Zanoni — Edward Bulwer-Lytton
down the stairs. While he thus stood, he heard a groan from the room which the young man had just quitted; the latter had pulled to the door with hasty vehemence, but some fragment, probably of fuel, had prevented its closing, and it now stood slightly ajar; the stranger pushed it open and entered. He passed a small anteroom, meanly furnished, and stood in a bedchamber of meagre and sordid discomfort. Stretched on the bed, and writhing in pain, lay an old man; a single eandle lit the room, and threw its feeble ray over the furrowed and death-like face of the sick person. Wo attendant was by; he seemed left alone, to breathe his last. “Water,” he moaned feebly, —“ water: I parch, —I burn!” The intruder approached the bed, bent over him, and took his hand. “Oh, bless thee, Jean, bless thee!” said the sufferer; “ hast thou brought back the physician already? Sir, Iam poor, but I can pay you well. I would not die yet, for that young man’s sake.” And he sat upright in his bed, and fixed his dim eyes anxiously on his visitor. “ What are your symptoms, your disease? e “ Fire, fire, fire in the heart, the entrails: I burn! ” “ How long is it since you hige taken food?” “Food! only this broth. There is the basin, all I have taken these six hours. I had scarce drunk it ere these pains began.” The stranger looked at the basin; some portion of the contents was yet left there. “Who administered this to you? ” “Whot Jean! Who else should? I have no servant, —none! Iam poor, very poor, sir. But no! you physicians do not care for the poor. Iam rich! can you cure me?” “Yes, if Heaven permit. Wait but afew moments.”
p. 46
The old man was fast sinking under the rapid effects of poison. The stranger repaired to his own apartments, and returned in a few moments with some preparation that had the instant result of an antidote. The pain ceased, the blue and livid color receded from the lips; the old man fell into a profound sleep. The stranger drew the curtains round the bed, took up the light, and inspected the apartment.
The walls of both rooms were hung with drawings of masterly excellence.
A portfolio was filled with sketches of equal skill,— but these last were mostly subjects that appalled the eye and revolted the taste: they displayed the human figure in every variety of suffering, — the rack, the wheel, the gibbet; all that cruelty has invented to sharpen the pangs of death seemed yet more dreadful from the passionate gusto and earnest force of the designer.
And some of the countenances of those thus delineated were sufficiently removed from the ideal to show that they were portraits; in a large, bold, irregular hand was written beneath these drawings, “The Future of the Aristocrats. In a corner of the room, and close by an old bureau, was a small bundle, over which, as if to hide it, a cloak was thrown carelessly.
Several shelves were filled with books; these were almost entirely the works of the philosophers of the time, — the philosophers of the material school, especially the Encyclopédistes, whom Robespierre afterwards so singularly attacked when the coward deemed it unsafe to leave his reign without a God.1 A volume lay on a table, — it
p. 47
was one of Voltaire, and the page was opened at his argumentative assertion of the existence of the Supreme Being.? The margin was covered with pencilled notes, in the stiff but tremulous hand of old age; all in attempt to refute or to ridicule the logic of the sage of Ferney: Voltaire did not go far enough for the annotator! The clock struck two, when the sound of steps was heard without. The stranger silently seated himself on the farther side of the bed, and its drapery screened him, as he sat, from the eyes of a man who now entered on tiptoe; it was the same person who had passed him on the stairs. The new-comer took up the candle and approached the bed. The old man’s face was turned to the pillow; but he lay so still, and his breathing was so inaudible, that his sleep might well, by that hasty, shrinking, guilty glance, be mistaken for the repose of death. The new-comer drew back, and a grim smile passed over his face: he replaced the candle on the table, opened the bureau with a key which he took from his pocket, and loaded himself with several rouleaus of gold that he found in the drawers. At this time the old man began to wake. He stirred, he looked up; he turned his eyes towards the light now waning in its socket; he saw the robber at his work; he sat erect for an instant, as if transfixed, more even by astonishment than terror. At last he sprang from his bed.
1 “Cette secte (les Encyclopédistes) propagea avec beaucoup de zele opinion du matérialisme, qui prévalut parmi les grands et parmi les beaux esprits; on lui doit en partie cette espece de philosophie pratique qui, reduisant l’Egoisme en systéme, regarde la société humaine comme une guerre de ruse, le succes comme la
down the stairs. While he thus stood, he heard a groan from the room which the young man had just quitted; the latter had pulled to the door with hasty vehemence, but some fragment, probably of fuel, had prevented its closing, and it now stood slightly ajar; the stranger pushed it open and entered. He passed a small anteroom, meanly furnished, and stood in a bedchamber of meagre and sordid discomfort. Stretched on the bed, and writhing in pain, lay an old man; a single eandle lit the room, and threw its feeble ray over the furrowed and death-like face of the sick person. Wo attendant was by; he seemed left alone, to breathe his last. “Water,” he moaned feebly, —“ water: I parch, —I burn!” The intruder approached the bed, bent over him, and took his hand. “Oh, bless you, Jean, bless you!” said the sufferer; “ have you brought back the physician already? Sir, Iam poor, but I can pay you well. I would not die yet, for that young man’s sake.” And he sat upright in his bed, and fixed his dim eyes anxiously on his visitor. “ What are your symptoms, your disease? e “ Fire, fire, fire in the heart, the entrails: I burn! ” “ How long is it since you hige taken food?” “Food! only this broth. There is the basin, all I have taken these six hours. I had scarce drunk it ere these pains began.” The stranger looked at the basin; some portion of the contents was yet left there. “Who administered this to you? ” “Whot Jean! Who else should? I have no servant, —none! Iam poor, very poor, sir. But no! you physicians do not care for the poor. Iam rich! can you cure me?” “Yes, if Heaven permit. Wait but afew moments.”
p. 46
The old man was fast sinking under the rapid effects of poison. The stranger repaired to his own apartments, and returned in a few moments with some preparation that had the instant result of an antidote. The pain ceased, the blue and livid color receded from the lips; the old man fell into a profound sleep. The stranger drew the curtains round the bed, took up the light, and inspected the apartment.
The walls of both rooms were hung with drawings of masterly excellence.
A portfolio was filled with sketches of equal skill,— but these last were mostly subjects that appalled the eye and revolted the taste: they displayed the human figure in every variety of suffering, — the rack, the wheel, the gibbet; all that cruelty has invented to sharpen the pangs of death seemed yet more dreadful from the passionate gusto and earnest force of the designer.
And some of the countenances of those thus delineated were sufficiently removed from the ideal to show that they were portraits; in a large, bold, irregular hand was written beneath these drawings, “The Future of the Aristocrats. In a corner of the room, and close by an old bureau, was a small bundle, over which, as if to hide it, a cloak was thrown carelessly.
Several shelves were filled with books; these were almost entirely the works of the philosophers of the time, — the philosophers of the material school, especially the Encyclopédistes, whom Robespierre afterwards so singularly attacked when the coward deemed it unsafe to leave his reign without a God.1 A volume lay on a table, — it
p. 47
was one of Voltaire, and the page was opened at his argumentative assertion of the existence of the Supreme Being.? The margin was covered with pencilled notes, in the stiff but tremulous hand of old age; all in attempt to refute or to ridicule the logic of the sage of Ferney: Voltaire did not go far enough for the annotator! The clock struck two, when the sound of steps was heard without. The stranger silently seated himself on the further side of the bed, and its drapery screened him, as he sat, from the eyes of a man who now entered on tiptoe; it was the same person who had passed him on the stairs. The new-comer took up the candle and approached the bed. The old man’s face was turned to the pillow; but he lay so still, and his breathing was so inaudible, that his sleep might well, by that hasty, shrinking, guilty glance, be mistaken for the repose of death. The new-comer drew back, and a grim smile passed over his face: he replaced the candle on the table, opened the bureau with a key which he took from his pocket, and loaded himself with several rouleaus of gold that he found in the drawers. At this time the old man began to wake. He stirred, he looked up; he turned his eyes towards the light now waning in its socket; he saw the robber at his work; he sat erect for an instant, as if transfixed, more even by astonishment than terror. At last he sprang from his bed.
1 “Cette secte (les Encyclopédistes) propagea avec beaucoup de zele opinion du matérialisme, qui prévalut parmi les grands et parmi les beaux esprits; on lui doit en partie cette espece de philosophie pratique qui, reduisant l’Egoisme en systéme, regarde la société humaine comme une guerre de ruse, le succes comme la
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