Zanoni — Edward Bulwer-Lytton
“And he would have married me if I would! — divorced his wife to marry me! But I waited for thee, ungrateful! ” A knock at the door was heard,—a man entered. “Nicot! ” “Ah, Glyndon!—hum!— welcome! What! thou art twice my rival! But Jean Nicot bears no malice. Virtue is my dream,— my country, my mistress, Serve my country, citizen; and I forgive thee the preference of beauty. (Ca ira! ga ira!” But as the painter spoke, it hymned, it rolled through the streets,— the fiery song of the Marseillaise! There was a crowd, a multitude, a people up, abroad, with colors and arms, enthusiasm and song, — with song, with enthusiasm, with colors and arms! And who could guess that that martial movement was one, not of war, but massacre, —- Frenchmen against Frenchmen } For there are two parties in Marseilles, —and ample work for Jourdan Coupe-téte! But this, the Englishman, just arrived, a stranger to all factions, did not as yet comprehend, He comprehended nothing but the song, the enthusiasm, the arms, and the colors that lifted to the sun the glorious lie, “ Le peuple Frangais, 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 Hébert, by the stranger’s side, at the casement. “Ay, shout again!” cried the painter, —“ shout for the brave Englishman who abjures his Pitts and his Coburgs to be a citizen of Liberty and France!”
1 Up, Frenchmen, against tyrants!
ZANONI. OLE
A thousand voices rent the air, and the hymn 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 come!” muttered Glyndon; and he thought he felt again the elixir sparkling through his veins. “Thou shalt be one of the Convention with Paine and Clootz,— I will manage it all for thee! ” cried Nicot, slapping him on the shoulder: “and Paris —” “ Ah, if I could but see Paris! ” cried Fillide, in her joyous voice. Joyous! the whole time, the town, the air— save where, unheard, rose the cry of agony and the yell of murder— 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 not. All things are of the whole! Open thy gates, fair Paris, for the strangercitizen! Receive in your ranks, O meek Republicans, the new champion of liberty, of reason, of mankind! “ Mejnour is right; it was in virtue, in valor, in glorious struggle for the human race, that the spectre was to shrink to her kindred darkness.” And Nicot’s shrill voice praised him; and lean Robespierre — “ Flambeau, colonne, pierre angulaire de Védifice de la République !” 1—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 demon eyes to the sea whose waves were gore.
1 “The light, column, and keystone of the Republic.” — Lettre du Citoyen P: ; Papiers inédits trouvés chez Robespierre, tom 11, p. 127.
BOOK VI.
SUPERSTITION DESERTING FAITH.
CHAPTER I.
Therefore the Genii were painted with a platter full of garlands and flowers in one hand, and a whip in the other. — ALEXANDER Ross, Mystag. Poet.
AccorpinG to the order of the events related in this narrative, the departure of Zanoni and Viola 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 Glyndon 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 Rialto was hushed, — the last loiterers had deserted the Place of St. Mark’s, and only at distant intervals might be heard the oars of the rapid gondolas, bearing reveller or lover to his home. But lights still flitted 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, — Fear and Pain.
p. 374
“And he would have married me if I would! — divorced his wife to marry me! But I waited for you, ungrateful! ” A knock at the door was heard,—a man entered. “Nicot! ” “Ah, Glyndon!—hum!— welcome! What! you are twice my rival! But Jean Nicot bears no malice. Virtue is my dream,— my country, my mistress, Serve my country, citizen; and I forgive you the preference of beauty. (Ca ira! ga ira!” But as the painter spoke, it hymned, it rolled through the streets,— the fiery song of the Marseillaise! There was a crowd, a multitude, a people up, abroad, with colors and arms, enthusiasm and song, — with song, with enthusiasm, with colors and arms! And who could guess that that martial movement was one, not of war, but massacre, —- Frenchmen against Frenchmen } For there are two parties in Marseilles, —and ample work for Jourdan Coupe-téte! But this, the Englishman, just arrived, a stranger to all factions, did not as yet comprehend, He comprehended nothing but the song, the enthusiasm, the arms, and the colors that lifted to the sun the glorious lie, “ Le peuple Frangais, 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 Hébert, by the stranger’s side, at the casement. “Ay, shout again!” cried the painter, —“ shout for the brave Englishman who abjures his Pitts and his Coburgs to be a citizen of Liberty and France!”
1 Up, Frenchmen, against tyrants!
ZANONI. OLE
A thousand voices rent the air, and the hymn 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 come!” muttered Glyndon; and he thought he felt again the elixir sparkling through his veins. “You shall be one of the Convention with Paine and Clootz,— I will manage it all for you! ” cried Nicot, slapping him on the shoulder: “and Paris —” “ Ah, if I could but see Paris! ” cried Fillide, in her joyous voice. Joyous! the whole time, the town, the air— save where, unheard, rose the cry of agony and the yell of murder— were joy! Sleep unhaunting in your grave, cold Adela. Joy, joy! In the Jubilee of Humanity all private griefs should cease! Behold, wild mariner, the vast whirlpool draws you to its stormy bosom! There the individual is not. All things are of the whole! Open your gates, fair Paris, for the strangercitizen! Receive in your ranks, O meek Republicans, the new champion of liberty, of reason, of mankind! “ Mejnour is right; it was in virtue, in valor, in glorious struggle for the human race, that the spectre was to shrink to her kindred darkness.” And Nicot’s shrill voice praised him; and lean Robespierre — “ Flambeau, colonne, pierre angulaire de Védifice de la République !” 1—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 demon eyes to the sea whose waves were gore.
1 “The light, column, and keystone of the Republic.” — Lettre du Citoyen P: ; Papiers inédits trouvés chez Robespierre, tom 11, p. 127.
BOOK VI.
SUPERSTITION DESERTING FAITH.
CHAPTER I.
Therefore the Genii were painted with a platter full of garlands and flowers in one hand, and a whip in the other. — ALEXANDER Ross, Mystag. Poet.
AccorpinG to the order of the events related in this narrative, the departure of Zanoni and Viola 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 Glyndon 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 Rialto was hushed, — the last loiterers had deserted the Place of St. Mark’s, and only at distant intervals might be heard the oars of the rapid gondolas, bearing reveller or lover to his home. But lights still flitted 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, — Fear and Pain.
p. 374
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