第58章

Between two worlds life hovers like a star 'Twixt night and morn.

Byron.

When Glyndon left Viola, as recorded in the concluding chapter of the second division of this work, he was absorbed again in those mystical desires and conjectures which the haunting recollection of Zanoni always served to create.And as he wandered through the streets, he was scarcely conscious of his own movements till, in the mechanism of custom, he found himself in the midst of one of the noble collections of pictures which form the boast of those Italian cities whose glory is in the past.Thither he had been wont, almost daily, to repair, for the gallery contained some of the finest specimens of a master especially the object of his enthusiasm and study.There, before the works of Salvator, he had often paused in deep and earnest reverence.The striking characteristic of that artist is the "Vigour of Will;" void of the elevated idea of abstract beauty, which furnishes a model and archetype to the genius of more illustrious order, the singular energy of the man hews out of the rock a dignity of his own.His images have the majesty, not of the god, but the savage; utterly free, like the sublimer schools, from the common-place of imitation,--apart, with them, from the conventional littleness of the Real,--he grasps the imagination, and compels it to follow him, not to the heaven, but through all that is most wild and fantastic upon earth; a sorcery, not of the starry magian, but of the gloomy wizard,--a man of romance whose heart beat strongly, griping art with a hand of iron, and forcing it to idealise the scenes of his actual life.Before this powerful will, Glyndon drew back more awed and admiring than before the calmer beauty which rose from the soul of Raphael, like Venus from the deep.

And now, as awaking from his reverie, he stood opposite to that wild and magnificent gloom of Nature which frowned on him from the canvas, the very leaves on those gnome-like, distorted trees seemed to rustle sibylline secrets in his ear.Those rugged and sombre Apennines, the cataract that dashed between, suited, more than the actual scenes would have done, the mood and temper of his mind.The stern, uncouth forms at rest on the crags below, and dwarfed by the giant size of the Matter that reigned around them, impressed him with the might of Nature and the littleness of Man.As in genius of the more spiritual cast, the living man, and the soul that lives in him, are studiously made the prominent image; and the mere accessories of scene kept down, and cast back, as if to show that the exile from paradise is yet the monarch of the outward world,--so, in the landscapes of Salvator, the tree, the mountain, the waterfall, become the principal, and man himself dwindles to the accessory.The Matter seems to reign supreme, and its true lord to creep beneath its stupendous shadow.Inert matter giving interest to the immortal man, not the immortal man to the inert matter.A terrible philosophy in art!

While something of these thoughts passed through the mind of the painter, he felt his arm touched, and saw Nicot by his side.

"A great master," said Nicot, "but I do not love the school.""I do not love, but I am awed by it.We love the beautiful and serene, but we have a feeling as deep as love for the terrible and dark.""True," said Nicot, thoughtfully."And yet that feeling is only a superstition.The nursery, with its tales of ghosts and goblins, is the cradle of many of our impressions in the world.

But art should not seek to pander to our ignorance; art should represent only truths.I confess that Raphael pleases me less, because I have no sympathy with his subjects.His saints and virgins are to me only men and women.""And from what source should painting, then, take its themes?""From history, without doubt," returned Nicot, pragmatically,--"those great Roman actions which inspire men with sentiments of liberty and valour, with the virtues of a republic.I wish the cartoons of Raphael had illustrated the story of the Horatii; but it remains for France and her Republic to give to posterity the new and the true school, which could never have arisen in a country of priestcraft and delusion.""And the saints and virgins of Raphael are to you only men and women?" repeated Glyndon, going back to Nicot's candid confession in amaze, and scarcely hearing the deductions the Frenchman drew from his proposition.

"Assuredly.Ha, ha!" and Nicot laughed hideously, "do you ask me to believe in the calendar, or what?""But the ideal?"

"The ideal!" interrupted Nicot."Stuff! The Italian critics, and your English Reynolds, have turned your head.They are so fond of their 'gusto grande,' and their 'ideal beauty that speaks to the soul!'--soul!--IS there a soul? I understand a man when he talks of composing for a refined taste,--for an educated and intelligent reason; for a sense that comprehends truths.But as for the soul,--bah!--we are but modifications of matter, and painting is modification of matter also."Glyndon turned his eyes from the picture before him to Nicot, and from Nicot to the picture.The dogmatist gave a voice to the thoughts which the sight of the picture had awakened.He shook his head without reply.

"Tell me," said Nicot, abruptly, "that imposter,--Zanoni!--oh! Ihave now learned his name and quackeries, forsooth,--what did he say to thee of me?""Of thee? Nothing; but to warn me against thy doctrines.""Aha! was that all?" said Nicot."He is a notable inventor, and since, when we met last, I unmasked his delusions, I thought he might retaliate by some tale of slander.""Unmasked his delusions!--how?"

"A dull and long story: he wished to teach an old doting friend of mine his secrets of prolonged life and philosophical alchemy.

I advise thee to renounce so discreditable an acquaintance."With that Nicot nodded significantly, and, not wishing to be further questioned, went his way.