Zanoni, Wisdom Ancient
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Zanoni
By
Edward Bulwer Lytton
(PLATE: "Thou art good and fair," said Viola. Drawn by P. Kauffmann, etched by Deblois.)
DEDICATORY EPISTLE First prefixed to the Edition of 1845
TO
JOHN GIBSON, R.A., SCULPTOR.
In looking round the wide and luminous circle of our great living Englishmen, to select one to whom I
might fitly dedicate this work,--one who, in his life as in his genius, might illustrate the principle I
have sought to convey; elevated by the ideal which he exalts, and serenely dwelling in a glorious
existence with the images born of his imagination,--in looking round for some such man, my
thoughts rested upon you. Afar from our turbulent cabals; from the ignoble jealousy and the sordid
strife which degrade and acerbate the ambition of Genius,--in your Roman Home, you have lived
amidst all that is loveliest and least perishable in the past, and contributed with the noblest aims,
and in the purest spirit, to the mighty heirlooms of the future. Your youth has been devoted to toil,
that your manhood may be consecrated to fame: a fame unsullied by one desire of gold. You have
escaped the two worst perils that beset the artist in our time and land,--the debasing tendencies of
commerce, and the angry rivalries of competition. You have not wrought your marble for the
market,--you have not been tempted, by the praises which our vicious criticism has showered upon
exaggeration and distortion, to lower your taste to the level of the hour; you have lived, and you
have laboured, as if you had no rivals but in the dead,--no purchasers, save in judges of what is
best. In the divine priesthood of the beautiful, you have sought only to increase her worshippers and
enrich her temples. The pupil of Canova, you have inherited his excellences, while you have
shunned his errors,--yours his delicacy, not his affectation. Your heart resembles him even more
than your genius: you have the same noble enthusiasm for your sublime profession; the same lofty
freedom from envy, and the spirit that depreciates; the same generous desire not to war with but to
serve artists in your art; aiding, strengthening, advising, elevating the timidity of inexperience, and
the vague aspirations of youth. By the intuition of a kindred mind, you have equalled the learning of
Winckelman, and the plastic poetry of Goethe, in the intimate comprehension of the antique. Each
work of yours, rightly studied, is in itself a CRITICISM, illustrating the sublime secrets of the Grecian
Art, which, without the servility of plagiarism, you have contributed to revive amongst us; in you we
behold its three great and long-undetected principles,-- simplicity, calm, and concentration.
But your admiration of the Greeks has not led you to the bigotry of the mere antiquarian, nor made
you less sensible of the unappreciated excellence of the mighty modern, worthy to be your
countryman,--though till his statue is in the streets of our capital, we show ourselves not worthy of
the glory he has shed upon our land. You have not suffered even your gratitude to Canova to blind
you to the superiority of Flaxman. When we become sensible of our title-deeds to renown in that
single name, we may look for an English public capable of real patronage to English Art,--and not till
then.
I, artist in words, dedicate, then, to you, artist whose ideas speak in marble, this well-loved work of
my matured manhood. I love it not the less because it has been little understood and superficially
judged by the common herd: it was not meant for them. I love it not the more because it has found
enthusiastic favorers amongst the Few. My affection for my work is rooted in the solemn and pure
delight which it gave me to conceive and to perform. If I had graven it on the rocks of a desert, this
apparition of my own innermost mind, in its least-clouded moments, would have been to me as
dear; and this ought, I believe, to be the sentiment with which he whose Art is born of faith in the
truth and beauty of the principles he seeks to illustrate, should regard his work. Your serener
existence, uniform and holy, my lot denies,--if my heart covets. But our true nature is in our
thoughts, not our deeds: and therefore, in books--which ARE his thoughts--the author's character
 lies bare to the discerning eye. It is not in the life of cities,--in the turmoil and the crowd; it is in the
still, the lonely, and more sacred life, which for some hours, under every sun, the student lives (his
stolen retreat from the Agora to the Cave), that I feel there is between us the bond of that secret
sympathy, that magnetic chain, which unites the everlasting brotherhood of whose being Zanoni is
the type.
E.B.L. London, May, 1845.
INTRODUCTION.
One of the peculiarities of Bulwer was his passion for occult studies. They had a charm for him early
in life, and he pursued them with the earnestness which characterised his pursuit of other studies.
He became absorbed in wizard lore; he equipped himself with magical implements,--with rods for
transmitting influence, and crystal balls in which to discern coming scenes and persons; and
communed with spiritualists and mediums. The fruit of these mystic studies is seen in "Zanoni" and
"A strange Story," romances which were a labour of love to the author, and into which he threw all
the power he possessed,--power re- enforced by multifarious reading and an instinctive appreciation
of Oriental thought. These weird stories, in which the author has formulated his theory of magic, are
of a wholly different type from his previous fictions, and, in place of the heroes and villains of every
day life, we have beings that belong in part to another sphere, and that deal with mysterious and
occult agencies. Once more the old forgotten lore of the Cabala is unfolded; the furnace of the
alchemist, whose fires have been extinct for centuries, is lighted anew, and the lamp of the
Rosicrucian re-illumined. No other works of the author, contradictory as have been the opinions of
them, have provoked such a diversity of criticism as these. To some persons they represent a
temporary aberration of genius rather than any serious thought or definite purpose; while others
regard them as surpassing in bold and original speculation, profound analysis of character, and
thrilling interest, all of the author's other works. The truth, we believe, lies midway between these
extremes. It is questionable whether the introduction into a novel of such subjects as are discussed
in these romances be not an offence against good sense and good taste; but it is as unreasonable
to deny the vigour and originality of their author's conceptions, as to deny that the execution is
imperfect, and, at times, bungling and absurd.
It has been justly said that the present half century has witnessed the rise and triumphs of science,
the extent and marvels of which even Bacon's fancy never conceived, simultaneously with
superstitions grosser than any which Bacon's age believed. "The one is, in fact, the natural reaction
from the other. The more science seeks to exclude the miraculous, and reduce all nature, animate
and inanimate, to an invariable law of sequences, the more does the natural instinct of man rebel,
and seek an outlet for those obstinate questionings, those 'blank misgivings of a creature moving
about in worlds not realised,' taking refuge in delusions as degrading as any of the so-called Dark
Ages." It was the revolt from the chilling materialism of the age which inspired the mystic creations
of "Zanoni" and "A Strange Story." Of these works, which support and supplement each other, one
is the contemplation of our actual life through a spiritual medium, the other is designed to show that,
without some gleams of the supernatural, man is not man, nor nature nature.
In "Zanoni" the author introduces us to two human beings who have achieved immortality: one,
Mejnour, void of all passion or feeling, calm, benignant, bloodless, an intellect rather than a man;
the other, Zanoni, the pupil of Mejnour, the representative of an ideal life in its utmost perfection,
possessing eternal youth, absolute power, and absolute knowledge, and withal the fullest capacity
to enjoy and to love, and, as a necessity of that love, to sorrow and despair. By his love for Viola
Zanoni is compelled to descend from his exalted state, to lose his eternal calm, and to share in the
cares and anxieties of humanity; and this degradation is completed by the birth of a child. Finally, he
gives up the life which hangs on that of another, in order to save that other, the loving and beloved
wife, who has delivered him from his solitude and isolation. Wife and child are mortal, and to outlive
them and his love for them is impossible. But Mejnour, who is the impersonation of thought,--pure
intellect without affection,--lives on.
Bulwer has himself justly characterised this work, in the Introduction, as a romance and not a
romance, as a truth for those who can comprehend it, and an extravagance for those who cannot.
 The most careless or matter-of-fact reader must see that the work, like the enigmatical "Faust,"
deals in types and symbols; that the writer intends to suggest to the mind something more subtle
and impalpable than that which is embodied to the senses. What that something is, hardly two
persons will agree. The most obvious interpretation of the types is, that in Zanoni the author depicts
to us humanity, perfected, sublimed, which lives not for self, but for others; in Mejnour, as we have
before said, cold, passionless, self-sufficing intellect; in Glyndon, the young Englishman, the
mingled strength and weakness of human nature; in the heartless, selfish artist, Nicot, icy, soulless
atheism, believing nothing, hoping nothing, trusting and loving nothing; and in the beautiful, artless
Viola, an exquisite creation, pure womanhood, loving, trusting and truthful. As a work of art the
romance is one of great power. It is original in its conception, and pervaded by one central idea; but
it would have been improved, we think, by a more sparing use of the supernatural. The inevitable
effect of so much hackneyed diablerie--of such an accumulation of wonder upon wonder--is to
deaden the impression they would naturally make upon us. In Hawthorne's tales we see with what
ease a great imaginative artist can produce a deeper thrill by a far slighter use of the weird and the
mysterious.
The chief interest of the story for the ordinary reader centres, not in its ghostly characters and
improbable machinery, the scenes in Mejnour's chamber in the ruined castle among the Apennines,
the colossal and appalling apparitions on Vesuvius, the hideous phantom with its burning eye that
haunted Glyndon, but in the loves of Viola and the mysterious Zanoni, the blissful and the fearful
scenes through which they pass, and their final destiny, when the hero of the story sacrifices his
own "charmed life" to save hers, and the Immortal finds the only true immortality in death. Among
the striking passages in the work are the pathetic sketch of the old violinist and composer, Pisani,
with his sympathetic "barbiton" which moaned, groaned, growled, and laughed responsive to the
feelings of its master; the description of Viola's and her father's triumph, when "The Siren," his
masterpiece, is performed at the San Carlo in Naples; Glyndon's adventure at the Carnival in
Naples; the death of his sister; the vivid pictures of the Reign of Terror in Paris, closing with the
downfall of Robespierre and his satellites; and perhaps, above all, the thrilling scene where Zanoni
leaves Viola asleep in prison when his guards call him to execution, and she, unconscious of the
terrible sacrifice, but awaking and missing him, has a vision of the procession to the guillotine, with
Zanoni there, radiant in youth and beauty, followed by the sudden vanishing of the headsman,--the
horror,--and the "Welcome" of her loved one to Heaven in a myriad of melodies from the choral
hosts above.
"Zanoni" was originally published by Saunders and Otley, London, in three volumes 12mo., in 1842.
A translation into French, made by M. Sheldon under the direction of P. Lorain, was published in
Paris in the "Bibliotheque des Meilleurs Romans Etrangers."
W.M.
PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1853.
As a work of imagination, "Zanoni" ranks, perhaps, amongst the highest of my prose fictions. In the
Poem of "King Arthur," published many years afterwards, I have taken up an analogous design, in
the contemplation of our positive life through a spiritual medium; and I have enforced, through a far
wider development, and, I believe, with more complete and enduring success, that harmony
between the external events which are all that the superficial behold on the surface of human
affairs, and the subtle and intellectual agencies which in reality influence the conduct of individuals,
and shape out the destinies of the world. As man has two lives,--that of action and that of thought,--
so I conceive that work to be the truest representation of humanity which faithfully delineates both,
and opens some elevating glimpse into the sublimest mysteries of our being, by establishing the
inevitable union that exists between the plain things of the day, in which our earthly bodies perform
their allotted part, and the latent, often uncultivated, often invisible, affinities of the soul with all the
powers that eternally breathe and move throughout the Universe of Spirit.
I refer those who do me the honour to read "Zanoni" with more attention than is given to ordinary
romance, to the Poem of "King Arthur," for suggestive conjecture into most of the regions of
speculative research, affecting the higher and more important condition of our ultimate being, which
 have engaged the students of immaterial philosophy in my own age.
Affixed to the "Note" with which this work concludes, and which treats of the distinctions between
type and allegory, the reader will find, from the pen of one of our most eminent living writers, an
ingenious attempt to explain the interior or typical meanings of the work now before him.
INTRODUCTION.
It is possible that among my readers there may be a few not unacquainted with an old-book shop,
existing some years since in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden; I say a few, for certainly there
was little enough to attract the many in those precious volumes which the labour of a life had
accumulated on the dusty shelves of my old friend D--. There were to be found no popular treatises,
no entertaining romances, no histories, no travels, no "Library for the People," no "Amusement for
the Million." But there, perhaps, throughout all Europe, the curious might discover the most notable
collection, ever amassed by an enthusiast, of the works of alchemist, cabalist, and astrologer. The
owner had lavished a fortune in the purchase of unsalable treasures. But old D-- did not desire to
sell. It absolutely went to his heart when a customer entered his shop: he watched the movements
of the presumptuous intruder with a vindictive glare; he fluttered around him with uneasy vigilance,--
he frowned, he groaned, when profane hands dislodged his idols from their niches. If it were one of
the favourite sultanas of his wizard harem that attracted you, and the price named were not
sufficiently enormous, he would not unfrequently double the sum. Demur, and in brisk delight he
snatched the venerable charmer from your hands; accede, and he became the picture of despair,--
nor unfrequently, at the dead of night, would he knock at your door, and entreat you to sell him
back, at your own terms, what you had so egregiously bought at his. A believer himself in his
Averroes and Paracelsus, he was as loth as the philosophers he studied to communicate to the
profane the learning he had collected.
It so chanced that some years ago, in my younger days, whether of authorship or life, I felt a desire
to make myself acquainted with the true origin and tenets of the singular sect known by the name of
Rosicrucians. Dissatisfied with the scanty and superficial accounts to be found in the works usually
referred to on the subject, it struck me as possible that Mr. D--'s collection, which was rich, not only
in black-letter, but in manuscripts, might contain some more accurate and authentic records of that
famous brotherhood,--written, who knows? by one of their own order, and confirming by authority
and detail the pretensions to wisdom and to virtue which Bringaret had arrogated to the successors
of the Chaldean and Gymnosophist. Accordingly I repaired to what, doubtless, I ought to be
ashamed to confess, was once one of my favourite haunts. But are there no errors and no fallacies,
in the chronicles of our own day, as absurd as those of the alchemists of old? Our very newspapers
may seem to our posterity as full of delusions as the books of the alchemists do to us; not but what
the press is the air we breathe,--and uncommonly foggy the air is too!
On entering the shop, I was struck by the venerable appearance of a customer whom I had never
seen there before. I was struck yet more by the respect with which he was treated by the disdainful
collector. "Sir," cried the last, emphatically, as I was turning over the leaves of the catalogue,--"sir,
you are the only man I have met, in five-and-forty years that I have spent in these researches, who
is worthy to be my customer. How--where, in this frivolous age, could you have acquired a
knowledge so profound? And this august fraternity, whose doctrines, hinted at by the earliest
philosophers, are still a mystery to the latest; tell me if there really exists upon the earth any book,
any manuscript, in which their discoveries, their tenets, are to be learned?"
At the words, "august fraternity," I need scarcely say that my attention had been at once aroused,
and I listened eagerly for the stranger's reply.
"I do not think," said the old gentleman, "that the masters of the school have ever consigned, except
by obscure hint and mystical parable, their real doctrines to the world. And I do not blame them for
their discretion."
Here he paused, and seemed about to retire, when I said, somewhat abruptly, to the collector, "I
see nothing, Mr. D--, in this catalogue which relates to the Rosicrucians!"
 "The Rosicrucians!" repeated the old gentleman, and in his turn he surveyed me with deliberate
surprise. "Who but a Rosicrucian could explain the Rosicrucian mysteries! And can you imagine that
any members of that sect, the most jealous of all secret societies, would themselves lift the veil that
hides the Isis of their wisdom from the world?"
"Aha!" thought I, "this, then, is 'the august fraternity' of which you spoke. Heaven be praised! I
certainly have stumbled on one of the brotherhood."
"But," I said aloud, "if not in books, sir, where else am I to obtain information? Nowadays one can
hazard nothing in print without authority, and one may scarcely quote Shakespeare without citing
chapter and verse. This is the age of facts,--the age of facts, sir."
"Well," said the old gentleman, with a pleasant smile, "if we meet again, perhaps, at least, I may
direct your researches to the proper source of intelligence." And with that he buttoned his greatcoat,
whistled to his dog, and departed.
It so happened that I did meet again with the old gentleman, exactly four days after our brief
conversation in Mr. D--'s book- shop. I was riding leisurely towards Highgate, when, at the foot of its
classic hill, I recognised the stranger; he was mounted on a black pony, and before him trotted his
dog, which was black also.
If you meet the man whom you wish to know, on horseback, at the commencement of a long hill,
where, unless he has borrowed a friend's favourite hack, he cannot, in decent humanity to the brute
creation, ride away from you, I apprehend that it is your own fault if you have not gone far in your
object before you have gained the top. In short, so well did I succeed, that on reaching Highgate the
old gentleman invited me to rest at his house, which was a little apart from the village; and an
excellent house it was,--small, but commodious, with a large garden, and commanding from the
windows such a prospect as Lucretius would recommend to philosophers: the spires and domes of
London, on a clear day, distinctly visible; here the Retreat of the Hermit, and there the Mare
Magnum of the world.
The walls of the principal rooms were embellished with pictures of extraordinary merit, and in that
high school of art which is so little understood out of Italy. I was surprised to learn that they were all
from the hand of the owner. My evident admiration pleased my new friend, and led to talk upon his
part, which showed him no less elevated in his theories of art than an adept in the practice. Without
fatiguing the reader with irrelevant criticism, it is necessary, perhaps, as elucidating much of the
design and character of the work which these prefatory pages introduce, that I should briefly
observe, that he insisted as much upon the connection of the arts, as a distinguished author has
upon that of the sciences; that he held that in all works of imagination, whether expressed by words
or by colours, the artist of the higher schools must make the broadest distinction between the real
and the true,--in other words, between the imitation of actual life, and the exaltation of Nature into
the Ideal.
"The one," said he, "is the Dutch School, the other is the Greek."
"Sir," said I, "the Dutch is the most in fashion."
"Yes, in painting, perhaps," answered my host, "but in literature--"
"It was of literature I spoke. Our growing poets are all for simplicity and Betty Foy; and our critics
hold it the highest praise of a work of imagination, to say that its characters are exact to common
life, even in sculpture--"
"In sculpture! No, no! THERE the high ideal must at least be essential!"
"Pardon me; I fear you have not seen Souter Johnny and Tam O'Shanter."
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