zanoni-第52章

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from　this　condition　of　their　being；　in　its　most　imperfect　and

infant　form；　that　poetry；　music；　artall　that　belong　to　an　Idea

of　Beauty　to　which　neither　SLEEPING　nor　WAKING　can　furnish

archetype　and　actual　semblancetake　their　immortal　birth。　　When

we；　O　Mejnour　in　the　far　time；　were　ourselves　the　neophytes　and

aspirants；　we　were　of　a　class　to　which　the　actual　world　was　shut

and　barred。　　Our　forefathers　had　no　object　in　life　but　knowledge。

From　the　cradle　we　were　predestined　and　reared　to　wisdom　as　to　a

priesthood。　　We　commenced　research　where　modern　Conjecture　closes

its　faithless　wings。　　And　with　us；　those　were　common　elements　of

science　which　the　sages　of　to…day　disdain　as　wild　chimeras；　or

despair　of　as　unfathomable　mysteries。　　Even　the　fundamental

principles；　the　large　yet　simple　theories　of　electricity　and

magnetism；　rest　obscure　and　dim　in　the　disputes　of　their　blinded

schools；　yet；　even　in　our　youth；　how　few　ever　attained　to　the

first　circle　of　the　brotherhood；　and；　after　wearily　enjoying　the

sublime　privileges　they　sought；　they　voluntarily　abandoned　the

light　of　the　sun；　and　sunk；　without　effort；　to　the　grave；　like

pilgrims　in　a　trackless　desert；　overawed　by　the　stillness　of

their　solitude；　and　appalled　by　the　absence　of　a　goal。　　Thou；　in

whom　nothing　seems　to　live　BUT　THE　DESIRE　TO　KNOW；　thou；　who；

indifferent　whether　it　leads　to　weal　or　to　woe；　lendest　thyself

to　all　who　would　tread　the　path　of　mysterious　science；　a　human

book；　insensate　to　the　precepts　it　enounces；thou　hast　ever

sought；　and　often　made　additions　to　our　number。　　But　to　these

have　only　been　vouchsafed　partial　secrets；　vanity　and　passion

unfitted　them　for　the　rest；　and　now；　without　other　interest　than

that　of　an　experiment　in　science；　without　love；　and　without　pity；

thou　exposest　this　new　soul　to　the　hazards　of　the　tremendous

ordeal！　　Thou　thinkest　that　a　zeal　so　inquisitive；　a　courage　so

absolute　and　dauntless；　may　suffice　to　conquer；　where　austerer

intellect　and　purer　virtue　have　so　often　failed。　　Thou　thinkest；

too；　that　the　germ　of　art　that　lies　in　the　painter's　mind；　as　it

comprehends　in　itself　the　entire　embryo　of　power　and　beauty；　may

be　expanded　into　the　stately　flower　of　the　Golden　Science。　　It　is

a　new　experiment　to　thee。　　Be　gentle　with　thy　neophyte；　and　if

his　nature　disappoint　thee　in　the　first　stages　of　the　process；

dismiss　him　back　to　the　Real　while　it　is　yet　time　to　enjoy　the

brief　and　outward　life　which　dwells　in　the　senses；　and　closes

with　the　tomb。　　And　as　I　thus　admonish　thee；　O　Mejnour；　wilt　thou

smile　at　my　inconsistent　hopes？　　I；　who　have　so　invariably

refused　to　initiate　others　into　our　mysteries；I　begin　at　last

to　comprehend　why　the　great　law；　which　binds　man　to　his　kind；

even　when　seeking　most　to　set　himself　aloof　from　their　condition；

has　made　thy　cold　and　bloodless　science　the　link　between　thyself

and　thy　race；　why；　THOU　has　sought　converts　and　pupils；　why；　in

seeing　life　after　life　voluntarily　dropping　from　our　starry

order；　thou　still　aspirest　to　renew　the　vanished；　and　repair　the

lost；　why；　amidst　thy　calculations；　restless　and　unceasing　as　the

wheels　of　Nature　herself；　thou　recoilest　from　the　THOUGHT　TO　BE

ALONE！　　So　with　myself；　at　last　I；　too；　seek　a　convert；　an

equal；I；　too；　shudder　to　be　alone！　　What　thou　hast　warned　me　of

has　come　to　pass。　　Love　reduces　all　things　to　itself。　　Either

must　I　be　drawn　down　to　the　nature　of　the　beloved；　or　hers　must

be　lifted　to　my　own。　　As　whatever　belongs　to　true　Art　has　always

necessarily　had　attraction　for　US；　whose　very　being　is　in　the

ideal　whence　Art　descends；　so　in　this　fair　creature　I　have

learned；　at　last；　the　secret　that　bound　me　to　her　at　the　first

glance。　　The　daughter　of　music；music；　passing　into　her　being；

became　poetry。　　It　was　not　the　stage　that　attracted　her；　with　its

hollow　falsehoods；　it　was　the　land　in　her　own　fancy　which　the

stage　seemed　to　centre　and　represent。　　There　the　poetry　found　a

voice；there　it　struggled　into　imperfect　shape；　and　then　（that

land　insufficient　for　it）　it　fell　back　upon　itself。　　It　coloured

her　thoughts；　it　suffused　her　soul；　it　asked　not　words；　it

created　not　things；　it　gave　birth　but　to　emotions；　and　lavished

itself　on　dreams。　　At　last　came　love；　and　there；　as　a　river　into

the　sea；　it　poured　its　restless　waves；　to　become　mute　and　deep

and　still；the　everlasting　mirror　of　the　heavens。



And　is　it　not　through　this　poetry　which　lies　within　her　that　she

may　be　led　into　the　large　poetry　of　the　universe！　　Often　I　listen

to　her　careless　talk；　and　find　oracles　in　its　unconscious　beauty；

as　we　find　strange　virtues　in　some　lonely　flower。　　I　see　her　mind

ripening　under　my　eyes；　and　in　its　fair　fertility　what　ever…

teeming　novelties　of　thought！　　O　Mejnour！　how　many　of　our　tribe

have　unravelled　the　laws　of　the　universe；have　solved　the

riddles　of　the　exterior　nature；　and　deduced　the　light　from

darkness！　　And　is　not　the　POET；　who　studies　nothing　but　the　human

heart；　a　greater　philosopher　than　all？　　Knowledge　and　atheism　are

incompatible。　　To　know　Nature　is　to　know　that　there　must　be　a

God。　　But　does　it　require　this　to　examine　the　method　and

architecture　of　creation？　　Methinks；　when　I　look　upon　a　pure

mind；　however　ignorant　and　childlike；　that　I　see　the　August　and

Immaterial　One　more　clearly　than　in　all　the　orbs　of　matter　which

career　at　His　bidding　through　space。



Rightly　is　it　the　fundamental　decree　of　our　order；　that　we　must

impart　our　secrets　only　to　the　pure。　　The　most　terrible　part　of

the　ordeal　is　in　the　temptations　that　our　power　affords　to　the

criminal。　　If　it　were　possible　that　a　malevolent　being　could

attain　to　our　faculties；　what　disorder　it　might　introduce　into

the　globe！　　Happy　that　it　is　NOT　possible；　the　malevolence　would

disarm　the　power。　　It　is　in　the　purity　of　Viola　that　I　rely；　as

thou　more　vainly　hast　relied　on　the　courage　or　the　genius　of　thy

pupils。　　Bear　me　witness；　Mejnour！　　Never　since　the　distant　day

in　which　I　pierced　the　Arcana　of　our　knowledge；　have　I　ever

sought　to　make　its　mysteries　subservient　to　unworthy　objects；

though；　alas！　the　extension　of　our　existence　robs　us　of　a　country

and　a　home；　though　the　law　that　places　all　science；　as　all　art；

in　the　abstraction　from　the　noisy　passions　and　turbulent　ambition

of　actual　life；　forbids　us　to　influence　the　destinies　of　nations；

for　which　Heaven　selects　ruder　and　blinder　agencies；　yet；

wherever　have　been　my　wanderings；　I　have　sought　to　soften

distress；　and　to　convert　from　sin。　　My　power　has　been　hostile

only　to　the　guilty；　and　yet　with　all　our　lore；　how　in　each　step

we　are　reduced　to　be　but　the　permitted　instruments　of　the　Power

that　vouchsafes　our　own；　but　only　to　direct　it。　　How　all　our

wisdom　shrinks　into　nought；　compared　with　that　which　gives　the

meanest　herb　its　virtues；　and　peoples　the　smallest　globule　with

its　appropriate　world。　　And　while　we　are　allowed　at　times　to

influence　the　happiness　of　others；　how　mysteriously　the　shadows

thicken　round　our　own　future　doom！　　We　cannot　be　prophets　to

ourselves！　　With　what　trembling　hope　I　nurse　the　thought　that　I

may　preserve　to　my　solitude　the　light　of　a　living　smile！



。。。



Extracts　from　Letter　II。



Deeming　myself　not　pure　enough　to　initiate　so　pure　a　heart；　I

invoke　to　her　trance　those　fairest　and　most　tender　inhabitants　of

space　that　have　furnished　to　poetry；　which　is　the　instinctive

guess　into　creation；　the　ideas　of　the　Glendoveer　and　Sylph。　　And

these　were　less　pure　than　her　own　thoughts；　and　less　tender　than

her　own　love！　　They　could　not　raise　her　above　her　human　heart；

for　THAT　has　a　heaven　of　its　own。



。。。



I　have　just　looked　on　her　in　sleep；I　have　heard　her　breathe　my

name。　　Alas！　that　which　is　so　sweet　to　others　has　its　bitterness

to　me；　for　I　think　how　soon　the　time　may　come　when　that　sleep

will　be　without　a　dream；when　the　heart　that　dictates　the　name

will　be　cold；　and　the　lips　that　utter　it　be　dumb。　　What　a　twofold

shape　there　is　in　love！　　If　we　examine　it　coarsely；if　we　look

but　on　its　fleshy　ties；　its　enjoyments　of　a　moment；　its　turbulent

fever　and　its　dull　reaction；how　strange　it　seems　that　this

passion　should　be　the　supreme　mover　of　the　world；　that　it　is　this

which　has　dictated　the　greatest　sacrifices；　and　influenced　all

societies　and　all　times；　that　to　this　the　loftiest　and　loveliest

genius　has　ever　consecrated　its　devotion；　that；　but　for　love；

there　were　no　civilisation；　no　music；　no　poetry；　no　beauty；　no

life　beyond　the　brute's。



But　examine　it　in　its　heavenlier　shape；in　its　utter　abnegation

of　self；　in　its　intimate　connection　with　all　that　is　most

delicate　and　subtle　in　the　spirit；its　power　above　all　that　is

sordid　in　existence；　its　mastery　over　the　idols　of　the　baser

worship；　its　ability　to　create　a　palace　of　the　cottage；　an　oasis

in　the　desert；　a　summer　in　the　Iceland；where　it　breathes；　and

fertilises；　and　glows；　and　the　wonder　rather　becomes　how　so　few

regard　it　in　its　holiest　nature。　　What　the　sensual　call　its

enjoyments；　are　the　least　of　its　joys。　　True　love　is　less　a

passion　than　a　symbol。　　Mejnour；　shall　the　time　come　when　I　can

speak　to　thee　of　Viola　as　a　thing　that　was？



。。。



Extract　from　Letter　III。



Knowest　thou　that　of　late　I　have　sometimes　asked　myself；　〃Is

there　no　guilt　in　the　knowledge　that　has　so　divided　us　from　our

race？〃　　It　is　true　that　the　higher　we　ascend　the　more　hateful

seem　to　us　the　vices　of　the　short…lived　creepers　of　the　earth；

the　more　the　sense　of　the　goodness　of　the　All…good　penetrates　and

suffuses　us；　and　the　more　immediately　does　our　happiness　seem　to

emanate　from　him。　　But；　on　the　other　hand；　how　many　virtues　must

lie　dead　in　those　who　live　in　the　world　of　death；　and　refuse　to

die！　　Is　not　this　sublime　egotism；　this　state　of　abstraction　and

reverie；this　self…wrapped　and　self…dependent　majesty　of

existence；　a　resignation　of　that　nobility　which　incorporates　our

own　welfare；　our　joys；　our　hopes；　our　fears　with　others？　　To　live

on　in　no　dread　of　foes；　undegraded　by　infirmity；　secure　through

the　cares；　and　free　from　the　disease　of　flesh；　is　a　spectacle

that　captivates　our　pride。　　And　yet　dost　thou　not　more　admire　him

who　dies　for　another？　　Since　I　have　loved　her；　Mejnour；　it　seems

almost　cowardice　to　elude　the　grave　which　devours　the　hearts　that

wrap　us　in　their　folds。　　I　feel　it；the　earth　grows　upon　my

spirit。　　Thou　wert　right；　eternal　age；　serene　and　passionless；　is

a　happier　boon　than　eternal　youth；　with　its　yearnings　and

desires。　　Until　we　can　be　all　spirit；　the　tranquillity　of

solitude　must　be　indifference。



。。。



Extracts　from　Letter　IV。



I　have　received　thy　communication。　　What！　is　it　so？　　Has　thy

pupil　disappointed　thee？　　Alas；　poor　pupil！　　But



。。。



（Here　follow　comments　on　those　passages　in　Glyndon's　life　already

known　to　the　reader；　or　about　to　be　made　so；　with　earnest

adjurations　to　Mejnour　to　watch　yet　over　the　fate　of　his