erde mag zuruck in erde stauben;
fliegt der geist doch aus dem morschen haus.
seine asche mag der sturmwind treiben,
sein leben dauert ewig aus!
elegie.
(earth may crumble back into earth; the spirit will still escape from its frail tenement. the wind of the storm may scatter his ashes; his being endures forever.)
to-morrow!— and it is already twilight. one after one, the gentle stars come smiling through the heaven. the seine, in its slow waters, yet trembles with the last kiss of the rosy day; and still in the blue sky gleams the spire of notre dame; and still in the blue sky looms the guillotine by the barriere du trone. turn to that time-worn building, once the church and the convent of the freres–precheurs, known by the then holy name of jacobins; there the new jacobins hold their club. there, in that oblong hall, once the library of the peaceful monks, assemble the idolaters of st. robespierre. two immense tribunes, raised at either end, contain the lees and dregs of the atrocious populace,— the majority of that audience consisting of the furies of the guillotine (furies de guillotine). in the midst of the hall are the bureau and chair of the president,— the chair long preserved by the piety of the monks as the relic of st. thomas aquinas! above this seat scowls the harsh bust of brutus. an iron lamp and two branches scatter over the vast room a murky, fuliginous ray, beneath the light of which the fierce faces of that pandemonium seem more grim and haggard. there, from the orator’s tribune, shrieks the shrill wrath of robespierre!
meanwhile all is chaos, disorder, half daring and half cowardice, in the committee of his foes. rumours fly from street to street, from haunt to haunt, from house to house. the swallows flit low, and the cattle group together before the storm. and above this roar of the lives and things of the little hour, alone in his chamber stood he on whose starry youth — symbol of the imperishable bloom of the calm ideal amidst the mouldering actual — the clouds of ages had rolled in vain.
all those exertions which ordinary wit and courage could suggest had been tried in vain. all such exertions were in vain, where, in that saturnalia of death, a life was the object. nothing but the fall of robespierre could have saved his victims; now, too late, that fall would only serve to avenge.
once more, in that last agony of excitement and despair, the seer had plunged into solitude, to invoke again the aid or counsel of those mysterious intermediates between earth and heaven who had renounced the intercourse of the spirit when subjected to the common bondage of the mortal. in the intense desire and anguish of his heart, perhaps, lay a power not yet called forth; for who has not felt that the sharpness of extreme grief cuts and grinds away many of those strongest bonds of infirmity and doubt which bind down the souls of men to the cabined darkness of the hour; and that from the cloud and thunderstorm often swoops the olympian eagle that can ravish us aloft!
and the invocation was heard,— the bondage of sense was rent away from the visual mind. he looked, and saw,— no, not the being he had called, with its limbs of light and unutterably tranquil smile — not his familiar, adon–ai, the son of glory and the star, but the evil omen, the dark chimera, the implacable foe, with exultation and malice burning in its hell-lit eyes. the spectre, no longer cowering and retreating into shadow, rose before him, gigantic and erect; the face, whose veil no mortal hand had ever raised, was still concealed, but the form was more distinct, corporeal, and cast from it, as an atmosphere, horror and rage and awe. as an iceberg, the breath of that presence froze the air; as a cloud, it filled the chamber and blackened the stars from heaven.
“lo!” said its voice, “i am here once more. thou hast robbed me of a meaner prey. now exorcise thyself from my power! thy life has left thee, to live in the heart of a daughter of the charnel and the worm. in that life i come to thee with my inexorable tread. thou art returned to the threshold,— thou, whose steps have trodden the verges of the infinite! and as the goblin of its fantasy seizes on a child in the dark,— mighty one, who wouldst conquer death,— i seize on thee!”
“back to thy thraldom, slave! if thou art come to the voice that called thee not, it is again not to command, but to obey! thou, from whose whisper i gained the boons of the lives lovelier and dearer than my own; thou — i command thee, not by spell and charm, but by the force of a soul mightier than the malice of thy being,— thou serve me yet, and speak again the secret that can rescue the lives thou hast, by permission of the universal master, permitted me to retain awhile in the temple of the clay!”
brighter and more devouringly burned the glare from those lurid eyes; more visible and colossal yet rose the dilating shape; a yet fiercer and more disdainful hate spoke in the voice that answered, “didst thou think that my boon would be other than thy curse? happy for thee hadst thou mourned over the deaths which come by the gentle hand of nature,— hadst thou never known how the name of mother consecrates the face of beauty, and never, bending over thy first-born, felt the imperishable sweetness of a father’s love! they are saved, for what?— the mother, for the death of violence and shame and blood, for the doomsman’s hand to put aside that shining hair which has entangled thy bridegroom kisses; the child, first and last of thine offspring, in whom thou didst hope to found a race that should hear with thee the music of celestial harps, and float, by the side of thy familiar, adon–ai, through the azure rivers of joy,— the child, to live on a few days as a fungus in a burial-vault, a thing of the loathsome dungeon, dying of cruelty and neglect and famine. ha! ha! thou who wouldst baffle death, learn how the deathless die if they dare to love the mortal. now, chaldean, behold my boons! now i seize and wrap thee with the pestilence of my presence; now, evermore, till thy long race is run, mine eyes shall glow into thy brain, and mine arms shall clasp thee, when thou wouldst take the wings of the morning and flee from the embrace of night!”
“i tell thee, no! and again i compel thee, speak and answer to the lord who can command his slave. i know, though my lore fails me, and the reeds on which i leaned pierce my side,— i know yet that it is written that the life of which i question can be saved from the headsman. thou wrappest her future in the darkness of thy shadow, but thou canst not shape it. thou mayest foreshow the antidote; thou canst not effect the bane. from thee i wring the secret, though it torture thee to name it. i approach thee,— i look dauntless into thine eyes. the soul that loves can dare all things. shadow, i defy thee, and compel!”
the spectre waned and recoiled. like a vapour that lessens as the sun pierces and pervades it, the form shrank cowering and dwarfed in the dimmer distance, and through the casement again rushed the stars.
“yes,” said the voice, with a faint and hollow accent, “thou canst save her from the headsman; for it is written, that sacrifice can save. ha! ha!” and the shape again suddenly dilated into the gloom of its giant stature, and its ghastly laugh exulted, as if the foe, a moment baffled, had regained its might. “ha! ha!— thou canst save her life, if thou wilt sacrifice thine own! is it for this thou hast lived on through crumbling empires and countless generations of thy race? at last shall death reclaim thee? wouldst thou save her?— die for her! fall, o stately column, over which stars yet unformed may gleam,— fall, that the herb at thy base may drink a few hours longer the sunlight and the dews! silent! art thou ready for the sacrifice? see, the moon moves up through heaven. beautiful and wise one, wilt thou bid her smile tomorrow on thy headless clay?”
“back! for my soul, in answering thee from depths where thou canst not hear it, has regained its glory; and i hear the wings of adon–ai gliding musical through the air.”
he spoke; and, with a low shriek of baffled rage and hate, the thing was gone, and through the room rushed, luminous and sudden, the presence of silvery light.
as the heavenly visitor stood in the atmosphere of his own lustre, and looked upon the face of the theurgist with an aspect of ineffable tenderness and love, all space seemed lighted from his smile. along the blue air without, from that chamber in which his wings had halted, to the farthest star in the azure distance, it seemed as if the track of his flight were visible, by a lengthened splendour in the air, like the column of moonlight on the sea. like the flower that diffuses perfume as the very breath of its life, so the emanation of that presence was joy. over the world, as a million times swifter than light, than electricity, the son of glory had sped his way to the side of love, his wings had scattered delight as the morning scatters dew. for that brief moment, poverty had ceased to mourn, disease fled from its prey, and hope breathed a dream of heaven into the darkness of despair.
“thou art right,” said the melodious voice. “thy courage has restored thy power. once more, in the haunts of earth, thy soul charms me to thy side. wiser now, in the moment when thou comprehendest death, than when thy unfettered spirit learned the solemn mystery of life; the human affections that thralled and humbled thee awhile bring to thee, in these last hours of thy mortality, the sublimest heritage of thy race,— the eternity that commences from the grave.”
“o adon–ai,” said the chaldean, as, circumfused in the splendour of the visitant, a glory more radiant than human beauty settled round his form, and seemed already to belong to the eternity of which the bright one spoke, “as men, before they die, see and comprehend the enigmas hidden from them before (the greatest poet, and one of the noblest thinkers, of the last age, said, on his deathbed, “many things obscure to me before, now clear up, and become visible.”— see the ‘life of schiller.’), “so in this hour, when the sacrifice of self to another brings the course of ages to its goal, i see the littleness of life, compared to the majesty of death; but oh, divine consoler, even here, even in thy presence, the affections that inspire me, sadden. to leave behind me in this bad world, unaided, unprotected, those for whom i die! the wife! the child!— oh, speak comfort to me in this!”
“and what,” said the visitor, with a slight accent of reproof in the tone of celestial pity,—“what, with all thy wisdom and thy starry secrets, with all thy empire of the past, and thy visions of the future; what art thou to the all–directing and omniscient? canst thou yet imagine that thy presence on earth can give to the hearts thou lovest the shelter which the humblest take from the wings of the presence that lives in heaven? fear not thou for their future. whether thou live or die, their future is the care of the most high! in the dungeon and on the scaffold looks everlasting the eye of him, tenderer than thou to love, wiser than thou to guide, mightier than thou to save!”
zanoni bowed his head; and when he looked up again, the last shadow had left his brow. the visitor was gone; but still the glory of his presence seemed to shine upon the spot, still the solitary air seemed to murmur with tremulous delight. and thus ever shall it be with those who have once, detaching themselves utterly from life, received the visit of the angel faith. solitude and space retain the splendour, and it settles like a halo round their graves.
