Zanoni — Edward Bulwer-Lytton
1 The Eternal gives eternal things, the Mortal gathers mortal things: God, that which is divine, and the perishable that which is perishable. 2 The Brahmins, speaking of Brahm, say, “To the Omniscient the three modes of being —sleep, waking, and trance — are not;” distinctly recognizing trance as a third and coequal condition of being.
ZANONI, 321
their being, in its most imperfect and infant form, that poetry, music, art — all that belong to an Idea of Beauty to which neither sleeping nor waking can furnish archetype and actual semblance — take their immortal birth. When we, O Mejnour in the far time, were ourselves the neophytes and aspirants, we were of a class to which the actual world was shut and barred, Our forefathers had no object in life but knowledge.
From the cradle we were predestined and reared to wisdom as to a priesthood. We commenced research where modern Conjecture closes its faithless wings. And with us, those were the common elements of science which the sages of to-day disdain as wild chimeras, or despair of as unfathomable mysteries.
Even the fundamental principles, the large yet simple theories of electricity 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 enjoying the sublime privileges they sought, they voluntarily abandoned the light of the sun, and sunk, without effort, to the grave, like pilgrims in a trackless desert, overawed by the stillness of their solitude, and appalled by the absence of a goal.
Thou, in whom nothing seems to live but the desire to know; thou, who, indifferent 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 vouchsafed 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 courage so absolute and dauntless, may suffice to conquer, where austerer intellect and purer virtue 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 embryo of power and beauty, may be expanded into the stately flower of the Golden Science. It is a new experiment to thee. Be gentle with thy neophyte, and if his nature disappoint thee in the 21 first stages of the process, dismiss him back to the Real while it is yet time to enjoy the brief and outward life which dwells in the senses, and closes with the tomb. And as I thus admonish thee, O Mejnour, wilt thou smile at my inconsistent 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 aloof from their condition, has made thy cold and bloodless science the link between thyself and thy race; why, thow hast sought converts and pupils ; why, in seeing life after life voluntarily dropping from our starry order, thou still aspirest to renew the vanished, and repair the lost ; why, amidst thy calculations, restless and unceasing as the wheels of Nature herself, thou recoilest from the thought TO BE ALONE!
So with myself; 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 all things to itself. Either must I be drawn down to the nature of the beloved, or hers must be lifted to my own.
As whatever belongs to true Art has always necessarily had attraction for us, 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 being, became poetry.
It was not the stage that attracted her, with its hollow falsehoods; it was the land in her own fancy which tbe 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 colored her thoughts, it suffused her soul ; it asked not words, it created not things ; it gave birth but to emotions, and lavished itself on dreams.
At last 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 careless talk, and find oracles in its unconscious beauty, as we find strange virtues in some lonely flower. I see
1 The Eternal gives eternal things, the Mortal gathers mortal things: God, that which is divine, and the perishable that which is perishable. 2 The Brahmins, speaking of Brahm, say, “To the Omniscient the three modes of being —sleep, waking, and trance — are not;” distinctly recognizing trance as a third and coequal condition of being.
p. 321
their being, in its most imperfect and infant form, that poetry, music, art — all that belong to an Idea of Beauty to which neither sleeping nor waking can furnish archetype and actual semblance — take their immortal birth. When we, O Mejnour in the far time, were ourselves the neophytes and aspirants, we were of a class to which the actual world was shut and barred, Our forefathers had no object in life but knowledge. From the cradle we were predestined and reared to wisdom as to a priesthood. We commenced research where modern Conjecture closes its faithless wings. And with us, those were the common elements of science which the sages of to-day disdain as wild chimeras, or despair of as unfathomable mysteries. Even the fundamental principles, the large yet simple theories of electricity 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 enjoying the sublime privileges they sought, they voluntarily abandoned the light of the sun, and sunk, without effort, to the grave, like pilgrims in a trackless desert, overawed by the stillness of their solitude, and appalled by the absence of a goal. You, in whom nothing seems to live but the desire to know; you, who, indifferent whether it leads to weal or to woe, lendest yourself to all who would tread the path of mysterious science, a human book, insensate to the precepts it enounces, — you have ever sought, and often made additions to our number. But to these have only been vouchsafed 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, you exposest this new soul to the hazards of the tremendous ordeal! You think that a zeal so inquisitive, a courage so absolute and dauntless, may suffice to conquer, where austerer intellect and purer virtue have so often failed. You think, too, that the germ of art that lies in the painter’s mind, as it comprehends in itself the entire embryo of power and beauty, may be expanded into the stately flower of the Golden Science. It is a new experiment to you. Be gentle with your neophyte, and if his nature disappoint you in the 21 first stages of the process, dismiss him back to the Real while it is yet time to enjoy the brief and outward life which dwells in the senses, and closes with the tomb. And as I thus admonish you, O Mejnour, will you smile at my inconsistent 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 aloof from their condition, has made your cold and bloodless science the link between yourself and your race; why, thow have sought converts and pupils ; why, in seeing life after life voluntarily dropping from our starry order, you still aspirest to renew the vanished, and repair the lost ; why, amidst your calculations, restless and unceasing as the wheels of Nature herself, you recoilest from the thought TO BE ALONE! So with myself; at last I, too, seek a convert, an equal, —I, too, shudder to be alone! What you have warned me of has come to pass. Love reduces all things to itself. Either must I be drawn down to the nature of the beloved, or hers must be lifted to my own. As whatever belongs to true Art has always necessarily had attraction for us, 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 being, became poetry. It was not the stage that attracted her, with its hollow falsehoods; it was the land in her own fancy which tbe 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 colored her thoughts, it suffused her soul ; it asked not words, it created not things ; it gave birth but to emotions, and lavished itself on dreams. At last 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 careless talk, and find oracles in its unconscious beauty, as we find strange virtues in some lonely flower. I see
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