base in his^
manners, and yet more, from a certain
loathsome buffooneiy, revolting in his
speech ; bull-headed, with black, sleek
hair, with a narrow and livid forehead,
with small eyes, that twinkled with a
sinister malice ; strongly and coarsely
built^ he looked what he was, the
audacious] Bully of a laifless and
relentless Bar.

Dum^ trimmed the candles, and
bent over the list of the victims for
the morrow.

'' It is a long catalpgne," said the
President; "eighty trials for one
day! And Bobespierre*s orders to
despatch the whole foumSe are
unequivocaL"

"Pooh!" said Fouquier, with a
coarse, loud laugh ; we must try them i
en masse. I know how to deal with '
our jury. *Je pena^, Oitayens, qve
V0U9 ^ka convaincus du crime des j
accus^F** Ha! ha!^the longer
the list, the shorter the work."

"Oh, yes," growled out Henriot,
with an oath, — as usual, half drunk,
and lolling on his chair, with his.
spurred heels on the table — "littW ^
Tinville is the man for despatch.''

"Citizen Henriot^" said Dumas,
gravely, " permit me to request thee
to select another footstool; and for

* I think, oitisens, that you are oon*
vinoed of the crime of the accused.

ZANONI.

287

the rest, let me warn thee that
to-morrow is a critical and important
day ; one that will decide the fate of
France."

" A fig for little France ! Fiw le
VertrieuxRohespierrej la Colonne de la
B^pvhlique/* Plague on this talking ;
it is dry work. Hast thou no eau de
vie in that little cupboard 1 "

Dumas and Fouquier exchanged
looks of disgust. Dumas shrugged
his shoulders, and replied —

"It is to guard thee against eau de
vie, Citizen General Henriot, that I
have requested thee to meet me here.
Listen, if thou canst ! "

"Oh, talk away! thy mStier is to
talk, mine to fight and to drink."

" To-morrow, I tell thee then, the
populace will be abroad ; all factions
\ will be astir. It is probable enough
that they will even seek to arrest our
tnmbrils on their way to the guillotine.
Have thy men armed and ready ; keep
the streets clear; cut down .without
mercy whomsoever may obstruct the
ways."

"I understand;" said Henriot,
striking his sword so loudly that
Dumas half started at the clank —
" Black Henriot is no ' IndtdgerU.* "

"Look to it, then. Citizen — look
to it ! And hark thee," he added,
with a grave and sombre brow, " if
thou wouldst keep thine own head on
thy 'shoulders, beware of the eau
de vie"

"My own head ! — sacre mille ton-
nerres/ Dost thou threaten the
General of the Parisian army 1 "

Dumas, like Robespierre, a precise,
atrabilious, and arrogant man, was
about to retoft, .'when the craftier
Tinville laid his hand on his arm,
and, turning to the General, said,
"My dear Henriot, thy dauntless
republicanisn^ which is too ready to
give offence, must learn to take a

* Long life to tho yirtuoiu Robespii
the pillar of tbe Uepublic.

reprimand ftt>m the representative ef
Republican Law. Seriously, mon cher,
thou must be sober for the next three
or four days ; after the crisis is over,
thou and I will drink a bottle together.
Come, Dumas, relax thine awsterity,
and sh^ke hands with our friend.
No quarrels amongst ourselves ! "

Dumas hesitated, and extended his
hand, which the ruffian clasped ; and,
maudlin tears succeeding his ferocity,
he half sobbed, half hiccupped forth
his protestations of civism and his
promises of sobriety.

**. Well, we depend on thee, mpn
OSn^ral/* said Dumas; "and now;,
since we shall all have need of vigour
for to-morrow, go home and sleep
soundly."

"Yes, I forgive thee, Dumas— I
forgive thee. lam not vindictive —
I ! but still, if a man threatens me —
if a man insults me" — And, with
the quick changes of intoxication,
again his eyes gleamed fire through
their foul tears. With some difficulty,
Fouquier succeeded at last in soothing
the brute, and leading him from the
chamber. But still, as some wild!
beast disappointed of a prey, he
growled and snarled, as his heavy
tread descended the stairs. A tali
trooper, mounted, was leading Hen-
riot's horse to and fro the streets;
and as the General waited at the
porch till his attendant turned, t^
Strang^?:' stationed by the wall ac-
costed him —

"General Henriot, I have desired
to speak with the^ Next to Robes-
pierre, thou art or shouldst be, the
most powerful ma,n in France."

*' Hem !— yes,*I ought to be. What
then? — eveiyman has not his deserts!"

"Hist!" said the stranger, "thy
pay is scarcely suitable to t^y rank
and thy wants."

"That is true."

" Even in a revolution, a man takes
care of his fortuAes !" '

" IHable / speak out, Citi^n,**.

288

ZAKONI.

" I have a thouBand pieces of gold
with me — they are thine if thoa wilt
grant me one small favour/'

" Citizen, I grant it ! " said Henriot,
waving his hand majestically. ''Is
it to denounce some rascal who has
offended thee 1"

"No; it is simply this: — ^write
these words to President Damas—
' Admit the hearer to thy presence ;
and if thou canst grant him the
request he will make to thee, it will
he an Inestimable obligation to
Fran9ois Henriot'" The stranger,
as he spoke, placed pencil and tablets
in the shaking hands of the soldier.

" And where is the gold 7 "

"Here."

With some difficulty, Heniiot
scrawled the words dictated to him,
clutched the gold, mounted his horse,
and was gone.

Meanwhile Fouquier, when he' had
closed the door upon Henriot, said
sharply — ^''How canst thou be so
mad as to incense that brigand 1
Enowest thou not that our laws are
nothing without the physical force of
the National Guard, and that he is
their leader?"

"I know this, that Robespierre
must have been mad to place that
drunkard at their head; and mark
my words, Fouquier, if the struggle
come, it is that man's incapacity and
cowardice that will destroy us. Yes,
thou mayst live thyself to accuse thy
beloved Robespierre, and to perish in
his fall."

" For all that, we must keep well
with Henriot till we can find the occa-
sion to seize and behead him. To be
safe, we must fawn on those who are
still in power; and fawn the more, the
more we would depose them. Do not
think this Henriot, when he wakes
to-morrow, will forget thy threats.
He is the most revengeful of human
beings. Thou must send, and soothe
him in the morning ! "

"Right," Bud Dumas, convinced.

" I was too hasty ; and now I think
we have nothing further to do, since
we have arranged to make short work
with oxafoumie of to-morrow. I see
in the list a knave I have long
marked out, though his crime once
procured me a legacy — Nicot, the
Hfibertist."

"And young Andr6 Ghenier, the
Poetl Ah, I forgot; we beheaded
him to-day ! Revolutionary virtue is
at its acm^. His own brother aban-
doned him!"*

"There is a foreigner — an Italian
woman — ^in the list ; but I can find
no chaige made out against her.**

"All the same; we must execute
her for the sake of the round num-
ber; eighty sounds better than seventy-
nine!"

Here a huissier brought a paper,
on which was written the request of
Henriot.

"Ah! this is fortunate," said
Tinville, to whom Dumas chucked
the scroll — " grant the prayer by all
means; scat least that itdoes not lessen
our bead-roll. But I will do Henriot
the justice to say, that he never asks
to let off, but to put on. Good night !
I am worn out — ^my escort waits
below. Only on such an occasion
would I venture forth in the streets
at night." t And Fouquier, with a
long yawn, quitted the room.

* HU brother is said, indeed, to have /
contributed to the condemnation of this
virtuous and illustrious person. He was
heard to ory aloud— ** Si mon fr^re est coup-
able, qu'il perisse.** (If my brother bo
culpable, let him die.) This brother.
Marie-Joseph, also a poet, and the author
of ** Charles IX.,** so celebrated in the earli^
days of the revolution, enjoyed, of course,
according to the wonted justice of the world,
a triumphant career ; and was proclaimed
in the Champ de Mars, ** le premier dee
poetes Fran^ais,** a title due to his murdered
brother.

t During the latter part of the Reign of
Terror, Fouquier rarely stirred out at night,
and never without an escort. In the Reign
of Terror, those most terrified were its kings

ZANONI.

289

"Admit the bearer ! " said Damas,
T¥ho, withered and dried, as lawyers
in practice mostly are, seemed to
require as little sleep as his parch-
ments.

The stranger entered.

'' R6n6-Fran9ois Dumas/' said he,
seating himself opposite to the Presi-
dent; and markedly adopting the
plural, as if in contempt of the revo-
intionary jargon ; " amidst the excite-
ment and occupations of your later life,
I know not if you can remember that
we have met before 1"

The judge scanned the features of
his visitor, and a pale blash settled
on his sallow cheeks — " Yes, Citizen,
I remember ! "

" And you recal the words I then
uttered! You spoke tenderly and
philanthropically of your horror of
capital executions — ^you exulted in
the approaching Bevolation as the
termination of all sanguinary punish-
ments — you quoted reverently the
saying of Maximilien Kobespierre,
the rising statesman, 'the executioner
is the invention of the tyrant ;' and I
replied, that while you spoke, a fore-
boding seized me that we should meet
again when your ideas of death and
the philosophy of revolutions might
be changed! Was. I right. Citizen
E^n^-Fran^ois Dumas, President of
the Revolutionary Tribunal?"

"Pooh!" said Dumas, with some
confusion on his brazen brow, "I
spoke then as men speak who have
not acted. Revolutions are not made
with rose-water! But truce to the
gossip of the long-ago. I remember,
also, that thou didst then save the
life of my relation, and it will please
thee to learn that his intended mur-
derer will be guillotined to-morrow."

" That concerns yourself — your
justice or your revenge. Permit me
the egotism to remind you, that you
then promised that if ever a day
should come when you could serve
me, your life — ^yes, the phrase was,

No. 277. 1

'your heart's blood' — ^was at my
bidding. Think not, austere judge,
that I come to ask a boon that can
affect yourself — I come but to ask a
day's respite for another !"

'' Citizen, it is impossible ! I have
the order of Robespierre that not one
less than the total on my list must
undergo their trial for to-morrow.
As for the verdict, that rests with
the jury!"

" I do not ask you to diminish the
catalogue. Listen still ! In your
death-roll there is the name of an
Italian woman, whose youth, whose
beauty, and whose freedom, not only
from every crime, but every tangible
charge, will excite only compassion,
and not terror. Even you would
tremble to pronounce her sentence.
It will be dangerous on a day when
the populace will be excited, when
your tumbrils may be arrested, to
expose youth and innocence and
beauty to the pity and courage of a
revolted crowd."

Dumas looked up, and shrunk from
the eye of the stranger.

'' I do not deny. Citizen, that there
is reason in what thou urgest. But
my orders are positive."

*' Positive only as to the number of
the victims. I offer you a substitute
for this one. I offer you the head of
a man who knows all of the very
conspiracy which now threatens Robes-
pierre and yourself; and compared
with one clue to which, you would
think even eighty ordinary lives a
cheap purchase."

" That alters the case," said Dumas,
eagerly ; " if thou canst do this, on
my own responsibility I will postpone
the trial of the Italian. Now name
the proxy ! "

"You behold him!"

"Thou!" exclaimed Dumas, while
a fear he could not conceal betrayed
itself through his surprise. " Thou !
— and thou comest to me alone at
night, to offer thyself to justice. Ha!
19 ■

290

ZANOKI.

— ihiB is a anare. Tremble, fool ! —
thou art i& my power, and I can have
hoihl"

** Ton can,** said the stranger, with
a calm smile of disdain; ''but my
life is valueless without my rerela-
iions. Sit still, I command you, —
hear me V* and the light in those
dauntless eyes spell-bound and awed
the judge. "You will remove me to
the Conciergerie—you will fix my
trial, under the name of Zanoni,
amidst your fourtUe of to-morrow.
If I do not satisfy you by my speech,
you hold the woman I die to save as
your hostage. It is but the reprieve
for her of a single day that I demand.
The day following the morrow, I shall
be dusty and you may wreak your
vengeance on the life that remains.
Tush ! Judge and condemnor of
thousands, do you hesitate— do you
imagine that the man who volun-
tarily offers himself to death, will be
daunted into uttering one syllable at
your bar against his will 1 Have you
not had experience enough of the
inflexibility of pride and courage 1
President, I place before you the ink
and implements! Write to the gaoler,
a reprieve of one day for the woman
whose life can avail you nothing, and
I will bear the order to my own prison
— ^I, who can now tell this much as
an earnest of what I can communicate
— ^while I speak, your own name.
Judge, is in a list of death. I can
tell you by whose hand it is written
down — I can tell you in what quarter
to look for danger — ^I can tell you
from what cloud, in this lurid atmo-
sphere, hangs the storm that shall
burst on Robespierre and his reign !"

Dumas grew pale; and his eyes
vainly sought to escape the magnetic
gaze that overpowered and mastered
him. Mechanically, and as if under
an agency not his own, he wrote while
the stranger dictated.

" Well," he said, then, forctng- 1
smile to his lips; "I promised 1
would serve you; see, I am fidthfiil
to my word. I suppose that yon are
one of those fools of feeling — ihoBt
professors of anti-revolutionaiy virtue,
of whom I have seen not a few before
my bar. Paugh I it sickens me to
see those who make a merit of
incivism, and perish to save some
bad patriot, because it is a boh, or a
fiither, or a wife, or a daughter, who
is saved."

"I am one of those fools of feeUng,"*
said the stranger, rising. ** You hare
divined aright."

" And wilt thou not, in retnzn for
my mercy, utter to-night the reve-
lations thou wonldst proobdm to-
morrow ? Come ; and, perhaps, thoa
too — nay, the woman also, may
receive not reprieve, but pardon."

''Before your tribunal, and there
alone! Nor will I deceiTe you.
President*' My information may avail
you not ; and even while I show the
cloud, the bolt may &11."

"Tush .«— Prophet, look to thyaelf ?
Gk>, madman ; go. I know, too well,
the contumacious obstinacy of the
class to which I suspect thou belongest
to waste further words. DvoMsI but
ye grow so accustomed to look on
death, that ye forget the respeet ye
owe to it. Since thou offerest me thy
head, I accept it. To-morrow, thou
mayst repent ; it will be too late."

"Ay, too late, President!" echoed
the calm visitor.

" But, remember, it is not pardon,
it is but a day's reprieve, I have
promised to this woman. According
as thou dost satisfy me to-morrov,
she lives or dies. I am frank, Citizen;
thy ghost shall not haunt me for want
of faith."

" It is but a day that I have asked;
the rest I leave to justice and to
Heaven. Your hmssiers wait below.*'

ZANONI.

291

CHAPTER XVI.

Und den Mordstahl seh *ich blinken ;
Und das Morderauge gluhn ! *

Viola was in the prison, that opened
not but for those already condemned
before adjudged. Since her exile from
Zanoni, her very intellect had seemed
paralysed. All that beautiftil exu-
.berance of fancy, which if not the
fruit of genius, seemed its blossoms :
all that gush of exquisite thought,
which Zanoni had justly told her
flowed with mysteries and subtleties
ever new to him, the wise one; all
were gone, annihilated; the blossom
withered, the fount dried up. From
something almost above womanhood,
she seemed listlessly to sink into some-
thing below childhood. With the
inspirer the inspirations had ceased ;
and, in deserting lore, genius also was
left behind.

She scarcely comprehended why
she had been thus torn from her
home and the mechanism of her dull
tasks. She scarcely knew what meant
those kindly gpronps, that, struck with
her exceeding loveliness, had gathered
round her in the prison, with mourn-
ful looks, but with words of comfort.
She, who had hitherto been taught to
abhor those whom Law condemns for
crime, was amazed to hear that beings
thus compassionate and tender, with
cloudless and lofty brows, with gallant
and gentle mien, were criminals, for
whom Law had no punishment short
of death. But they, the savages,
gaunt and menacing, who had dragged
her from her home, who had attempted

* And I see the steel of Murder glitter,
And the eye of Murder glow.

Kassandra.

to snatch from her the infant, whUe
she clasped it in her arms, and laughed
fierce scorn at her mute quivering
lips — THBT were the chosen citizens,
the men of virtue, the favourites of
Power, the ministers of Law! Such
thy black caprices, thou, the ever-
shifting and calumnious, — Human
Judgment I

A squalid, and yet a gay world, did
the prison-houses of that day present.
There, as in the sepulchre to which
they led, all ranks were cast, with an
even-handed scorn. And yet there,
the reverence that comes from great
emotions restored Nature 's first and
imperishable, and most lovely, and
most noble Law — Thb irbquality
BBTWBBN MAN AND MAN t There, place
was given by the prisoners, whether
royalists or sans-culottes, to Age, to
Learning, to Renown, to Beauty ; and
Strength, with its own inborn chivalry,
raised into rank the helpless, and the
weak. The iron sinews, and the
Herculean shoulders, made way for
the woman, and the child; and the
graces of Humanity, lost elsewhere,
sought their refuge in the abode of
Terror.

" And wherefore, my child, do they
bring thee hither V' asked an old
grey-haired priest.

" I cannot guess."

" Ah ! if you know not your offence,
fear the worst."

"And, my child?" (for the infant was
still suffered to rest upon her bosom.)

"Alas, young mother! they wil?
suffer thy child to live."

u 2

292

ZANONL

"And for thin— «n orphan in the
dangeont" murmured the accusing
heart of Viola, " have I reserred his
ofiapring! Zanoni, even in thought,
ask not—ask not^ what I have done
with the child I bore thee ! "

Night came ; the crowd rushed to
the grate, to hear the muster-roll.*
Her name was with the doomed. And
the old priest, better prepared to die,
but reserved from the death-list, laid
his hands on her head, and blessed
her while he wept She heard, and
wondered; but she did not weep.
With downcast eyes, with arms folded
on her bosom, she bent submissively
to the call. But now, another name
was uttered; and a man, who had
pushed rudely past her, to gaze or to
listen, shrieked out a howl of despair
and rage. She turned, and their eyes
met. Through the distance of time,
she recognised that hideous aspect.
Nicot's face settled back into its
devilish sneer.— "At least, gentle
Neapolitan, the Guillotine will unite
us. Oh, we shall sleep well our
wedding night!" And, with a
laugh, he strode away through the
crowd, and vanished into his lair.

She was placed in her gloomy cell,
to await the morrow. But the child
was still spared her ; and she thought
it seemed as if conscious of the awful
Present. In their way to the prison,
it had not moaned or wept; it had
looked with its clear eyeB,unishrinking,
on the gleaming pikes and savage
brows of the huimers. And now,
alone in the dungeon, it put its arms
round her neck, and murmured its
indistinct sounds, low and sweet as
some unknown language of consolation
and of heaven. And of heaven it
was ! For, at the murmur, the terror
melted from her soul : upward, from

the dungeon and the death — npn
where the happy cherubim chaont *
the mercy of the All-loving, whispered
that cherub's voice. She fell upon
her knees, and prayed. The despoilers
of all that beautifies and hallows life
had desecrated the altar, and denied
the God! — ^they had removed from
the last hour of their victims the
Priest, the Scripture and the Cross !
But Faith builds in the dungeon and
the lazar-house its sublimest shrines ;
and up, through roofs of stone, that
shut out the eye of Heaven, ascends |
the ladder where the angels glide to
and fro — Pbateb.

And there, in jihe very cell beside
her own, the atheist, Nicot, sits stolid
amidst the darkness, and hags the
thought of Danton, that death is
nothingness.* His, no spectacle of
an appalled and perturbed conscience!
Bemorse is the echo of a lost virtue,
and virtue he nev^r knew. Had he
to live again, he would live the same.
But more terrible than the death-bed
of a believing and despairing sinner,
that blank gloom of apathj — that
contemplation of the worm and the
rat of the chamel-house — ^that grim
and loathsome HOTHiirosEss which,
for his eye, falls like a pall over the
universe of life. Still, staring into
space, gnawing his livid lip, he looks
upon the darkness, convinced that
darkness is for ever and for ever !
♦ « ♦ •

Place,' there ! place I Room yet in
your crowded cells. Another has
come to the slaughter-house.

As the gaoler, lamp in hand,
ushered in the stranger, the latter
touched him, and whispered. The
stranger drew a jewel from his finger.
Diantre, how the diamond flashed in
the ray of the lamp! Value each
head of your eighty at a thousand

* Called {n the mocking Jargon of the
-^ Eyenlng Gazette-"

■ *' Ma demeure sera bientdt lb neAiit," )
(My abode will aonn be Kothingneas) said '
Danton before hia Judges.

ZANONL

Trancs, and the jewel is more worth
than all] The gaoler paused, and
-the diamond laughed in his dazzled
eyes. thou Cerberus^ thou hast
mastered all else that seems human
in that fell employ. Thou hast no
pity, no love, and no remorse. But
Avarice survives the rest, and the foul
heart's master-serpent swallows up the

tribe. Ha ! ha ! crafty stranger, thou
hast conquered ! They tread the
gloomy corridor ; they arrive at the
door where the gaoler has placed the
fatal mark, now to be erased, for the
prisoner within is to be reprieved a
day. The key grates in the lock —
the door yawns — the stranger takes
the lamp and enters.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH AND LAST.

*' CoBi Tince Goffredo ! " *

Obr. Lib., cant xx.— zliv.

And Viola was in prayer. She heard
not the opening of the door ; she saw
not the dark shadow that fell along
the floor. His power, his arts were
gone ; but the mystery and the spell
known to her simple heart did not
desert her in the hours of trial and
despair. When Science falls as a fire-
work from the sky it would invade,
when Genius withers as a flower in
the breath of the icy chamel, the
Hope of a child-like soul wraps the air
in light, and the innocence of un-
questioning Belief covers the grave
with blossoms.

In the farthest comer of the cell
she knelt; and the infant, as if to
imitate what it could not comprehend,
bent its little limbs, and bowed its
smiling face, and knelt with her also,
by her side.

He stood, and gazed upon them as
the light of the lamp fell calmly on
their forms. It fell over those clouds
of golden hair, dishevelled, parted,
thrown back from the rapt, candid
brow; the dark eyes raised on high,
where, through the human tears, a
light as from above was mirrored;
the hands clasped — the lips apart —
the form all animate and holy with

« Thus conquered Godfrey.

the sad serenity of innocence and the
touching humility of woman. And
he heard her voice, though it scarcely
left her lips — ^the low voice that the
heart speaks — ^loud enough for God
to hear!

"And if never more to see him,
Father! canst thou not make the
love that will not die, minister, even
beyond the grave, to his earthly fete 1
Canst thou not yet permit it, as a
living spirit, to hover over him — ^a
spirit fairer than all his science can
conjure? Oh, whatever lot be or-
dained to either, grant — even though
a thousand ages may roll between
us — ^grant, when at last purified and
regenerate, and fitted for the trans-
port of such re-union — ^grant that we
may meet once more! And for his
child — ^it kneels to thee from the
dungeon floor! To-morrow, and
whose breast shall cradle it ! —
whose hand shall feed! — ^whose lips
shall pray for its weal below and its
soul hereafter ! " She paused — her
voice choked with sobs.

« Thou, Viola !— thou, thyself. He
whom thou hast deserted is here to
preserve the mother to the child ! "

She started !— those accents, tre-
mulous as her own ! She started to
her feet !— he was there,— in all ♦**"

294

ZANONI.

pride of his nnwaning youth and
superhuman beauty ! there, in the
honae of dread, and in the hour of
travail ! — ^there, image and personation
of the loye that can pierce the Valley
of the Shadow, and can glide, the
unscathed wanderer from the heaven,
through the roaring abyss of hell.

With a cry, never, perhaps, heard
before in that gloomy vault — a cry of
delight and rapture, she sprang for-
ward, and fell at his feet.

He bent down to raise her, but she
slid from his arms. He called her by
the familiar epithets of the old en-
dearment, and she only answered him
by sobs. Wildly, passionately, she
kissed his hands, the hem of his
garment, but voice was gone.

" Look up, look up !— I am here —
I am here to save thee ! Wilt thou
deny to me thy sweet face ? Truant,
wouldst thou fly me still ? "

*' Fly thee ! " she said, at last, and
in a broken voice ; " oh, if my thoughts
wronged thee — oh, if my dream, that
awful dream, deceived — kneel down
with me, and pray for our child!"
Then, springing to her feet with a
sudden impulse, she caught up the
infant, and placing it in his arms,
sobbed forth, with deprecating and
humble tones, " Not for my sake —
not for mine, did I abandon thee,
but "

" Hush ! " said Zanoni : " I know
all the thoughts that thy confused
and struggling senses can scarcely
analyse themselves. And see how,
with a look, thy child answers them 1"

And in truth the face of that strange
infant seemed radiant with its silent
and unfathomable joy. It seemed
as if it recognised the &ther ; it clung
— it forced itself to his breast, and
there, nestling, turned its bright
clear eyes upon Viola, and smiled.

" Pray for my child 1 " said Zanoni,
mournfully. '' The thoughts of souls
that would aspire as mine, are aU
vrayerl** >«'' «ftft*iug himself by

her side, he began to leveal to her
some of the holier secrets of his lofty
being. He spoke of the sublime and
intense faith from which alone the
diviner knowledge can arise — the
faith which, seeing the immortal
everywhere, purifies and exalts the
mortal that beholds — the glorious
ambition that dwells not in the cabals
and crimes of earth, but amidst those
solemn wonders that speak not of
men, but of God — of that power to
abstract the soul from the clay which
gives to the eye of the soul its subtle
vision, and to the soul's wing the un-
limited realm — of that pure, severe,
and daring initiation, from which the
mind emerges, as from death, into
clear perceptions of its kindred with
the Father-Principles of life and light,
so that, in its own sense of the Beau-
tiful, it finds its joy ! in the serenity
of its will, its power; in its sym-
pathy with the youthfulness of the
Infinite Creation, of which itself is an
essence and a part, the secrets that
embalm the very clay which they
consecrate, and renew the strength of
life with the ambrosia of mysterious
and celestial sleep. And while he
spoke, Viola listened, breathless. * K
she could not comprehend, she no
longer dared to distrust. She felt
that in that enthusiasm, self-deceiving
or not, no fiend could lurk ; and by an
intuition, rather than an effort of the
reason, she saw before her, like a
stany ocean, the depth and mysterioos
beauty of the soul which her fears
had wronged. Yet, when he said,
(concluding his strange confessions,)
that to this life within life and abone
life, he had dreamed to raise her own,
the fear of humanity crept over her,
and he read in her silence how vain,
with all his science, would the dream
have been.

But now, as he closed, and, leaning
on his breast, she felt the clasp of his
protecting arms, — ^when, in one holy
kiss, the past was forgiven and th

ZANONI.

295

present lost, — then there returned to
Ker the sweet and warm hopes of the
natural life — of the loving woman.
He wafl come to save her ! She asked
not how— she helieyed it without a
question. They should be at last
again united. They would fly far
from those scenes of . violence and
blood. Their happy Ionian isle, their
fearless solitudes, would once more
receive them. She laughed, with a
child's joy, as this picture rose up
amidst the gloom of the dungeon 1
Her mind, faithful to its sweet, simple
instincts, refused to receive the lofty
images that flitted confusedly by it,
and settled back to its human visions,
yet more bafieleas, of the earthly hap-
piness and the tranquil home.

"Talk not now to me, beloved —
talk not more now to me of the pastl
Thou art here — thou wilt save me ;
we shall live yet the common happy
life ; that life with thee is happiness
and glory enough to me. Traverse,
if thou wilt, in thy pride of soul, the
universe; thy heart again is the
universe to mine. I thought but now
that I was prepared to die ; I see thee,
touch thee, and again I know how
beautiful a thing is life ! See through
the grate the stars are fading from the
sky ; the morrow will soon be here —
THB MOBKOw wMch Will opcu the
prison doors ! Thou sayest thou canst
save me — I will not doubt it now.
Oh, let us dwell no more in cities ! I
never doubted thee in our lovely isle;
no dreams haunted me there, except
dreams of joy and beauty ; and thine
eyes made yet more beautiful and
joyous the world in waking. To-
morrow! — why do you not smile?
To-morrow, love ! is not to-morrow a
blessed word! Cruel! yon would
punish me still, that you will not
share my joy. Aha 1 see our little
one, how it laughs to my eyes ! I will
talk to tkai. GMld, thy father ig come
back!"

And taking the infiuit in her arms,

and seating herself at a little distance^
she rocked it to and fro on her bosom,
and prattled to it, and kissed it be-
tween every word ; and laughed and
wept by fits, as ever and anon she
cast over her shoulder her playful,
mirthful glance, upon the father to
whom those fading stars smiled sadly
their last fiEirewell. How beautiful she
seemed as she thus sat, unconscious of
the future. Still half a child herself,
her child laughing to her laughter —
two soft tiiflers on the brink of the
grave ! Over her throat, as she bent,
fell, like a golden cloud, her re-
dundant hair ; it covered her treasure
like a veil of light ; and the child's
little hands put it aside from time to
time, to smile through the parted
tresses, and then to cover its face and
peep and smile again. It were cruel
to damp that jov, more cruel still to
share it *

'' Yiola," said Zanoni, at last, " dost
thou remember that, seated by the
cave on the moonlit beach, in our
bridal isle, thou once didst ask me for
this amulet % — the charm of a super-
stition long vanished from the world,
with the creed to which it belonged.
It is the last relic of my native land,
and my mother, on her death-bed,
placed it round my neck. I told thee
then I would give it thee on that
day when the laws of our being shotdd
become the same"

" I remember it well."

*' To-morrow it shall be thine I "

''Ah, that dear to-morrow ! " And,
gently laying down her child, for it
slept now, she threw herself on his
breast, and pointed to the dawn that
began greyly to creep along the skies.

There, in those horror-breathing
walls, the day-star looked through
the dismal bars upon those three
beings, in whom were concentered
whatever is most tender in human
ties ; whatever is most mysterious in
the combinations of the human mind ;
the sleeping Innocence ; the trustful

296

ZANONI.

Affection, that, contented with a
touch, a breath, can foresee no
Borrow ; the weary Science that, tra-
versing all the secrets of creation,
comes at last to Death for their solu-
tion, and still clings, as it nears the
threshold, to the breast of Love.
Thus, within, ihe wUhin — a dungeon ;
without, th& trt'^uf— stately with
marts and halls, with palaces and
temples — Bevenge and Terror, at their
dark schemes and coimter-schemes —
to and fro, upon the lide of the
shifting passions, reeled the destinies
of men and nations; and hard at
hand that day-star, waning into
space, looked with impartial eye on
the church tower and the guillo-
tine. Up springs the blithesome
mom. In yon gardens the birds
renew their familiar song. The fishes
are sporting through the freshening
waters of the Seine. ^The gladness of
divine nature, the roar and dissonance
of mortal life awake again ; the trader
unbars his windows — the flower-g^rls
troop gaily to their haunts — ^busy feet
are tramping to the daily drudgeries
that revolutions which strike down
kings and kaisars, leave the same
Cain's heritage to the boor — the
wagons groan and reel to the mart —
Tyranny, up betimes, holds its pallid
lev6e — Conspiracy, that hath not
slept, hears the clock, and whispers
to its own heart, ''The hour draws
near." A group gather, eager-eyed,
round the purlieus of the Convention
Hall ; to-day decides the sovereignty
of France — about the courts of the
Tribunal their customary hum and
stir. No matter what the hazard of
the dye, or who the ruler, this day
eighty heads shall fall !

And she slept so sweetly. "Wearied
out with joy, secure in the presence of
the eyes regained, she had laughed j
and wept herself to sleep ; and still, in
that slumbAr. there seemed a happy {

consciousness that the Loved was by
— the Lost was found. For she
smiled and murmured to herself, and
breathed his name often, and stretched
out her arms, and sighed if they
touched him not. He gazed upon
her as he stood apart — ^with what
emotions it were vain to say. She
would wake no more to him — she
could not know how dearly the safety
of that sleep was purchased. That
morrow she had so yearned for, — ^it
had come at last. How would the
greet the eve? Amidst all the exqui-
site hopes with which love and yoath
contemplate the future, her eyes had
closed. Those hopes still lent their
iris-colours to her dreams. She would
wake to live! To-morrow, and the
Reign of Terror was no more — ^the
prison gates would be opened — she
would go forth, with their child^ into
that summer-world of light. And
he f — ^he turned, and his eye fell apon
the chUd, it was broad awake, and
that clear, serious, thoughtful look
which it mostly wore watched him
with a solemn steadiness. He bent
over and kissed its lips.

" Never more,** he murmured, *' O
heritor of love and grief— never more
wilt thou see me in thy visions — ^never
more will the light of those eyes be
fed by celestifd commune — never
more can my soul guard from thy
pillow the trouble and the disease.
Not such as I would have vainly
shaped it must be thy lot. In com-
mon with thy race, it must be thine
to suffer, to struggle, and to err. But
mild be thy human trials, and strong
be thy spirit, to love and to believe !
And thus, as I gaze upon thee — ^thus
may my nature breathe into thine ita
last and most intense desire ; may my
love for thy mother pass to thee, and
in thy looks may she hear my spirit
comfort and console her. Hark!
they come I — Yes 1 I await ye both
beyond the grave ! "

The door slowly opened ; the gaoler

ZAKONI.

297

appeared, and throngh the aperture
ruehed at the same instant, a raj of
sunlight — ^it streamed over the fair,
hushed face of the happy sleeper — it
played like a smile upon the lips of the
child, that still, mute and steadfast,
vatched the movements of its father.
At that moment Yiola muttered in
her sleep — ^"The day is come — the
gates are open ! Give me thy hand ;
we will go forth ! To sea— to sea !—
How the sunshine playa upon the
waters ! — ^to home, beloved one ! to
home again.''

" Citizen, thine hour is come ! "
"Hist!— she sleeps! A moment!
There! it is done! thank Heaven!
— ^and still she sleeps!" He would
not kiss lest he should awaken her,
but gently placed round her neck the
amulet that would speak to her, here-
after, the larewell ; — and promise, in
that farewell, — re-union! He is at
the threshold — he turns again, and
again. The door closes 1 He is gone
for ever.

She woke at last — she gazed round.

"'Zanoni, it is day ! " Ko answer but

the low wail of her child. Merciful

heaven ! was it then all a dream ] She

tossed back the long tresses that must

veil her sight — she felt the amulet on

her bosom — it was no dream ! " Oh,

God ! and he is gone ! " She sprang

to the door — she shrieked aloud.

The gaoler comes! "My husband,

my child's tatherV

" He is gone before thee, woman ! "

"Whither? Speak— speak ! "

"To the guillotine!" and the

black door closed again.

It closed upon the Senseless ! As
a lightning flash, Zanoni's words, his
sadness, the true meaning of his
mystic gift, the very sacrifice he made
for her, all became distinct for a
moment to her mind — and then dark-
ness swept on it like a storm, yet
darkness which had its light. And,
while she sat there, mute, rigid, voice-
less, as congealed to stone, a tisxov,

like a wind, glided over the deeps
within ! — the grim court — the judge
— the jury — ^the accuser; and amidst
the victims, the one dauntless and
radiant form.

" Thou knowest the danger to the
State— confess ! "

" I know ; and I keep my promise.
Judge, I reveal thy doom ! I know
that the Anarchy thou callest a state
expires with the setting of this sun.
Hark ! to the tramp without ! — ^hark !
to the roar of voices ! Room there,
ye Dead ! — room in hell for Robes-
pierre and his crew ! "

They hurry into the court — the
hasty and pale messengers — ^there is
confusion, and fear, and dismay!
" Off with the conspirator ! — and to-
morrow the woman thou wouldst have
saved shall die ! "

"To-morrow, President, the steel
falls on THBB ! "

On, through the crowded and
roaring streets, on moves the Pro-
cession of Death. Ha, brave people !
thou art aroused at last They shall
not die! — Death is dethroned! —
Robespierre has &Uen ! — ^they rush to
the rescue ! Hideous in the tumbril,
by the side of Zanoni, raved and ges-
ticuUited that form which, in his
prophetic dreams, he had seen his
companion at the place of death.
"Save us! — save us!" howled the
atheist, Nicot ! " On, brave populace !
we shaU be saved ! " And through
the crowd, her dark hair streaming
wild, her eyes flashing fire, pressed a
female form — "My Clarence!" she
shrieked, in the soft southern lan-
guage, native to the ears of Yiola ;
" butcher ! what hast thou done with
Clarence 1 " Her eyes roved over the
eager fiices of the prisoners ; she saw
not the one she sought. "Thank
Heaven ! — thank Heaven ! I am not
thy murderess 1 "

Nearer and nearer press the popu-
lace — another moment, and the
deathsman Ib defrauded. Zanoni !

298

ZANONI.

why still upon thy brow the resig-
nation, that speaks no hope 1 Tramp 1
tramp ! through the streets, dash the
armed troop : faithful to his orders,
black Henriot leads them on. Tramp )
tramp ! over the craven and scattered
crowd! Here, flying in disorder —
there, trampled in the mire, the
shrieking rescuers! And amidst
them, strieken by the sabres of the
guard, her long hair blood-bedabbled,
lies the Italian woman; and still
upon her writhing lips sits joy, as
they murmur — "Clarence! I have
not destroyed thee ! "

On to the BairrUre du Trdne, It
frowns dark in ^he air — the giant
instrument of murder ! One after one
to the glaive ; — another and another
and another ! Mercy ! mercy ! Is
the bridge between the sun and the
shades so brief] — brief as a sighl
There, there — his turn has come.
" Die not yet ; leave me not behind ;
Hear me — hear me ! " shrieked the
inspired sleeper. "What! land thou
smilest still!" They smiled — those
pale lips — and with the smile, the
place of doom, the headsman, the
horror vanished ! With that smile,
all space seemed suffused in eterual
sunshine. Up from the earth he rose
— ^he hovered over her — a thing not
of matter — ^an idea of joy and light !
Behind, Heaven opened, deep after
deep ; and the Hosts of Beauty were
seen, rank upon rank, afar; and
"Welcome," in a myriad melodies,
broke from your choral multitude,
ye People of the Skies — "Welcome!
purified by sacrifice, and immortal
only through the grave — this it is to
die." And radiant amidst the radiant,
the Image stretched forth its arms,
and murmured to the sleeper :
" Companion of Eternity I— this it is
to die ! "

" Ho ! wherefore do they make us
signs from the brtuafi-toDB? Where-

fore gather the crowds through the
street? Why sounds the belU Why
shrieks the tocsia? Hark to the
guns! — the armed clash! Fellow
captives, is there hope for us at lastl"

So gaap out the prisoners, each to
each. Day wanes, — evening closes;
still they press their white faces to
the bars; and still from window,
and from house-top, they see the
smiles of friends — the waving sig- .
nals ! "Hurrah ! " at last—" Hurrah !
Kobespierre is fallen ! The Keign of
Terror is no more! God hath per-
mitted us to live ! "

Yes ; cast thine eyes into the hall,
where l^e tyrant and his conclave
hearkened to the roar without! —
Fulfilling the prophecy of Dumas,
Henriot, drunk with blood and alco- ■
hoi, reels within, and chucks his gory /
sabre on the floor. " All is lost ! " I

" Wretch ! thy cowardice hath de-/
stroyed us ! " yelled the fierce Coflin-r
hal as he hurled the coward from the
window.

Calm as despair stands the stem ^
St. Just ; the palsied Couthon crawls, ^
grovelling, beneath the table ; a shot |
— an explosion! Kobespierre would
destroy himself! The trembling
hand has mangled, and failed to kill !
The clock of the Jffdtel de Fi^ strikes
the third hour. Through the battered
door — along the gloomy passages,
into the Death-hall, burst the crowd.
Mangled, livid, blood-stained, speech-
less, but not unconscious, sits haughty
yet, in his seat erect, the Master-
Murderer ! Around him they throng
— they hoot — they execrate! their
faces gleaming in the tossing torches!
He, and not the starry Magian, the
reed Sorcerer! And round his last
hours gather the Fiends he raised !

They drag him forth ! Open thy
gates, inexorable prison ! The Con-
ciergerie receives its prey ! ' Never a
word again on earth spoke Maximilien
Kobespierre! Pour forth thy thou-
saxfds, and tens of thousands, enianci*

ZANONI.

299

pated Paris ! To tlie Place de la
R&voluiiony rolls the tumbril of the
King of Terror, — St. Just, Dumas,
Couthon, — his companions to the
grave t A woman — a childless woman,
with hoary hair, springs to his side
— " Thy death makes me drunk with
joy! " He opened his bloodshot eyes
— "Descend to hell, with the curses
of wives and mothers ! " •

The headsmen wrench the rag from
the shattered jaw ! a shriek, and the
crowd laugh, and the axe descends
amidst the shout of the countless
thousands. And blackness rushes on
thy soul, Maximilien Robespierre!
So ended the Reign of Terror.

Daylight in the prison. From cell
to cell they hurry with the news;
crowd upon crowd : — the joyous
captives mingled with the very gaol-
ers, who, for fear, would fain seem
joyous too — they stream through the
dens and alleys of the grim house
they will shortly leave. They burst
into a cell, forgotten since the previous
morning. They found there a young
female, sitting upon her wretched

bed; her arms crossed upon her
bosom, her face raised upward; the
eyes unclosed, and a smile, of fuore
than serenity, — of bliss upon her lips.
Even in the riot of their joy, they
drew back in astonishment and awe.
Never had they seen life so beautiful;
and as they crept nearer, and with
noiseless feet, they saw that the lips
breathed not, that the repose was of
marble, that the beauty, and the
ecstasy were of death. They gathered
round in silence ; and lo ! at her feet
there was a young infant, who,
wakened by their tread, looked at
them steadfastly, and with its rosy
fingers played with its dead mother's
robe. An orphan there in the dun-
geon vault !

" Poor one ! " said a female (herself
a parent), — "and they say the father
fell yesterday ; and now, the mother !
Alone in the world, what can be its
fatel"

The infant smiled fearlessly on the
crowd, as the woman spoke thus.
And the old Priest, who stood amongst
them, said, gently, "Woman, see ! the
orphan smiles ! The Fatherless are

THE OARB OP GOD ! "

NOTE.

Thc cnrio&ity which Zanoni has excited
among those who think it worth while to
dive into the suhtler meanings they helieve
it intended to convey, may excuse me in
adding a few words, not in explanation of
its mysteries, but upon the principles which
permit them. Zanoni is not, as some have
supposed, an allegory; but beneath the
narrative it relates, tppical meanings are
concealed. It is to be regarded in two
characters, distinct yet harmonious— let,
that of the simple and objective fiction, in
which (once granting the licence of the
author to select a subject which is, or
appears to be, preternatural) the reader
judges the writer by the usual canons— viz.
by the consistency of his characters under
such admitted circumstances, the interest of
his story, and the coherence of his plot ; —
of the work regarded in this view, it is not
my intention to say anything, whether in
exposition of the design, or in defence of the
execution. No typical meanings (which, in
plain terms, are but moral suggestions, more
or less numerous, more or less subtle,) can
afford just excuse to a writer of fiction, for
the errors he should avoid in the most
ordinary novel. We have no right to expect
the most ingenious reader to search for the
inner meaning, if the obvious course of the
narrative be tedious and displeasing. It is,
on the contrary, in proportion as we are
satisfied with the objective sense of a work
of imagination, that we are inclined to
search into its depths for the more secret
intentions of the author.— Were we not so
divinely charmed with "Faust," and
"Hamlet." and '* Prometheus," so ardently
carried on by the interest of the story told
to the common understanding, we should
trouble ourselves little with the types in
each which all of us can detect — none of
us can elucidate ; — none elucidate, for
the essence of type is mystery. We behold
the figure, we cannot lift the veiL The
Author himaelf is not called upon to explain

what he designed. An Allegory is a per-
sonation of distinct and definite things —
Virtues or Qualities— and the key can be
given easily; but a writer who conveys
typical meanings, may express them in
myriads. He cannot disentangle all the
hues which commingle into the light he
seeks to cast upon truth ; and therefore the
great masters of this enchanted soil— Fairy
land of Fairy land— Poetry embedded be-
neath Poetry— wisely leave to each mind to
guessat such truths as best please or instruct
it. To have asked Goethe to explain the
"Faust** would have entailed as complex
and puzzling an answer as to have asked
Mephistopheles to explain what is beneath
the earth we tread on. The stores beneath
may differ for every passenger; each step
may require a new description ; and what is
treasure to the geologist may be rubbish to
the miner. Six worlds may lie under a sod,
but to the common eye they are but six
layers of stone.

Art in itself, if not necessarily typical, is
essentially a suggester of something subtler
than that which it embodies to the sense.
What Pliny tells us of a great painter of
old, is true of most great painters; '* their
works express something beyond the works "
—"more felt than understood." This be-
longs to the concentration of intellect which
high Art demands, and which of all the
Arts, Sculpture best illustrates. Take
Thorwaldsen's Statue of Mercury— it is but
a single figure, yet it tells to those con-
versant with Mythology a whole legend.
The god has removed the pipe from his lips,
because he has lulled already the Argus,
whom you do not see, to sleep. He is
pressing his heel against his sword, because
the moment is come when he may slay his
victim. Apply the principle of this noble
concentration of Art to the moral writer:
he. too, gives to your eye but a single figure ;
yet each attitude, each expression, may
refer to events and truths you must have

802

ZANONI BXPLAIKED.

the learning to remember, the acuteness to
penetrate, or the imagination to conjecture.
But to a clasaioal Judge of sculpture, would
not the exquisite pleasure of discovering the
all not told in Thorwaldsen's masterpiece
he destroyed if the artist bad engraved in
detail his meaning at the base of the statue ?
Is it not the same with the typical sense
which the artist in words conveys? The
pleasure of divining Art in each is the noble
exercise of all by whom Art is worthily
regarded.

We of the humbler race not imreasonably
shelter ourselves under the Authority of the
Masters, on whom the world's judgment is
pronounced ; and great names are cited, not
with the arnq;ance of equals, but with the
humility of inferiors.

The author of Zanoni gives, then, no key
to mysteries, be they trivial or important,
which may be found in the secret chambers
by those who lift the tapestry from the
wall ; but out of the many solutions of the

main enigma— if enigma, indeed, there be—
which have been sent to him, he ventures
to select the one which ha subjoins, from
the ingenuity and thought which it displays,
and fi-om respect for the distinguished
writer (one of the most eminent our time
has produced) who deemed him worthy of
an honour he is proud to display. He leaves
it to the reader to agree with, or dissent
from, the explanation. *' A hundred men,"
says the old Platonist, ** may read the book
by the help of the same lamp, yet all may
differ on the text ; for the lamp only lights
the charaoterft— the mind must divine the
meaning." The object of a Parable is not
that of a Problem ; it does not seek to con>
vince, but to suggest. It takes the thought
below the surface of the understanding to
the deeper intelligence which the world
rarely tasks. It is not sunlight on the
water, it is a hymn chanted to the Nymph
who hearkens and awakes below.

'ZANONI EXPLAINED

BY •

Jlf<^our~Contemplation of tiie Actual—
SciKNca. Always old, and must last as
long as the ActnaL Less fallible than
Idealism, but less practically potent, from
its ignorance of the human heart.

Zanoni— Contemplation of the Ideal,—
Idkausm. Always necessarily sympatlie-
tic : lives by enjoyment ; and is therefore
typified by eternal youth.* Idealism is

* " I do not understand the making Idealism
less undying (on this scene of existence) than
Science."— CoMMENTATOB.— Because, grant-
ing the above premises, Idealism is more
subjected than Science to the Affections, or
to Instinct, because the Affections, sooner or
later, force Idealism into the Actual, and in
the Actual its immortality departs. The
only absolutely Actual portion of the work is
found in the concluding scenes that depict
the Reign of Terror. The introduction of
this part was objected to by some as out of
keeping with the fanciful portions that pre-
ceded It. But if the writer of the solution
has rightly shown or suggested the intention
of the author, the most strongly and rudely
actual scene of the age in which the story is
cast was the necessary and harmonious com-
pletion of the whole. The excesses and
crimes of Humanity are the grave of the
Ideal.— AtJTHOB.

the potent Interpreter and Prophet of ifac
Real; but its powers are Impaired In
proportion to their exposure to human
passion.
Vioia—Hvanan Iwstinct. (Hardly worthy
to be called Lovs, as Iiove would not
forsake its object at the bidding of Super-
stition.) Resorts, first, in its aspiration
after the Ideal, to tinsel shows; thai
relinquishes these for a higher love ; but
is still, from the conditions of its nature,
inadequate to this, and liable to suspicion
and mistrust. Its greatest foroe (Maternal
Instinct) has power to penetrate some
secrets, to trace some movements of the
Ideal, but, too feeble to command them,
yields to Superstition,- sees sin where
there is none, while committingsin, under
a false guidance,- weakly seeking refuge
amidst the very tumults. of the warring
passions of the Actual, while deserting
the serene Ideal ;— pining, nevertheless, in
the absence of the Ideal, and expiring (not
perishing, but becoming transmuted) in
the aspiration after having the laws of
the two natures reconciled.
(It might best suit popular apprehension
to call these three the Understanding,
the Imagination, and the HearL)

ARGUMENT.

303

Child— Vkw-vohs Instinct, while trained
and informed by Idealism, promisee a
preter-human result by its early, incom-
municable vigilance and intelligence, but
is compelled, by inevitable orphanhood,
and the one-half of the laws of its exist-
ence, to lapse into ordinary conditions.

^1^on-^t — Faith, which manifests its
splendour, and delivers its oracles, and
imparts its marvels, only to the higher
moods of the soul, and whose directed
antagonism is vrith Fkar; so that those
who employ the resources of Fear must
dispense with those of Faith. Yet aspira-
tion holds open a way of restoration, and
may summon Faith, even when the cry
issues from beneath the yoke of Fear.

Dweller of the Threshold— Fbar, (orHoRBOR,)
from whose ghastliness men are protected
by the opacity of the region of Proscription
and Custom. The momoit this protection
is relinquished, and the human spirit
pierces the cloud, and enters alone on the
unexplored r^ionaof Nature, this Natural

Horror haunts it, and is to be successfully
encountered only by defiance,— by aspira-
tion towards, and reliance on, the Former
and Director of Nature, whose Messenger
and Instrument of re-assurance is Faith.

Mervale — Con vBimoNAusBf .

Nicot—BoBe, grovelling, malignant Passion.

Olpndon — Unsustainbd Aspiration : —
Would follow Instinct, but is deterred
by Conventionalism:— is overawed by
Idealism, yet attracted, and transiently
inspired; but has not steadiness for the
Initiatory contemplation of the ActuaL
He copjoins its snatched privileges with a
besetting sensualism, and suffers at once
from the horror of the one, and the
dl^^st of the other, invohing the innocent
in the fatal conflict of his spirit. When
on the point of perishing, he is rescued by
Idealism ; and, unable to rise to that
species of existence, is grateful to be
replunged into the region of the Familiar,
and takes up his rest henceforth in
Custom. (Mirror of Young Manhood.)

ARGUMENT.

Human Existence, subject to. and exempt
from, ordinary oondition&— (Sickness, Po;
verty. Ignorance, Death.)

Science is ever striving to carry the most
gifted beyond ordinary conditions— the re-
sult being as many victims as efforts, and
the striver being finally left a solitary— for
his object is unsuitable to the natures he
has to deal with.

The pursuit of the Ideal Involves so much
emotion as to render the Idealist vulnerable
by human passion— however long and well
guarded, still vulnerable— liable, at last, to
an union with Instinct Passion obscures
both Insight and Forecast All effort to
elevate Instinct to Idealism is abortive, the
laws of their being not coinciding (in the
early stage Of the existence of the one).
Instinct is either alarmed, and takes refuge
in Superstition or Custom, or is left help-
less to human charity, or given over to
providential care.

Idealism, stripped of insight and forecast,
loses its serenity, becomes subject once
more to the horror from which it bad escaped,
and by accepting its aids, forfeits the higher
help of Faith .'—aspiration, however, re-
maining still possible ; and, thereby, slow
restoration ; and alaoi soxuetbing bbttjir.

Summoned by aspiration. Faith extorts
from Fear itself the saving truth to which
Science otmtinues blind, and which Idealism
Itself hails as its crowning acquisition.— the
inestimable Proop wrought out by all
labours and all conflicts.

Pending the elaboration of this proof.

Conventionalism plods on, safe and com-
placent:

SelJUh Passion perishes, grovelling and
hopeless :

Instinct sleeps, in order to a loftier
waking: and

Idealism learns, as its ultimate lesson,
that self-sacriflce is true redonption ;
that the region beyond the grave is
the fitting one for exemption from
mortal conditions; and that Death is
the everlasting portal, indicated by
the finger of God,— the broad avenue^
through which man does not issue,
solitary and stealthy, into the region
of Free Existence, but enters trimn-
phant, hailed by a hierarchy of im>
mortal natures.

The result is, (in other words,) That thk
Univkrsax. Human Ixjt is, aftkr all, that
OF ram hiohjhbt privilboe.

LONDON':
BEADBUBY AXD EVAKS, PEIXTKCS, W1I1TEFRIAP.S.

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