Zanoni — Edward Bulwer-Lytton
who had listened to his relation with delight. “ Ah, I see you have proper sentiments of justice and philanthropy. Why did I not seek to know you before? You admire the Revolution; you, equally with me, detest the barbarity of kings and the fraud of priests? ” “Detest! How could I love mankind if I did not?” “ And,” said the old man, hesitatingly, “ you do not think, with this noble gentleman, that I erred in the precepts I instilled into that wretched man?” “Erred! Was Socrates to blame if Alcibiades was an adulterer and a traitor? ” “You hear him, you hear him! But Socrates had also a Plato; henceforth you shall be a Plato to me. You hear him?” exclaimed the old man, turning to the stranger. But the latter was at the threshold. Who shall argue with the most stubborn of all bigotries, — the fanaticism of unbelief? “Are you going?” exclaimed Dumas, “and before I have thanked you, blessed you, for the life of this dear and venerable man? , Oh, if ever I can repay you, — if ever you want the heart’s blood of Réné Dumas!” Thus volubly delivering himself, he followed the stranger to the threshold of the second chamber, and there, gently detaining him, and after looking over his shoulder, to be sure that he was not heard by the owner, he whispered, “I ought to return to Nancy. One would not lose one’s time, — you don’t think, sir, that that scoundrel took away all the old fool’s money ? ” “Was it thus Plato spoke of Socrates, Monsieur Dumas? ” “ Ha, ha! — youare caustic. Well, you havea right. Sir, we shall meet again.”
p. 54
“ AcAtn!” muttered the stranger, and his brow darkened. He hastened to his chamber; he passed the day and the night alone, and in studies, no matter of what nature, — they served to increase his gloom. What could ever connect his fate with Réné Dumas, or the fugitive assassin? Why did the buoyant air of Paris seem to him heavy with the steams of blood; why did an instinct urge him to fly from those sparkling circles, from that focus of the world’s awakened hopes. warning him from return? — he, whose lofty existence defied — but away these dreams and omens! He leaves France behind. Back, O Italy, to thy majestic wrecks! On the Alps his soul breathes the free air once more. Free air! Alas! let the world-healers exhaust their chemistry ; man never shall be as free in the marketplace as on the mountain. But we, reader, we too escape from these scenes of false wisdom clothing godless crime. Away, once more “Tn den heitern Regionen Wo die reinen Formen wohnen.”
Away, to the loftier realm where the pure dwellers are. Unpolluted by the Actual, the Ideal lives only with Art and Beauty. Sweet Viola, by the shores of the blue Parthenope, by Virgil’s tomb, and the Cimmerian cavern, we return to thee once more.
p. 55
CHAPTER IX.
Che non vuol che’! destrier pit vada in alto, Poi lo lega nel margine marino A un verde mirto in mezzo un lauro e un pino.} Orl. Fur., c. vi. xxiii.
O musician! art thou happy now? Thou art rein< stalled at thy stately desk, — thy faithful barbiton has its share in the triumph. It is thy masterpiece which fills thy ear; it is thy daughter who fills the scene, — the music, the actress so united, that applause to one is applause to both. They make way for thee, at the orchestra, — they no longer jeer and wink, when, with a fierce fondness, thou dost caress thy Familiar, that plains, and wails, and chides, and growls, under thy remorseless hand. They understand now how irregular is ever the symmetry of real genius. The inequalities in its surface make the moon luminous to man. Giovanni Paisiello, Maestro di Capella, if thy gentle soul could know envy, thou must sicken to see thy Elfrida and thy Pirro laid aside, and all Naples turned fanatic to the Siren, at whose measures shook querulously thy gentle head! But thou, Paisiello, calm in the long prosperity of fame, knowest that the New will have its day, and comfortest thyself that the Elfrida and the Pirro will live forever. Perhaps a mistake, but it is
1 As he did not wish that his charger (the hippogriff) should take any further excursions into the higher regions for the present, he bound him at the sea-shore to a green myrtle between a laurel and a pine.
p. 56
who had listened to his relation with delight. “ Ah, I see you have proper sentiments of justice and philanthropy. Why did I not seek to know you before? You admire the Revolution; you, equally with me, detest the barbarity of kings and the fraud of priests? ” “Detest! How could I love mankind if I did not?” “ And,” said the old man, hesitatingly, “ you do not think, with this noble gentleman, that I erred in the precepts I instilled into that wretched man?” “Erred! Was Socrates to blame if Alcibiades was an adulterer and a traitor? ” “You hear him, you hear him! But Socrates had also a Plato; henceforth you shall be a Plato to me. You hear him?” exclaimed the old man, turning to the stranger. But the latter was at the threshold. Who shall argue with the most stubborn of all bigotries, — the fanaticism of unbelief? “Are you going?” exclaimed Dumas, “and before I have thanked you, blessed you, for the life of this dear and venerable man? , Oh, if ever I can repay you, — if ever you want the heart’s blood of Réné Dumas!” Thus volubly delivering himself, he followed the stranger to the threshold of the second chamber, and there, gently detaining him, and after looking over his shoulder, to be sure that he was not heard by the owner, he whispered, “I ought to return to Nancy. One would not lose one’s time, — you don’t think, sir, that that scoundrel took away all the old fool’s money ? ” “Was it thus Plato spoke of Socrates, Monsieur Dumas? ” “ Ha, ha! — youare caustic. Well, you havea right. Sir, we shall meet again.”
p. 54
“ AcAtn!” muttered the stranger, and his brow darkened. He hastened to his chamber; he passed the day and the night alone, and in studies, no matter of what nature, — they served to increase his gloom. What could ever connect his fate with Réné Dumas, or the fugitive assassin? Why did the buoyant air of Paris seem to him heavy with the steams of blood; why did an instinct urge him to fly from those sparkling circles, from that focus of the world’s awakened hopes. warning him from return? — he, whose lofty existence defied — but away these dreams and omens! He leaves France behind. Back, O Italy, to your majestic wrecks! On the Alps his soul breathes the free air once more. Free air! Alas! let the world-healers exhaust their chemistry ; man never shall be as free in the marketplace as on the mountain. But we, reader, we too escape from these scenes of false wisdom clothing godless crime. Away, once more “Tn den heitern Regionen Wo die reinen Formen wohnen.”
Away, to the loftier realm where the pure dwellers are. Unpolluted by the Actual, the Ideal lives only with Art and Beauty. Sweet Viola, by the shores of the blue Parthenope, by Virgil’s tomb, and the Cimmerian cavern, we return to you once more.
p. 55
CHAPTER IX.
Che non vuol che’! destrier pit vada in alto, Poi lo lega nel margine marino A un verde mirto in mezzo un lauro e un pino.} Orl. Fur., c. vi. xxiii.
O musician! art you happy now? You are rein< stalled at your stately desk, — your faithful barbiton has its share in the triumph. It is your masterpiece which fills your ear; it is your daughter who fills the scene, — the music, the actress so united, that applause to one is applause to both. They make way for you, at the orchestra, — they no longer jeer and wink, when, with a fierce fondness, you do caress your Familiar, that plains, and wails, and chides, and growls, under your remorseless hand. They understand now how irregular is ever the symmetry of real genius. The inequalities in its surface make the moon luminous to man. Giovanni Paisiello, Maestro di Capella, if your gentle soul could know envy, you must sicken to see your Elfrida and your Pirro laid aside, and all Naples turned fanatic to the Siren, at whose measures shook querulously your gentle head! But you, Paisiello, calm in the long prosperity of fame, know that the New will have its day, and comfortest yourself that the Elfrida and the Pirro will live forever. Perhaps a mistake, but it is
1 As he did not wish that his charger (the hippogriff) should take any further excursions into the higher regions for the present, he bound him at the sea-shore to a green myrtle between a laurel and a pine.
p. 56
No commentary for this page under the selected tracks.
There is commentary on page 1.