zanoni-第24部分

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the　most　mystical　superstitions；the　day　in　which　magnetism　and

magic　found　converts　amongst　the　disciples　of　Diderot；　when

prophecies　were　current　in　every　mouth；　when　the　salon　of　a

philosophical　deist　was　converted　into　an　Heraclea；　in　which

necromancy　professed　to　conjure　up　the　shadows　of　the　dead；　when

the　Crosier　and　the　Book　were　ridiculed；　and　Mesmer　and

Cagliostro　were　believed。　　In　that　Heliacal　Rising；　heralding　the

new　sun　before　which　all　vapours　were　to　vanish；　stalked　from

their　graves　in　the　feudal　ages　all　the　phantoms　that　had　flitted

before　the　eyes　of　Paracelsus　and　Agrippa。　　Dazzled　by　the　dawn

of　the　Revolution；　Glyndon　was　yet　more　attracted　by　its　strange

accompaniments；　and　natural　it　was　with　him；　as　with　others；　that

the　fancy　which　ran　riot　amidst　the　hopes　of　a　social　Utopia；

should　grasp　with　avidity　all　that　promised；　out　of　the　dusty

tracks　of　the　beaten　science；　the　bold　discoveries　of　some

marvellous　Elysium。



In　his　travels　he　had　listened　with　vivid　interest；　at　least；　if

not　with　implicit　belief；　to　the　wonders　told　of　each　more

renowned　Ghost…seer；　and　his　mind　was　therefore　prepared　for　the

impression　which　the　mysterious　Zanoni　at　first　sight　had

produced　upon　it。



There　might　be　another　cause　for　this　disposition　to　credulity。

A　remote　ancestor　of　Glyndon's　on　the　mother's　side；　had　achieved

no　inconsiderable　reputation　as　a　philosopher　and　alchemist。

Strange　stories　were　afloat　concerning　this　wise　progenitor。　　He

was　said　to　have　lived　to　an　age　far　exceeding　the　allotted

boundaries　of　mortal　existence；　and　to　have　preserved　to　the　last

the　appearance　of　middle　life。　　He　had　died　at　length；　it　was

supposed；　of　grief　for　the　sudden　death　of　a　great…grandchild；

the　only　creature　he　had　ever　appeared　to　love。　　The　works　of

this　philosopher；　though　rare；　were　extant；　and　found　in　the

library　of　Glyndon's　home。　　Their　Platonic　mysticism；　their　bold

assertions；　the　high　promises　that　might　be　detected　through

their　figurative　and　typical　phraseology；　had　early　made　a　deep

impression　on　the　young　imagination　of　Clarence　Glyndon。　　His

parents；　not　alive　to　the　consequences　of　encouraging　fancies

which　the　very　enlightenment　of　the　age　appeared　to　them

sufficient　to　prevent　or　dispel；　were　fond；　in　the　long　winter

nights；　of　conversing　on　the　traditional　history　of　this

distinguished　progenitor。　　And　Clarence　thrilled　with　a　fearful

pleasure　when　his　mother　playfully　detected　a　striking　likeness

between　the　features　of　the　young　heir　and　the　faded　portrait　of

the　alchemist　that　overhung　their　mantelpiece；　and　was　the　boast

of　their　household　and　the　admiration　of　their　friends；the

child　is；　indeed；　more　often　than　we　think　for；　〃the　father　of

the　man。〃



I　have　said　that　Glyndon　was　fond　of　pleasure。　　Facile；　as　genius

ever　must　be；　to　cheerful　impression；　his　careless　artist…life；

ere　artist…life　settles　down　to　labour；　had　wandered　from　flower

to　flower。　　He　had　enjoyed；　almost　to　the　reaction　of　satiety；

the　gay　revelries　of　Naples；　when　he　fell　in　love　with　the　face

and　voice　of　Viola　Pisani。　　But　his　love；　like　his　ambition；　was

vague　and　desultory。　　It　did　not　satisfy　his　whole　heart　and　fill

up　his　whole　nature；　not　from　want　of　strong　and　noble　passions；

but　because　his　mind　was　not　yet　matured　and　settled　enough　for

their　development。　　As　there　is　one　season　for　the　blossom；

another　for　the　fruit；　so　it　is　not　till　the　bloom　of　fancy

begins　to　fade；　that　the　heart　ripens　to　the　passions　that　the

bloom　precedes　and　foretells。　　Joyous　alike　at　his　lonely　easel

or　amidst　his　boon　companions；　he　had　not　yet　known　enough　of

sorrow　to　love　deeply。　　For　man　must　be　disappointed　with　the

lesser　things　of　life　before　he　can　comprehend　the　full　value　of

the　greatest。　　It　is　the　shallow　sensualists　of　France；　who；　in

their　salon…language；　call　love　〃a　folly；〃love；　better

understood；　is　wisdom。　　Besides；　the　world　was　too　much　with

Clarence　Glyndon。　　His　ambition　of　art　was　associated　with　the

applause　and　estimation　of　that　miserable　minority　of　the　surface

that　we　call　the　Public。



Like　those　who　deceive；　he　was　ever　fearful　of　being　himself　the

dupe。　　He　distrusted　the　sweet　innocence　of　Viola。　　He　could　not

venture　the　hazard　of　seriously　proposing　marriage　to　an　Italian

actress；　but　the　modest　dignity　of　the　girl；　and　something　good

and　generous　in　his　own　nature；　had　hitherto　made　him　shrink　from

any　more　worldly　but　less　honourable　designs。　　Thus　the

familiarity　between　them　seemed　rather　that　of　kindness　and

regard　than　passion。　　He　attended　the　theatre；　he　stole　behind

the　scenes　to　converse　with　her；　he　filled　his　portfolio　with

countless　sketches　of　a　beauty　that　charmed　him　as　an　artist　as

well　as　lover；　and　day　after　day　he　floated　on　through　a　changing

sea　of　doubt　and　irresolution；　of　affection　and　distrust。　　The

last；　indeed；　constantly　sustained　against　his　better　reason　by

the　sober　admonitions　of　Mervale；　a　matter…of…fact　man！



The　day　following　that　eve　on　which　this　section　of　my　story

opens；　Glyndon　was　riding　alone　by　the　shores　of　the　Neapolitan

sea；　on　the　other　side　of　the　Cavern　of　Posilipo。　　It　was　past

noon；　the　sun　had　lost　its　early　fervour；　and　a　cool　breeze

sprung　up　voluptuously　from　the　sparkling　sea。　　Bending　over　a

fragment　of　stone　near　the　roadside；　he　perceived　the　form　of　a

man；　and　when　he　approached；　he　recognised　Zanoni。



The　Englishman　saluted　him　courteously。　　〃Have　you　discovered

some　antique？〃　said　he；　with　a　smile；　〃they　are　common　as　pebbles

on　this　road。〃



〃No；〃　replied　Zanoni；　〃it　was　but　one　of　those　antiques　that　have

their　date；　indeed；　from　the　beginning　of　the　world；　but　which

Nature　eternally　withers　and　renews。〃　　So　saying；　he　showed

Glyndon　a　small　herb　with　a　pale…blue　flower；　and　then　placed　it

carefully　in　his　bosom。



〃You　are　an　herbalist？〃



〃I　am。〃



〃It　is；　I　am　told；　a　study　full　of　interest。〃



〃To　those　who　understand　it；　doubtless。〃



〃Is　the　knowledge；　then；　so　rare？〃



〃Rare！　　The　deeper　knowledge　is　perhaps　rather；　among　the　arts；

LOST　to　the　modern　philosophy　of　commonplace　and　surface！　　Do　you

imagine　there　was　no　foundation　for　those　traditions　which　come

dimly　down　from　remoter　ages；as　shells　now　found　on　the

mountain…tops　inform　us　where　the　seas　have　been？　　What　was　the

old　Colchian　magic；　but　the　minute　study　of　Nature　in　her

lowliest　works？　　What　the　fable　of　Medea；　but　a　proof　of　the

powers　that　may　be　extracted　from　the　germ　and　leaf？　　The　most

gifted　of　all　the　Priestcrafts；　the　mysterious　sisterhoods　of

Cuth；　concerning　whose　incantations　Learning　vainly　bewilders

itself　amidst　the　maze　of　legends；　sought　in　the　meanest　herbs

what；　perhaps；　the　Babylonian　Sages　explored　in　vain　amidst　the

loftiest　stars。　　Tradition　yet　tells　you　that　there　existed　a

race　（〃Plut。　　Symp。〃　l。　5。　c。　7。）　who　could　slay　their　enemies

from　afar；　without　weapon；　wi