Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still.
Shakespeare.
Venerable Brotherhood1, so sacred and so little known, from whose secret and precious archives the materials for this history have been drawn2; 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 luminary3 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 perplexed4, is driven to confess that it knows nothing of your origin, your ceremonies or doctrines5, 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 profane6 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 starry7 truths which shone on the great Shemaia of the Chaldean Lore8, and gleamed dimly through the darkened knowledge of latter disciples9, 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 aged11 and hoary12 world is vouchsafed13 the NAME which, so say the earliest oracles14 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 remains15 were tombs. From the sarcophagus and the urn10 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 dictates16 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 Eloquent17, or did it not justify18 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 wondrous19 but not unholy charm? I said that, from that day in which, no longer with awe20 and trembling, she surrendered herself to the influence of Zanoni, she had sought to put her thoughts into words. Let the thoughts attest21 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 behold22 but a likeness23 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 ebb24 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 delusion25 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 orphan26 now,— what is there that lives for me to think of, to dream upon, to revere27, but thou!
“How tenderly thou hast rebuked28 me for the grievous wrong that my thoughts did thee! Why should I have shuddered29 to feel thee glancing upon my thoughts like the beam on the solitary31 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 murmur32 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 steadfastly33 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 herald34 thy approach. Methinks I hear them wail35 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 mused36 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 presumption38 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 lute39, and spoke40 to it on the strings41; 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 gushed42 from thine eyes. So softly didst thou unbar the cage, and the nightingale flew into yonder thicket43; and thou heardst the foliage44 rustle45, and, looking through the moonlight, thine eyes saw that it had found its mate. It sang to thee then from the boughs46 a long, loud, joyous47 jubilee48. And musing49, 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 humble50 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 attained51. Now I feel rather as if to think of thee sufficed to remove every fetter52 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 muse37, I could fancy that I heard light wings hovering53 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 eternity54!
....
“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 renown55; and now I have no fear of them. I see them, heed56 them, hear them not! I know that there will be music in my voice, for it is a hymn57 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 consign58 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 modulates59 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 bosom60. Thou seemest to me the source of all love; too high and too bright to be loved thyself, but darting61 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 plunged62 back into the common life; and I shudder30 coldly at the solitude63. But I will obey thee, if thou wilt64. 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 entangled65? 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 bestow66? 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 repose67, and smile even at thy words and my own fears. Thou art fond of one maxim68, which thou repeatest in a thousand forms,— that the beauty of the soul is faith; that as ideal loveliness to the sculptor69, 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 tranquil70 confidence in ourselves, and a serene71 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 slumber72. 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 ripened73 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!”
收听单词发音 |
1
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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luminary
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| n.名人，天体 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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attest
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| vt.证明，证实；表明 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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31
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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45
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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46
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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47
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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48
jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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49
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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50
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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51
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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52
fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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53
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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54
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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55
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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56
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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consign
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| vt.寄售（货品），托运，交托，委托 | |
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modulates
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| 调整( modulate的第三人称单数 )； （对波幅、频率的）调制； 转调； 调整或改变（嗓音）的音调 | |
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60
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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63
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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64
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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65
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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67
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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68
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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69
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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70
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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71
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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72
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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73
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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