Man is the eye of things.--Euryph, “de Vit. Hum.”
...There is, therefore, a certain ecstatical or transporting
power, which, if at any time it shall be excited or stirred up by
an ardent desire and most strong imagination, is able to conduct
the spirit of the more outward even to some absent and
far-distant object.--Von Helmont.
The rooms that Mejnour occupied consisted of two chambers communicating
with each other, and a third in which he slept. All these rooms
were placed in the huge square tower that beetled over the dark and
bush-grown precipice. The first chamber which Glyndon entered was empty.
With a noiseless step he passed on, and opened the door that admitted
into the inner one. He drew back at the threshold, overpowered by a
strong fragrance which filled the chamber: a kind of mist thickened the
air rather than obscured it, for this vapour was not dark, but resembled
a snow-cloud moving slowly, and in heavy undulations, wave upon wave
regularly over the space. A mortal cold struck to the Englishman’s
heart, and his blood froze. He stood rooted to the spot; and as his eyes
strained involuntarily through the vapour, he fancied (for he could not
be sure that it was not the trick of his imagination) that he saw dim,
spectre-like, but gigantic forms floating through the mist; or was it
not rather the mist itself that formed its vapours fantastically into
those moving, impalpable, and bodiless apparitions? A great painter
of antiquity is said, in a picture of Hades, to have represented the
monsters that glide through the ghostly River of the Dead, so artfully,
that the eye perceived at once that the river itself was but a spectre,
and the bloodless things that tenanted it had no life, their forms
blending with the dead waters till, as the eye continued to gaze, it
ceased to discern them from the preternatural element they were supposed
to inhabit. Such were the moving outlines that coiled and floated
through the mist; but before Glyndon had even drawn breath in this
atmosphere--for his life itself seemed arrested or changed into a kind
of horrid trance--he felt his hand seized, and he was led from that room
into the outer one. He heard the door close,--his blood rushed again
through his veins, and he saw Mejnour by his side. Strong convulsions
then suddenly seized his whole frame,--he fell to the ground insensible.
When he recovered, he found himself in the open air in a rude balcony of
stone that jutted from the chamber, the stars shining serenely over the
dark abyss below, and resting calmly upon the face of the mystic, who
stood beside him with folded arms.
“Young man,” said Mejnour, “judge by what you have just felt, how
dangerous it is to seek knowledge until prepared to receive it. Another
moment in the air of that chamber and you had been a corpse.”
“Then of what nature was the knowledge that you, once mortal like
myself, could safely have sought in that icy atmosphere, which it was
death for me to breathe? Mejnour,” continued Glyndon, and his wild
desire, sharpened by the very danger he had passed, once more animated
and nerved him, “I am prepared at least for the first steps. I come to
you as of old the pupil to the Hierophant, and demand the initiation.”
Mejnour passed his hand over the young man’s heart,--it beat loud,
regularly, and boldly. He looked at him with something almost like
admiration in his passionless and frigid features, and muttered, half
to himself, “Surely, in so much courage the true disciple is found at
last.” Then, speaking aloud, he added, “Be it so; man’s first initiation
is in TRANCE. In dreams commences all human knowledge; in dreams
hovers over measureless space the first faint bridge between spirit and
spirit,--this world and the worlds beyond! Look steadfastly on yonder
star!”
Glyndon obeyed, and Mejnour retired into the chamber, from which there
then slowly emerged a vapour, somewhat paler and of fainter odour than
that which had nearly produced so fatal an effect on his frame. This,
on the contrary, as it coiled around him, and then melted in thin spires
into the air, breathed a refreshing and healthful fragrance. He still
kept his eyes on the star, and the star seemed gradually to fix and
command his gaze. A sort of languor next seized his frame, but without,
as he thought, communicating itself to the mind; and as this crept over
him, he felt his temples sprinkled with some volatile and fiery essence.
At the same moment a slight tremor shook his limbs and thrilled through
his veins. The languor increased, still he kept his gaze upon the star,
and now its luminous circumference seemed to expand and dilate. It
became gradually softer and clearer in its light; spreading wider and
broader, it diffused all space,--all space seemed swallowed up in it.
And at last, in the midst of a silver shining atmosphere, he felt as if
something burst within his brain,--as if a strong chain were broken; and
at that moment a sense of heavenly liberty, of unutterable delight, of
freedom from the body, of birdlike lightness, seemed to float him
into the space itself. “Whom, now upon earth, dost thou wish to see?”
whispered the voice of Mejnour. “Viola and Zanoni!” answered Glyndon, in
his heart; but he felt that his lips moved not.
Suddenly at that thought,--through this space, in which nothing save one
mellow translucent light had been discernible,--a swift succession
of shadowy landscapes seemed to roll: trees, mountains, cities, seas,
glided along like the changes of a phantasmagoria; and at last,
settled and stationary, he saw a cave by the gradual marge of an ocean
shore,--myrtles and orange-trees clothing the gentle banks. On a height,
at a distance, gleamed the white but shattered relics of some ruined
heathen edifice; and the moon, in calm splendour, shining over all,
literally bathed with its light two forms without the cave, at whose
feet the blue waters crept, and he thought that he even heard them
murmur. He recognised both the figures. Zanoni was seated on a fragment
of stone; Viola, half-reclining by his side, was looking into his face,
which was bent down to her, and in her countenance was the expression of
that perfect happiness which belongs to perfect love. “Wouldst thou hear
them speak?” whispered Mejnour; and again, without sound, Glyndon inly
answered, “Yes!” Their voices then came to his ear, but in tones that
seemed to him strange; so subdued were they, and sounding, as it were,
so far off, that they were as voices heard in the visions of some holier
men from a distant sphere.
“And how is it,” said Viola, “that thou canst find pleasure in listening
to the ignorant?”
“Because the heart is never ignorant; because the mysteries of the
feelings are as full of wonder as those of the intellect. If at times
thou canst not comprehend the language of my thoughts, at times also I
hear sweet enigmas in that of thy emotions.”
“Ah, say not so!” said Viola, winding her arm tenderly round his neck,
and under that heavenly light her face seemed lovelier for its blushes.
“For the enigmas are but love’s common language, and love should solve
them. Till I knew thee,--till I lived with thee; till I learned to
watch for thy footstep when absent: yet even in absence to see
thee everywhere!--I dreamed not how strong and all-pervading is the
connection between nature and the human soul!...
“And yet,” she continued, “I am now assured of what I at first
believed,--that the feelings which attracted me towards thee at first
were not those of love. I know THAT, by comparing the present with the
past,--it was a sentiment then wholly of the mind or the spirit! I could
not hear thee now say, ‘Viola, be happy with another!’”
“And I could not now tell thee so! Ah, Viola, never be weary of assuring
me that thou art happy!”
“Happy while thou art so. Yet at times, Zanoni, thou art so sad!”
“Because human life is so short; because we must part at last; because
yon moon shines on when the nightingale sings to it no more! A little
while, and thine eyes will grow dim, and thy beauty haggard, and these
locks that I toy with now will be grey and loveless.”
“And thou, cruel one!” said Viola, touchingly, “I shall never see the
signs of age in thee! But shall we not grow old together, and our eyes
be accustomed to a change which the heart shall not share!”
Zanoni sighed. He turned away, and seemed to commune with himself.
Glyndon’s attention grew yet more earnest.
“But were it so,” muttered Zanoni; and then looking steadfastly at
Viola, he said, with a half-smile, “Hast thou no curiosity to learn more
of the lover thou once couldst believe the agent of the Evil One?”
“None; all that one wishes to know of the beloved one, I know--THAT THOU
LOVEST ME!”
“I have told thee that my life is apart from others. Wouldst thou not
seek to share it?”
“I share it now!”
“But were it possible to be thus young and fair forever, till the world
blazes round us as one funeral pyre!”
“We shall be so, when we leave the world!”
Zanoni was mute for some moments, and at length he said,--
“Canst thou recall those brilliant and aerial dreams which once visited
thee, when thou didst fancy that thou wert preordained to some fate
aloof and afar from the common children of the earth?”
“Zanoni, the fate is found.”
“And hast thou no terror of the future?”
“The future! I forget it! Time past and present and to come reposes
in thy smile. Ah, Zanoni, play not with the foolish credulities of my
youth! I have been better and humbler since thy presence has dispelled
the mist of the air. The future!--well, when I have cause to dread it, I
will look up to heaven, and remember who guides our fate!”
As she lifted her eyes above, a dark cloud swept suddenly over the
scene. It wrapped the orange-trees, the azure ocean, the dense sands;
but still the last images that it veiled from the charmed eyes of
Glyndon were the forms of Viola and Zanoni. The face of the one rapt,
serene, and radiant; the face of the other, dark, thoughtful, and locked
in more than its usual rigidness of melancholy beauty and profound
repose.
“Rouse thyself,” said Mejnour; “thy ordeal has commenced! There are
pretenders to the solemn science who could have shown thee the
absent, and prated to thee, in their charlatanic jargon, of the secret
electricities and the magnetic fluid of whose true properties they know
but the germs and elements. I will lend thee the books of those glorious
dupes, and thou wilt find, in the dark ages, how many erring steps have
stumbled upon the threshold of the mighty learning, and fancied they
had pierced the temple. Hermes and Albert and Paracelsus, I knew ye all;
but, noble as ye were, ye were fated to be deceived. Ye had not souls
of faith, and daring fitted for the destinies at which ye aimed! Yet
Paracelsus--modest Paracelsus--had an arrogance that soared higher than
all our knowledge. Ho, ho!--he thought he could make a race of men from
chemistry; he arrogated to himself the Divine gift,--the breath of life.
(Paracelsus, ‘De Nat. Rer.,’ lib. i.)
“He would have made men, and, after all, confessed that they could be but
pygmies! My art is to make men above mankind. But you are impatient of
my digressions. Forgive me. All these men (they were great dreamers, as
you desire to be) were intimate friends of mine. But they are dead and
rotten. They talked of spirits,--but they dreaded to be in other company
than that of men. Like orators whom I have heard, when I stood by the
Pnyx of Athens, blazing with words like comets in the assembly, and
extinguishing their ardour like holiday rockets when they were in the
field. Ho, ho! Demosthenes, my hero-coward, how nimble were thy heels
at Chaeronea! And thou art impatient still! Boy, I could tell thee such
truths of the past as would make thee the luminary of schools. But thou
lustest only for the shadows of the future. Thou shalt have thy wish.
But the mind must be first exercised and trained. Go to thy room, and
sleep; fast austerely, read no books; meditate, imagine, dream, bewilder
thyself if thou wilt. Thought shapes out its own chaos at last. Before
midnight, seek me again!”