Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque — 1840, volume I — reading text

perceive, the fundamental doctrine of his metaphysics.” “Were you ever at Rome?” — asked the restaurateur as he finished his second bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the closet a larger supply of Vin de Chambertin. “But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon — but once. There was a time” — said the devil, as if reciting some passage from a book — ‘there was a time when occurred an anarchy of five years during which the republic, bereft of all its officers, had no magistracy besides the tribunes of the people, and these were not legally vested with any degree of executive power’ — at that time, Monsieur Bon-Bon — at that time only I was in Rome, and I have no earthly acquaintance, consequently, with any of its philosophy.”* “What do you think of Epicurus? — what do you think of — hiccup! — Epicurus?” “What do I think of whom?” — said the devil in astonishment — “you cannot surely mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I think of Epicurus! Do you mean me, sir? — I am Epicurus. I am the same philosopher who wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated by Diogenes Laertes.” “That's a lie!” — said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a little into his head. “Very well! — very well, sir! — very well indeed, sir” — said his majesty. “That's a lie!” — repeated the restaurateur dogmatically — “that's a — hiccup! — lie!” “Well, well! have it your own way” — said the devil pacifically: and Bon-Bon, having beaten his majesty at an argument, thought it his duty to conclude a second bottle of Chambertin. “As I was saying” — resumed the visiter — “as I was observing a little while ago, there are some very outré notions in that book of yours, Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that humbug about the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?” “The — hiccup! — soul” — replied the metaphysician, referring to his MS. — “is undoubtedly” — “No, sir!” “Indubitably” — “No, sir!” “Indisputably” — “No, sir!” “Evidently” — “No, sir!” “Incontrovertibly” — “No, sir!” “Hiccup!” — “No, sir!” “And beyond all question a” — “No, sir! the soul is no such thing.” (Here the philosopher finished his third bottle of Chambertin.) “Then — hic-cup! — pray — sir — what — what is it?” “That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon,” replied his majesty, musingly. “I have tasted — that is to say I have known some very bad souls, and some too — pretty good ones.” Here the devil licked his lips, and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume in his pocket, was seized with a violent fit of sneezing. His majesty continued. “There was the soul of Cratinus — passable: — Aristophanes — racy: — Plato — exquisite: — not your Plato, but Plato the comic poet: your Plato would have turned the stomach of Cerberus — faugh! Then let me see! there were Nœvius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then there were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintius Flaccus — dear Quinty! as I called him when he sung a seculare for my amusement, while I toasted him in pure good humor on a fork. But they want flavor these Romans. One fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will keep, which cannot be said of a Quirite. Let us taste your Sauterne.” Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to the nil admirari, and endeavored to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however, conscious of a strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail. Of this, although extremely indecent in his majesty, the philosopher took no notice — simply kicking the black water-dog and requesting him to be quiet. The visiter continued. “I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle — you know I am fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from Menander. Naso, to my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a strong twang of Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus — and Titus Livy was positively Polybius and none other.” “Hic — cup!” — here replied Bon-Bon, and his majesty proceeded. “But if I have a penchant, Monsieur Bon-Bon, — if I have a penchant, it is for a philosopher. Yet, let me tell you, sir, it is not every dev — I mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to choose a philosopher. Long ones are not good; and the best, if not carefully shelled, are apt to be a little rancid on account of the gall.” “Shelled!!” “I mean taken out of the carcass.” “What do you think of a — hiccup! — physician?” “Don't mention them! — ugh! ugh!” (Here his majesty retched violently.) “I never tasted but one — that rascal Hippocrates! — smelt of asafœtida — ugh! ugh! ugh! — caught a wretched cold washing him in the Styx — and after all he gave me the cholera morbus.” “The — hiccup! — wretch!” — ejaculated Bon-Bon — “the — hic-cup! — abortion of a pill-box!” — and the philosopher dropped a tear. “After all” — continued the visiter — “after all, if a dev — if a gentleman wishes to live he must have more talents than one or two; and with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy.” “How so?” “Why we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know that in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to keep a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death, unless pickled immediately, (and a pickled spirit is not good,) they will — smell — you understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be apprehended when the spirits are consigned to us in the usual way.” “Hiccup! — hiccup! — good God! how do you manage?” Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the devil half started from his seat — however, with a slight sigh, he recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low tone, “I tell you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we must have no more swearing.” Bon-Bon swallowed another bumper, and his visiter continued. “Why there are several ways of managing. The most of us starve: some put up with the pickle. For my part I purchase my spirits vivente corpore, in which case I find they keep very well.” “But the body! — hiccup! — the body!!!” — vociferated the philosopher, as he finished a bottle of Sauterne. “The body, the body — well, what of the body? — oh! ah! I perceive. Why, sir, the body is not at all affected by the transaction. I have made innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties never experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain, and Nimrod, and Nero, and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and — and a thousand others, who never knew what it was to have a soul during the latter part of their lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why is'nt there A——, now, whom you know as well as I? Is he not in possession of all his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who — but, stay! I have his agreement in my pocket-book.” Thus saying, he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a number of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the letters MACHI . . . . . . . . , MAZA . . . . , RICH . . . . . , and the words CALIGULA and ELIZABETH. His majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from it read aloud the following words: “In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary to specify, and in farther consideration of one thousand louis d’or, I, being aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the bearer of this agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the shadow called my soul.” (Signed) A . . . . . .* (Here his majesty repeated a name which I do not feel myself justifiable in indicating more unequivocally.) “A clever fellow that A . . . . . .” — resumed he; “but like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon, he was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow truly! — no such nonsense, Monsieur Bon-Bon. The soul a shadow!! ha! ha! ha! — he! he! he! — hu! hu! hu! Only think of a fricasséed shadow!” “Only think — hiccup! — of a fricasséed shadow!!” echoed our hero, whose faculties were becoming gloriously illuminated by the profundity of his majesty's discourse. “Only think of a — hiccup! — fricasséed shadow!!! Now, damme! — hiccup! — humph! — if I would have been such a — hiccup! — nincompoop. My soul, Mr. — humph!” “Your soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?” “Yes, sir — hiccup! — my soul is” — “What, sir?” “No shadow, damme!” “Did not mean to say” — “Yes, sir, my soul is — hiccup! — humph! — yes, sir.” “Did not intend to assert” — “My soul is — hiccup! — peculiarly qualified for — hiccup! — a” — “What, sir?” “Stew.” “Ha!” “Souflée.” “Eh?” “Fricassée.” “Indeed!” “Ragout or fricandeau — and see here! — I'll let you have it — hiccup! — a bargain.” “Could'nt think of such a thing,” said his majesty calmly, at the same time arising from his seat. The metaphysician stared. “Am supplied at present,” said his majesty. “Hiccup! — e-h?” — said the philosopher. “Have no funds on hand.” “What?” “Besides, very ungentlemanly in me” — “Sir!” “To take advantage of” — “Hiccup!” “Your present situation.” Here his majesty bowed and withdrew — in what manner the philosopher could not precisely ascertain — but in a well-concerted effort to discharge a bottle at “the villain,” the slender chain was severed that depended from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of the lamp. * Ils ecrivaient sur la Philosophie (Cicero, Lucretius, Seneca) mais c’etait la Philosophie Grécque. — Condorcet. * Quære — Arouet? SHADOW SHADOW. A FABLE. YE who read are still among the living, but I who write shall have long since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass away ere these memorials be seen of men. And when seen there will be some to disbelieve, and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron. The year had been a year of terror, and of feelings more intense than terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless, cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when, at the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is conjoined with the red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies, if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of mankind. Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a company of seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of brass: and the door was fashioned by the artizan Corinnos, and, being of rare workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies, likewise, in the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and the peopleless streets — but the boding and the memory of Evil, they would not be so excluded. There were things around us and about of which I can render no distinct account — things material and spiritual. Heaviness in the atmosphere — a sense of suffocation — anxiety — and above all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experience when the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our limbs — upon the household furniture — upon the goblets from which we drank; and all things were depressed, and borne down thereby — all things save only the flames of the seven iron lamps which illumined our revel. Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus remained burning all pallid and motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre formed upon the round table of ebony at which we sat, each of us