BOOK III.
“Faust.—
Was bin ich denn, wenn es nicht möglich ist
Der Menschheit Krone zu erringen,
Nach der sich alle Sinne dringen?
Mephistopheles.—
Du bist am Ende—was du bist.
Setz' dir Perrücken auf von Millionen Locken,
Setz' deinen Fuss auf Ellen hohe Socken,
Du bleibst doch immer was du bist.”
Faust.
“Bohemia! said my uncle Toby—musing a long time;—what
became of that story, Trim?
“We lost it, an' please your honour, somehow betwixt us; but your
honour was as free from love then as I am.”
Tristram Shandy.
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Prague.
You are still urgent for me to join you in Vienna.—
What the deuce should I do in Vienna? You tell me
of your gaiety and the beauty of the women; of your
carnival frolics, and all the attractions of the gay world.
I answer with Pistol, “A foutra for the world and worldlings
base!” I am sick of society. I am tired and worn
with travel, and I have taken refuge in this old-fashioned
and most Gothic city for the sake of repose. Prague, you
know, is a town which I had always a passion for, and
I am glad that there has been nothing of late to prevent
me from establishing myself comfortably here.
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I was delighted when I first kicked off my dusty shoes
in this place. Our many years of constant travel had at
last disgusted me, for a time at least, with what I thought
would never surfeit me,—change. I am fairly sick for
the present of “the Alp and Apennine, the Pyrenean
and the River Po,” and desire the variety of beholding
every day the same scenes and faces. To a person who
has lived so long in a whirl, monotony is in itself an excitement.
I pray you, Lackland, leave me to myself for the present.
You must certainly be a little weary of my society.
We shall meet soon enough; but in the meantime
I must be left to occupations with which you have
but little sympathy. We have been long together; we
have tried each other thoroughly; we shall soon meet
again.
Let me see: since we left all those “courageous captains
of compliments,” at the University, six years ago,
we have hardly been a day separated. We have drunk
Tokay together in Hungary, and eaten ortolans in Florence.
We have swum together in a gondola at Venice,
and in a flat-bottomed scow, on the Nile. We have shot
quails together in Egypt, and eaten artichokes in Jerusalem;
in short, we have become “picked men of countries”
in each other's society during our desultory loungings
through the world; and now it is my purpose to sit
quietly down and complete my education. I know you
will laugh at this; but no matter. Even you, who know
me so well, are not aware that instead of being too frivolous
I am only too serious a person. One day you will
find out your mistake, and acknowledge that the greatest
fault of your friend was his gravity.
As I said before, I have a passion for Prague, and I
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shall quit it with regret. It is suited to my present style
of mind. I am a quiet man, and I love a quiet place.
This city is as silent as a cloister. I go to the summit
of the Hradschin almost every day, and spend sometimes
whole mornings in drowsy meditations. It is so
still and noiseless, that you may almost hear the sands of
time rushing through his eternal hour-glass. I have
half a mind to turn monk at once.
Another favourite resort of mine, towards sun-set, is on
the old bridge, which you remember connects the old and
new town. I stand almost every afternoon by the statue
of St. John of Nepomuk, which is nearly in the centre of
the bridge, and on the very spot where the very saintly or
very hypocritical monk was kicked into the river by the
choleric king Wenzel. I do not know whether you
recollect the anecdote, which in brief is this. The said
John of Nepomuk was ghostly confessor to her majesty
of Bohemia, the spouse of Wenzel. The intercourse
between the lady and the priest became at last so constant
and so very intimate, that the monarch had but
one of two things to suppose:—either that his wife must
have an enormous burden of sins on her conscience to
require such a constant closeting with the friar, which
was a disagreeable supposition; or that the saint was no
better, and his wife a great deal worse, than they should
be. Circumstances at last convinced him that he was
on the latter horn of the dilemma, and so one day, having
unluckily happened to meet the clerical gentleman
in the centre of the bridge, he took occasion to toss him
over the parapet. The friar, of course, after this martyrdom,
became a saint, and the legend goes on to say, that
his body never rose to the surface till the ninth day after
the catastrophe. On the evening of that day, however,
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a solitary fisherman was crossing the river in his skiff.
As he reached the spot where the body of the saintly John
had sunk, he saw three stars rise slowly from the water
and ascend to Heaven: soon afterwards he heard a slow
and solemn strain of music, and then the body of the
saint rose quietly to the surface. The fisherman brought
it on shore, where it was of course buried with pompous
obsequies, and the unfortunate monarch loaded with
execrations.
There is hardly a stone in Prague that has not its
legend, and every thing that meets the eye has a smack
of the olden times. There are numberless traditions
which are associated with this very bridge, and it is this,
perhaps, which has made it so favourite a haunt of mine.
There is an ancient and uncouth-looking pillar at the
entrance of the bridge on the old side, and just in front
of the feudal-looking portal which opens into the Hradschin.
It is said that the sword of the puissant
Brunslik is concealed within its shaft, and that when the
hour of the city's greatest danger has arrived, the enchanted
brand will leap from its hiding place, and
destroy all its enemies without mortal assistance.
I suppose there must be some heavy calamity in store
for this devoted city: for there have already been troublous
times in which assistance would have been acceptable;
but in which the sword of the doughty giant has
not thought proper to exhibit itself. One would suppose,
when Fritz the Great was bombarding the town the
other day, and knocking the churches and houses of the
inhabitants about their ears, that the patriotism of this
wonderful sword might have been excited. It was not so,
however. Brunslik kept perfectly quiet, and the heroic
Frederick blazed away unmolested.
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The view up and down the river on a sunny afternoon
is beautiful from the centre of the bridge. The
city is surrounded by a splendid amphitheatre of hills
which are legitimate off-shoots of the “giant mountains”
so celebrated in ancient German story; and the yellow
Moldau sweeps onward through the valley in a broad
and rapid current. The town is built on each bank;
the stone bridges which connect the old and new Stadt
are of massive and ancient architecture, and the principal
one is lined with a double row of colossal statues.
There are two large and beautifully wooded islands
in the centre of the river, which are the favourite promenade
for loungers every afternoon, and of the industrious
burghers and their wives on Sundays. Ferry boats are
constantly plying hither and thither between them and
both shores, and you are almost certain to hear the lively
strains of a full band of music, issuing, towards evening,
from those island-groves. The air is always full of
music in Germany, and there is not a place where you
will enjoy that luxury in greater abundance than in
this, not even excepting your much vaunted Vienna.
As you look up and down from the bridges, the architecture
of the town reminds you every instant of the
middle ages. The houses are high, many-storied and
toppling; the streets narrow, the churches numerous
and most interesting specimens of all kinds of gothic,
and the ancient Hradschin with its cathedral and chapel,
crowning the summit of the mountainous “old town,”
is the most imposing part of the picture.
I wander often at even-tide to the ancient cathedral
on the Hradschin, and attend vespers with almost the
regularity of a good Catholic. It is when I am fairly
within the eternal twilight of this magnificent old
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church that the allusion which is always floating over
me in Prague;—the feeling of antiquity, the presence of
by-gone days.—becomes complete.
As I enter, I feel myself carried softly back into the
midst of the olden time. The present century floats
entirely away, and the buried ages arise from their long
repose, and flit over me on noiseless wings. I feel—
sensibly feel — their existence and their presence.
The dim light streams through the gorgeously painted
windows, catching a thousand brilliant and fantastic
hues. Those windows are adorned with legends from
holy writ, quaint portraits of saints, and armonial bearings
of emperors, and of prelates who were more powerful
than emperors. The paintings are grotesque and
faulty; but the colours are brilliant beyond all emulation
of our day, for the art has not survived the artists of
those times.
As I look upward towards the fretted and far distant
roof, and mark the gothic and pointed arches which
support and increase its height, I recognize the poetry of
that invention, and feel that those arches, in obedience
to the thought of their inventor, do really strive toward
Heaven. The walls are hung with ancient and holy
pictures,—the niches are filled with statues, — the little
chapels are each ornamented with its altar and its saint,
and filled with reliques, votive offerings, and Bohemian
legendary wonders. In yonder time-blackened monument
repose the ashes of five emperors and two kings.
The numerous sarcophagi covered with rude sculpture,
and quaintly wrought in dust-stained marble, which line
every aisle, enclose the monuments of the ancient Ritterschaft.
On each of them reposes, with his mailed
hands piously folded, the figure of some valorous old
German knight.
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The whole of the tesselated floor is covered with half-effaced
inscriptions, with ancient names and chivalrous
escutcheous. The ashes of a hundred forgotten warriors
are beneath your feet.
The twilight deepens,—the small bells tinkle;—the
odour of frankincense is in the air. The robed priests
glide towards the altars,—the solemn peals of the vast
organ roll through the vaulted arches. The floor is
covered with dark and prostrate forms; but no voices
are heard save the chanting of the choristers, and the
low and solemn accents of the priests.
I beg your pardon for all this balderdash and I hardly
know how I slipped into such a rhapsodical vein; but
when you speak to me of the hackneyed delights of
Vienna, and exert all your eloquence to drag me from
my resting place, you see what you bring upon yourself.
I have bored you long enough in all conscience, and
so I shall make no apology for breaking off at once. So
good night, my dear Lackland.
Your true friend,
Uncas Morton.
Vienna, 1777.
For the present then I will leave you to yourself. You
are much mistaken, however, if you think me very gay.
On the contrary, I am bored, as I always am. This
city, however, is as good a place to be bored in as I know.
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You recollect the answer of the Englishman in Paris, to
the solicitations of a friend who wished him to leave his
apartment, and go out into the world. “Merci, mon
ami, je m'ennuie très bien ici.” This is pretty much the
case with me, and with the rest of my countrymen. It
seems to me that one great reason why the English, as
a nation, are such victims of ennui, is, because there is so
large a class who have exactly no other profession. Do
not mistake me. I do not speak of men of large fortunes.
I despise an opulent landholder who is, or affects
to be, an ennuyé. If he be really so it argues a weakness
of intellect, and there is nothing more to be said.
But if he affects it, he excites my indignation, for I consider
it an infringement on my own rights. The class
to which I belong is a large one, and I claim for it the
exclusive monopoly of ennui. It is composed of men of
good birth and small fortune. Younger sons of younger
brothers, and in short, of exactly that sort of people who
have absolutely no niche in society, no place in the universal
machine.
It is exactly this sort of people who, if they are absolutely
destitute of property, seem born for nothing but to
curates in unknown Welsh parishes, or to be knocked
on the head in obscure East Indian campaigns; men
too high born to improve their fortunes in lucrative professions,
too insignificant to be worth a great man's while
to push them up the ladder of promotion. And then if
we have a little miserable competence, as is more particularly
my own case, why so much the worse. It is
then that we are obliged to adopt ennui as a trade. We
cannot hold soul and body together in England on our
stipend, and so we go into exile immediately. We wander
through the world without aim or object; we lounge
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through life doing nothing and expecting nothing, and
when we die, we have not even the satisfaction of diminishing
the population of our native country.
It is odd, but not unnatural, that I never yet have
given you a distinct account of my life previous to our
acquaintance. To tell a man your story face to face is
a bore, particularly if you have nothing extraordinary to
relate. It is, however, an easier matter, when it serves
as a material for a dull pen to fill up a letter withal;
and as you have often requested it, so here goes for a
sketch in the manner of Boccaccio.
Do not, however, be alarmed at my exordium; I promise
to give you my life and adventures in a dozen words.
My father was the Hon. Plantagenet Lackland, the
eighth son of the Earl of Agincourt; my mother was
Lady Griselda Sansterre, the youngest scion of that illustrious
and impoverished house.
When I was a child I was the pet of my grandfather.
The earl was a retired and pedantic old gentleman,
and as I was a boy of studious and quiet habits I suited
his fancy. As I grew up my nature began to develope
itself. As I became more turbulent, my grandfather's
nerves were disturbed, and he grew less fond of me; at
last I took to fox-hunting, and he discarded me altogether.
My father remonstrated with the old gentleman. It was
of no use, but hopes were given that I should be remembered
in his will—of course this was sufficient, and I
took no farther care of the future. Relying upon the
earl's promise, my father, who preceded him to the grave,
made no provision for me. Not long after this my grandfather
died, and I with the rest of the relations, attended
the opening of the will. The facetious old gentleman,
whether in consideration of my partiality for horses, or
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in still deeper satire, left me the legacy of a halter. Instead
of flying into a rage, I took it very good-naturedly,
(for in fact I hardly expected much more,) and sent it to
the livery stable where I kept my only mare.
After this event, I reflected that something must be
done. Some of my relations who had influence at the
War-office, procured me a commission in an infantry
regiment. I rather objected to the “muds,” for as I had
a halter I should have preferred the cavalry. There
was no help for it, however, and soon afterwards the
regiment was ordered to India.
I served through the French war—got three bullets
through my body — nearly died of the country fever, and
returned to England at the peace. As I had been mentioned
in several of the despatches, I was promoted from
an ensign to a lieutenant. With this brilliant reward
for my three years' services, I retired on my half pay.
There were few of my relations for whom I had much
affection. I met them occasionally, but our greetings
were cold and formal. But there was one whom I had
always loved with the tenderest affection—she deserved
it—it was my mother — and the noblest and gentlest of
God's creatures. As soon as I could get away, I hastened
down into the country to meet her. As I passed
through the shrubbery, I plucked hastily a rose from her
favourite bush. I remembered how often I had seen her
tending it, and I kissed it for her sake. I rushed into the
house to embrace her. I came into her little parlour—
her harp stood in the corner— a vase of flowers was on
the table. Her little book-case, her favourite chair, the
picture of my father—all were as I so well remembered
them. A book lay on the table folded down at the place
where she had evidently just finished reading. I
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realized that I was at home. I went into the passage and
called to her, and my heart bounded as I listened for her
coming step. There was no answer—I called again.
A vague feeling of apprehension and of dread came over
me. At last a female servant made her appearance. I
was informed that my mother had died that morning.
I spare you the rest. I beg your pardon for mentioning
this. But there was now nothing I cared for in England,
and the country was hateful to me. One day I
was dining in London, at the table of a very young lieutenant-colonel.
He was my junior in years, and had
entered the army only a month before the peace. He
had, however, risen very rapidly, owing either to his extraordinary
merit or to his being an earl's eldest son.
Just after dinner I received a letter in an unknown
hand. I opened it, and found I had been left a property
of five hundred pounds a year. An old bachelor
uncle, who had been present at the opening of Lord
Agincourt's will, had been pleased with my good-nature
about the halter. He was a humourist, and conceived on
the spot a great liking for me. The eccentric old gentleman,
however, kept his partiality a profound secret
from the whole world during his life-time. On his death,
however, it was discovered that he had made me his sole
heir. This was as much to my surprise as it was to the
total discomfiture of a pack of greedy second cousins and
toad-eaters.
This competence appeared to me a fortune. It was
one; for I had passed the age of excitement. I was independent
for life. There was no danger of my extravagance.
I knew I should always be capable of living
on my income. I should never think of competing with
people of one hundred thousand a-year, which I have
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seen many a silly young man do, with smaller means
than mine. If this legacy had been left to me half a
dozen years before, I should have run the whole through
in six months. But now,—I knew that five hundred
pounds a-year, were nothing more nor less than five
hundred pounds a-year, and there was not the least
danger of my mistaking it for a thousand.
I left England as a matter of course. There was no
place for me there—and I hated it—I hated to have my
own insignificance thrown in my face every moment.
I began to lounge through the world, which I have
continued to do ever since. I discovered very soon the
text of my present homily, that ennui is the profession of
my class—“the badge of all my tribe.”
I was satisfied with it, however, and I am willing to
take the world as I find it. I lead a lazy, idle,
good-for-nothing sort of life, but I have no fault to find
with the world or myself.
The power of changing the scene is, and always will
be, in my possession, and I travel about so leisurely that
I shall never tire of my wandering existence. I am
content to live and die like an Arab; I carry my affections
with me. I pack up my household gods in my
portmanteau, and can make a home in as short a time
as any other man can take out the contents of his dressing
case. In short, I am a cosmopolite and an “ennuyé”
on principle.
I should find it more agreeable to be a “looker-on
here in Vienna,” if you would join me; but as you have
settled into a philosopher, I will leave you to yourself.
Our old friend, Pappenheim von Rothenberg, and his
wife, are making a great figure here. He has been
lately appointed resident minister at the Austrian court.
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The little Ida is as pretty and piquante as ever; she
asks me often about you, and abuses you for not coming
to Vienna. So you see I am not the only one who
wishes your presence.
So, my dear fellow, do have the kindness to “hang
up philosophy” as soon as you can make it convenient,
and cut that musty tumble-down Prague of yours.
Thine by yea and nay, S.L.
Prague, 1777.
I have sent you the music—Walldorff is in the country
at present, but soon after his return he will probably
visit you at Vienna. It is possible that I may accompany
him You know, dearest Ida, how sincerely I
hope it may be so How is Pappenheim? and how do
you like the duties of an ambassadress? I am afraid
you will learn to despise our humdrum ways in Bohemia;
but no matter, I have made up my mind not to let
you off from your visit to Walldorff in the summer.
Among the music you will find a pretty little waltz
composed by your dear old uncle, Baron Kinski. He is as
lively and eccentric as ever. You will see that he has
dedicated it to me, which I consider a great honour.
Apropos of music—Do you know that our barrel-organ
(as you are good-natured enough to denominate our
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Prague Opera-house) has become one of the wonders of
the world; not for any merit of its own, to be sure, for
the boxes are as dingy, the stage as dark, and the decorations
as faded as ever. But, my dear Ida, you have no
idea what a wonderful creature this new singer has
proved to be. Till I attend one of St. Cecilia's own
private concerts I never expect to hear a voice like hers.
She is a contralto. Such sweetness! such compass and
depth, and such execution! Really, some of her tones
appeared not to be human. Moreover she acts divinely,
and is as beautiful as an angel.
Of course Kinski was full of “furore” at the first
note. They have become great friends, for who could
resist the kindness and bonhomie of the excellent old
gentleman? She appears now at almost all his musical
parties, and usually sings once or twice. Of course they
are more the rage now than ever. She is agreeable in
conversation, very accomplished, speaks all the known
languages I believe, ancient and modern; and Kinski
says she composes Latin serenades. She is full of life and
spirits, very young, very beautiful, as I said before, and
moreover of character pure beyond the reach of detraction.
What a paragon! But she shall not come to Vienna,
we are determined. So if you wish to see her you must
come to Prague.
There is a young Bohemian shepherd who has lately
made his appearance as a poet. He has published a small
volume, and has placed himself under my protection.
His verses have really much merit but they have one
defect, nobody can read them. They are written in the
Bohemian dialect which of course I understand, having
passed all my childhood in the heart of my native country,
but which is a dead letter to most readers of poetry.
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As the young man is needy, and really very meritorious,
I have done what I could for him Finding that the
book was lying on hand and not likely to find a purchaser,
I sent to the publishers and bought up the whole edition.
This was of course kept a secret from the author, who is
delighted with the rapid sale of his production. Your
friend Morton, whom you inquire for, is still here, and
likely to be. Accident made me acquainted with him
a long time ago, and since his return we have been great
friends. He is much altered from the singular person
whom you describe as one of the principal heroes of your
Göttingen adventures. He is never moody or misanthropical—
on the contrary, he is the most good-natured
sort of person in the world; but he is very distrait and
very studious. He and old Kinski are the most intimate
friends. He is the old gentleman's prime favourite.
They lodge very near each other, and hardly ever
separate. Kinski, as you know of old, is a man of great
learning; he is a profound student of all the natural
sciences, and, as far as I can learn, has elected himself
a professor on these subjects for the exclusive benefit of
Morton. The latter lives, I believe in a laboratory, and
sometimes, both are seen to disappear into his lodgings, and
are not heard of again for whole days. These freaks, to be
sure, are rare for Kinski, who still keeps up his love of
music and society; but as for Mein Herr Morton, he has
been known not to leave his lair for two months together.
It is said that horrible detonations are sometimes heard
in his apartments, and blue smoke and flames are seen
issuing from the windows. His neighbours take him, I
believe, for a necromancer; but I believe he is only a chemist.
Perhaps he is searching for the philosopher's stone.
In these long seclusions of his he keeps his door
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inexorably fastened, and is never to be seen. All visitors
are turned away by his servant, an uncouth barbarian
with red hair and demoniac aspect, whom he brought
from Göttingen, and who has accompanied him on all
his wanderings for the last six years. This worthy
defends the privacy of his master by force of arms if
necessary; but a sight of him is usually enough, and
all intruders go away convinced that Morton must be
the devil, and Gottlob (his servant) his principal imp.
We see him, however, sometimes in society. When
questioned about the rebellion in the American provinces,
which seems creating such excitement even in the heart
of our despotism, he answers confusedly, and hastens to
change the subject. He at least is evidently no rebel,
and I suspect is as indifferent an Englishman as
American. Although we are so old acquaintances he
will never converse with me on political subjects. Upon
other subjects he is fluent enough, but on this, his only
answer is that he knows nothing about them. Is
not this odd for a man whose country is in such a
state? It is weak at least, not to say imbecile.
So much for Mr. Morton, to whom I should not have
devoted so large a portion of this letter, but that I know
he is an old friend of yours, and that you take much
interest in him. So do I; for to say the truth he is
a most entertaining savage.
Adieu, dearest Ida, and remember your promise
next summer.
Thine ever, Ottilia.
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I thank you for your letter. But you are under two
mistakes, my dear fellow. In the first place, who told
you I was studying metaphysics, and entangling myself
in mystical absurdities? What stuff! No one abominates
the whole abominable science of metaphysics more
than I, and if Germany has done me no more good
than to cure me of all partiality for such enervating
study, it has still done enough. More of my studies
anon; but at present for your second mistake. What
put it into your head that I was a misanthrope? I, a
misanthrope! I—“a gloomy, sarcastic, contemptuous
hermit!” Believe me I have long out-grown such
nonsense. There is a period in adolescence, during
which we seem to be subject to attacks of misanthropy
and disgust for the world; but, thank Heaven, we live
through them all, and are seldom the worse for any.
To be sure my attack was rather more severe than falls
to the lot of the average number. You know the events
which preceded my arrival in this hemisphere, and it
was no matter of surprise to you, that at my age, they
made a deep impression on my character.
To say the truth, at the time when I first knew you,
I was a misanthropic and an unhappy person. I had
been disappointed in more ways than one; humiliated, insulted,
stung to the heart's core, and in my wrath I
hated all my species. When I first stood alone in a
foreign land with the memory of my fresh misfortunes
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crowding upon me, it seemed that my heart was freezing
within me, I could feel the ice forming itself rapidly
around me, and shutting me out from all communications
with my species.
The fact is, it seems to me that there are certain regular
transitions through which the mind must pass before
it reaches maturity, and that each stage is exposed to its
peculiar diseases and sufferings. Like puppies we are
all born blind; but less fortunate than they, it is many
years before our mental vision is able to bear without
winking an exposure to the full sunlight of Truth.
The first decade of our life is a period of sense alone.
The child exists only in its senses. The second is the
age of sentiment,—of imagination,—of exaggeration,—
of aimless and preposterous ambition; the age when the
same splendid phantasmagoria displays itself to the
mind of every one, and which every one believes has
been revealed to him alone.
The next ten years are apt to be years of misery.
The third decade commences with a shock from which
the healthiest and most elastic mind is slow in recovering.
The sun of life's noon-day has at last swept away
the beautiful mirage which enchanted our eyes, and hid
from us the weary waste over which we are journeying,
and we awake, to feel the scorching heat, to see the wide
and hopeless sands, and to be alive to the dull monotonous
course we are to traverse. Then come materialism,
scepticism, and sensuality from principle; so much
worse than the sensuality from instinct which characterized
our earlier life. Then is the moment when that
blighting and inevitable “cui bono” first intrudes upon
the mind; that question which we cannot answer.
Then come its effects; recklessness,—restlessness,—
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excitement-seeking; contempt,—misanthropy. This is
the period, when if the individual be peculiarly irritable
or his misfortunes exceedingly poignant, the consequences
are sometimes extravagant. At this age, some
commit suicide, and some matrimony, and some content
themselves with writing gloomy verses for the newspapers.
After this, however, succeeds an age of good nature, of
bonhomie and placidity. We have outgrown our
youthful follies. We have discovered how many of
what we considered our own extraordinary idiosyncracies
were merely the characteristics of our race, and we begin
to make ourselves quiet and comfortable.
Since I began to study, I will confess that I came near
having a relapse into melancholy. Say what you will
of the delights of dawning wisdom, and the approach
of manhood; it is after all a disagreeable epoch. We
dislike to see one bright delusion after another melt away
like stars before the clear, cold light of morning. The
night of our ignorance attracted our eyes to those bright
constellations; the daylight of our wisdom obscures
those lesser lights, and shows us only the deserts over
which we are wandering.
I got over this, however, very soon, and then I set
myself seriously to study. I am a student now, and an
industrious one—but certainly I am not a metaphysician.
I have discovered that a limit is set to the human intellect,
(or to my own at least,) and I have no wish to
irritate myself by speculations on subjects beyond my
grasp. Under this category I place particularly the
whole science of mental philosophy. It is my fixed determination
to study only that which is palpable. The
earth, the present visible world, is, in my opinion, the
sphere in which the human intellect is to be exercised;
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and just as in the material world, if you ascend too high
beyond the common atmosphere, you are chilled and
sickened, and if you remain, killed; or if you descend
too low, you are overcome and poisoned by mephitic
vapours, which surround and indicate the limits of
human progress; so, in the intellectual world; if our
thoughts aspire above or beyond their proper atmosphere,
the mind is sure to become giddy; to be maddened or
paralyzed.
It is my belief that men are apt to forget, in their
education for heaven, their more immediate and earthly
one. I hold it to be neither blasphemous nor immoral,
for the creature to acknowledge that he has been created
weak, and to leave certain things in their places, till he
is endowed with strength to grapple with them. If we
have been placed upon this earth by a Being of infinite
wisdom, with faculties and capabilities suited to our
sphere, I think we should show more humility and more
faith by exercising our present powers in the best and
most fitting manner, than by arrogantly striving after
those things which he has not thought proper to place
within our reach.
Suppose, for instance, that all mankind were certain
that in some future state of being the power of flying
was to be added to their present physical powers; am I
to believe that he who has spent his life in flapping his
arms in the air, or in making similar preparations for
overcoming a present impossibility, will prove more dexterous
than the man who has patiently and humbly contented
himself with exerting those powers to which God
has for the present limited him?
It is my intention to make nature my school-mistress,
and to study truly those subjects in which she can
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instruct me. I believe that if all mankind were to do
likewise,—if we were all willing to go at once as it
were to the lectures which she is ever reading to us, and
to take notes for ourselves, the sum of knowledge
would be greatly increased. The study of metaphysics,
accordingly, after having pursued it a short time in the
most metaphysical city in the world, I abandoned with
disgust; and it seems to me that it is with men of some
intelligence, a mere excuse for idleness. Any one may
talk about the mind, because there are no facts about
it; and although he may find plenty of disciples who
believe him right, he is sure that there will be no one
who can prove him wrong. The science of ideas must,
I think, infallibly degenerate into a study of words, a
study which is most enervating, and which, if the intellect
be originally strong, will result in madness, or in
imbecility, the most usual case, if the capacity be moderate.
This is apt to be the misfortune of those who
have become enamoured and perplexed with the singular
vagaries of the German transcendentalists; a misfortune
seldom happening to the Germans, but often to
their foreign disciples. A few philosophers of subtlety,
and of strong nerves, have contrived an ingenious and
striking theory of words and ideas. They forget to inform
their apostles (what they themselves are well
aware of,) that the whole science is in reality beyond the
range of the human intellect. The unhappy students
imbibe greedily the draught that is set before them, and
then they begin to babble. Witness in proof the witless
productions that have in latter days been given to the
world by a set of authors, whose ambition is to envelope
common-place in a grotesque and childish garb. When
it is divested of its gaudy and tasteless trappings, it is
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found by the reasonable not to be worth the trouble it
has given; but is admired by a herd of innocent and
misguided readers, who are ever prone to mistake pompous
folly for wisdom.
I have accordingly arrived at the conclusion, that the
most dignified and fitting study is the study of the natural
sciences.
If you recollect, however, my dear Lackland, that I
am only answering your own question, and giving you
only the results of my own inquiries, based perhaps on a
consideration of my own individual organization, you
will acquit me of arrogance or presumption. I am neither
dictating, nor dogmatising, nor promulgating a doctrine.
I care not a fig whether the world would or would
not probably agree with me; but I am only stating for
our mutual gratification the course and the result of my
reflections on the subjects concerning which you have
questioned me. I say, too, that the pursuit of the real or
natural sciences is the most satisfactory of studies.
When I learn a fact which I can prove with a vial of
acid, or a bladder of air, or an iron rod, I feel that I have
learned something which man cannot contradict. I have
been instructed by nature's own lips, and there is no one
to gainsay what she has told me. I feel that these are
pursuits which elevate and invigorate, instead of bewildering
and enervating the mind.
I look with reverence upon the great scientific discoverer,—
on the man of robust genius, who stands in his
laboratory, surrounded by the elements of the universe—
who seizes, enchains, combines, arranges, and makes
subservient to his mighty will, the vast and wonderful
powers of nature; and I feel that even I, while occupied
with my own experiments—my own crude and puerile
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attempts, am yet stepping in the trace of God—I feel that,
however blindly and darkly, I am yet investigating the
mechanism of worlds,—that I am learning to become a
god myself; (for the man of to-day is, in all scientific
matters, a god to the man of a century since,) and I feel
that the man who is fortunate enough to produce any
great discovery, after years of painful study, and in the
agony of the brain, bestows it upon the world as an additional
blessing to those which have emanated directly
from the Creator.
It is for these reasons that I reverence the man who,
from careful study of created things, proceeds himself to
create; and who wastes not his time in idle and painful
speculations.
Recollect that, in the very age when those learned and
metaphysical schoolmen, who had even been to Arabia
to complete their education, were spending years in speculating
“whether fishes think,” “whether stars were
animals, and if so, did they eat,” and other equally profound
and sensible matters of study,—a quiet friar invented
gunpowder. I do not give this as an example of
the beneficent tendency of real or scientific study, but
certainly as one of its vast and stupendous results.
I make occasional tours for weeks long in the Giant
Mountains. I am accompanied always by my faithful
servant “Praise God,” the executioner's son. I assure
you, I have always been glad that I persuaded him, in a
moment of whim, to forswear his father's truculent profession,
and follow my fortunes; for truly he has proved
a most faithful and worthy coadjutor.
During these tours, which I always make on foot, to
make collections and investigations, I pick up a stone—a
shell—a fossil—or a petrifaction of an animal or weed.
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I examine—analyze—decompose—compare—I consult
the works of former geologists, mineralogists, and great
scientific travellers. I investigate—I ruminate—I even
allow myself a little speculation, for speculation with a
stone for its subject is not dreaming. If I soar too far,
there is still a stone tied to the string, which brings me
back to earth. I examine—I go backward—I ascend
with history to the sources. She faints by the way side—
she is no more. I push boldly on—I dash into the
midst of antiquity. I wander, and call aloud. I invoke
the ghosts of the old time. I am in the dark it is true,
and shrouded in mist; but I have voluntarily entered.
I walked alone only when I was deserted by History, and
I cease not to implore the more powerful hand of nature
to support and direct me—and I do find it—and I am
strengthened and consoled.
Some of these days I may send you more particular
accounts of my occupations. For the present I will
have done boring you. I make no apology for my
tediousness, for you have drawn it upon yourself by your
interrogations; so that in the words of Dogberry, “If I
were as tedious as a king, I could find it in my heart to
bestow it all upon your worship.”
Farewell.—Praise-God desires his brotherly love to
Herman.
Thine ever, U. M.
Prague, 1777.
They make a great deal of fuss about a little opera girl
they have just produced on our boards. The peans that
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are sung in her praise, have been loud enough to penetrate
the walls of my workshop. There is no end to the
wreaths and the garlands which old men and young
men, women and children, unite in laying at her feet.
The green-houses are all but torn down, and if things
continue as they are, the flower-women will soon ride in
their coaches.
The worst of it is, that they are all abusing me. By
all, I mean the three or four persons who form my whole
acquaintance in this place. Madame de Walldorff
laughs at me for a Cherokee savage, and even my worthy
counsellor, professor and adviser, M. de Kinski, is
likely to cut me, if I am not willing to prostrate myself
with him at the shrine of this deity. But I will not be
flouted from my humour. The fact is, I hate your singing
women. I am a very bad musician; am not easily
moved by the concord of sweet sounds, and have the bad
taste to prefer infinitely a male voice to a woman's. What
annoys me more than all, is the stuff that these people
talk about the creature's shrinking modesty—tremulous
gestures, blushes, and the Lord knows what. The
shrinking modesty, forsooth, of a woman who exhibits
herself to a thousand people nightly.
I should care little for the whole business, if my absence
from the opera, during this mania, were not set
down by the few friends I have here, as dictated by
downright affectation, and a love of singularity.
Madame de Walldorff insists upon it that I should be
in love with her at first sight. I answer that I shall
never be in love again with any woman but herself.
This is true. Madame de Walldorff is old enough to be
my mother, and certainly is not, and does not pretend to
be a beauty. She is, however, one of the most
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fascinating women I ever knew; and if I had not already conceived
an affection for her, half filial and half fraternal,
which I know she reciprocates, I might perhaps fall in
love with her. As it is, there is no danger.
It is only in Germany that I have seen women like
her. Women who are high-born without conceit of birth,
literary without a tinge of pedantry, political without an
inch of intrigue, sentimental without mawkishness, witty
without insincerity, and to crown all, poetesses without
printing. This comes pretty near my idea of a perfect
woman, and this is a “picture in little” of Ottila Von
Walldorff. She is as learned as Anna Comnena, and
as well dressed as any duchesse of the Faubourg St.
Germain. She knows as much of the real state of parties
and politics throughout the civilized world as most
foreign ministers, and writes better verses than most of
our celebrated sonneteers. She is a Lady Bountiful to
her dependants. She is virtuous beyond the reach of
detraction; and in short—but what stuff have I been
twaddling, and of what use was ever a description except
in an auctioneer's advertisement!
You ask me after my studies I am, however, determined
to bore you no longer with any details of that sort.
Suffice that I am as busy and as interested as ever. I
am very good-natured, and moreover I am growing fat—
a sure sign that philosophy agrees with me.
Old Kinski has been taken off a little by this balladmonger.
I am, however, at present able to take care of
myself; still I desire his company and his sympathy, if
not his guidance.
He is certainly a most extraordinary fellow. He is
verging upon sixty, but is still as lively and enthusiastic
a juvenal. His whole soul is wrapped in the sciences,
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and he has devoted his whole life to their pursuit. The
fine arts have, however, been cultivated by him rather
as a pastime and a relaxation than a study, except
music, of which he is a passionate and a very skilful
professor.
As he is my principal companion, and likely to take a
prominent part in whatever I may find worth relating
to you during my residence in Prague, I will briefly describe
our first interview.
You recollect that our mutual friend, Pappenheim, is
his nephew. While we were in Göttingen, that young
gentleman had been a long time in treaty for the head
of Hanswurst, the housebreaker, who you know was
executed shortly after our arrival. This he designed as
a present for his uncle Kinski. It is very odd that the
future ambassador commenced his diplomatic career, in
such a singular transaction; but the most remarkable
part of the business was, that it was protracted almost
as interminably as a treaty between two first-rate sovereigns.
Although Papp managed the affair with the utmost
adroitness, it was near seven years before he could bring
the party to terms. I shall not describe to you the various
causes of its prolongation, or the manner in which
a favourable result was ultimately brought about. You
will probably find all the protocols and other papers in all
the good collections “pour servir,” belonging to the eighteenth
century. Suffice that by the merest accident I
fell in with Pappenheim at Vienna about six years ago,
on my return from the East. He informed me that he
had just received Hanswurst's head by the diligence, and
intended to forward it immediately to his uncle, and concluded
by assuring me it would be a great favour if I
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would carry it myself. I desired nothing better, for I
had been anxious to improve the slight acquaintance
which I had with Baron Kinski. The head was accordingly
delivered to me. It was put down in pickle and
placed in a stone jar, which was carefully sealed. Immediately
on my arrival I called on the Baron. He was
out, and I left my card and the pickled housebreaker, to
be delivered to him as soon as he should return.
The next day I received an invitation to sup with him.
At about nine o'clock I went to the house which he had
indicated to me in his note, and which was one of the
most crazy antediluvian looking mansions in this tumble-down
city.
I was informed by the porter that Baron Kinski lived
on the second floor; and thither accordingly I directed
my steps.
It was the most intricate break-neck stair-case I had
ever the pleasure of ascending, and as it was only lighted
by a half expiring lamp, stuck along with an effigy
of the Madonna, against the dingy wall, I assure you
that it was not without imminent risk of my life that I
reached my destination.
At last I reached the door, and jingled the bell. Nobody
came. I repeated the experiment half-a-dozen
times with no better success. At last I got tired of that
amusement and pushed in.
I found myself in a sort of antichamber. There were,
however, no servants, although it must be confessed
that I was not without companions. I was surrounded
by my fellow-creatures, but whether they were, like myself,
strangers waiting for an audience, or established inmates
of the house, I was not able to decide. Not to
keep you any longer in suspense, they were all skeletons.
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I should think there must have been twenty, arranged
in parallel rows as if for a country dance.
You have no idea what a singular impression such a
scene made upon a mind so unprepared for finding itself
in such company as mine was.
The antichamber was high and gloomy, and though
better furnished with light than the passage, was dark
enough in all conscience. There was one dusty window,
however, through which a few feeble and dismal
moonbeams contrived to make their way, and to add
new ghastliness to the place.
My deceased friends stood in the most ludicrous positions.
They had been fastened on their stands so
carelessly, that some of the wires had become loosened,
and some of the bones had dropped off.
One tall fellow stood with his body bent towards me,
as if for a respectful salute, an amicable grin upon his
lantern jaws, and a gigantic arm awkwardly extended
as if to grasp my own.
Another was writhing his arms and legs into all sorts
of postures like a dancing master; and a third was
stooping down, apparently with the intent of rolling
at nine-pins with his own head, which had become detached
from its socket, and was rolling on the floor very
near his hand.
Presently I heard something like a sigh in a distant
corner. My heart began to beat, and I felt confoundedly
nervous. Then there was a deuced rattling of bones
in the same corner. I did not know what to make of
it. I felt convinced I must have got into some charnel-house
by mistake. I stood stock still.
Presently all was silent.
I took courage. It must have been imagination.
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The sigh must have been merely a breath of wind
through the open casement, and the rattling of course
proceeded from some of these thinly-clad skeletons
which were shivering in the breeze.
I began to take courage. I manned myself and advanced
a step; suddenly the sigh was repeated. There
was no mistaking it. I began to tremble. I am not
ashamed to confess it.
Another sigh still deeper than before, and then came
an awful voice, hollow as if from the depths of the grave.
“Oh, my God!” said the Ghost.
It was too much for me. I fairly turned tail with the
intention of beating a retreat. In my haste, however, I
blundered against my obsequious friend with the outstretched
arms, overset him, stumbled, and at last found
myself locked in his skeleton embrace and sprawling on
the ground.
It was an awful moment—I felt very near fainting.
At last I aroused my courage, rescued myself from the
clutches of the tall gentleman, (who, by the way, lost a
jaw-bone and half a leg in the encounter,) and proceeded
directly to the fatal corner.
When I got there it was only an old woman.
“What the deuce are you doing here?” said I, beginning
to bluster so soon as I found myself in the company
of flesh and blood.
She made no answer, but continued to sigh and
whimper.
“What are you crying about, good woman?” said I,
renewing the attack.
No answer.
“Will you have the kindness, madame, to tell me if
this is the infernal regions, or only a cemetery?”
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“Oh, my husband, my poor husband!” was her sole
reply.
“Where is he?” said I, not exactly seeing what her
husband had to do with the matter.
“There!' said she, pointing to a skeleton as tall as
my late antagonist.
It was hung with wreaths of flowers, and the skull
ornamented with a garland of evergreens.
“Your husband, judging from his present appearance,
must have been dead some years. Has not time taught
you to moderate your grief?
“Alas! yes, sir—but this is poor Ernest's birth-day,
and Baron Kinski is kind enough to allow me to visit my
husband on each anniversary. I always bring flowers
with me. It is a comfort to me to dress him out as you
see.”
“How long has he been dead?”
“Just nineteen years, your excellency.”
“And are you very regular in your visits?” I asked.
“I have never been absent but on one occasion,”
was the reply.
“When was that?”
“When? If your excellency will let me reflect—It
was the year after the one in which Fritz was with his
cannon on the hill yonder. My grandfather said that
Brunslik would appear with his sword then—but he did
not. I suppose there was to be more work for him one
of these days. Well, well,—I shall be dead then—I
shall see nothing of the misery of the days which are to
come. Yes, it was the year afterwards, for it was the
day or two days before Pentecost that I first saw Adolph.
He was in the grand procession of the victorious army,
and had on his bright blue uniform, with the laced boots,
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and the new spurs that he had bought after his old ones
had been shot off his heels, your excellency, at the
battle of Rossbach, and his plumes and the ribbon I
had given him were both waving in his helmet, your
excellency, green, red, and blue, were the colours, your
excellency; and as he rode down the street with his
regiment, he looked up at the garret window, where I
was looking at the procession in company with the Frau
Mendels, where I went to see the show; because the
house I lived in was on the Nagler Strasse, and the procession
did not go through that street, because it was so
narrow, and moreover they had been repairing it at one
end, your excellency, and this was just seventeen years
come next Pentecost, and seventeen years to-day, that
no garland was given to poor Ernest, your excellency,
by his window.”
“And why not?” said I, not exactly seeing the drift
of this long story about Pentecost and the battle of
Rossbach.
“I was married that day, your excellency,” said the
garrulous old woman.
“Married! what again?”
“Yes, your excellency, to Adolph.”
“In short,” said I, “the only occasion on which you
omitted to bring his birthday-wreath to your buried
husband, was your wedding-day with his successor.”
“Exactly so, sir. Will your excellency give a poor
widow a four-grosschen piece, to remember you by?”
“With pleasure,” I replied, `if your excellency will
conduct me to the presence either of Baron Kinski, or
any of his servants. But you are a widow, you say,—
have you lost your second husband too?”
“Yes, your excellency, he was a dragoon, and killed
in the battle of Katzenberg.”
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“And was your first husband a dragoon too?”
“Alas! no, sir, he was a tailor; but he got into bad
habits, and was executed for counterfeiting.”
With these words the old creature threw open a
door, and I found myself in the presence of my host.
This letter has, however, swelled to such an unconscionable
length, that I must reserve the rest for another
opportunity.
Thine ever, U. M.
Prague, 1777.
I left myself on the threshold of Kinski.—The room
into which I was ushered was spacious and lofty, and
the light was admitted through long narrow windows,
with heavy mullions and small diamond panes.
There were two or three magnificent Rembrandts on
the walls, and one Caravaggio, (the eternal Sharper and
his Dupe.)
The ceiling was ornamented with a tolerably well
executed fresco, but the walls were scrawled all over
with black chalk (by Kinski himself as I afterwards discovered)
in the most extraordinary fashion Hideous
grimacing heads, monsters with horrible eyes and lolling
tongues, chimeras, griffins, toads with horns, and cows
with wings, and all such absurd creations as appear in
some of Teniers's “temptations,” or display themselves
in the dreams of a fever, arrested my attention. The
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sketches were all very large, boldly executed, and evidently
with the hand of a master.
The invariable stuccoed stove stood in one corner,
and was surmounted by a death's head and cross-bones,
which gave it the appearance of a funeral monument.
A shelf, which extended conspicuously across the room,
was crowded with all sorts of lusus naturæ, neatly arranged
in vials and glass bottles, and in the centre was
a very large globe of the sort used for gold fish, in which
the head of my friend, Hanswurst, was displayed to
great advantage.
The room was crowded with books, cabinets of minerals,
bug-boxes, anatomical preparations, and all kinds
of natural curiosities, and in a large alcove was an apparently
very perfect collection of chemical apparatus.
A painter's easel stood in a corner, and a half-finished
sketch gave evidence of more genius than usually falls
to the share of an amateur.
The tables were crowded with books, pamphlets, prints,
and papers, nearly all on scientific subjects; while a guitar
and several sheets of music lay upon a piano. I had
time to take note of all these things very leisurely, for
there was nobody in the room, and my conductress had
vanished.
At last, however, an inner door opened, and Kinski
entered.
He was a hale old man, turned of sixty, with a hilarious
and healthy countenance.
A badly made chesnut wig contrasted whimsically
with his brown and wrinkled countenance; but the
eye was bright and pleasant, and the teeth tolerably
well preserved.
The figure was about the middle height, compact, and
slightly corpulent.
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His dress was exceedingly neat, contrary to the habit
of most students, and his frill was exquisitely plaited.
He advanced towards me, shook me warmly by the
hand, and we were soon engaged in earnest conversation.
He discussed all sorts of topics, but his principal themes
were music and anatomy. When he found that my
attention had been directed of late to the natural sciences,
he seemed delighted, and became very communicative.
A servant presently announced that supper was ready.
“I have invited no company to meet you, Mr. Morton,”
said he, “because I wished that we should make
each other's acquaintance first; and secondly, because
till I knew you I could not tell what sort of people you
would suit and would be suited to you.”
I testified my gratification at our being alone. He
gave me his arm, and we were proceeding to the supper
room—
“Stay, stay,” said he, “I had forgotten my duty to
my own family—I have not introduced you, I believe, to
my grandfather.”
“Is it possible,” thought I, “that this sexagenarian
can have a grandfather?—But these Germans are so
long-lived.”
“But will be not sup with us?” said I, aloud.
“Ha, ha, ha—very good—very good!” chuckled the
Baron, “very excellent! No, no—I am afraid we shall
hardly induce him;” and, so saying, he suddenly opened
the door of a small mahogany cabinet.
“Mr. Morton, Baron Kinski—Baron Kinski—Mr.
Morton.”
It was a stuffed man!
For an instant I was staggered; but recovering my
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self-possession, and wishing to please the humourist, I
made a low obeisance, and assured the old gentleman I
was charmed to make his acquaintance.
It was the skin of a man of middle stature, the features
admirably well preserved, with glass eyes, and
stuffed exactly in the manner of wild beasts in a museum.
He had apparently died when a little advanced in
years. The hair and beard were a sable silvered, and
both were nicely combed.
I had sometimes seen such exhibitions in anatomical
collections.
“But why do you dignify him with your grandfather's
title?”
“Because he is my grandfather!” said he, coolly.
“And how came he into his present enviable position?”
“Position!—his position is a very good one. This is
an excellent and very handsome cabinet. I call him my
cabinet minister—very good—ha—ha—ha!”
“Very good indeed,” said I; “but pray do you think
he would have been satisfied with his situation if he had
been consulted on the subject?”
“Consulted—why he selected it for himself—you must
know,” continued he, “that the Kinskis have been, for
several generations, great lovers of science, and withal
great humourists.
“My grandfather, the gentleman in the glass case,
was a profound student of anatomy. Just before his
death, having a small independent property to leave,
(apart from the family estate, which descended to my father,
and subsequently to my eldest brother,) he summoned
his grandchildren to his bed-side. It happened
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that there were but two boys among them, my cousin
Herman Kinski, and myself.
“`I have a small estate, sufficient to support a moderate
man,' said he, `I am desirous of leaving it to one of
you two.'
“`Had you rather,' he continued, addressing himself
to Herman, `had you rather that I should bequeath to
you my body (which, by the way must be always preserved
and kept in the family of him who inherits it,) or
my estate?'
“`God forbid,' cried the booby Herman, `that my
grandfather's body should be deprived of Christian
burial, and a worthy monument by the side of his ancestors!
'
“`In other words,' said the old gentleman, `you would
prefer the estate—and you, Caspar?' he continued, turning
to me.
“Now I had already become imbued with many of
my grandfather's whims or absurdities, (if you choose to
call them so,) and, moreover, I suspected that he intended
to favour me; so I answered boldly—
“`God forbid that I should hesitate for an instant
between two such unequal offers—I take the body. God
forbid, too, that so distinguished a votary of science as
my grandfather, should be doomed to a vulgar burial
like common individuals.'
“`It is well,' said my grandfather, `my body is yours,
Caspar.'
“`And the estate?' eagerly demanded Herman.
“But my grandfather had sunk back exhausted.
“The next day he revived a little, and the next day
he was able to sit up and be dressed. On the third, he
was sitting in his arm chair, in his dressing-gown and
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slippers, and every body thought he was fairly recovering,
when he suddenly fell back and expired.
“I believe from my soul that he did it on purpose; the
eccentric old gentleman could not bear to do anything like
other people, and I have no doubt he was inwardly chuckling
at the last gasp at having given us the slip so cleverly.
“The will was opened—no mention was found of the
estate in question; but by a codicil, his body and the
clothes that he last wore, were bequeathed to me.
“I claimed the body, as a matter of course. It was
delivered to me.
“On putting my hand into the pocket of the dressing-gown
which he wore when he died, I discovered a package
of papers. One of them was a letter. It was directed
to me. I hastily opened it. First, without any preface,
it contained a long list of instructions for pickling
and flaying human bodies, together with directions for
stuffing and embalming them. He urged upon me
strongly the necessity of setting about my task immediately.
After I got to the end of all this, I discovered a
very important postscript. It was simply a devise (in
consideration of his great affection for me, and particularly
of his approbation of the love for science and for his
person which I had displayed in my late choice,) to me
and my heirs of the whole estate in question.
“The other papers were the title deeds, &c. of the
estate.”
“And you accepted the whole of course?” said I.
“To be sure!” said he, “I became independent for
life. I skinned and stuffed my grandfather immediately,
and then set off on my travels.
“I have visited your hemisphere. I have been long
in South America, in India, and, in short, almost every
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part of this world. I have vast collections, and have
followed the bent of my natural genius; and all this I
owe to my beloved grandfather.”
With this he shut the door of the case, and led the
way to supper.
I could not help thinking, by the association of contrast,
of your grandfather's will, Lackland, and the bequest
of the halter.
The supper room was a small apartment, and full of
old fashioned furniture; the repast and the wines were
excellent, and the baron's conversation very agreeable.
I congratulated him on having had relations whose
sympathy with his own tastes had enabled him to benefit
the world by his studies and his travels.
“All my relations, however,” was his reply, “were
not so accommodating as my grandfather.
“I had an old aunt who had a pretty property, and
wished to leave me a pretty legacy. She sent for me
and intimated her intentions. At that time, I had not
the ample collection which you probably saw in my
antichamber, but was earnestly longing to commence it.
When she asked me what sort of a legacy I should prefer
to receive from her, I begged her hastily to leave me
nothing but her skeleton. The old lady was so incensed
that she ordered me instantly from her presence. She
died that very evening of spite, and left me a grosschen.”
“She certainly was not actuated by the scientific spirit
of your grandfather. Was she his daughter?”
“Yes—but I have not told you how I lost a pretty
and accomplished wife through my devotion to science.”
“No—indeed! I was not aware you had been
married.”
“Nor have I. It was because I wedded myself so
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early to science, that I lost the chance of marrying a
creature as fair as science herself.”
“How was it?”
“The family of Weiblingen had long been intimate
with her own. Propositions had been made to my
mother that our families should be united. It was determined
that I should marry the lovely Bertha Weiblingen.
I made no objections. I had never seen her;
but as she was represented as well born, well looking,
and wealthy, what objection could I make? I had been
represented, I suppose, in as favourable a light to her.
The negociations had been secret, however; and she
had been induced, with her mother, to visit us in Prague.
They were then living in Vienna.
“The day she arrived, my mother hastened to my
study to communicate the event.
“I had at that moment received an exquisite present
from Vienna—it was a female skeleton. It was soon
after my mortification about my aunt, and as that event
was fresh in my memory, I was proportionably consoled.
Those deuced skeletons were to play me another
trick yet. I had received my present, unpacked it, examined
it, and placed it in its destined corner. It was
my first acquisition—my maiden skeleton—although I
believe she had been married in her lifetime.
“I was seated in my arm-chair, gazing at my treasure
in an ecstacy of delight, when my mother entered.
“`She has come at last, the little dear!” said my
mother.
“`Yes, thank God!” said I, rubbing my hands, and
thinking she meant the skeleton.
“`She is a beautiful creature,' said my mother.
“`Perfect, perfect,' I replied.
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“`You have seen her, then?' said my mother, with
some surprise.
“`Certainly—last month, when I was in Vienna,'
said I.
“`Did you ever see such beautiful teeth? said she.
“`Exquisite, exquisite! I never saw teeth or jaws so
well preserved.'
“`Such a rounded symmetry in the whole form,'
said she.
“`The os coccygis is perfect,' said I.
“`Such a fairy foot!' said my mother.
“`The bone of each toe in its proper place.'
“`Springy motion,' said she.
“`Set on patent wire,' said I.
“`What upon earth are you talking about, Caspar?'
said my mother, her eyes suddenly opening.
“`About my skeleton,' said I, `to be sure. Are not
you?'
“`Heaven preserve us! I was talking of your bride,'
shrieked the poor lady.
“A light laugh rang through the open door—a light
form bounded through the passage—Bertha Weiblingen
had crept stealthily to the door at the commencement of
the conversation. She wished to have a sly peep at her
intended lover. She had heard the whole conversation,
and she never forgave me—
“Take a glass of St. George.”
The old gentleman laughed heartily on concluding
this story, so that it was evident the whole affair had not
occasioned him much regret.
I do not recollect much else that occurred on that evening,
and if this letter has answered the purpose of making
you a little better acquainted with one of the most
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learned and benevolent old gentlemen in Germany, my
purpose will have been answered.
Thine ever, U. M.
April 15, 1777.
You have no idea what a beautiful opera it is, dearest
Ida. Positively you must come to Prague immediately.
And Minna—the glorious Minna—you have no idea of
such an actress.
The opera was composed for her expressly; it is her
best and her favourite part. Every note of the music
from beginning to end is beautiful. You have never
seen it—you will never see it if you continue to be so
obstinate. Let me describe it to you.
You are in your box—my box—for mine is the best
in the theatre. You are in my box—old Spontini, who
is still the best of orchestra leaders, enters—lace ruffles,
and all. The three raps are given. All is silent—for
the enthusiasm for the opera is universal—Spontini
waves his fiddlestick, and away they go.
Such a gush of melody! Such a flood of sweet
sounds! The music represents morning—morning
with the earth awaking, the flowers opening, the birds
warbling, the butterflies humming, the fruit trees waving
in the breeze.
And then another strain, merry as a morrice-dance.
Your heart-strings flutter—your feet pat the floor—you
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yield to the merry infleunce—when, lo! a startling
trumpet—a blast which makes you, woman as you are,
feel yourself a hero; and then again the merry peal—
and then the plaintive tinkling of a guitar. The curtain
rises, and an unseen lover chants a sweet romance.
That romance is answered—(attend, dearest Ida)—
by the low notes of a woman's voice.
Ah, those low, deep, spirit-like tones—those tones beyond
all instruments! She is unseen too; but who that
had ever heard could mistake the strains of the enchantress.
I cannot say that I am often affected by a woman's
voice. There are instruments which surpass it; but
there is something in those low notes beyond all combinations
of reed, or chord, or wire; and which seems
to swell out from the deepest fountain of the soul.
The sounds are not human; they are spiritual, supernatural.
I do not know how it is, but it seems to me, Ida,
that it is not my heart alone that is affected by this music.
My intellect is awakened, my soul is aroused. My mind
(if I have one,) the divinest part of me, is excited sometimes
to madness. While yielding to the influence of
such strains as these, my fancy kindles, ideas swarm,
bright fancies flash across my brain on golden wings.
I listen and dream, till I dream myself in heaven—till I
feel myself a divinity.
The music ceases, and I fall flat from my empyrean.
It is very bad taste I know, my dear Ida, to write such
stuff; but really when I speak of this opera I get very
enthusiastic, and I suppose very foolish.
This same paragon is as delightful in private as in
public. I have met her several times, and she is now
always at my parties and concerts. Her manner is high
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bred and excellent—by the way she is said to be the
natural child of a man of rank—when you come you
shall see her. Her conversation is delightful.
I believe that you are acquainted with Sir Doomsday
Gules, an English baronet, who has been an habitual
resident in Prague for some years. He is an odd person,
about fifty years of age. His main object in life seems
to have been to free his estate (which is said to be a
very fine one) of the mortgages by which it has, so over-laden
by his predecessors, as to produce hardly any
income.
For this purpose he has lived on a pittance for many
years, and begins to look forward with some confidence
at present, to a final extrication from his difficulties.
His economical habits have, however, at length become
fixed upon him, to a great degree, and he is moreover
on principle a profound egotist.
Now the most entertaining and oddest thing in the
world has happened. What does my poor Sir Doomsday
but fall over head and ears in love with Minna,
the enchanting actress of whose praises this letter is so
full.
Conceive of this economist of fifty, in love with an extravagant—
for extravagance is her foible—with an extravagant
actress of eighteen! Can you conceive of any
thing more absurd?
The best of it is, that Minna, who is méchante sometimes,
makes all manner of fun of him. She contrives
that he shall make her vast quantities of presents, shawls,
trinkets, watches, and all sorts of fine things, which she
immediately presents to her dressing-maid. Sometimes
poor Doomsday has the mortification of meeting the
maid, tricked out in some of the finery, which it has cost
him so many pangs and so many Louis to purchase.
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Still, however, he perseveres. He offers her marriage.
She laughs at him, coquettes with him, makes a fool of
him. It is amusing to see them together at Kinski's
musical parties. It is too bad, however, of Minna; and
some one ought really to interfere.
But Sir Doomsday and the Fräulein have occupied
so much of this letter, dear Ida, that I have only room
in it to express my gratitude for your letters, and to reiterate
my entreaties that you should fulfil that promise so
long made, and so long, by one at least, forgotten.
Thine own Ottilia.
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Motley, John Lothrop, 1814-1877 [1839], Morton's hope, or, The memoirs of a provincial, volume 2 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf284v2].
