E. B. Lytton
Zanoni
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Table of contents
DEDICATORY EPISTLE
INTRODUCTION
PREFACE
INTRODUCTION
BOOK I. — THE MUSICIAN
CHAPTER 1.I.
CHAPTER 1.II.
CHAPTER 1.III.
CHAPTER 1.IV.
CHAPTER 1.V.
CHAPTER 1.VI.
CHAPTER 1.VII.
CHAPTER 1.VIII.
CHAPTER 1.IX.
CHAPTER 1.X.
BOOK II. — ART, LOVE, AND WONDER
CHAPTER 2.I.
CHAPTER 2.II.
CHAPTER 2.III.
CHAPTER 2.IV.
CHAPTER 2.V.
CHAPTER 2.VI.
CHAPTER 2.VII.
CHAPTER 2.VIII.
CHAPTER 2.IX.
CHAPTER 2.X.
BOOK III. — THEURGIA
CHAPTER 3.I.
CHAPTER 3.II.
CHAPTER 3.III.
CHAPTER 3.IV.
CHAPTER 3.V.
CHAPTER 3.VI.
CHAPTER 3.VII.
CHAPTER 3.VIII.
CHAPTER 3.IX.
CHAPTER 3.X.
CHAPTER 3.XI.
CHAPTER 3.XII.
CHAPTER 3.XIII.
CHAPTER 3.XIV.
CHAPTER 3.XV.
CHAPTER 3.XVI.
CHAPTER 3.XVII.
CHAPTER 3.XVIII.
BOOK IV. — THE DWELLER OF THE THRESHOLD
CHAPTER 4.I.
CHAPTER 4.II.
CHAPTER 4.III.
CHAPTER 4.IV.
CHAPTER 4.V.
CHAPTER 4.VI.
CHAPTER 4.VII.
CHAPTER 4.VIII.
CHAPTER 4.IX.
CHAPTER 4.X.
CHAPTER 4.XI.
BOOK V. — THE EFFECTS OF THE ELIXIR
CHAPTER 5.I.
CHAPTER 5.II.
CHAPTER 5.III.
CHAPTER 5.IV.
CHAPTER 5.V.
CHAPTER 5.VI.
BOOK VI. — SUPERSTITION DESERTING FAITH
CHAPTER 6.I.
CHAPTER 6.II.
CHAPTER 6.III.
CHAPTER 6.IV.
CHAPTER 6.V.
CHAPTER 6.VI.
CHAPTER 6.VII.
CHAPTER 6.VIII.
CHAPTER 6.IX.
BOOK VII. — THE REIGN OF TERROR
CHAPTER 7.I.
CHAPTER 7.II.
CHAPTER 7.III.
CHAPTER 7.IV.
CHAPTER 7.V.
CHAPTER 7.VI.
CHAPTER 7.VII.
CHAPTER 7.VIII.
CHAPTER 7.IX.
CHAPTER 7.X.
CHAPTER 7.XI.
CHAPTER 7.XII.
CHAPTER 7.XIII.
CHAPTER 7.XIV.
CHAPTER 7.XV.
CHAPTER 7.XVI.
CHAPTER 7.XVII. The Seventeenth and Last.
NOTE
"ZANONI EXPLAINED. BY—."
DEDICATORY EPISTLE
First
prefixed to the Edition of 1845TO
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.
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
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 bookshop. 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.""Ah!"
said the old gentleman, shaking his head, "I live very much out
of the world, I see. I suppose Shakespeare has ceased to be admired?""On
the contrary; people make the adoration of Shakespeare the excuse for
attacking everybody else. But then our critics have discovered that
Shakespeare is so REAL!""Real!
The poet who has never once drawn a character to be met with in
actual life,—who has never once descended to a passion that is
false, or a personage who is real!"I
was about to reply very severely to this paradox, when I perceived
that my companion was growing a little out of temper. And he who
wishes to catch a Rosicrucian, must take care not to disturb the
waters. I thought it better, therefore, to turn the conversation."Revenons
a nos moutons," said I; "you promised to enlighten my
ignorance as to the Rosicrucians.""Well!"
quoth he, rather sternly; "but for what purpose? Perhaps you
desire only to enter the temple in order to ridicule the rites?""What
do you take me for! Surely, were I so inclined, the fate of the Abbe
de Villars is a sufficient warning to all men not to treat idly of
the realms of the Salamander and the Sylph. Everybody knows how
mysteriously that ingenious personage was deprived of his life, in
revenge for the witty mockeries of his 'Comte de Gabalis.'""Salamander
and Sylph! I see that you fall into the vulgar error, and translate
literally the allegorical language of the mystics."With
that the old gentleman condescended to enter into a very interesting,
and, as it seemed to me, a very erudite relation, of the tenets of
the Rosicrucians, some of whom, he asserted, still existed, and still
prosecuted, in august secrecy, their profound researches into natural
science and occult philosophy."But
this fraternity," said he, "however respectable and
virtuous,—virtuous I say, for no monastic order is more severe in
the practice of moral precepts, or more ardent in Christian
faith,—this fraternity is but a branch of others yet more
transcendent in the powers they have obtained, and yet more
illustrious in their origin. Are you acquainted with the Platonists?""I
have occasionally lost my way in their labyrinth," said I.
"Faith, they are rather difficult gentlemen to understand.""Yet
their knottiest problems have never yet been published. Their
sublimest works are in manuscript, and constitute the initiatory
learning, not only of the Rosicrucians, but of the nobler
brotherhoods I have referred to. More solemn and sublime still is the
knowledge to be gleaned from the elder Pythagoreans, and the immortal
masterpieces of Apollonius.""Apollonius,
the imposter of Tyanea! are his writings extant?""Imposter!"
cried my host; "Apollonius an imposter!""I
beg your pardon; I did not know he was a friend of yours; and if you
vouch for his character, I will believe him to have been a very
respectable man, who only spoke the truth when he boasted of his
power to be in two places at the same time.""Is
that so difficult?" said the old gentleman; "if so, you
have never dreamed!"Here
ended our conversation; but from that time an acquaintance was formed
between us which lasted till my venerable friend departed this life.
Peace to his ashes! He was a person of singular habits and eccentric
opinions; but the chief part of his time was occupied in acts of
quiet and unostentatious goodness. He was an enthusiast in the duties
of the Samaritan; and as his virtues were softened by the gentlest
charity, so his hopes were based upon the devoutest belief. He never
conversed upon his own origin and history, nor have I ever been able
to penetrate the darkness in which they were concealed. He seemed to
have seen much of the world, and to have been an eye-witness of the
first French Revolution, a subject upon which he was equally eloquent
and instructive. At the same time he did not regard the crimes of
that stormy period with the philosophical leniency with which
enlightened writers (their heads safe upon their shoulders) are, in
the present day, inclined to treat the massacres of the past: he
spoke not as a student who had read and reasoned, but as a man who
had seen and suffered. The old gentleman seemed alone in the world;
nor did I know that he had one relation, till his executor, a distant
cousin, residing abroad, informed me of the very handsome legacy
which my poor friend had bequeathed me. This consisted, first, of a
sum about which I think it best to be guarded, foreseeing the
possibility of a new tax upon real and funded property; and,
secondly, of certain precious manuscripts, to which the following
volumes owe their existence.I
imagine I trace this latter bequest to a visit I paid the Sage, if so
I may be permitted to call him, a few weeks before his death.Although
he read little of our modern literature, my friend, with the affable
good-nature which belonged to him, graciously permitted me to consult
him upon various literary undertakings meditated by the desultory
ambition of a young and inexperienced student. And at that time I
sought his advice upon a work of imagination, intended to depict the
effects of enthusiasm upon different modifications of character. He
listened to my conception, which was sufficiently trite and prosaic,
with his usual patience; and then, thoughtfully turning to his
bookshelves, took down an old volume, and read to me, first, in
Greek, and secondly, in English, some extracts to the following
effect:—"Plato
here expresses four kinds of mania, by which I desire to understand
enthusiasm and the inspiration of the gods: Firstly, the musical;
secondly, the telestic or mystic; thirdly, the prophetic; and
fourthly, that which belongs to love."The
author he quoted, after contending that there is something in the
soul above intellect, and stating that there are in our nature
distinct energies,—by the one of which we discover and seize, as it
were, on sciences and theorems with almost intuitive rapidity, by
another, through which high art is accomplished, like the statues of
Phidias,—proceeded to state that "enthusiasm, in the true
acceptation of the word, is, when that part of the soul which is
above intellect is excited to the gods, and thence derives its
inspiration."The
author, then pursuing his comment upon Plato, observes, that "one
of these manias may suffice (especially that which belongs to love)
to lead back the soul to its first divinity and happiness; but that
there is an intimate union with them all; and that the ordinary
progress through which the soul ascends is, primarily, through the
musical; next, through the telestic or mystic; thirdly, through the
prophetic; and lastly, through the enthusiasm of love."While
with a bewildered understanding and a reluctant attention I listened
to these intricate sublimities, my adviser closed the volume, and
said with complacency, "There is the motto for your book,—the
thesis for your theme.""Davus
sum, non Oedipus," said I, shaking my head, discontentedly. "All
this may be exceedingly fine, but, Heaven forgive me,—I don't
understand a word of it. The mysteries of your Rosicrucians, and your
fraternities, are mere child's play to the jargon of the Platonists.""Yet,
not till you rightly understand this passage, can you understand the
higher theories of the Rosicrucians, or of the still nobler
fraternities you speak of with so much levity.""Oh,
if that be the case, I give up in despair. Why not, since you are so
well versed in the matter, take the motto for a book of your own?""But
if I have already composed a book with that thesis for its theme,
will you prepare it for the public?""With
the greatest pleasure," said I,—alas, too rashly!"I
shall hold you to your promise," returned the old gentleman,
"and when I am no more, you will receive the manuscripts. From
what you say of the prevailing taste in literature, I cannot flatter
you with the hope that you will gain much by the undertaking. And I
tell you beforehand that you will find it not a little laborious.""Is
your work a romance?""It
is a romance, and it is not a romance. It is a truth for those who
can comprehend it, and an extravagance for those who cannot."At
last there arrived the manuscripts, with a brief note from my
deceased friend, reminding me of my imprudent promise.With
mournful interest, and yet with eager impatience, I opened the packet
and trimmed my lamp. Conceive my dismay when I found the whole
written in an unintelligible cipher. I present the reader with a
specimen:(Several
strange characters.)and
so on for nine hundred and forty mortal pages in foolscap. I could
scarcely believe my eyes: in fact, I began to think the lamp burned
singularly blue; and sundry misgivings as to the unhallowed nature of
the characters I had so unwittingly opened upon, coupled with the
strange hints and mystical language of the old gentleman, crept
through my disordered imagination. Certainly, to say no worse of it,
the whole thing looked UNCANNY! I was about, precipitately, to hurry
the papers into my desk, with a pious determination to have nothing
more to do with them, when my eye fell upon a book, neatly bound in
blue morocco, and which, in my eagerness, I had hitherto overlooked.
I opened this volume with great precaution, not knowing what might
jump out, and—guess my delight—found that it contained a key or
dictionary to the hieroglyphics. Not to weary the reader with an
account of my labours, I am contented with saying that at last I
imagined myself capable of construing the characters, and set to work
in good earnest. Still it was no easy task, and two years elapsed
before I had made much progress. I then, by way of experiment on the
public, obtained the insertion of a few desultory chapters, in a
periodical with which, for a few months, I had the honour to be
connected. They appeared to excite more curiosity than I had presumed
to anticipate; and I renewed, with better heart, my laborious
undertaking. But now a new misfortune befell me: I found, as I
proceeded, that the author had made two copies of his work, one much
more elaborate and detailed than the other; I had stumbled upon the
earlier copy, and had my whole task to remodel, and the chapters I
had written to retranslate. I may say then, that, exclusive of
intervals devoted to more pressing occupations, my unlucky promise
cost me the toil of several years before I could bring it to adequate
fulfilment. The task was the more difficult, since the style in the
original is written in a kind of rhythmical prose, as if the author
desired that in some degree his work should be regarded as one of
poetical conception and design. To this it was not possible to do
justice, and in the attempt I have doubtless very often need of the
reader's indulgent consideration. My natural respect for the old
gentleman's vagaries, with a muse of equivocal character, must be my
only excuse whenever the language, without luxuriating into verse,
borrows flowers scarcely natural to prose. Truth compels me also to
confess, that, with all my pains, I am by no means sure that I have
invariably given the true meaning of the cipher; nay, that here and
there either a gap in the narrative, or the sudden assumption of a
new cipher, to which no key was afforded, has obliged me to resort to
interpolations of my own, no doubt easily discernible, but which, I
flatter myself, are not inharmonious to the general design. This
confession leads me to the sentence with which I shall conclude: If,
reader, in this book there be anything that pleases you, it is
certainly mine; but whenever you come to something you dislike,—lay
the blame upon the old gentleman!N.B.—The
notes appended to the text are sometimes by the author, sometimes by
the editor. I have occasionally (but not always) marked the
distinction; where, however, this is omitted, the ingenuity of the
reader will be rarely at fault.
BOOK I. — THE MUSICIAN
Due
FontaneChi
di diverso effeto hanno liquore!"Ariosto,
Orland. Fur." Canto 1.7.(Two
FountsThat
hold a draught of different effects.)
CHAPTER 1.I.
Vergina
eraD'
alta belta, ma sua belta non cura:....Di
natura, d' amor, de' cieli amiciLe
negligenze sue sono artifici."Gerusal.
Lib.," canto ii. xiv.-xviii.(She
was a virgin of a glorious beauty, but regarded not herbeauty...Negligence
itself is art in those favoured by Nature, bylove,
and by the heavens.)At
Naples, in the latter half of the last century, a worthy artist named
Gaetano Pisani lived and flourished. He was a musician of great
genius, but not of popular reputation; there was in all his
compositions something capricious and fantastic which did not please
the taste of the Dilettanti of Naples. He was fond of unfamiliar
subjects into which he introduced airs and symphonies that excited a
kind of terror in those who listened. The names of his pieces will
probably suggest their nature. I find, for instance, among his MSS.,
these titles: "The Feast of the Harpies," "The Witches
at Benevento," "The Descent of Orpheus into Hades,"
"The Evil Eye," "The Eumenides," and many others
that evince a powerful imagination delighting in the fearful and
supernatural, but often relieved by an airy and delicate fancy with
passages of exquisite grace and beauty. It is true that in the
selection of his subjects from ancient fable, Gaetano Pisani was much
more faithful than his contemporaries to the remote origin and the
early genius of Italian Opera.That
descendant, however effeminate, of the ancient union between Song and
Drama, when, after long obscurity and dethronement, it regained a
punier sceptre, though a gaudier purple, by the banks of the Etrurian
Arno, or amidst the lagunes of Venice, had chosen all its primary
inspirations from the unfamiliar and classic sources of heathen
legend; and Pisani's "Descent of Orpheus" was but a bolder,
darker, and more scientific repetition of the "Euridice"
which Jacopi Peri set to music at the august nuptials of Henry of
Navarre and Mary of Medicis.* Still, as I have said, the style of the
Neapolitan musician was not on the whole pleasing to ears grown nice
and euphuistic in the more dulcet melodies of the day; and faults and
extravagances easily discernible, and often to appearance wilful,
served the critics for an excuse for their distaste. Fortunately, or
the poor musician might have starved, he was not only a composer, but
also an excellent practical performer, especially on the violin, and
by that instrument he earned a decent subsistence as one of the
orchestra at the Great Theatre of San Carlo. Here formal and
appointed tasks necessarily kept his eccentric fancies in tolerable
check, though it is recorded that no less than five times he had been
deposed from his desk for having shocked the conoscenti, and thrown
the whole band into confusion, by impromptu variations of so frantic
and startling a nature that one might well have imagined that the
harpies or witches who inspired his compositions had clawed hold of
his instrument.The
impossibility, however, to find any one of equal excellence as a
performer (that is to say, in his more lucid and orderly moments) had
forced his reinstalment, and he had now, for the most part,
reconciled himself to the narrow sphere of his appointed adagios or
allegros. The audience, too, aware of his propensity, were quick to
perceive the least deviation from the text; and if he wandered for a
moment, which might also be detected by the eye as well as the ear,
in some strange contortion of visage, and some ominous flourish of
his bow, a gentle and admonitory murmur recalled the musician from
his Elysium or his Tartarus to the sober regions of his desk. Then he
would start as if from a dream, cast a hurried, frightened,
apologetic glance around, and, with a crestfallen, humbled air, draw
his rebellious instrument back to the beaten track of the glib
monotony. But at home he would make himself amends for this reluctant
drudgery. And there, grasping the unhappy violin with ferocious
fingers, he would pour forth, often till the morning rose, strange,
wild measures that would startle the early fisherman on the shore
below with a superstitious awe, and make him cross himself as if
mermaid or sprite had wailed no earthly music in his ear.(*Orpheus
was the favourite hero of early Italian Opera, orLyrical
Drama. The Orfeo of Angelo Politiano was produced in1475.
The Orfeo of Monteverde was performed at Venice in1667.)This
man's appearance was in keeping with the characteristics of his art.
The features were noble and striking, but worn and haggard, with
black, careless locks tangled into a maze of curls, and a fixed,
speculative, dreamy stare in his large and hollow eyes. All his
movements were peculiar, sudden, and abrupt, as the impulse seized
him; and in gliding through the streets, or along the beach, he was
heard laughing and talking to himself. Withal, he was a harmless,
guileless, gentle creature, and would share his mite with any idle
lazzaroni, whom he often paused to contemplate as they lay lazily
basking in the sun. Yet was he thoroughly unsocial. He formed no
friends, flattered no patrons, resorted to none of the merry-makings
so dear to the children of music and the South. He and his art seemed
alone suited to each other,—both quaint, primitive, unworldly,
irregular. You could not separate the man from his music; it was
himself. Without it he was nothing, a mere machine! WITH it, he was
king over worlds of his own. Poor man, he had little enough in this!
At a manufacturing town in England there is a gravestone on which the
epitaph records "one Claudius Phillips, whose absolute contempt
for riches, and inimitable performance on the violin, made him the
admiration of all that knew him!" Logical conjunction of
opposite eulogies! In proportion, O Genius, to thy contempt for
riches will be thy performance on thy violin!Gaetano
Pisani's talents as a composer had been chiefly exhibited in music
appropriate to this his favourite instrument, of all unquestionably
the most various and royal in its resources and power over the
passions. As Shakespeare among poets is the Cremona among
instruments. Nevertheless, he had composed other pieces of larger
ambition and wider accomplishment, and chief of these, his precious,
his unpurchased, his unpublished, his unpublishable and imperishable
opera of the "Siren." This great work had been the dream of
his boyhood, the mistress of his manhood; in advancing age "it
stood beside him like his youth." Vainly had he struggled to
place it before the world. Even bland, unjealous Paisiello, Maestro
di Capella, shook his gentle head when the musician favoured him with
a specimen of one of his most thrilling scenas. And yet, Paisiello,
though that music differs from all Durante taught thee to emulate,
there may—but patience, Gaetano Pisani! bide thy time, and keep thy
violin in tune!Strange
as it may appear to the fairer reader, this grotesque personage had
yet formed those ties which ordinary mortals are apt to consider
their especial monopoly,—he was married, and had one child. What is
more strange yet, his wife was a daughter of quiet, sober,
unfantastic England: she was much younger than himself; she was fair
and gentle, with a sweet English face; she had married him from
choice, and (will you believe it?) she yet loved him. How she came to
marry him, or how this shy, unsocial, wayward creature ever ventured
to propose, I can only explain by asking you to look round and
explain first to ME how half the husbands and half the wives you meet
ever found a mate! Yet, on reflection, this union was not so
extraordinary after all. The girl was a natural child of parents too
noble ever to own and claim her. She was brought into Italy to learn
the art by which she was to live, for she had taste and voice; she
was a dependant and harshly treated, and poor Pisani was her master,
and his voice the only one she had heard from her cradle that seemed
without one tone that could scorn or chide. And so—well, is the
rest natural? Natural or not, they married. This young wife loved her
husband; and young and gentle as she was, she might almost be said to
be the protector of the two. From how many disgraces with the despots
of San Carlo and the Conservatorio had her unknown officious
mediation saved him! In how many ailments—for his frame was
weak—had she nursed and tended him! Often, in the dark nights, she
would wait at the theatre with her lantern to light him and her
steady arm to lean on; otherwise, in his abstract reveries, who knows
but the musician would have walked after his "Siren" into
the sea! And then she would so patiently, perhaps (for in true love
there is not always the finest taste) so DELIGHTEDLY, listen to those
storms of eccentric and fitful melody, and steal him—whispering
praises all the way—from the unwholesome night-watch to rest and
sleep!I
said his music was a part of the man, and this gentle creature seemed
a part of the music; it was, in fact, when she sat beside him that
whatever was tender or fairy-like in his motley fantasia crept into
the harmony as by stealth. Doubtless her presence acted on the music,
and shaped and softened it; but, he, who never examined how or what
his inspiration, knew it not. All that he knew was, that he loved and
blessed her. He fancied he told her so twenty times a day; but he
never did, for he was not of many words, even to his wife. His
language was his music,—as hers, her cares! He was more
communicative to his barbiton, as the learned Mersennus teaches us to
call all the varieties of the great viol family. Certainly barbiton
sounds better than fiddle; and barbiton let it be. He would talk to
THAT by the hour together,—praise it, scold it, coax it, nay (for
such is man, even the most guileless), he had been known to swear at
it; but for that excess he was always penitentially remorseful. And
the barbiton had a tongue of his own, could take his own part, and
when HE also scolded, had much the best of it. He was a noble fellow,
this Violin!—a Tyrolese, the handiwork of the illustrious Steiner.
There was something mysterious in his great age. How many hands, now
dust, had awakened his strings ere he became the Robin Goodfellow and
Familiar of Gaetano Pisani! His very case was venerable,—beautifully
painted, it was said, by Caracci. An English collector had offered
more for the case than Pisani had ever made by the violin. But
Pisani, who cared not if he had inhabited a cabin himself, was proud
of a palace for the barbiton. His barbiton, it was his elder child!
He had another child, and now we must turn to her.How
shall I describe thee, Viola? Certainly the music had something to
answer for in the advent of that young stranger. For both in her form
and her character you might have traced a family likeness to that
singular and spirit-like life of sound which night after night threw
itself in airy and goblin sport over the starry seas...Beautiful she
was, but of a very uncommon beauty,—a combination, a harmony of
opposite attributes. Her hair of a gold richer and purer than that
which is seen even in the North; but the eyes, of all the dark,
tender, subduing light of more than Italian—almost of
Oriental—splendour. The complexion exquisitely fair, but never the
same,—vivid in one moment, pale the next. And with the complexion,
the expression also varied; nothing now so sad, and nothing now so
joyous.I
grieve to say that what we rightly entitle education was much
neglected for their daughter by this singular pair. To be sure,
neither of them had much knowledge to bestow; and knowledge was not
then the fashion, as it is now. But accident or nature favoured young
Viola. She learned, as of course, her mother's language with her
father's. And she contrived soon to read and to write; and her
mother, who, by the way, was a Roman Catholic, taught her betimes to
pray. But then, to counteract all these acquisitions, the strange
habits of Pisani, and the incessant watch and care which he required
from his wife, often left the child alone with an old nurse, who, to
be sure, loved her dearly, but who was in no way calculated to
instruct her.Dame
Gionetta was every inch Italian and Neapolitan. Her youth had been
all love, and her age was all superstition. She was garrulous,
fond,—a gossip. Now she would prattle to the girl of cavaliers and
princes at her feet, and now she would freeze her blood with tales
and legends, perhaps as old as Greek or Etrurian fable, of demon and
vampire,—of the dances round the great walnut-tree at Benevento,
and the haunting spell of the Evil Eye. All this helped silently to
weave charmed webs over Viola's imagination that afterthought and
later years might labour vainly to dispel. And all this especially
fitted her to hang, with a fearful joy, upon her father's music.
Those visionary strains, ever struggling to translate into wild and
broken sounds the language of unearthly beings, breathed around her
from her birth. Thus you might have said that her whole mind was full
of music; associations, memories, sensations of pleasure or pain,—all
were mixed up inexplicably with those sounds that now delighted and
now terrified; that greeted her when her eyes opened to the sun, and
woke her trembling on her lonely couch in the darkness of the night.
The legends and tales of Gionetta only served to make the child
better understand the signification of those mysterious tones; they
furnished her with words to the music. It was natural that the
daughter of such a parent should soon evince some taste in his art.
But this developed itself chiefly in the ear and the voice. She was
yet a child when she sang divinely. A great Cardinal—great alike in
the State and the Conservatorio—heard of her gifts, and sent for
her. From that moment her fate was decided: she was to be the future
glory of Naples, the prima donna of San Carlo.The
Cardinal insisted upon the accomplishment of his own predictions, and
provided her with the most renowned masters. To inspire her with
emulation, his Eminence took her one evening to his own box: it would
be something to see the performance, something more to hear the
applause lavished upon the glittering signoras she was hereafter to
excel! Oh, how gloriously that life of the stage, that fairy world of
music and song, dawned upon her! It was the only world that seemed to
correspond with her strange childish thoughts. It appeared to her as
if, cast hitherto on a foreign shore, she was brought at last to see
the forms and hear the language of her native land. Beautiful and
true enthusiasm, rich with the promise of genius! Boy or man, thou
wilt never be a poet, if thou hast not felt the ideal, the romance,
the Calypso's isle that opened to thee when for the first time the
magic curtain was drawn aside, and let in the world of poetry on the
world of prose!And
now the initiation was begun. She was to read, to study, to depict by
a gesture, a look, the passions she was to delineate on the boards;
lessons dangerous, in truth, to some, but not to the pure enthusiasm
that comes from art; for the mind that rightly conceives art is but a
mirror which gives back what is cast on its surface faithfully
only—while unsullied. She seized on nature and truth intuitively.
Her recitations became full of unconscious power; her voice moved the
heart to tears, or warmed it into generous rage. But this arose from
that sympathy which genius ever has, even in its earliest innocence,
with whatever feels, or aspires, or suffers.It
was no premature woman comprehending the love or the jealousy that
the words expressed; her art was one of those strange secrets which
the psychologists may unriddle to us if they please, and tell us why
children of the simplest minds and the purest hearts are often so
acute to distinguish, in the tales you tell them, or the songs you
sing, the difference between the true art and the false, passion and
jargon, Homer and Racine,—echoing back, from hearts that have not
yet felt what they repeat, the melodious accents of the natural
pathos. Apart from her studies, Viola was a simple, affectionate, but
somewhat wayward child,—wayward, not in temper, for that was sweet
and docile; but in her moods, which, as I before hinted, changed from
sad to gay and gay to sad without an apparent cause. If cause there
were, it must be traced to the early and mysterious influences I have
referred to, when seeking to explain the effect produced on her
imagination by those restless streams of sound that constantly played
around it; for it is noticeable that to those who are much alive to
the effects of music, airs and tunes often come back, in the
commonest pursuits of life, to vex, as it were, and haunt them. The
music, once admitted to the soul, becomes also a sort of spirit, and
never dies. It wanders perturbedly through the halls and galleries of
the memory, and is often heard again, distinct and living as when it
first displaced the wavelets of the air. Now at times, then, these
phantoms of sound floated back upon her fancy; if gay, to call a
smile from every dimple; if mournful, to throw a shade upon her
brow,—to make her cease from her childishmirth, and sit apart and
muse.Rightly,
then, in a typical sense, might this fair creature, so airy in her
shape, so harmonious in her beauty, so unfamiliar in her ways and
thoughts,—rightly might she be called a daughter, less of the
musician than the music, a being for whom you could imagine that some
fate was reserved, less of actual life than the romance which, to
eyes that can see, and hearts that can feel, glides ever along WITH
the actual life, stream by stream, to the Dark Ocean.And
therefore it seemed not strange that Viola herself, even in
childhood, and yet more as she bloomed into the sweet seriousness of
virgin youth, should fancy her life ordained for a lot, whether of
bliss or woe, that should accord with the romance and reverie which
made the atmosphere she breathed. Frequently she would climb through
the thickets that clothed the neighbouring grotto of Posilipo,—the
mighty work of the old Cimmerians,—and, seated by the haunted Tomb
of Virgil, indulge those visions, the subtle vagueness of which no
poetry can render palpable and defined; for the Poet that surpasses
all who ever sang, is the heart of dreaming youth! Frequently there,
too, beside the threshold over which the vine-leaves clung, and
facing that dark-blue, waveless sea, she would sit in the autumn noon
or summer twilight, and build her castles in the air. Who doth not do
the same,—not in youth alone, but with the dimmed hopes of age! It
is man's prerogative to dream, the common royalty of peasant and of
king. But those day-dreams of hers were more habitual, distinct, and
solemn than the greater part of us indulge. They seemed like the
Orama of the Greeks,—prophets while phantasma.
CHAPTER 1.II.
Fu
stupor, fu vaghezza, fu diletto!
"Gerusal.
Lib.," cant. ii. xxi.
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!