Zanoni — Edward Bulwer-Lytton
born of Time,} stood as at the deathbed of the Old World, and beheld the New Orb, blood-red amidst cloud and vapor, —uncertain if a comet or a sun. Behold the icy and profound disdain on the brow of the old man, — the lofty yet touching sadness that darkens the glorious countenance of Zanoni. Is it that one views with contempt the struggle and its issue, and the other with awe or pity? Wisdom contemplating mankind leads but to the two results, — compassion or disdain. He who believes in other worlds can accustom himself to look on this as the naturalist on the revolutions of an ant-hill, or of a leaf. What is the Earth to Infinity, — what its duration to the Eternal? Oh, how much greater is the soul of one man than the vicissitudes of the whole globe! Child of heaven, and heir of immortality, how from some star hereafter wilt thou look back on the ant-hill and its commotions, from Clovis to Robespierre, from Noah to the Final Fire. The spirit that can contemplate, that lives only in the intellect, can ascend to its star, even from the midst of the burial-ground called Earth, and while the sarcophagus called Life immures in its clay the everlasting! But thou, Zanoni, — thou hast refused to live only in the intellect; thou hast not mortified the heart; thy pulse still beats with the sweet music of mortal passion ; thy kind is to thee still something warmer than an abstraction, — thou wouldst look upon this Revolution in its cradle, which the storms rock; thou wouldst see the world while its elements yet struggle through the chaos! Go! : 1“ An des Jahrhunderts Neige,
Der reifste Sohn der Zeit.” Die Kiinstler.
p. 36
CHAPTER VI.
Précepteurs ignorans de ce faible univers.1 — VoLTaIRE. Nous étions a table chez un de nos confréres 4 l’Académie, Grand Seigneur et homme d’esprit.2— La Harpe.
OnE evening, at Paris, several months after the date of our last chapter, there was a reunion of some of the most eminent wits of the time, at the house of a personage distinguished alike by noble birth and liberal accomplishments. Nearly all present were of the views that were then the mode. For, as came afterwards a time when nothing was so unpopular as the people, so that was the time when nothing was so vulgar as aristocracy. The airiest fine gentleman and the haughtiest noble prated of equality, and lisped enlightenment. Among the more remarkable guests were Condorcet, then in the prime of his reputation, the correspondent of the king of Prussia, the intimate of Voltaire, the member of half the academies of Europe, — noble by birth, polished in manners, republican in opinions. There, too, was the venerable Malesherbes, “ l’amour et les délices de la Nation.” ® There Jean Silvain Bailly, the accomplished scholar, — the aspiring politician. It was one of those petits soupers for which the capital of all social pleasures was so renowned. The conversation, as might be expected, was literary and
1 Tgnorant teachers of this weak world. 2 We supped with one of our confreres of the Academy, —a great nobleman and wit. 8 The idol and delight of the nation (so called by his historian, Gaillard).
p. 37
intellectual, enlivened by graceful pleasantry. Many of the ladies of that ancient and proud noblesse — for the noblesse yet existed, though its hours were already numbered — added to the charm of the society; and theirs were the boldest criticisms, and often the most liberal sentiments. Vain labor for me — vain labor almost for the grave English language — to do justice to the sparkling paradoxes that flew from lip to lip. The favorite theme was the superiority of the moderns to the ancients. Condorcet on this head was eloquent, and to some, at least, of his audience, most convincing. That Voltaire was greater than Homer few there were disposed to deny. Keen was the ridicule lavished on the dull pedantry which finds everything ancient necessarily sublime. “Yet,” said the graceful Marquis de , as the champagne danced to his glass, “ more ridiculous still is the superstition that finds everything incomprehensible holy! But intelligence circulates, Condorcet; like water, it finds its level. My hairdresser said to me this morning, ‘ Though I am but a poor fellow, I believe as little as the finest gentleman! ’ ” “ Unquestionably, the great Revolution draws near to its final completion, — a pas de géant, as Montesquieu said of his own immortai work.” Then there rushed from all — wit and noble, courtier and republican —a confused chorus, harmonious only in its anticipation of the brilliant things to which “ the great Revolution ” was to give birth. Here Condorcet is more eloquent than before. “Tl faut absolument que la Superstition et le Fanatisme fassent place a la Philosophie.! Kings persecute
1 It must necessarily happen that superstition and fanaticism give place to philosophy.
p. 38
born of Time,} stood as at the deathbed of the Old World, and beheld the New Orb, blood-red amidst cloud and vapor, —uncertain if a comet or a sun. Behold the icy and profound disdain on the brow of the old man, — the lofty yet touching sadness that darkens the glorious countenance of Zanoni. Is it that one views with contempt the struggle and its issue, and the other with awe or pity? Wisdom contemplating mankind leads but to the two results, — compassion or disdain. He who believes in other worlds can accustom himself to look on this as the naturalist on the revolutions of an ant-hill, or of a leaf. What is the Earth to Infinity, — what its duration to the Eternal? Oh, how much greater is the soul of one man than the vicissitudes of the whole globe! Child of heaven, and heir of immortality, how from some star hereafter will you look back on the ant-hill and its commotions, from Clovis to Robespierre, from Noah to the Final Fire. The spirit that can contemplate, that lives only in the intellect, can ascend to its star, even from the midst of the burial-ground called Earth, and while the sarcophagus called Life immures in its clay the everlasting! But you, Zanoni, — you have refused to live only in the intellect; you have not mortified the heart; your pulse still beats with the sweet music of mortal passion ; your kind is to you still something warmer than an abstraction, — you would look upon this Revolution in its cradle, which the storms rock; you would see the world while its elements yet struggle through the chaos! Go! : 1“ An des Jahrhunderts Neige,
Der reifste Sohn der Zeit.” Die Kiinstler.
p. 36
CHAPTER VI.
Précepteurs ignorans de ce faible univers.1 — VoLTaIRE. Nous étions a table chez un de nos confréres 4 l’Académie, Grand Seigneur et homme d’esprit.2— La Harpe.
OnE evening, at Paris, several months after the date of our last chapter, there was a reunion of some of the most eminent wits of the time, at the house of a personage distinguished alike by noble birth and liberal accomplishments. Nearly all present were of the views that were then the mode. For, as came afterwards a time when nothing was so unpopular as the people, so that was the time when nothing was so vulgar as aristocracy. The airiest fine gentleman and the haughtiest noble prated of equality, and lisped enlightenment. Among the more remarkable guests were Condorcet, then in the prime of his reputation, the correspondent of the king of Prussia, the intimate of Voltaire, the member of half the academies of Europe, — noble by birth, polished in manners, republican in opinions. There, too, was the venerable Malesherbes, “ l’amour et les délices de la Nation.” ® There Jean Silvain Bailly, the accomplished scholar, — the aspiring politician. It was one of those petits soupers for which the capital of all social pleasures was so renowned. The conversation, as might be expected, was literary and
1 Tgnorant teachers of this weak world. 2 We supped with one of our confreres of the Academy, —a great nobleman and wit. 8 The idol and delight of the nation (so called by his historian, Gaillard).
p. 37
intellectual, enlivened by graceful pleasantry. Many of the ladies of that ancient and proud noblesse — for the noblesse yet existed, though its hours were already numbered — added to the charm of the society; and theirs were the boldest criticisms, and often the most liberal sentiments. Vain labor for me — vain labor almost for the grave English language — to do justice to the sparkling paradoxes that flew from lip to lip. The favorite theme was the superiority of the moderns to the ancients. Condorcet on this head was eloquent, and to some, at least, of his audience, most convincing. That Voltaire was greater than Homer few there were disposed to deny. Keen was the ridicule lavished on the dull pedantry which finds everything ancient necessarily sublime. “Yet,” said the graceful Marquis de , as the champagne danced to his glass, “ more ridiculous still is the superstition that finds everything incomprehensible holy! But intelligence circulates, Condorcet; like water, it finds its level. My hairdresser said to me this morning, ‘ Though I am but a poor fellow, I believe as little as the finest gentleman! ’ ” “ Unquestionably, the great Revolution draws near to its final completion, — a pas de géant, as Montesquieu said of his own immortai work.” Then there rushed from all — wit and noble, courtier and republican —a confused chorus, harmonious only in its anticipation of the brilliant things to which “ the great Revolution ” was to give birth. Here Condorcet is more eloquent than before. “Tl faut absolument que la Superstition et le Fanatisme fassent place a la Philosophie.! Kings persecute
1 It must necessarily happen that superstition and fanaticism give place to philosophy.
p. 38
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