Zanoni — Edward Bulwer-Lytton

books, filed regularly in their appointed ranks. An observer would have said, “This man wishes to imply to you, —I am not rich; I am not ostentatious; I am not luxurious; I am no indolent Sybarite, with couches of down, and pictures that provoke the sense; I am no haughty noble, with spacious halls, and galleries that awe the echo.

But so much the greater is my merit if I disdain these excesses of the ease or tlie pride, since I love the elegant, and have a taste!

Others may be simple and honest, from the very coarseness of their habits; if I, with so much refinement and delicacy, am simple and honest, — reflect, and admire me! ” On the walls of this chamber hung many portraits, most of them represented but one face; on the formal pedestals were grouped many busts, most of them - sculptured but one head. In that small chamber Egotism sat supreme, and made the Arts its looking-glasses.

Erect in a chair, before a large table spread with letters, sat the original of bust and canvas, the owner of the apartment. He was alone, yet he sat erect, formal, stiff, precise, as if in his very home he was not at ease. His dress was in harmony with his posture and his chamber; it affected a neatness of its own, — foreign both to the sumptuous fashions of the deposed nobles, and the filthy ruggedness of the sans-culottes.

Frizzled and coiffé, not a hair was out of order, not a speck lodged on the sleek surface of the blue coat, not a wrinkle crumpled the snowy vest, with its under-relief of delicate pink. At the first glance, you might have seen in that face nothing but the ill-favored features of a sickly countenance; at a second glance, you would have perceived that it had a power, a character of its own. The forehead, though low and compressed, was not without that appearance of thought and intelligence which, it

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may be observed, that breadth between the eyebrows almost invariably gives; the lips were firm and tightly drawn together, yet ever and anon they trembled, and writhed restlessly. The eyes, sullen and gloomy, were yet piercing, and full of a concentrated vigor that did not seem supported by the thin, feeble frame, or the green lividness of the hues, which told of anxiety and disease. Such was Maximilien Robespierre; such the chamber over the ménuwisier’s shop, whence issued the edicts that launched armies on their career of glory, and ordained an artificial conduit to carry off the blood that deluged the metropolis of the most martial people in the globe! Such was the man who had resigned a judicial appointment (the early object of his ambition) rather than violate his philanthropical principles by subscribing to the death of a single fellow-creature ; such was the virgin enemy to capital punishments; and such, Butcher-Dictator now, was the man whose pure and rigid manners, whose incorruptible honesty, whose hatred of the excesses that tempt to love and wine, would, had he died five years earlier, have left him the model for prudent fathers and careful citizens to place before their sons. Such was the man who seemed to have no vice, till circumstance, that hotbed, brought forth the two which, in ordinary times, lie ever the deepest and most latent in a man’s heart, — Cowardice and Envy. To one of these sources is to be traced every murder that master-fiend committed. His cowardice was of a peculiar and strange sort; for it was accompanied with the most unscrupulous and determined will, —a will that Napoleon reverenced ; a will of iron, and yet nerves of aspen. Mentally, he was a hero, — physically, a dastard. When the veriest shadow of danger

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threatened his person, the frame cowered, but the will swept the danger to the slaughter-house. So there he sat, bolt upright, — his small, lean fingers clenched convulsively ; his sullen eyes straining into space, their whites yellowed with streaks of corrupt blood; his ears literally moving to and fro, like the ignobler animals’, to catch every sound, —a Dionysius in his cave; but his posture decorous and collected, and every formal hair in its frizzled place. “Yes, yes,” he said in a muttered tone, “I hear them; my good Jacobins are at their post on the stairs. Pity they swear so! I have a law against oaths, — the manners of the poor and virtuous people must be reformed. When all is safe, an example or two amongst those good Jacobins would make effect. Faithful fel- ‘lows, how they love me! Hum!— what an oath was that! — they need not swear so loud, — upon the very staircase, too! It detracts from my reputation. Ha! steps! ”

The soliloquist glanced at the opposite mirror, and took up a volume; he seemed absorbed in its contents, as a tall fellow, a bludgeon in his hand, a girdle adorned with pistols round his waist, opened the door, and announced two visitors. The one was a young man, said to resemble Robespierre in person, but of a far more decided and resolute expression of countenance. He entered first, and, looking over the volume in Robespierre’s hand, for the latter seemed still intent on his lecture, exclaimed, — “What! Rousseau’s Heloise? A love-tale! ” “Dear Payan, it is not the love, — it is the philosophy that charms me. What noble sentiments! — what ardor of virtue! If Jean Jacques had but lived to see this day!”

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