Zanoni — Edward Bulwer-Lytton

“A great master,” said Nicot; “ but I do not love the school.” “T do not love, but Iam awed by it. We love the beautiful and serene, but we have a feeling as deep as love for the terrible and dark.” “True,” said Nicot, thoughtfully. “ And yet that feeling is only a superstition. The nursery, with its tales of ghosts and goblins, is the cradle of many of our impressions in the world. But are should not seek to pander to our ignorance ; are should represent only truths. I confess that Raphael pleases me less, because I have no sympathy with his subjects. His saints and virgins are to me only men and women.” “And from what source should painting, then, take its themes ? ” “From history, without doubt,” returned Nicot, pragmatically, —“ those great Roman actions which inspire men with sentiments of liberty and valor, with the virtues of a republic. I wish the cartoons of Raphael had illustrated the story of the Horatii; but it remains for France and her Republic to give to posterity the new and the true school, which could never have arisen in a country of priestcraft and delusion.” “ And the saints and virgins of Raphael are to you only men and women?” repeated Glyndon, going back to Nicot’s candid confession in amaze, and scarcely hearing the deductions the Frenchman drew from his proposition. “ Assuredly. Ha, ha!” and Nicot laughed hideously, “do you ask me to believe in the calendar, or what?” “ But the ideal? ” “The ideal!” interrupted Nicot. “Stuff! The Italian critics, and your English Reynolds, have turned your head. ‘They are so fond of their ‘ gusto grande,’

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and their ‘ ideal beauty that speaks to the soul! ’ — soul! — is there a soul? I understand a man when he talks of composing fora refined taste, — for an educated and intelligent reason; for a sense that comprehends truths. But as for the soul,— bah! — we are but modifications of matter, and painting is modification of matter also.” Glyndon turned his eyes from the picture before him to Nicot, and from Nicot to the picture. The dogmatist gave a voice to the thoughts which the sight of the picture had awakened. He shook his head without reply. “Tell me,” said Nicot, abruptly, “ that impostor, — Zanoni?— oh! I have now learned his name and quackeries, forsooth, — what did he say to you of me? ” “Of you? Nothing; but to warn me against your doctrines.” “Aha! was that all?” said Nicot. “ He isa notable inventor, and since, when we met last, I unmasked his delusions, I thought he might retaliate by some tale of slander.” “ Unmasked his delusions! — how? ” “A dull and long story: he wished to teach an old doting friend of mine his secrets of prolonged life and philosophical alchemy. I advise you to renounce so discreditable an acquaintance.” With that Nicot nodded significantly, and, not wishing to be further questioned, went his way. Glyndon’s mind at that moment had escaped to his art, and the comments and presence of Nicot had been no welcome interruption. He turned from the landscape of Salvator, and his eye falling on a Nativity by Coreggio, the contrast between the two ranks of genius struck him as a discovery. That exquisite repose, that perfect sense of beauty, that strength without effort, that

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breathing moral of high art, which speaks to the mind through the eye, and raises the thoughts, by the aid of tenderness and love, to the regions of awe and wonder, —ay! that was the true school. He quitted the gallery with reluctant steps and inspired ideas; he sought his own home. Here, pleased not to find the sober Mervale, he leaned his face on his hands, and endeavored to recall the words of Zanoni in their last meeting. Yes, he felt Nicot’s talk even on are was crime; it debased the imagination itself to mechanism. Could he, who saw nothing in the soul but a combination of matter, prate of schools that should excel a Raphael? Yes, are was magic; and as he owned the truth of the aphorism, he could comprehend that in magic there may be religion, for religion is an essential to art. His old ambition, freeing itself from the frigid prudence with which Mervale sought to desecrate all images less substantial than the golden calf of the world, revived, and stirred, and kindled. The subtle detection of what he conceived to be an error in the school he had hitherto adopted, made more manifest to him by the grinning commentary of Nicot, seemed to open to him a new world of invention. He seized the happy moment, — he placed before him the colors and the canvas. Lost in his conceptions of a fresh ideal, his mind was lifted aloft into the airy realms of beauty; dark thoughts, unhallowed desires, vanished. Zanoni was right: the material world shrunk from his gaze; he viewed Nature as from a mountain-top afar, and as the waves of his unquiet heart became calm and still, again the angel eyes of Viola beamed on them as a holy star. Locking himself in his chamber, he refused even the visits of Mervale. Intoxicated with the pure air of his fresh existence, he remained for three days, and almost