two loves i have of comfort and despair,
which like two spirits do suggest me still.
shakespeare.
venerable brotherhood, so sacred and so little known, from whose secret and precious archives the materials for this history have been drawn; ye who have retained, from century to century, all that time has spared of the august and venerable science,— thanks to you, if now, for the first time, some record of the thoughts and actions of no false and self-styled luminary of your order be given, however imperfectly, to the world. many have called themselves of your band; many spurious pretenders have been so-called by the learned ignorance which still, baffled and perplexed, is driven to confess that it knows nothing of your origin, your ceremonies or doctrines, nor even if you still have local habitation on the earth. thanks to you if i, the only one of my country, in this age, admitted, with a profane footstep, into your mysterious academe (the reader will have the goodness to remember that this is said by the author of the original ms., not by the editor.), have been by you empowered and instructed to adapt to the comprehension of the uninitiated, some few of the starry truths which shone on the great shemaia of the chaldean lore, and gleamed dimly through the darkened knowledge of latter disciples, labouring, like psellus and iamblichus, to revive the embers of the fire which burned in the hamarin of the east. though not to us of an aged and hoary world is vouchsafed the name which, so say the earliest oracles of the earth, “rushes into the infinite worlds,” yet is it ours to trace the reviving truths, through each new discovery of the philosopher and chemist. the laws of attraction, of electricity, and of the yet more mysterious agency of that great principal of life, which, if drawn from the universe, would leave the universe a grave, were but the code in which the theurgy of old sought the guides that led it to a legislation and science of its own. to rebuild on words the fragments of this history, it seems to me as if, in a solemn trance, i was led through the ruins of a city whose only remains were tombs. from the sarcophagus and the urn i awake the genius (the greek genius of death.) of the extinguished torch, and so closely does its shape resemble eros, that at moments i scarcely know which of ye dictates to me,— o love! o death!
and it stirred in the virgin’s heart,— this new, unfathomable, and divine emotion! was it only the ordinary affection of the pulse and the fancy, of the eye to the beautiful, of the ear to the eloquent, or did it not justify the notion she herself conceived of it,— that it was born not of the senses, that it was less of earthly and human love than the effect of some wondrous but not unholy charm? i said that, from that day in which, no longer with awe and trembling, she surrendered herself to the influence of zanoni, she had sought to put her thoughts into words. let the thoughts attest their own nature.
the self confessional.
“is it the daylight that shines on me, or the memory of thy presence? wherever i look, the world seems full of thee; in every ray that trembles on the water, that smiles upon the leaves, i behold but a likeness to thine eyes. what is this change, that alters not only myself, but the face of the whole universe?
....
“how instantaneously leaped into life the power with which thou swayest my heart in its ebb and flow. thousands were around me, and i saw but thee. that was the night in which i first entered upon the world which crowds life into a drama, and has no language but music. how strangely and how suddenly with thee became that world evermore connected! what the delusion of the stage was to others, thy presence was to me. my life, too, seemed to centre into those short hours, and from thy lips i heard a music, mute to all ears but mine. i sit in the room where my father dwelt. here, on that happy night, forgetting why they were so happy, i shrunk into the shadow, and sought to guess what thou wert to me; and my mother’s low voice woke me, and i crept to my father’s side, close — close, from fear of my own thoughts.
“ah! sweet and sad was the morrow to that night, when thy lips warned me of the future. an orphan now,— what is there that lives for me to think of, to dream upon, to revere, but thou!
“how tenderly thou hast rebuked me for the grievous wrong that my thoughts did thee! why should i have shuddered to feel thee glancing upon my thoughts like the beam on the solitary tree, to which thou didst once liken me so well? it was — it was, that, like the tree, i struggled for the light, and the light came. they tell me of love, and my very life of the stage breathes the language of love into my lips. no; again and again, i know that is not the love that i feel for thee!— it is not a passion, it is a thought! i ask not to be loved again. i murmur not that thy words are stern and thy looks are cold. i ask not if i have rivals; i sigh not to be fair in thine eyes. it is my spirit that would blend itself with thine. i would give worlds, though we were apart, though oceans rolled between us, to know the hour in which thy gaze was lifted to the stars,— in which thy heart poured itself in prayer. they tell me thou art more beautiful than the marble images that are fairer than all human forms; but i have never dared to gaze steadfastly on thy face, that memory might compare thee with the rest. only thine eyes and thy soft, calm smile haunt me; as when i look upon the moon, all that passes into my heart is her silent light.
....
“often, when the air is calm, i have thought that i hear the strains of my father’s music; often, though long stilled in the grave, have they waked me from the dreams of the solemn night. methinks, ere thou comest to me that i hear them herald thy approach. methinks i hear them wail and moan, when i sink back into myself on seeing thee depart. thou art of that music,— its spirit, its genius. my father must have guessed at thee and thy native regions, when the winds hushed to listen to his tones, and the world deemed him mad! i hear where i sit, the far murmur of the sea. murmur on, ye blessed waters! the waves are the pulses of the shore. they beat with the gladness of the morning wind,— so beats my heart in the freshness and light that make up the thoughts of thee!
....
“often in my childhood i have mused and asked for what i was born; and my soul answered my heart and said, ‘thou wert born to worship!’ yes; i know why the real world has ever seemed to me so false and cold. i know why the world of the stage charmed and dazzled me. i know why it was so sweet to sit apart and gaze my whole being into the distant heavens. my nature is not formed for this life, happy though that life seem to others. it is its very want to have ever before it some image loftier than itself! stranger, in what realm above, when the grave is past, shall my soul, hour after hour, worship at the same source as thine?
....
“in the gardens of my neighbour there is a small fountain. i stood by it this morning after sunrise. how it sprung up, with its eager spray, to the sunbeams! and then i thought that i should see thee again this day, and so sprung my heart to the new morning which thou bringest me from the skies.
....
“i have seen, i have listened to thee again. how bold i have become! i ran on with my childlike thoughts and stories, my recollections of the past, as if i had known thee from an infant. suddenly the idea of my presumption struck me. i stopped, and timidly sought thine eyes.
“‘well, and when you found that the nightingale refused to sing?’—
“‘ah!’ i said, ‘what to thee this history of the heart of a child?’
“‘viola,’ didst thou answer, with that voice, so inexpressibly calm and earnest!—‘viola, the darkness of a child’s heart is often but the shadow of a star. speak on! and thy nightingale, when they caught and caged it, refused to sing?’
“‘and i placed the cage yonder, amidst the vine-leaves, and took up my lute, and spoke to it on the strings; for i thought that all music was its native language, and it would understand that i sought to comfort it.’
“‘yes,’ saidst thou. ‘and at last it answered thee, but not with song,— in a sharp, brief cry; so mournful, that thy hands let fall the lute, and the tears gushed from thine eyes. so softly didst thou unbar the cage, and the nightingale flew into yonder thicket; and thou heardst the foliage rustle, and, looking through the moonlight, thine eyes saw that it had found its mate. it sang to thee then from the boughs a long, loud, joyous jubilee. and musing, thou didst feel that it was not the vine-leaves or the moonlight that made the bird give melody to night, and that the secret of its music was the presence of a thing beloved.’
“how didst thou know my thoughts in that childlike time better than i knew myself! how is the humble life of my past years, with its mean events, so mysteriously familiar to thee, bright stranger! i wonder,— but i do not again dare to fear thee!
....
“once the thought of him oppressed and weighed me down. as an infant that longs for the moon, my being was one vague desire for something never to be attained. now i feel rather as if to think of thee sufficed to remove every fetter from my spirit. i float in the still seas of light, and nothing seems too high for my wings, too glorious for my eyes. it was mine ignorance that made me fear thee. a knowledge that is not in books seems to breathe around thee as an atmosphere. how little have i read!— how little have i learned! yet when thou art by my side, it seems as if the veil were lifted from all wisdom and all nature. i startle when i look even at the words i have written; they seem not to come from myself, but are the signs of another language which thou hast taught my heart, and which my hand traces rapidly, as at thy dictation. sometimes, while i write or muse, i could fancy that i heard light wings hovering around me, and saw dim shapes of beauty floating round, and vanishing as they smiled upon me. no unquiet and fearful dream ever comes to me now in sleep, yet sleep and waking are alike but as one dream. in sleep i wander with thee, not through the paths of earth, but through impalpable air — an air which seems a music — upward and upward, as the soul mounts on the tones of a lyre! till i knew thee, i was as a slave to the earth. thou hast given to me the liberty of the universe! before, it was life; it seems to me now as if i had commenced eternity!
....
“formerly, when i was to appear upon the stage, my heart beat more loudly. i trembled to encounter the audience, whose breath gave shame or renown; and now i have no fear of them. i see them, heed them, hear them not! i know that there will be music in my voice, for it is a hymn that i pour to thee. thou never comest to the theatre; and that no longer grieves me. thou art become too sacred to appear a part of the common world, and i feel glad that thou art not by when crowds have a right to judge me.
....
“and he spoke to me of another: to another he would consign me! no, it is not love that i feel for thee, zanoni; or why did i hear thee without anger, why did thy command seem to me not a thing impossible? as the strings of the instrument obey the hand of the master, thy look modulates the wildest chords of my heart to thy will. if it please thee,— yes, let it be so. thou art lord of my destinies; they cannot rebel against thee! i almost think i could love him, whoever it be, on whom thou wouldst shed the rays that circumfuse thyself. whatever thou hast touched, i love; whatever thou speakest of, i love. thy hand played with these vine leaves; i wear them in my bosom. thou seemest to me the source of all love; too high and too bright to be loved thyself, but darting light into other objects, on which the eye can gaze less dazzled. no, no; it is not love that i feel for thee, and therefore it is that i do not blush to nourish and confess it. shame on me if i loved, knowing myself so worthless a thing to thee!
....
“another!— my memory echoes back that word. another! dost thou mean that i shall see thee no more? it is not sadness,— it is not despair that seizes me. i cannot weep. it is an utter sense of desolation. i am plunged back into the common life; and i shudder coldly at the solitude. but i will obey thee, if thou wilt. shall i not see thee again beyond the grave? o how sweet it were to die!
“why do i not struggle from the web in which my will is thus entangled? hast thou a right to dispose of me thus? give me back — give me back the life i knew before i gave life itself away to thee. give me back the careless dreams of my youth,—— my liberty of heart that sung aloud as it walked the earth. thou hast disenchanted me of everything that is not of thyself. where was the sin, at least, to think of thee,— to see thee? thy kiss still glows upon my hand; is that hand mine to bestow? thy kiss claimed and hallowed it to thyself. stranger, i will not obey thee.
....
“another day,— one day of the fatal three is gone! it is strange to me that since the sleep of the last night, a deep calm has settled upon my breast. i feel so assured that my very being is become a part of thee, that i cannot believe that my life can be separated from thine; and in this conviction i repose, and smile even at thy words and my own fears. thou art fond of one maxim, which thou repeatest in a thousand forms,— that the beauty of the soul is faith; that as ideal loveliness to the sculptor, faith is to the heart; that faith, rightly understood, extends over all the works of the creator, whom we can know but through belief; that it embraces a tranquil confidence in ourselves, and a serene repose as to our future; that it is the moonlight that sways the tides of the human sea. that faith i comprehend now. i reject all doubt, all fear. i know that i have inextricably linked the whole that makes the inner life to thee; and thou canst not tear me from thee, if thou wouldst! and this change from struggle into calm came to me with sleep,— a sleep without a dream; but when i woke, it was with a mysterious sense of happiness,— an indistinct memory of something blessed,— as if thou hadst cast from afar off a smile upon my slumber. at night i was so sad; not a blossom that had not closed itself up, as if never more to open to the sun; and the night itself, in the heart as on the earth, has ripened the blossoms into flowers. the world is beautiful once more, but beautiful in repose,— not a breeze stirs thy tree, not a doubt my soul!”
