Zanoni — Edward Bulwer-Lytton
he had, indeed, previously heard some of the strange rumors which followed the path of Zanoni, and was therefore prepared to believe the worst; the worthy Bartoloméo would have made no bones of sending Watt to the stake, had he heard him speak of the steamengine.
But Viola, as untutored 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 experience of the human heart hourly exposed to their probe, Bartoloméo spoke less of danger to herself than to her child.
“ Sorcerers,” said he, “ have ever sought the 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 fly with it from an abode polluted by the darker powers and unhallowed arts, Viola, still clinging to the image of Zanoni, sank into a passive 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, knelling 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 fairylike, from the womb of darkness; and ere they fell again, extinguished, into that womb, their grave, their
p. 395
low small voices murmured, “ Woman, we report to eternity all that is done in time! What shall we report of thee, O guardian of a new-born soul?” 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 solitude 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 confidence 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 fastened on her as with a palpable and irresistible grasp; it seemed to raise her limbs without her will. And now, through the chamber, along the galleries thou glidest, O lovely shape! sleep-walking, yet awake. The moon shines on thee as thou glidest by, casement after casement, white-robed and wandering spirit! — thine arms crossed upon thy bosom, thine eyes fixed and open, with a calm, unfearing awe. Mother, it is thy child that leads thee on! The fairy moments go before thee; thou hearest still the clock-knell tolling 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 night in the chamber where, pale and numberless, the hosts of space have gathered round the seer!
p. 396
CHAPTER VII.
Des Erdenlebens Schweres Traumbild sinkt, und sinkt, und sinkt.! Das Ideal und das Lebens.
Sue 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 girdles, no skulls and cross-bones. Quietly streamed the broad moonlight through the desolate chamber 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, O Genius, — Seeker of the Stars! Words themselves are the common property of all men; yet, from words themselves, Thou, Architect of Immortalities, pilest up temples that shall outlive the Pyramids, and the very leaf of the Papyrus becomes a Shinar, stately with towers, round which the Deluge of Ages shall roar in vain! But in that solitude has the Presence 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
1 The Dream Shape of the heavy earthly life sinks, and sinks, and sinks.
p. 397
he had, indeed, previously heard some of the strange rumors which followed the path of Zanoni, and was therefore prepared to believe the worst; the worthy Bartoloméo would have made no bones of sending Watt to the stake, had he heard him speak of the steamengine.
But Viola, as untutored 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 experience of the human heart hourly exposed to their probe, Bartoloméo spoke less of danger to herself than to her child.
“ Sorcerers,” said he, “ have ever sought the 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 fly with it from an abode polluted by the darker powers and unhallowed arts, Viola, still clinging to the image of Zanoni, sank into a passive 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, knelling 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 fairylike, from the womb of darkness; and ere they fell again, extinguished, into that womb, their grave, their
p. 395
low small voices murmured, “ Woman, we report to eternity all that is done in time! What shall we report of you, O guardian of a new-born soul?” 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 solitude 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 confidence 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 fastened on her as with a palpable and irresistible grasp; it seemed to raise her limbs without her will. And now, through the chamber, along the galleries you glidest, O lovely shape! sleep-walking, yet awake. The moon shines on you as you glidest by, casement after casement, white-robed and wandering spirit! — your arms crossed upon your bosom, your eyes fixed and open, with a calm, unfearing awe. Mother, it is your child that leads you on! The fairy moments go before you; you hearest still the clock-knell tolling them to their graves behind. On, gliding on, you have gained the door; no lock bars you, no magic spell drives you back. Daughter of the dust, you stand alone with night in the chamber where, pale and numberless, the hosts of space have gathered round the seer!
p. 396
CHAPTER VII.
Des Erdenlebens Schweres Traumbild sinkt, und sinkt, und sinkt.! Das Ideal und das Lebens.
Sue 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 girdles, no skulls and cross-bones. Quietly streamed the broad moonlight through the desolate chamber 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 your works and wonders, O Genius, — Seeker of the Stars! Words themselves are the common property of all men; yet, from words themselves, You, Architect of Immortalities, pilest up temples that shall outlive the Pyramids, and the very leaf of the Papyrus becomes a Shinar, stately with towers, round which the Deluge of Ages shall roar in vain! But in that solitude has the Presence 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
1 The Dream Shape of the heavy earthly life sinks, and sinks, and sinks.
p. 397
No commentary for this page under the selected tracks.
There is commentary on page 1.