Zanoni

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> Zanoni


Another circumstance was also beginning to be remarked, and spoke yet
more in his commendation. Those with whom he principally associated--the
gay, the dissipated, the thoughtless, the sinners and publicans of the
more polished world--all appeared rapidly, yet insensibly to themselves,
to awaken to purer thoughts and more regulated lives. Even Cetoxa, the
prince of gallants, duellists, and gamesters, was no longer the same man
since the night of the singular events which he had related to
Glyndon. The first trace of his reform 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 six
years to entangle in such a quarrel as might call forth his inimitable
manoeuvre of the stoccata. Nor when Cetoxa and his young companions were
heard to speak of Zanoni, did it seem that this change had been brought
about by any sober lectures or admonitions. They all described Zanoni as
a man keenly alive to enjoyment: of manners the reverse of formal,--not
precisely gay, but equable, serene, and cheerful; ever ready to listen
to the talk of others, however idle, or to charm all ears with an
inexhaustible fund of brilliant anecdote and worldly experience. All
manners, all nations, all grades of men, seemed familiar to him. He was
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 East,
his residence in India, a certain gravity which never deserted his most
cheerful and familiar hours, the lustrous 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 belonging to one at least of the Oriental races. And a dabbler
in the Eastern tongues even sought to reduce the simple name of Zanoni,
which a century before had been borne by an inoffensive naturalist of
Bologna (The author of two works on botany and rare plants.), to the
radicals of the extinct language. Zan was unquestionably the Chaldean
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 Zeus (Ode megas keitai Zan.--"Cyril contra Julian." (Here
lies great Jove.)) significantly showed. As to the rest, the Zan, or
Zaun, was, with the Sidonians, no uncommon 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,--namely, that the numerous
family of Smiths in England were undoubtedly the ancient priests of the
Phrygian Apollo. "For," said he, "was not Apollo's surname, in
Phrygia, Smintheus? How clear all the ensuing corruptions of the august
name,--Smintheus, Smitheus, Smithe, Smith! And even now, I may remark
that the more ancient branches of that illustrious family, unconsciously
anxious to approximate at least by a letter nearer to the true title,
take a pious pleasure in writing their names Smith_e_!"

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



CHAPTER 2.VII.

Learn to be poor in spirit, my son, if you would penetrate that
sacred night which 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.--The
Count de Gabalis.

All these additions to his knowledge of Zanoni, 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, Glyndon sauntered musingly into the
public gardens, 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
seats 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 extraordinary 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
fashion strikingly at variance with the elaborate costume of the day:
an affectation of homeliness and poverty approaching to squalor, in
the loose trousers, 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 under 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 painful distortion sometimes
seen in the countenance of a cripple,--large, 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 displayed rows of jagged, black, broken teeth. Yet over this
frightful face there still played a kind of disagreeable intelligence,
an expression at once astute and bold; and as Glyndon, recovering from
the first impression, looked again at his neighbour, he blushed at his
own dismay, and recognised a French artist, with whom he had formed an
acquaintance, and who was possessed of no inconsiderable talents in his
calling.

Indeed, it was to be remarked that this creature, whose externals were
so deserted by the Graces, particularly delighted in designs aspiring to
majesty and grandeur. Though his colouring was hard and shallow, as
was that generally of the French school at the time, his DRAWINGS 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 Roman history, rather than from the copious world of
Grecian beauty, or those still more sublime stories of scriptural record
from which Raphael and Michael Angelo borrowed their inspirations. His
grandeur was that not of gods and saints, but mortals. His delineation
of beauty was that which the eye 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 contradiction
in this person, who was addicted to the most extravagant 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 WORLD-BETTERER! Nevertheless, 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 Republicans
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 despatch to the various states yet shackled, whether by
actual tyranny or wholesome laws. Certainly, as the historian of Italy
(Botta.) has observed, there was no city in Italy where these 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, Tanuccini, still presented 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 among the 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
meditations.

"They were 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 Diable! the French people are
now a Mirabeau themselves." With this remark, Monsieur Nicot proceeded
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 God 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 its successor.
No love that did not embrace all mankind, as warm for Indus and the
Pole as for the hearth of home, was worthy the breast of a generous
man. Opinion was to be free as air; and in order to make it so, it was
necessary to exterminate all those whose opinions were not the same as
Mons. Jean Nicot's. Much of this amused, much revolted Glyndon; but when
the painter turned to dwell upon a science that all should comprehend,
and the results of which all should enjoy,--a science that, springing
from the soil of equal institutions and equal mental cultivation, should
give to all the races of men wealth without labour, and a life longer
than the Patriarchs', without care,--then 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 meanness. 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? 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 mean time," said a low voice, at hand,--"in the mean time,
Jean Nicot?"

The two artists started, and Glyndon recognised Zanoni.

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

Ho, ho! Messire Jean Nicot, 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
infirmity of gratitude," said Zanoni.

Nicot suppressed an exclamation, and, after gloomily surveying Zanoni
with an eye villanous and sinister, but full of hate impotent and
unutterable, said, "I know you not,--what would you of me?"

"Your absence. Leave us!"

Nicot sprang forward a step, with hands clenched, and showing his teeth
from ear to ear, like a wild beast incensed. Zanoni stood motionless,
and smiled at him in scorn. Nicot halted abruptly, as if fixed and
fascinated by the look, shivered from head to foot, and sullenly, and
with a visible effort, as if impelled by a power not his own, turned
away.

Glyndon's eyes followed him in surprise.

"And what know you of this man?" said Zanoni.

"I know him as one like myself,--a follower of art."

"Of ART! Do not so profane that glorious word. What Nature is to God,
art should be to man,--a sublime, beneficent, genial, and warm creation.
That wretch may be a PAINTER, not an ARTIST."

"And pardon me if I ask what YOU 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 SPEAKS crime!"

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

"What opinions?"

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

"You are right; the few in every age improve the many; the many now may
be as wise as the few were; but improvement is at a standstill, if you
tell me that the many now are as wise as the few ARE."

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

"Law! If the whole world conspired to enforce the falsehood they could
not make it LAW. Level all conditions to-day, and you only smooth away
all obstacles to tyranny to-morrow. A nation that aspires to EQUALITY
is unfit for FREEDOM. Throughout all creation, from the archangel to the
worm, from Olympus to the pebble, from the radiant and completed 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?"

"Disparities of the PHYSICAL life? Oh, let us hope so. But disparities
of the INTELLECTUAL and the MORAL, never! Universal equality of
intelligence, of mind, of genius, of virtue!--no teacher left to the
world! no men wiser, better than others,--were it not an impossible
condition, WHAT A HOPELESS PROSPECT FOR HUMANITY! No, while the world
lasts, the sun will gild the mountain-top before it shines upon the
plain. Diffuse all the knowledge the earth contains equally over all
mankind to-day, and some men will be wiser than the rest to-morrow. And
THIS is not a harsh, but a loving law,--the REAL law of improvement;
the wiser the few in one generation, the wiser will be the multitude the
next!"

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 and purer in that lucid air.

"And these men, to commence their era of improvement and equality, are
jealous even of the Creator. They would deny an intelligence,--a God!"
said Zanoni, as if involuntarily. "Are you an artist, and, looking on
the world, can you listen to such a dogma? Between God and genius there
is a necessary link,--there is almost a correspondent language. Well
said the Pythagorean (Sextus, the Pythagorean.), 'A good intellect is
the chorus of divinity.'"

Struck and touched with these 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 connection between
magic and religion?"

"Magic!" And what is magic! When 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 vulgar
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. Knowest thou not that
magic was taught in the schools of old? But how, and by whom? As the
last and most solemn lesson, by the Priests who ministered to the
Temple. (Psellus de Daemon (MS.)) And you, who would be a painter, is
not there a magic also in that art you 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 TRUE, 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? Are you discontented with
this world? This world was never meant for genius! To exist, it must
create another. What magician can do more; nay, what science can do
as much? 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 catalogues the stars cannot add one atom to the
universe; the poet can call a universe from the atom; the chemist may
heal with his drugs the infirmities of the human form; the painter,
or the sculptor, fixes into everlasting youth forms divine, which
no disease can ravage, and no years impair. Renounce 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! Your pencil is
your wand; your canvas may raise Utopias fairer 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 from
every human tie? Perhaps the fairest immortality 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 canvas!"

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



CHAPTER 2.VIII.

The Goddess Wisdom.

To some she is the goddess great;
To some the milch cow of the field;
Their care is but to calculate
What butter she will yield.
From Schiller.

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 illumine 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 Viola's love circling occupation with happiness and
content; and in the midst of these fantasies 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 impressions, will have observed the
influence which a homely, vigorous, worldly understanding obtains over
such natures. It was thus with Glyndon. His friend had often extricated
him from danger, and saved him from the consequences of imprudence; and
there was something in Mervale's voice alone that damped his enthusiasm,
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! Glyndon coloured as he answered,--

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

"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 a union? 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 Viola Pisani?"

"I know not all the gossip of Naples, and therefore cannot answer; but I
know this, that in England no one would believe that a young Englishman,
of good fortune and respectable birth, who marries a singer from the
theatre of Naples, has not been 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 folly,--the absurd ambition
of daubing canvas. Heaven forbid I should say anything against the
laudable industry of one who follows such a profession for the sake of
subsistence; but with means and connections that will raise you in life,
why voluntarily sink into a mere artist? As an accomplishment in leisure
moments, 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 aristocracy, what men respect is the practical, not the ideal.
Just suffer me to draw two pictures of my own. Clarence Glyndon returns
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
concentrated, enters into practical life. He has a house at which he can
receive 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; and new connections 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 Glyndon 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. Clarence
Glyndon? Oh, the celebrated Pisani's husband! What else? Oh, he exhibits
those large 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 family which his
fortune, unaided 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!"