Zanoni — Edward Bulwer-Lytton
“ Ah, is it possible! You are one of that theurgic brotherhood ? ” “Nay, I attended their ceremonies but to see how vainly they sought to revive the ancient marvels of the cabala.” “Such studies please you? I have shaken off the influence they once had on my own imagination.” “You have not shaken it off,” returned the stranger, gravely; “itis on you still, —on you at this hour; it beats in your heart; it kindles in your reason; it will speak in your tongue! ” And then, with a yet lower voice, the stranger continued to address him, to remind him of certain ceremonies and doctrines, — to explain and enforce them by references to the actual experience and history of his listener, which Cazotte thrilled to find so familiar toa stranger. . Gradually the old man’s pleasing and benevolent countenance grew overcast, and he turned, from time to time, searching, curious, uneasy glances towards his companion, The charming Duchesse de G archly pointed out to the lively guests the abstracted air and clouded brow of the poet; and Condorcet, who liked no one else to be remarked, when he himself was present, said to Cazotte, “Well, and what do yow predict of the Revolution, — how, at least, will it affect us? ” At that question Cazotte started; his cheeks grew sincere Christian. Before his execution, he demanded a pen and paper to write these words: “ Ma femme, mes enfans, ne me pleurez pas; ne m’oubliez pas, mais souvenez-vous surtout de ne jamais offenser Dieu.” *— Ep.
“ My wife, my children, weep not for me, forget me not, but remember above everything never to offend God.
ZANONI, 4)
pale, large drops stood on his forehead; his lips writhed; his gay companions gazed on him in surprise. “Speak!” whispered the stranger, laying his hand gently upon the arm of the old wit. At that word Cazotte’s face grew locked and rigid, his eyes dwelt vacantly on space, and in a low, hollow voice, he thus answered,! — “You ask how it will affect yourselves, — you, its most learned, and its least selfish agents.
I will answer: you, Marquis de Condorcet, will die in prison, but not by the hand of the executioner. In the peaceful happiness of that day, the philosopher will carry about with him not the elixir but the poison.
“My poor Cazotte,” said Condorcet, with his gentle smile, “what have prisons, executioners, and poison to do with an age of liberty and brotherhood ? ” “Tt is in the names of Liberty and Brotherhood that the prisons will reek, and the headsman be glutted. “You are thinking of priestcraft, not philosophy, Cazotte,” said Champfort.?, “ And what of me?”
1 The following prophecy (not unfamiliar, perhaps, to some of my readers), with some slight variations, and at greater length, in the text of the authority I am about to cite, is to be found in La Harpe’s posthumous works, The MS. is said to exist still in La Harpe’s handwriting, and the story is given on M. Petitot’s authority, vol. i. p. 62. It is not for me to inquire if there be doubts of its foundation on fact. — Ep. 2 Champfort, one of those men of letters who, though misled by the first fair show of the Revolution, refused to follow the baser men of action into its horrible excesses, lived to express the mur derous philanthropy of its agents by the best bon mot of the time. Seeing written on the walls, “ Fraternité ou la Mort,” he observed that the sentiment should be translated thus, ‘‘ Sois mon frere, ou je te tue,” @ “Be my brother, or I kill thee.”
p. 42
“ Ah, is it possible! You are one of that theurgic brotherhood ? ” “Nay, I attended their ceremonies but to see how vainly they sought to revive the ancient marvels of the cabala.” “Such studies please you? I have shaken off the influence they once had on my own imagination.” “You have not shaken it off,” returned the stranger, gravely; “itis on you still, —on you at this hour; it beats in your heart; it kindles in your reason; it will speak in your tongue! ” And then, with a yet lower voice, the stranger continued to address him, to remind him of certain ceremonies and doctrines, — to explain and enforce them by references to the actual experience and history of his listener, which Cazotte thrilled to find so familiar toa stranger. . Gradually the old man’s pleasing and benevolent countenance grew overcast, and he turned, from time to time, searching, curious, uneasy glances towards his companion, The charming Duchesse de G archly pointed out to the lively guests the abstracted air and clouded brow of the poet; and Condorcet, who liked no one else to be remarked, when he himself was present, said to Cazotte, “Well, and what do yow predict of the Revolution, — how, at least, will it affect us? ” At that question Cazotte started; his cheeks grew sincere Christian. Before his execution, he demanded a pen and paper to write these words: “ Ma femme, mes enfans, ne me pleurez pas; ne m’oubliez pas, mais souvenez-vous surtout de ne jamais offenser Dieu.” *— Ep.
“ My wife, my children, weep not for me, forget me not, but remember above everything never to offend God.
ZANONI, 4)
pale, large drops stood on his forehead; his lips writhed; his gay companions gazed on him in surprise. “Speak!” whispered the stranger, laying his hand gently upon the arm of the old wit. At that word Cazotte’s face grew locked and rigid, his eyes dwelt vacantly on space, and in a low, hollow voice, he thus answered,! — “You ask how it will affect yourselves, — you, its most learned, and its least selfish agents.
I will answer: you, Marquis de Condorcet, will die in prison, but not by the hand of the executioner. In the peaceful happiness of that day, the philosopher will carry about with him not the elixir but the poison.
“My poor Cazotte,” said Condorcet, with his gentle smile, “what have prisons, executioners, and poison to do with an age of liberty and brotherhood ? ” “Tt is in the names of Liberty and Brotherhood that the prisons will reek, and the headsman be glutted. “You are thinking of priestcraft, not philosophy, Cazotte,” said Champfort.?, “ And what of me?”
1 The following prophecy (not unfamiliar, perhaps, to some of my readers), with some slight variations, and at greater length, in the text of the authority I am about to cite, is to be found in La Harpe’s posthumous works, The MS. is said to exist still in La Harpe’s handwriting, and the story is given on M. Petitot’s authority, vol. i. p. 62. It is not for me to inquire if there be doubts of its foundation on fact. — Ep. 2 Champfort, one of those men of letters who, though misled by the first fair show of the Revolution, refused to follow the baser men of action into its horrible excesses, lived to express the mur derous philanthropy of its agents by the best bon mot of the time. Seeing written on the walls, “ Fraternité ou la Mort,” he observed that the sentiment should be translated thus, ‘‘ Sois mon frere, ou je te tue,” @ “Be my brother, or I kill you.”
p. 42
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