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Pub One Info - Baron Lytton Edward Bulwer Lytton

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pubOne.info present you this new edition. 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

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	06 novembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819942337
Langue	English

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DEDICATORY EPISTLE First prefixed to the Editionof 1845
TO JOHN GIBSON, R. A. , SCULPTOR. In looking roundthe wide and luminous circle of our great living Englishmen, toselect one to whom I might fitly dedicate this work, — one who, inhis life as in his genius, might illustrate the principle I havesought to convey; elevated by the ideal which he exalts, andserenely dwelling in a glorious existence with the images born ofhis imagination, — in looking round for some such man, my thoughtsrested upon you. Afar from our turbulent cabals; from the ignoblejealousy and the sordid strife which degrade and acerbate theambition of Genius, — in your Roman Home, you have lived amidst allthat is loveliest and least perishable in the past, and contributedwith the noblest aims, and in the purest spirit, to the mightyheirlooms of the future. Your youth has been devoted to toil, thatyour manhood may be consecrated to fame: a fame unsullied by onedesire of gold. You have escaped the two worst perils that besetthe artist in our time and land, — the debasing tendencies ofcommerce, and the angry rivalries of competition. You have notwrought your marble for the market, — you have not been tempted, bythe praises which our vicious criticism has showered uponexaggeration and distortion, to lower your taste to the level ofthe hour; you have lived, and you have laboured, as if you had norivals but in the dead, — no purchasers, save in judges of what isbest. In the divine priesthood of the beautiful, you have soughtonly to increase her worshippers and enrich her temples. The pupilof Canova, you have inherited his excellences, while you haveshunned his errors, — yours his delicacy, not his affectation. Yourheart resembles him even more than your genius: you have the samenoble enthusiasm for your sublime profession; the same loftyfreedom from envy, and the spirit that depreciates; the samegenerous desire not to war with but to serve artists in your art;aiding, strengthening, advising, elevating the timidity ofinexperience, and the vague aspirations of youth. By the intuitionof a kindred mind, you have equalled the learning of Winckelman,and the plastic poetry of Goethe, in the intimate comprehension ofthe antique. Each work of yours, rightly studied, is in itself aCRITICISM, illustrating the sublime secrets of the Grecian Art,which, without the servility of plagiarism, you have contributed torevive amongst us; in you we behold its three great andlong-undetected principles, — simplicity, calm, andconcentration.
But your admiration of the Greeks has not led you tothe bigotry of the mere antiquarian, nor made you less sensible ofthe unappreciated excellence of the mighty modern, worthy to beyour countryman, — though till his statue is in the streets of ourcapital, we show ourselves not worthy of the glory he has shed uponour land. You have not suffered even your gratitude to Canova toblind you to the superiority of Flaxman. When we become sensible ofour title-deeds to renown in that single name, we may look for anEnglish public capable of real patronage to English Art, — and nottill then.
I, artist in words, dedicate, then, to you, artistwhose ideas speak in marble, this well-loved work of my maturedmanhood. I love it not the less because it has been littleunderstood and superficially judged by the common herd: it was notmeant for them. I love it not the more because it has foundenthusiastic favorers amongst the Few. My affection for my work isrooted in the solemn and pure delight which it gave me to conceiveand to perform. If I had graven it on the rocks of a desert, thisapparition of my own innermost mind, in its least-clouded moments,would have been to me as dear; and this ought, I believe, to be thesentiment with which he whose Art is born of faith in the truth andbeauty of the principles he seeks to illustrate, should regard hiswork. Your serener existence, uniform and holy, my lot denies, — ifmy heart covets. But our true nature is in our thoughts, not ourdeeds: and therefore, in books— which ARE his thoughts— theauthor's character lies bare to the discerning eye. It is not inthe life of cities, — in the turmoil and the crowd; it is in thestill, the lonely, and more sacred life, which for some hours,under every sun, the student lives (his stolen retreat from theAgora to the Cave), that I feel there is between us the bond ofthat secret sympathy, that magnetic chain, which unites theeverlasting brotherhood of whose being Zanoni is the type.
E. B. L. London, May, 1845.
INTRODUCTION.
One of the peculiarities of Bulwer was his passionfor occult studies. They had a charm for him early in life, and hepursued them with the earnestness which characterised his pursuitof other studies. He became absorbed in wizard lore; he equippedhimself with magical implements, — with rods for transmittinginfluence, and crystal balls in which to discern coming scenes andpersons; and communed with spiritualists and mediums. The fruit ofthese mystic studies is seen in “Zanoni” and “A strange Story, ”romances which were a labour of love to the author, and into whichhe threw all the power he possessed, — power re-enforced bymultifarious reading and an instinctive appreciation of Orientalthought. These weird stories, in which the author has formulatedhis theory of magic, are of a wholly different type from hisprevious fictions, and, in place of the heroes and villains ofevery day life, we have beings that belong in part to anothersphere, and that deal with mysterious and occult agencies. Oncemore the old forgotten lore of the Cabala is unfolded; the furnaceof the alchemist, whose fires have been extinct for centuries, islighted anew, and the lamp of the Rosicrucian re-illumined. Noother works of the author, contradictory as have been the opinionsof them, have provoked such a diversity of criticism as these. Tosome persons they represent a temporary aberration of genius ratherthan any serious thought or definite purpose; while others regardthem as surpassing in bold and original speculation, profoundanalysis of character, and thrilling interest, all of the author'sother works. The truth, we believe, lies midway between theseextremes. It is questionable whether the introduction into a novelof such subjects as are discussed in these romances be not anoffence against good sense and good taste; but it is asunreasonable to deny the vigour and originality of their author'sconceptions, as to deny that the execution is imperfect, and, attimes, bungling and absurd.
It has been justly said that the present halfcentury has witnessed the rise and triumphs of science, the extentand marvels of which even Bacon's fancy never conceived,simultaneously with superstitions grosser than any which Bacon'sage believed. “The one is, in fact, the natural reaction from theother. The more science seeks to exclude the miraculous, and reduceall nature, animate and inanimate, to an invariable law ofsequences, the more does the natural instinct of man rebel, andseek an outlet for those obstinate questionings, those 'blankmisgivings of a creature moving about in worlds not realised, 'taking refuge in delusions as degrading as any of the so-calledDark Ages. ” It was the revolt from the chilling materialism of theage which inspired the mystic creations of “Zanoni” and “A StrangeStory. ” Of these works, which support and supplement each other,one is the contemplation of our actual life through a spiritualmedium, the other is designed to show that, without some gleams ofthe supernatural, man is not man, nor nature nature.
In “Zanoni” the author introduces us to two humanbeings who have achieved immortality: one, Mejnour, void of allpassion or feeling, calm, benignant, bloodless, an intellect ratherthan a man; the other, Zanoni, the pupil of Mejnour, therepresentative 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 anecessity of that love, to sorrow and despair. By his love forViola Zanoni is compelled to descend from his exalted state, tolose his eternal calm, and to share in the cares and anxieties ofhumanity; and this degradation is completed by the birth of achild. Finally, he gives up the life which hangs on that ofanother, in order to save that other, the loving and beloved wife,who has delivered him from his solitude and isolation. Wife andchild are mortal, and to outlive them and his love for them isimpossible. 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 forthose who can comprehend it, and an extravagance for those whocannot. The most careless or matter-of-fact reader must see thatthe work, like the enigmatical “Faust, ” deals in types andsymbols; that the writer intends to suggest to the mind somethingmore subtle and impalpable than that which is embodied to thesenses. What that something is, hardly two persons will agree. Themost obvious interpretation of the types is, that in Zanoni theauthor depicts to us humanity, perfected, sublimed, which lives notfor self, but for others; in Mejnour, as we have before said, cold,passionless, self-sufficing intellect; in Glyndon, the youngEnglishman, the mingled strength and weakness of human nature; inthe heartless, selfish artist, Nicot, icy, soulless atheism,believing nothing, hoping nothing, trusting and loving nothing; andin the beautiful, artless Viola, an exquisite creation, purewomanhood, loving, trusting and truthful. As a work of art theromance 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 inevitableeffect of so much hackneyed diablerie— of such an accumulation ofwonder upon wonder— is to deaden the impression they wo