Cosi vince Goffredo!
(Thus conquered Godfrey.)
And Viola was in prayer. She heard not the opening of the door; she saw not the dark shadow that fell along the floor. HIS power, HIS arts were gone; but the mystery and the spell known to HER simple heart did not desert her in the hours of trial and despair. When Science falls as a firework from the sky it would invade; when Genius withers2 as a flower in the breath of the icy charnel,— the hope of a child-like soul wraps the air in light, and the innocence3 of unquestioning Belief covers the grave with blossoms.
In the farthest corner of the cell she knelt; and the infant, as if to imitate what it could not comprehend, bent4 its little limbs, and bowed its smiling face, and knelt with her also, by her side.
He stood and gazed upon them as the light of the lamp fell calmly on their forms. It fell over those clouds of golden hair, dishevelled, parted, thrown back from the rapt, candid6 brow; the dark eyes raised on high, where, through the human tears, a light as from above was mirrored; the hands clasped, the lips apart, the form all animate7 and holy with the sad serenity8 of innocence and the touching9 humility10 of woman. And he heard her voice, though it scarcely left her lips: the low voice that the heart speaks,— loud enough for God to hear!
“And if never more to see him, O Father! Canst Thou not make the love that will not die, minister, even beyond the grave, to his earthly fate? Canst Thou not yet permit it, as a living spirit, to hover11 over him,— a spirit fairer than all his science can conjure12? Oh, whatever lot be ordained13 to either, grant — even though a thousand ages may roll between us — grant, when at last purified and regenerate14, and fitted for the transport of such reunion — grant that we may meet once more! And for his child,— it kneels to Thee from the dungeon15 floor! To-morrow, and whose breast shall cradle it; whose hand shall feed; whose lips shall pray for its weal below and its soul hereafter!” She paused,— her voice choked with sobs16.
“Thou Viola!— thou, thyself. He whom thou hast deserted17 is here to preserve the mother to the child!”
She started!— those accents, tremulous as her own! She started to her feet!— he was there,— in all the pride of his unwaning youth and superhuman beauty; there, in the house of dread19, and in the hour of travail20; there, image and personation of the love that can pierce the Valley of the Shadow, and can glide21, the unscathed wanderer from the heaven, through the roaring abyss of hell!
With a cry never, perhaps, heard before in that gloomy vault22,— a cry of delight and rapture23, she sprang forward, and fell at his feet.
He bent down to raise her; but she slid from his arms. He called her by the familiar epithets24 of the old endearment25, and she only answered him by sobs. Wildly, passionately26, she kissed his hands, the hem5 of his garment, but voice was gone.
“Look up, look up!— I am here,— I am here to save thee! Wilt27 thou deny to me thy sweet face? Truant28, wouldst thou fly me still?”
“Fly thee!” she said, at last, and in a broken voice; “oh, if my thoughts wronged thee,— oh, if my dream, that awful dream, deceived,— kneel down with me, and pray for our child!” Then springing to her feet with a sudden impulse, she caught up the infant, and, placing it in his arms, sobbed29 forth30, with deprecating and humble31 tones, “Not for my sake,— not for mine, did I abandon thee, but —”
“Hush!” said Zanoni; “I know all the thoughts that thy confused and struggling senses can scarcely analyse themselves. And see how, with a look, thy child answers them!”
And in truth the face of that strange infant seemed radiant with its silent and unfathomable joy. It seemed as if it recognised the father; it clung — it forced itself to his breast, and there, nestling, turned its bright, clear eyes upon Viola, and smiled.
“Pray for my child!” said Zanoni, mournfully. “The thoughts of souls that would aspire32 as mine are All PRAYER!” And, seating himself by her side, he began to reveal to her some of the holier secrets of his lofty being. He spoke33 of the sublime34 and intense faith from which alone the diviner knowledge can arise,— the faith which, seeing the immortal35 everywhere, purifies and exalts36 the mortal that beholds37, the glorious ambition that dwells not in the cabals39 and crimes of earth, but amidst those solemn wonders that speak not of men, but of God; of that power to abstract the soul from the clay which gives to the eye of the soul its subtle vision, and to the soul’s wing the unlimited40 realm; of that pure, severe, and daring initiation41 from which the mind emerges, as from death, into clear perceptions of its kindred with the Father–Principles of life and light, so that in its own sense of the Beautiful it finds its joy; in the serenity of its will, its power; in its sympathy with the youthfulness of the Infinite Creation, of which itself is an essence and a part, the secrets that embalm42 the very clay which they consecrate43, and renew the strength of life with the ambrosia44 of mysterious and celestial45 sleep. And while he spoke, Viola listened, breathless. If she could not comprehend, she no longer dared to distrust. She felt that in that enthusiasm, self-deceiving or not, no fiend could lurk46; and by an intuition, rather than an effort of the reason, she saw before her, like a starry47 ocean, the depth and mysterious beauty of the soul which her fears had wronged. Yet, when he said (concluding his strange confessions) that to this life WITHIN life and ABOVE life he had dreamed to raise her own, the fear of humanity crept over her, and he read in her silence how vain, with all his science, would the dream have been.
But now, as he closed, and, leaning on his breast, she felt the clasp of his protecting arms,— when, in one holy kiss, the past was forgiven and the present lost,— then there returned to her the sweet and warm hopes of the natural life, of the loving woman. He was come to save her! She asked not how,— she believed it without a question. They should be at last again united. They would fly far from those scenes of violence and blood. Their happy Ionian isle48, their fearless solitudes49, would once more receive them. She laughed, with a child’s joy, as this picture rose up amidst the gloom of the dungeon. Her mind, faithful to its sweet, simple instincts, refused to receive the lofty images that flitted confusedly by it, and settled back to its human visions, yet more baseless, of the earthly happiness and the tranquil50 home.
“Talk not now to me, beloved,— talk not more now to me of the past! Thou art here,— thou wilt save me; we shall live yet the common happy life, that life with thee is happiness and glory enough to me. Traverse, if thou wilt, in thy pride of soul, the universe; thy heart again is the universe to mine. I thought but now that I was prepared to die; I see thee, touch thee, and again I know how beautiful a thing is life! See through the grate the stars are fading from the sky; the morrow will soon be here,— The MORROW which will open the prison doors! Thou sayest thou canst save me,— I will not doubt it now. Oh, let us dwell no more in cities! I never doubted thee in our lovely isle; no dreams haunted me there, except dreams of joy and beauty; and thine eyes made yet more beautiful and joyous51 the world in waking. To-morrow!— why do you not smile? To-morrow, love! is not TO-MORROW a blessed word! Cruel! you would punish me still, that you will not share my joy. Aha! see our little one, how it laughs to my eyes! I will talk to THAT. Child, thy father is come back!”
And taking the infant in her arms, and seating herself at a little distance, she rocked it to and fro on her bosom52, and prattled53 to it, and kissed it between every word, and laughed and wept by fits, as ever and anon she cast over her shoulder her playful, mirthful glance upon the father to whom those fading stars smiled sadly their last farewell. How beautiful she seemed as she thus sat, unconscious of the future! Still half a child herself, her child laughing to her laughter,— two soft triflers on the brink54 of the grave! Over her throat, as she bent, fell, like a golden cloud, her redundant55 hair; it covered her treasure like a veil of light, and the child’s little hands put it aside from time to time, to smile through the parted tresses, and then to cover its face and peep and smile again. It were cruel to damp that joy, more cruel still to share it.
“Viola,” said Zanoni, at last, “dost thou remember that, seated by the cave on the moonlit beach, in our bridal isle, thou once didst ask me for this amulet56?— the charm of a superstition57 long vanished from the world, with the creed58 to which it belonged. It is the last relic59 of my native land, and my mother, on her deathbed, placed it round my neck. I told thee then I would give it thee on that day WHEN THE LAWS OF OUR BEING SHOULD BECOME THE SAME.”
“I remember it well.”
“To-morrow it shall be thine!”
“Ah, that dear tomorrow!” And, gently laying down her child,— for it slept now,— she threw herself on his breast, and pointed60 to the dawn that began greyly to creep along the skies.
There, in those horror-breathing walls, the day-star looked through the dismal61 bars upon those three beings, in whom were concentrated whatever is most tender in human ties; whatever is most mysterious in the combinations of the human mind; the sleeping Innocence; the trustful Affection, that, contented62 with a touch, a breath, can foresee no sorrow; the weary Science that, traversing all the secrets of creation, comes at last to Death for their solution, and still clings, as it nears the threshold, to the breast of Love. Thus, within, THE WITHIN,— a dungeon; without, the WITHOUT,— stately with marts and halls, with palaces and temples; Revenge and Terror, at their dark schemes and counter-schemes; to and fro, upon the tide of the shifting passions, reeled the destinies of men and nations; and hard at hand that day-star, waning18 into space, looked with impartial64 eye on the church tower and the guillotine. Up springs the blithesome65 morn. In yon gardens the birds renew their familiar song. The fishes are sporting through the freshening waters of the Seine. The gladness of divine nature, the roar and dissonance of mortal life, awake again: the trader unbars his windows; the flower-girls troop gayly to their haunts; busy feet are tramping to the daily drudgeries that revolutions which strike down kings and kaisars, leave the same Cain’s heritage to the boor67; the wagons68 groan69 and reel to the mart; Tyranny, up betimes, holds its pallid70 levee; Conspiracy71, that hath not slept, hears the clock, and whispers to its own heart, “The hour draws near.” A group gather, eager-eyed, round the purlieus of the Convention Hall; today decides the sovereignty of France,— about the courts of the Tribunal their customary hum and stir. No matter what the hazard of the die, or who the ruler, this day eighty heads shall fall!
....
And she slept so sweetly. Wearied out with joy, secure in the presence of the eyes regained73, she had laughed and wept herself to sleep; and still in that slumber74 there seemed a happy consciousness that the loved was by,— the lost was found. For she smiled and murmured to herself, and breathed his name often, and stretched out her arms, and sighed if they touched him not. He gazed upon her as he stood apart,— with what emotions it were vain to say. She would wake no more to him; she could not know how dearly the safety of that sleep was purchased. That morrow she had so yearned76 for,— it had come at last. HOW WOULD SHE GREET THE EVE? Amidst all the exquisite77 hopes with which love and youth contemplate78 the future, her eyes had closed. Those hopes still lent their iris-colours to her dreams. She would wake to live! To-morrow, and the Reign72 of Terror was no more; the prison gates would be opened,— she would go forth, with their child, into that summer-world of light. And HE?— he turned, and his eye fell upon the child; it was broad awake, and that clear, serious, thoughtful look which it mostly wore, watched him with a solemn steadiness. He bent over and kissed its lips.
“Never more,” he murmured, “O heritor of love and grief,— never more wilt thou see me in thy visions; never more will the light of those eyes be fed by celestial commune; never more can my soul guard from thy pillow the trouble and the disease. Not such as I would have vainly shaped it, must be thy lot. In common with thy race, it must be thine to suffer, to struggle, and to err63. But mild be thy human trials, and strong be thy spirit to love and to believe! And thus, as I gaze upon thee,— thus may my nature breathe into thine its last and most intense desire; may my love for thy mother pass to thee, and in thy looks may she hear my spirit comfort and console her. Hark! they come! Yes! I await ye both beyond the grave!”
The door slowly opened; the jailer appeared, and through the aperture79 rushed, at the same instant, a ray of sunlight: it streamed over the fair, hushed face of the happy sleeper80,— it played like a smile upon the lips of the child that, still, mute, and steadfast81, watched the movements of its father. At that moment Viola muttered in her sleep, “The day is come,— the gates are open! Give me thy hand; we will go forth! To sea, to sea! How the sunshine plays upon the waters!— to home, beloved one, to home again!”
“Citizen, thine hour is come!”
“Hist! she sleeps! A moment! There, it is done! thank Heaven!— and STILL she sleeps!” He would not kiss, lest he should awaken82 her, but gently placed round her neck the amulet that would speak to her, hereafter, the farewell,— and promise, in that farewell, reunion! He is at the threshold,— he turns again, and again. The door closes! He is gone forever!
She woke at last,— she gazed round. “Zanoni, it is day!” No answer but the low wail83 of her child. Merciful Heaven! was it then all a dream? She tossed back the long tresses that must veil her sight; she felt the amulet on her bosom,— it was NO dream! “O God! and he is gone!” She sprang to the door,— she shrieked84 aloud. The jailer comes. “My husband, my child’s father?”
“He is gone before thee, woman!”
“Whither? Speak — speak!”
“To the guillotine!”— and the black door closed again.
It closed upon the senseless! As a lightning-flash, Zanoni’s words, his sadness, the true meaning of his mystic gift, the very sacrifice he made for her, all became distinct for a moment to her mind,— and then darkness swept on it like a storm, yet darkness which had its light. And while she sat there, mute, rigid86, voiceless, as congealed87 to stone, A VISION, like a wind, glided88 over the deeps within,— the grim court, the judge, the jury, the accuser; and amidst the victims the one dauntless and radiant form.
“Thou knowest the danger to the State,— confess!”
“I know; and I keep my promise. Judge, I reveal thy doom89! I know that the Anarchy90 thou callest a State expires with the setting of this sun. Hark, to the tramp without; hark to the roar of voices! Room there, ye dead!— room in hell for Robespierre and his crew!”
They hurry into the court,— the hasty and pale messengers; there is confusion and fear and dismay! “Off with the conspirator91, and tomorrow the woman thou wouldst have saved shall die!”
“To-morrow, president, the steel falls on THEE!”
On, through the crowded and roaring streets, on moves the Procession of Death. Ha, brave people! thou art aroused at last. They shall not die! Death is dethroned!— Robespierre has fallen!— they rush to the rescue! Hideous92 in the tumbril, by the side of Zanoni, raved93 and gesticulated that form which, in his prophetic dreams, he had seen his companion at the place of death. “Save us!— save us!” howled the atheist94 Nicot. “On, brave populace! we SHALL be saved!” And through the crowd, her dark hair streaming wild, her eyes flashing fire, pressed a female form, “My Clarence!” she shrieked, in the soft Southern language native to the ears of Viola; “butcher! what hast thou done with Clarence?” Her eyes roved over the eager faces of the prisoners; she saw not the one she sought. “Thank Heaven!— thank Heaven! I am not thy murderess!”
Nearer and nearer press the populace,— another moment, and the deathsman is defrauded95. O Zanoni! why still upon THY brow the resignation that speaks no hope? Tramp! tramp! through the streets dash the armed troop; faithful to his orders, Black Henriot leads them on. Tramp! tramp! over the craven and scattered96 crowd! Here, flying in disorder,— there, trampled97 in the mire98, the shrieking99 rescuers! And amidst them, stricken by the sabres of the guard, her long hair blood-bedabbled, lies the Italian woman; and still upon her writhing100 lips sits joy, as they murmur75, “Clarence! I have not destroyed thee!”
On to the Barriere du Trone. It frowns dark in the air,— the giant instrument of murder! One after one to the glaive,— another and another and another! Mercy! O mercy! Is the bridge between the sun and the shades so brief,— brief as a sigh? There, there,— HIS turn has come. “Die not yet; leave me not behind; hear me — hear me!” shrieked the inspired sleeper. “What! and thou smilest still!” They smiled,— those pale lips,— and WITH the smile, the place of doom, the headsman, the horror vanished. With that smile, all space seemed suffused101 in eternal sunshine. Up from the earth he rose; he hovered102 over her,— a thing not of matter, an IDEA of joy and light! Behind, Heaven opened, deep after deep; and the Hosts of Beauty were seen, rank upon rank, afar; and “Welcome!” in a myriad103 melodies, broke from your choral multitude, ye People of the Skies,—“welcome! O purified by sacrifice, and immortal only through the grave,— this it is to die.” And radiant amidst the radiant, the IMAGE stretched forth its arms, and murmured to the sleeper: “Companion of Eternity104!— THIS it is to die!”
....
“Ho! wherefore do they make us signs from the house-tops? Wherefore gather the crowds through the street? Why sounds the bell? Why shrieks105 the tocsin? Hark to the guns!— the armed clash! Fellow-captives, is there hope for us at last?”
So gasp106 out the prisoners, each to each. Day wanes107 — evening closes; still they press their white faces to the bars, and still from window and from house-top they see the smiles of friends,— the waving signals! “Hurrah!” at last,—“Hurrah! Robespierre is fallen! The Reign of Terror is no more! God hath permitted us to live!”
Yes; cast thine eyes into the hall where the tyrant108 and his conclave109 hearkened to the roar without! Fulfilling the prophecy of Dumas, Henriot, drunk with blood and alcohol, reels within, and chucks his gory110 sabre on the floor. “All is lost!”
“Wretch! thy cowardice111 hath destroyed us!” yelled the fierce Coffinhal, as he hurled112 the coward from the window.
Calm as despair stands the stern St. Just; the palsied Couthon crawls, grovelling113, beneath table; a shot,— an explosion! Robespierre would destroy himself! The trembling hand has mangled114, and failed to kill! The clock of the Hotel de Ville strikes the third hour. Through the battered115 door, along the gloomy passages, into the Death-hall, burst the crowd. Mangled, livid, blood-stained, speechless but not unconscious, sits haughty116 yet, in his seat erect117, the Master–Murderer! Around him they throng118; they hoot,— they execrate119, their faces gleaming in the tossing torches! HE, and not the starry Magian, the REAL Sorcerer! And round HIS last hours gather the Fiends he raised!
They drag him forth! Open thy gates, inexorable prison! The Conciergerie receives its prey120! Never a word again on earth spoke Maximilien Robespierre! Pour forth thy thousands, and tens of thousands, emancipated121 Paris! To the Place de la Revolution rolls the tumbril of the King of Terror,— St. Just, Dumas, Couthon, his companions to the grave! A woman — a childless woman, with hoary122 hair — springs to his side, “Thy death makes me drunk with joy!” He opened his bloodshot eyes,—“Descend to hell with the curses of wives and mothers!”
The headsmen wrench123 the rag from the shattered jaw124; a shriek85, and the crowd laugh, and the axe125 descends126 amidst the shout of the countless127 thousands, and blackness rushes on thy soul, Maximilien Robespierre! So ended the Reign of Terror.
....
Daylight in the prison. From cell to cell they hurry with the news,— crowd upon crowd; the joyous captives mingled128 with the very jailers, who, for fear, would fain seem joyous too; they stream through the dens66 and alleys129 of the grim house they will shortly leave. They burst into a cell, forgotten since the previous morning. They found there a young female, sitting upon her wretched bed; her arms crossed upon her bosom, her face raised upward; the eyes unclosed, and a smile of more than serenity — of bliss130 — upon her lips. Even in the riot of their joy, they drew back in astonishment131 and awe132. Never had they seen life so beautiful; and as they crept nearer, and with noiseless feet, they saw that the lips breathed not, that the repose133 was of marble, that the beauty and the ecstasy134 were of death. They gathered round in silence; and lo! at her feet there was a young infant, who, wakened by their tread, looked at them steadfastly135, and with its rosy136 fingers played with its dead mother’s robe. An orphan137 there in a dungeon vault!
“Poor one!” said a female (herself a parent), “and they say the father fell yesterday; and now the mother! Alone in the world, what can be its fate?”
The infant smiled fearlessly on the crowd, as the woman spoke thus. And the old priest, who stood amongst them, said gently, “Woman, see! the orphan smiles! THE FATHERLESS ARE THE CARE OF GOD!”
NOTE.
The curiosity which Zanoni has excited among those who think it worth while to dive into the subtler meanings they believe it intended to convey, may excuse me in adding a few words, not in explanation of its mysteries, but upon the principles which permit them. Zanoni is not, as some have supposed, an allegory; but beneath the narrative138 it relates, TYPICAL meanings are concealed139. It is to be regarded in two characters, distinct yet harmonious140,— 1st, that of the simple and objective fiction, in which (once granting the license141 of the author to select a subject which is, or appears to be, preternatural) the reader judges the writer by the usual canons,— namely, by the consistency142 of his characters under such admitted circumstances, the interest of his story, and the coherence143 of his plot; of the work regarded in this view, it is not my intention to say anything, whether in exposition of the design, or in defence of the execution. No typical meanings (which, in plain terms are but moral suggestions, more or less numerous, more or less subtle) can afford just excuse to a writer of fiction, for the errors he should avoid in the most ordinary novel. We have no right to expect the most ingenious reader to search for the inner meaning, if the obvious course of the narrative be tedious and displeasing144. It is, on the contrary, in proportion as we are satisfied with the objective sense of a work of imagination, that we are inclined to search into its depths for the more secret intentions of the author. Were we not so divinely charmed with “Faust,” and “Hamlet,” and “Prometheus,” so ardently145 carried on by the interest of the story told to the common understanding, we should trouble ourselves little with the types in each which all of us can detect,— none of us can elucidate146; none elucidate, for the essence of type is mystery. We behold38 the figure, we cannot lift the veil. The author himself is not called upon to explain what he designed. An allegory is a personation of distinct and definite things,— virtues147 or qualities,— and the key can be given easily; but a writer who conveys typical meanings, may express them in myriads148. He cannot disentangle all the hues149 which commingle150 into the light he seeks to cast upon truth; and therefore the great masters of this enchanted151 soil,— Fairyland of Fairyland, Poetry imbedded beneath Poetry,— wisely leave to each mind to guess at such truths as best please or instruct it. To have asked Goethe to explain the “Faust” would have entailed152 as complex and puzzling an answer as to have asked Mephistopheles to explain what is beneath the earth we tread on. The stores beneath may differ for every passenger; each step may require a new description; and what is treasure to the geologist153 may be rubbish to the miner. Six worlds may lie under a sod, but to the common eye they are but six layers of stone.
Art in itself, if not necessarily typical, is essentially154 a suggester of something subtler than that which it embodies155 to the sense. What Pliny tells us of a great painter of old, is true of most great painters; “their works express something beyond the works,”—“more felt than understood.” This belongs to the concentration of intellect which high art demands, and which, of all the arts, sculpture best illustrates156. Take Thorwaldsen’s Statue of Mercury,— it is but a single figure, yet it tells to those conversant157 with mythology158 a whole legend. The god has removed the pipe from his lips, because he has already lulled159 to sleep the Argus, whom you do not see. He is pressing his heel against his sword, because the moment is come when he may slay160 his victim. Apply the principle of this noble concentration of art to the moral writer: he, too, gives to your eye but a single figure; yet each attitude, each expression, may refer to events and truths you must have the learning to remember, the acuteness to penetrate161, or the imagination to conjecture162. But to a classical judge of sculpture, would not the exquisite pleasure of discovering the all not told in Thorwaldsen’s masterpiece be destroyed if the artist had engraved163 in detail his meaning at the base of the statue? Is it not the same with the typical sense which the artist in words conveys? The pleasure of divining art in each is the noble exercise of all by whom art is worthily164 regarded.
We of the humbler race not unreasonably165 shelter ourselves under the authority of the masters, on whom the world’s judgment166 is pronounced; and great names are cited, not with the arrogance167 of equals, but with the humility of inferiors.
The author of Zanoni gives, then, no key to mysteries, be they trivial or important, which may be found in the secret chambers168 by those who lift the tapestry169 from the wall; but out of the many solutions of the main enigma170 — if enigma, indeed, there be-which have been sent to him, he ventures to select the one which he subjoins, from the ingenuity171 and thought which it displays, and from respect for the distinguished172 writer (one of the most eminent173 our time has produced) who deemed him worthy174 of an honour he is proud to display. He leaves it to the reader to agree with, or dissent175 from the explanation. “A hundred men,” says the old Platonist, “may read the book by the help of the same lamp, yet all may differ on the text, for the lamp only lights the characters,— the mind must divine the meaning.” The object of a parable176 is not that of a problem; it does not seek to convince, but to suggest. It takes the thought below the surface of the understanding to the deeper intelligence which the world rarely tasks. It is not sunlight on the water; it is a hymn177 chanted to the nymph who hearkens and awakes below.
....
“ZANONI EXPLAINED.
BY—.”
MEJNOUR:— Contemplation of the Actual,— SCIENCE. Always old, and must last as long as the Actual. Less fallible than Idealism, but less practically potent178, from its ignorance of the human heart.
ZANONI:— Contemplation of the Ideal,— IDEALISM. Always necessarily sympathetic: lives by enjoyment179; and is therefore typified by eternal youth. (“I do not understand the making Idealism less undying (on this scene of existence) than Science.”— Commentator180. Because, granting the above premises181, Idealism is more subjected than Science to the Affections, or to Instinct, because the Affections, sooner or later, force Idealism into the Actual, and in the Actual its immortality182 departs. The only absolutely Actual portion of the work is found in the concluding scenes that depict183 the Reign of Terror. The introduction of this part was objected to by some as out of keeping with the fanciful portions that preceded it. But if the writer of the solution has rightly shown or suggested the intention of the author, the most strongly and rudely actual scene of the age in which the story is cast was the necessary and harmonious completion of the whole. The excesses and crimes of Humanity are the grave of the Ideal.— Author.) Idealism is the potent Interpreter and Prophet of the Real; but its powers are impaired184 in proportion to their exposure to human passion.
VIOLA:— Human INSTINCT. (Hardly worthy to be called LOVE, as Love would not forsake185 its object at the bidding of Superstition.) Resorts, first in its aspiration186 after the Ideal, to tinsel shows; then relinquishes187 these for a higher love; but is still, from the conditions of its nature, inadequate188 to this, and liable to suspicion and mistrust. Its greatest force (Maternal Instinct) has power to penetrate some secrets, to trace some movements of the Ideal, but, too feeble to command them, yields to Superstition, sees sin where there is none, while committing sin, under a false guidance; weakly seeking refuge amidst the very tumults189 of the warring passions of the Actual, while deserting the serene190 Ideal,— pining, nevertheless, in the absence of the Ideal, and expiring (not perishing, but becoming transmuted) in the aspiration after having the laws of the two natures reconciled.
(It might best suit popular apprehension191 to call these three the Understanding, the Imagination, and the Heart.)
CHILD:— NEW-BORN INSTINCT, while trained and informed by Idealism, promises a preter-human result by its early, incommunicable vigilance and intelligence, but is compelled, by inevitable192 orphanhood193, and the one-half of the laws of its existence, to lapse194 into ordinary conditions.
AIDON-AI:— FAITH, which manifests its splendour, and delivers its oracles195, and imparts its marvels196, only to the higher moods of the soul, and whose directed antagonism197 is with Fear; so that those who employ the resources of Fear must dispense198 with those of Faith. Yet aspiration holds open a way of restoration, and may summon Faith, even when the cry issues from beneath the yoke199 of fear.
DWELLER200 OF THE THRESHOLD:— FEAR (or HORROR), from whose ghastliness men are protected by the opacity201 of the region of Prescription202 and Custom. The moment this protection is relinquished203, and the human spirit pierces the cloud, and enters alone on the unexplored regions of Nature, this Natural Horror haunts it, and is to be successfully encountered only by defiance,— by aspiration towards, and reliance on, the Former and Director of Nature, whose Messenger and Instrument of reassurance204 is Faith.
MERVALE:— CONVENTIONALISM.
NICOT:— Base, grovelling, malignant205 PASSION.
GLYNDON:— UNSUSTAINED ASPIRATION: Would follow Instinct, but is deterred206 by Conventionalism, is overawed by Idealism, yet attracted, and transiently inspired, but has not steadiness for the initiatory207 contemplation of the Actual. He conjoins its snatched privileges with a besetting208 sensualism, and suffers at once from the horror of the one and the disgust of the other, involving the innocent in the fatal conflict of his spirit. When on the point of perishing, he is rescued by Idealism, and, unable to rise to that species of existence, is grateful to be replunged into the region of the Familiar, and takes up his rest henceforth in Custom. (Mirror of Young Manhood.)
....
ARGUMENT.
Human Existence subject to, and exempt209 from, ordinary conditions (Sickness, Poverty, Ignorance, Death).
SCIENCE is ever striving to carry the most gifted beyond ordinary conditions,— the result being as many victims as efforts, and the striver being finally left a solitary210,— for his object is unsuitable to the natures he has to deal with.
The pursuit of the Ideal involves so much emotion as to render the Idealist vulnerable by human passion, however long and well guarded, still vulnerable,— liable, at last, to a union with Instinct. Passion obscures both Insight and Forecast. All effort to elevate Instinct to Idealism is abortive211, the laws of their being not coinciding (in the early stage of the existence of the one). Instinct is either alarmed, and takes refuge in Superstition or Custom, or is left helpless to human charity, or given over to providential care.
Idealism, stripped of in sight and forecast, loses its serenity, becomes subject once more to the horror from which it had escaped, and by accepting its aids, forfeits212 the higher help of Faith; aspiration, however, remaining still possible, and, thereby213, slow restoration; and also, SOMETHING BETTER.
Summoned by aspiration, Faith extorts214 from Fear itself the saving truth to which Science continues blind, and which Idealism itself hails as its crowning acquisition,— the inestimable PROOF wrought215 out by all labours and all conflicts.
Pending216 the elaboration of this proof,
CONVENTIONALISM plods217 on, safe and complacent218;
SELFISH PASSION perishes, grovelling and hopeless;
INSTINCT sleeps, in order to a loftier waking; and
IDEALISM learns, as its ultimate lesson, that self-sacrifice is true redemption; that the region beyond the grave is the fitting one for exemption219 from mortal conditions; and that Death is the everlasting220 portal, indicated by the finger of God,— the broad avenue through which man does not issue solitary and stealthy into the region of Free Existence, but enters triumphant221, hailed by a hierarchy222 of immortal natures.
The result is (in other words), THAT THE UNIVERSAL HUMAN LOT IS, AFTER ALL, THAT OF THE HIGHEST PRIVILEGE.
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1
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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regenerate
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| vt.使恢复，使新生；vi.恢复，再生；adj.恢复的 | |
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dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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29
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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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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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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exalts
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| 赞扬( exalt的第三人称单数 )； 歌颂； 提升； 提拔 | |
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beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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39
cabals
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| n.（政治）阴谋小集团，（尤指政治上的）阴谋( cabal的名词复数 ) | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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42
embalm
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| v.保存（尸体）不腐 | |
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43
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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44
ambrosia
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| n.神的食物；蜂食 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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46
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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50
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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51
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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52
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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53
prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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54
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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55
redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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56
amulet
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| n.护身符 | |
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57
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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61
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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62
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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63
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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64
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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blithesome
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| adj.欢乐的，愉快的 | |
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66
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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boor
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| n.举止粗野的人；乡下佬 | |
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68
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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69
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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72
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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73
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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74
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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75
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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76
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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78
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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79
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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80
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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81
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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82
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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83
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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84
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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86
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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87
congealed
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的过去式和过去分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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88
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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89
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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90
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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92
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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94
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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98
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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99
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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100
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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101
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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103
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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104
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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105
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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106
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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107
wanes
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| v.衰落( wane的第三人称单数 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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108
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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109
conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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110
gory
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| adj.流血的；残酷的 | |
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111
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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112
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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113
grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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114
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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115
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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116
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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117
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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118
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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119
execrate
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| v.憎恶；厌恶；诅咒 | |
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120
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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121
emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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123
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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124
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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125
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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126
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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127
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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128
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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129
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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130
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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131
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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132
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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133
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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134
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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135
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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136
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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137
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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138
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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139
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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140
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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141
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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142
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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143
coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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144
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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145
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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146
elucidate
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| v.阐明，说明 | |
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147
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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148
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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149
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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150
commingle
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| v.混合 | |
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151
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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152
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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153
geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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154
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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155
embodies
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| v.表现( embody的第三人称单数 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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156
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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157
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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158
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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159
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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160
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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161
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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162
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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163
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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164
worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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165
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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166
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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167
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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168
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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169
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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170
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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171
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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172
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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173
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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174
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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175
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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176
parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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177
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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178
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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179
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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180
commentator
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| n.注释者，解说者；实况广播评论员 | |
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181
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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182
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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183
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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184
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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186
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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187
relinquishes
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的第三人称单数 )； 放弃 | |
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188
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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189
tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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190
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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191
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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192
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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193
orphanhood
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| 孤儿的身份，孤儿状态 | |
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194
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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195
oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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196
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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197
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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198
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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199
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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200
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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201
opacity
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| n.不透明；难懂 | |
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202
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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203
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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204
reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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205
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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206
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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207
initiatory
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| adj.开始的；创始的；入会的；入社的 | |
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208
besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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209
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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210
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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211
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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212
forfeits
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| 罚物游戏 | |
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213
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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214
extorts
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| v.敲诈( extort的第三人称单数 )；曲解 | |
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215
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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216
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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217
plods
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的第三人称单数 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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218
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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219
exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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220
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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221
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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222
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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