Zanoni

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> Zanoni


"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
darkness swept on it like a storm, yet darkness which had its light. And
while she sat there, mute, rigid, voiceless, as congealed to stone, A
VISION, 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 Robespierre 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 THEE!"

On, through the crowded and roaring streets, on moves the Procession of
Death. Ha, brave people! thou art aroused at last. They shall not die!
Death is dethroned!--Robespierre has fallen!--they rush to the rescue!
Hideous in the tumbril, by the side of Zanoni, raved and gesticulated
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 SHALL 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 language native to the
ears of Viola; "butcher! what hast thou done with Clarence?" Her eyes
roved over the eager faces of the prisoners; she saw not the one she
sought. "Thank Heaven!--thank Heaven! I am not thy murderess!"

Nearer and nearer press the populace,--another moment, and the deathsman
is defrauded. O Zanoni! why still upon THY brow the resignation that
speaks no hope? Tramp! 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, stricken
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 Barriere du Trone. It frowns dark in the air,--the giant
instrument of murder! One after one to the glaive,--another and another
and another! Mercy! O mercy! Is the bridge between the sun and the
shades so brief,--brief as a sigh? There, there,--HIS turn has come.
"Die not yet; leave me not behind; hear me--hear me!" shrieked the
inspired sleeper. "What! and 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 eternal
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! O 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!--THIS it is to die!"

....

"Ho! wherefore do they make us signs from the house-tops? Wherefore
gather the crowds through the street? Why sounds the bell? Why shrieks
the tocsin? Hark to the guns!--the armed clash! Fellow-captives, is
there hope for us at last?"

So gasp 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 signals!
"Hurrah!" at last,--"Hurrah! Robespierre is fallen! The Reign of Terror
is no more! God hath permitted us to live!"

Yes; cast thine eyes into the hall where the tyrant and his conclave
hearkened to the roar without! Fulfilling the prophecy of Dumas,
Henriot, drunk with blood and alcohol, reels within, and chucks his gory
sabre on the floor. "All is lost!"

"Wretch! thy cowardice hath destroyed us!" yelled the fierce Coffinhal,
as he hurled the coward from the window.

Calm as despair stands the stern St. Just; the palsied Couthon crawls,
grovelling, beneath table; a shot,--an explosion! Robespierre would
destroy himself! The trembling hand has mangled, and failed to kill! The
clock of the Hotel de Ville strikes the third hour. Through the battered
door, along the gloomy passages, into the Death-hall, burst the crowd.
Mangled, livid, blood-stained, speechless 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 REAL Sorcerer! And round HIS
last hours gather the Fiends he raised!

They drag him forth! Open thy gates, inexorable prison! The Conciergerie
receives its prey! Never a word again on earth spoke Maximilien
Robespierre! Pour forth thy thousands, and tens of thousands,
emancipated Paris! To the Place de la Revolution rolls the tumbril of
the King of Terror,--St. Just, Dumas, Couthon, his companions to the
grave! 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
jailers, 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 more 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 a dungeon 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
fate?"

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 CARE OF GOD!"


*****




NOTE.

The curiosity which Zanoni has excited among those who think it worth
while to dive into the subtler meanings they believe 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,
TYPICAL meanings are concealed. It is to be regarded in two characters,
distinct yet harmonious,--1st, that of the simple and objective fiction,
in which (once granting the license of the author to select a subject
which is, or appears to be, preternatural) the reader judges the writer
by the usual canons,--namely, 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 himself is not called upon to explain what he designed. An
allegory is a personation 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,--Fairyland of
Fairyland, Poetry imbedded beneath Poetry,--wisely leave to each mind to
guess at 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 belongs 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 conversant with mythology a whole legend. The god has
removed the pipe from his lips, because he has already lulled to sleep
the Argus, whom you do not see. 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 the learning to
remember, the acuteness to penetrate, or the imagination to conjecture.
But to a classical judge of sculpture, would not the exquisite pleasure
of discovering the all not told in Thorwaldsen's masterpiece be
destroyed if the artist had 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 unreasonably shelter ourselves under the
authority of the masters, on whom the world's judgment is pronounced;
and great names are cited, not with the arrogance 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 he subjoins, from the ingenuity and
thought which it displays, and from 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 characters,--the mind
must divine the meaning." The object of a parable is not that of a
problem; it does not seek to convince, 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--."

MEJNOUR:--Contemplation of the Actual,--SCIENCE. Always old, and must
last as long as the Actual. Less fallible than Idealism, but less
practically potent, from its ignorance of the human heart.

ZANONI:--Contemplation of the Ideal,--IDEALISM. Always necessarily
sympathetic: lives by enjoyment; and is therefore typified by eternal
youth. ("I do not understand the making Idealism less undying (on this
scene of existence) than Science."--Commentator. Because, granting
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 preceded 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 completion of the whole. The excesses and
crimes of Humanity are the grave of the Ideal.--Author.) Idealism is the
potent Interpreter and Prophet of the Real; but its powers are impaired
in proportion to their exposure to human passion.

VIOLA:--Human INSTINCT. (Hardly worthy to be called LOVE, as Love would
not forsake its object at the bidding of Superstition.) Resorts, first
in its aspiration after the Ideal, to tinsel shows; then 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 force (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 committing
sin, 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 Heart.)

CHILD:--NEW-BORN INSTINCT, while trained and informed by Idealism,
promises a preter-human result by its early, incommunicable vigilance
and intelligence, but is compelled, by inevitable orphanhood, and
the one-half of the laws of its existence, to lapse into ordinary
conditions.

AIDON-AI:--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 with Fear; so that those who employ
the resources of Fear must dispense with those of Faith. Yet aspiration
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:--FEAR (or HORROR), from whose ghastliness men
are protected by the opacity of the region of Prescription and Custom.
The moment this protection is relinquished, and the human spirit pierces
the cloud, and enters alone on the unexplored regions of Nature, this
Natural Horror haunts it, and is to be successfully encountered only
by defiance,--by aspiration towards, and reliance on, the Former and
Director of Nature, whose Messenger and Instrument of reassurance is
Faith.

MERVALE:--CONVENTIONALISM.

NICOT:--Base, grovelling, malignant PASSION.

GLYNDON:--UNSUSTAINED 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 conjoins its snatched privileges with a
besetting sensualism, and suffers at once from the horror of the one and
the disgust of the other, involving 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 conditions
(Sickness, Poverty, Ignorance, Death).

SCIENCE is ever striving to carry the most gifted beyond ordinary
conditions,--the result 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 a 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 helpless to human
charity, or given over to providential care.

Idealism, stripped of in sight and forecast, loses its serenity, becomes
subject once more to the horror from which it had escaped, and by
accepting its aids, forfeits the higher help of Faith; aspiration,
however, remaining still possible, and, thereby, slow restoration; and
also, SOMETHING BETTER.

Summoned by aspiration, Faith extorts from Fear itself the saving truth
to which Science continues blind, and which Idealism itself hails as its
crowning acquisition,--the inestimable PROOF wrought out by all labours
and all conflicts.

Pending the elaboration of this proof,

CONVENTIONALISM plods on, safe and complacent;

SELFISH PASSION perishes, grovelling and hopeless;

INSTINCT sleeps, in order to a loftier waking; and

IDEALISM learns, as its ultimate lesson, that self-sacrifice is true
redemption; 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 triumphant, hailed by a hierarchy of immortal
natures.

The result is (in other words), THAT THE UNIVERSAL HUMAN LOT IS, AFTER
ALL, THAT OF THE HIGHEST PRIVILEGE.