 | Mosses from an old manse |  |
MONSIEUR DU MIROIR.
Than the gentleman above-named, there is nobody, in the whole
circle of my acquaintance, whom I have more attentively studied,
yet of whom I have less real knowledge, beneath the surface which
it pleases him to present. Being anxious to discover who and
what he really is, and how connected with me, and what are to
be the results, to him and to myself, of the joint interest, which,
without any choice on my part, seems to be permanently established
between us—and incited, furthermore, by the propensities
of a student of human nature, though doubtful whether M. du
Miroir have aught of humanity but the figure—I have determined
to place a few of his remarkable points before the public, hoping to
be favored with some clew to the explanation of his character. Nor
let the reader condemn any part of the narrative as frivolous, since
a subject of such grave reflection diffuses its importance through
the minutest particulars, and there is no judging, beforehand, what
odd little circumstance may do the office of a blind man's dog,
among the perplexities of this dark investigation. And however
extraordinary, marvellous, preternatural, and utterly incredible,
some of the meditated disclosures may appear, I pledge my honor
to maintain as sacred a regard to fact, as if my testimony were
given on oath, and involved the dearest interests of the personage
in question. Not that there is matter for a criminal accusation
against M. du Miroir; nor am I the man to bring it forward, if
there were. The chief that I complain of is his impenetrable
good, and much worse, in the contrary case.
But, if undue partialities could be supposed to influence me,
M. du Miroir might hope to profit, rather than to suffer by them;
for, in the whole of our long intercourse, we have seldom had the
slightest disagreement; and, moreover, there are reasons for supposing
him a near relative of mine, and consequently entitled to
the best word that I can give him. He bears, indisputably, a
strong personal resemblance to myself, and generally puts on
mourning at the funerals of the family. On the other hand, his
name would indicate a French descent; in which case, infinitely
preferring that my blood should flow from a bold British and pure
Puritan source, I beg leave to disclaim all kindred with M. du
Miroir. Some genealogists trace his origin to Spain, and dub
him a knight of the order of the Caballeros de los Espejos, one
of whom was overthrown by Don Quixote. But what says M. du
Miroir, himself, of his paternity and his father-land? Not a word
did he ever say about the matter; and herein, perhaps, lies one
of his most especial reasons for maintaining such a vexatious
mystery—that he lacks the faculty of speech to expound it. His
lips are sometimes seen to move; his eyes and countenance are
alive with shifting expression, as if corresponding by visible
hieroglyphics to his modulated breath; and anon, he will seem
to pause, with as satisfied an air, as if he had been talking excellent
sense. Good sense or bad, M. du Miroir is the sole judge of
his own conversational powers, never having whispered so much
as a syllable, that reached the ears of any other auditor. Is he
really dumb?—or is all the world deaf?—or is it merely a piece
of my friend's waggery, meant for nothing but to make fools of
us? If so, he has the joke all to himself.
This dumb devil, which possesses M. du Miroir, is, I am persuaded,
the sole reason that he does not make me the most flattering
protestations of friendship. In many particulars—indeed, as
once in a great while, I speak a word or two—there exists the
greatest apparent sympathy between us. Such is his confidence
in my taste, that he goes astray from the general fashion, and
copies all his dresses after mine. I never try on a new garment,
without expecting to meet M. du Miroir in one of the same pattern.
He has duplicates of all my waistcoats and cravats, shirt-bosoms
of precisely a similar plait, and an old coat for private wear,
manufactured, I suspect, by a Chinese tailor, in exact imitation
of a beloved old coat of mine, with a facsimile, stitch by stitch,
of a patch upon the elbow. In truth, the singular and minute
coincidences that occur, both in the accidents of the passing day
and the serious events of our lives, remind me of those doubtful
legends of lovers, or twin-children, twins of fate, who have lived,
enjoyed, suffered, and died, in unison, each faithfully repeating
the least tremor of the other's breath, though separated by vast
tracts of sea and land. Strange to say, my incommodities belong
equally to my companion, though the burthen is nowise alleviated
by his participation. The other morning, after a night of torment
from the toothache, I met M. du Miroir with such a swollen
anguish in his cheek, that my own pangs were redoubled, as
were also his, if I might judge by a fresh contortion of his visage.
All the inequalities of my spirits are communicated to him, causing
the unfortunate M. du Miroir to mope and scowl through a
whole summer's day, or to laugh as long, for no better reason
than the gay or gloomy crotchets of my brain. Once we were
joint sufferers of a three months' sickness, and met like mutual
ghosts in the first days of convalescence. Whenever I have been
in love, M. du Miroir has looked passionate and tender, and never
did my mistress discard me, but this too susceptible gentleman
grew lack-a-daisical. His temper, also, rises to blood-heat, fever-heat,
or boiling-water heat, according to the measure of any
wrong which might seem to have fallen entirely on myself. I
wrath, depicted on his frowning brow. Yet, however
prompt in taking up my quarrels, I cannot call to mind that he
ever struck a downright blow in my behalf; nor, in fact, do I
perceive that any real and tangible good has resulted from his
constant interference in my affairs; so that, in my distrustful
moods, I am apt to suspect M. du Miroir's sympathy to be mere
outward show, not a whit better nor worse than other people's
sympathy. Nevertheless, as mortal man must have something
in the guise of sympathy, and whether the true metal, or merely
copperwashed, is of less moment, I choose rather to content myself
with M. du Miroir's, such as it is, than to seek the sterling coin,
and perhaps miss even the counterfeit.
In my age of vanities, I have often seen him in the ball-room,
and might again, were I to seek him there. We have encountered
each other at the Tremont theatre, where, however, he took his
seat neither in the dress-circle, pit, nor upper regions, nor threw
a single glance at the stage, though the brightest star, even Fanny
Kemble herself, might be culminating there. No; this whimsical
friend of mine chose to linger in the saloon, near one of the
large looking-glasses which throw back their pictures of the illuminated
room. He is so full of these unaccountable eccentricities,
that I never like to notice M. du Miroir, nor to acknowledge
the slightest connection with him, in places of public resort. He,
however, has no scruple about claiming my acquaintance, even
when his common sense, if he had any, might teach him that I
would as willingly exchange a nod with the Old Nick. It was
but the other day, that he got into a large brass kettle, at the entrance
of a hardware store, and thrust his head, the moment afterwards,
into a bright new warming-pan, whence he gave me a
most merciless look of recognition. He smiled, and so did I; but
these childish tricks make decent people rather shy of M. du
in town.
One of this singular person's most remarkable peculiarities is
his fondness for water, wherein he excels any temperance-man
whatever. His pleasure, it must be owned, is not so much to
drink it (in which respect, a very moderate quantity will answer
his occasions), as to souse himself over head and ears, wherever
he may meet with it. Perhaps he is a merman, or born of a
mermaid's marriage with a mortal, and thus amphibious by hereditary
right, like the children which the old river deities, or
nymphs of fountains, gave to earthly love. When no cleaner
bathing-place happened to be at hand, I have seen the foolish
fellow in a horse-pond. Sometimes he refreshes himself in the
trough of a town-pump, without caring what the people think
about him. Often, while carefully picking my way along the
street, after a heavy shower, I have been scandalized to see M.
du Miroir, in full dress, paddling from one mud-puddle to another,
and plunging into the filthy depths of each. Seldom have I
peeped into a well, without discerning this ridiculous gentleman
at the bottom, whence he gazes up, as through a long telescopic
tube, and probably makes discoveries among the stars by daylight.
Wandering along lonesome paths, or in pathless forests,
when I have come to virgin-fountains, of which it would have
been pleasant to deem myself the first discoverer, I have started
to find M. du Miroir there before me. The solitude seemed lonelier
for his presence. I have leaned from a precipice that frowns
over Lake George—which the French called Nature's font of
sacramental water, and used it in their log-churches here, and
their cathedrals beyond the sea—and seen him far below, in that
pure element. At Niagara, too, where I would gladly have forgotten
both myself and him, I could not help observing my companion,
in the smooth water, on the very verge of the cataract,
just above the Table Rock. Were I to reach the sources of the
Lado, whose garments the depths of ocean could not moisten,
it is difficult to conceive how he keeps himself in any decent
pickle; though I am bound to confess, that his clothes seem always
as dry and comfortable as my own. But, as a friend, I
could wish that he would not so often expose himself in liquor.
All that I have hitherto related may be classed among those
little personal oddities which agreeably diversify the surface of
society; and, though they may sometimes annoy us, yet keep
our daily intercourse fresher and livelier than if they were done
away. By an occasional hint, however, I have endeavored to
pave the way for stranger things to come, which, had they been
disclosed at once, M. du Miroir might have been deemed a shadow,
and myself a person of no veracity, and this truthful history
a fabulous legend. But, now that the reader knows me worthy
of his confidence, I will begin to make him stare.
To speak frankly, then, I could bring the most astounding
proofs that M. du Miroir is at least a conjuror, if not one of that
unearthly tribe with whom conjurors deal. He has inscrutable
methods of conveying himself from place to place, with the rapidity
of the swiftest steamboat or rail-car. Brick walls, and oaken
doors, and iron bolts, are no impediment to his passage. Here in
my chamber, for instance, as the evening deepens into night, I sit
alone—the key turned and withdrawn from the lock—the keyhole
stuffed with paper, to keep out a peevish little blast of wind.
Yet, lonely as I seem, were I to lift one of the lamps and step five
paces eastward, M. du Miroir would be sure to meet me, with a
lamp also in his hand. And, were I to take the stage coach to-morrow,
without giving him the least hint of my design, and post
onward till the week's end, at whatever hotel I might find myself,
I should expect to share my private apartment with this inevitable
M. du Miroir. Or, out of a mere wayward fantasy, were I to go,
by moonlight, and stand beside the stone font of the Shaker Spring
errand, and would not fail to meet me there. Shall I heighten
the reader's wonder? While writing these latter sentences, I
happened to glance towards the large round globe of one of the
brass andirons; and lo!—a miniature apparition of M. du Miroir,
with his face widened and grotesquely contorted, as if he were
making fun of my amazement. But he has played so many of
these jokes, that they begin to lose their effect. Once, presumptuous
that he was, he stole into the heaven of a young lady's
eyes, so that while I gazed, and was dreaming only of herself,
I found him also in my dream. Years have so changed him
since, that he need never hope to enter those heavenly orbs again.
From these veritable statements, it will be readily concluded,
that, had M. du Miroir played such pranks in old witch times,
matters might have gone hard with him; at least, if the constable
and posse comitatus could have executed a warrant, or the jailor
had been cunning enough to keep him. But it has often occurred
to me as a very singular circumstance, and as betokening either
a temperament morbidly suspicious, or some weighty cause of
apprehension, that he never trusts himself within the grasp even
of his most intimate friend. If you step forward to meet him, he
readily advances; if you offer him your hand, he extends his
own, with an air of the utmost frankness; but though you calculate
upon a hearty shake, you do not get hold of his little finger.
Ah, this M. du Miroir is a slippery fellow!
These, truly, are matters of special admiration. After vainly
endeavoring, by the strenuous exertion of my own wits, to gain a
satisfactory insight into the character of M. du Miroir, I had recourse
to certain wise men, and also to books of abstruse philosophy,
seeking who it was that haunted me, and why. I heard
long lectures, and read huge volumes, with little profit beyond
the knowledge that many former instances are recorded, in successive
ages, of similar connections between ordinary mortals and
alive, perhaps, besides myself, have such attendants. Would
that M. du Miroir could be persuaded to transfer his attachment
to one of those, and allow some other of his race to assume the
situation that he now holds in regard to me! If I must needs
have so intrusive an intimate, who stares me in the face in my
closest privacy, and follows me even to my bed-chamber, I should
prefer—scandal apart—the laughing bloom of a young girl, to
the dark and bearded gravity of my present companion. But
such desires are never to be gratified. Though the members of
M. du Miroir's family have been accused, perhaps justly, of
visiting their friends often in splendid halls and seldom in darksome
dungeons, yet they exhibit a rare constancy to the objects
of their first attachment, however unlovely in person or unamiable
in disposition, however unfortunate, or even infamous, and deserted
by all the world besides. So will it be with my associate.
Our fates appear inseparably blended. It is my belief, as I find
him mingling with my earliest recollections that we came into
existence together, as my shadow follows me into the sunshine,
and that, hereafter, as heretofore, the brightness or gloom of my
fortunes will shine upon, or darken, the face of M. du Miroir.
As we have been young together, and as it is now near the summer
noon with both of us, so, if long life be granted, shall each
count his own wrinkles on the other's brow, and his white hairs
on the other's head. And when the coffin-lid shall have closed
over me, and that face and form, which, more truly than the lover
swears it to his beloved, are the sole light of his existence, when
they shall be laid in that dark chamber, whither his swift and
secret footsteps cannot bring him,—then what is to become of
poor M. du Miroir! Will he have the fortitude, with my other
friends, to take a last look at my pale countenance? Will he
walk foremost in the funeral train? Will he come often and
haunt around my grave, and weed away the nettles, and plant
of my burial-stone? Will he linger where I have lived, to remind
the neglectful world of one who staked much to win a name,
but will not then care whether he lost or won?
Not thus will he prove his deep fidelity. Oh, what terror, if
this friend of mine, after our last farewell, should step into the
crowded street, or roam along our old frequented path, by the
still waters, or sit down in the domestic circle, where our faces
are most familiar and beloved! No; but when the rays of
Heaven shall bless me no more, nor the thoughtful lamp-light
gleam upon my studies, nor the cheerful fireside gladden the
meditative man, then, his task fulfilled, shall this mysterious being
vanish from the earth for ever. He will pass to the dark realm
of Nothingness, but will not find me there.
There is something fearful in bearing such a relation to a creature
so imperfectly known, and in the idea that, to a certain
extent, all which concerns myself will be reflected in its consequences
upon him. When we feel that another is to share the
self-same fortune with ourselves, we judge more severely of our
prospects, and withhold our confidence from that delusive magic
which appears to shed an infallibility of happiness over our own
pathway. Of late years, indeed, there has been much to sadden
my intercourse with M. du Miroir. Had not our union been a
necessary condition of our life, we must have been estranged ere
now. In early youth, when my affections were warm and free,
I loved him well, and could always spend a pleasant hour in his
society, chiefly because it gave me an excellent opinion of myself.
Speechless as he was, M. du Miroir had then a most agreeable
way of calling me a handsome fellow; and I, of course, returned
the compliment; so that, the more we kept each other's company,
the greater coxcombs we mutually grew. But neither of us need
apprehend any such misfortune now. When we chance to meet
—for it is chance oftener than design—each glances sadly at the
whence the hair is thinning away too early, and at the sunken
eyes, which no longer shed a gladsome light over the whole face.
I involuntarily peruse him as a record of my heavy youth, which
has been wasted in sluggishness, for lack of hope and impulse, or
equally thrown away in toil, that had no wise motive, and has
accomplished no good end. I perceive that the tranquil gloom of
a disappointed soul has darkened through his countenance, where
the blackness of the future seems to mingle with the shadows of
the past, giving him the aspect of a fated man. Is it too wild
a thought, that my fate may have assumed this image of myself,
and therefore haunts me with such inevitable pertinacity, originating
every act which it appears to imitate, while it deludes me
by pretending to share the events, of which it is merely the emblem
and the prophecy? I must banish this idea, or it will
throw too deep an awe round my companion. At our next meeting,
especially if it be at midnight or in solitude, I fear that I
shall glance aside and shudder; in which case, as M. du Miroir
is extremely sensitive to ill-treatment, he also will avert his eyes,
and express horror or disgust.
But no! This is unworthy of me. As, of old, I sought his
society for the bewitching dreams of woman's love which he inspired,
and because I fancied a bright fortune in his aspect, so
now will I hold daily and long communion with him, for the sake
of the stern lessons that he will teach my manhood. With folded
arms, we will sit face to face, and lengthen out our silent converse,
till a wiser cheerfulness shall have been wrought from
the very texture of despondency. He will say, perhaps indignantly,
that it befits only him to mourn for the decay of outward
grace, which, while he possessed it, was his all. But have not
you, he will ask, a treasure in reserve, to which every year may
add far more value than age, or death itself, can snatch from that
miserable clay? He will tell me, that though the bloom of life
its cell, but bestir itself manfully, and kindle a genial warmth
from its own exercise, against the autumnal and the wintry atmosphere.
And I, in return, will bid him be of good cheer, nor take
it amiss that I must blanch his locks and wrinkle him up like a
wilted apple, since it shall be my endeavor so to beautify his face
with intellect and mild benevolence, that he shall profit immensely
by the change. But here a smile will glimmer somewhat sadly
over M. du Miroir's visage.
When this subject shall have been sufficiently discussed, we
may take up others as important. Reflecting upon his power of
following me to the remotest regions and into the deepest privacy,
I will compare the attempt to escape him to the hopeless race that
men sometimes run with memory, or their own hearts, or their
moral selves, which, though burthened with cares enough to crush
an elephant, will never be one step behind. I will be self-contemplative,
as nature bids me, and make him the picture or visible
type of what I muse upon, that my mind may not wander so
vaguely as heretofore, chasing its own shadow through a chaos,
and catching only the monsters that abide there. Then will we
turn our thoughts to the spiritual world, of the reality of which
my companions shall furnish me an illustration, if not an argument.
For, as we have only the testimony of the eye to M. du
Miroir's existence, while all the other senses would fail to inform
us that such a figure stands within arm's length, wherefore should
there not be beings innumerable, close beside us, and filling
heaven and earth with their multitude, yet of whom no corporeal
perception can take cognizance? A blind man might as reasonably
deny that M. du Miroir exists, as we, because the Creator
has hitherto withheld the spiritual perception, can therefore contend
that there are no spirits. Oh, there are! And, at this
moment, when the subject of which I write has grown strong
within me, and surrounded itself with those solemn and awful
that M. du Miroir himself is a wanderer from the spiritual world,
with nothing human, except his illusive garment of visibility.
Methinks I should tremble now, were his wizard power, of gliding
through all impediments in search of me, to place him suddenly
before my eyes.
Ha! What is yonder? Shape of mystery, did the tremor of
my heart-strings vibrate to thine own, and call thee from thy home,
among the dancers of the Northern Lights, and shadows flung
from departed sunshine, and giant spectres that appear on clouds
at daybreak, and affright the climber of the Alps? In truth, it
startled me, as I threw a wary glance eastward across the chamber,
to discern an unbidden guest, with his eyes bent on mine. The
identical monsieur du miroir! Still, there he sits, and returns
my gaze with as much of awe and curiosity, as if he, too, had
spent a solitary evening in fantastic musings, and made me his
theme. So inimitably does he counterfeit, that I could almost
doubt which of us is the visionary form, or whether each be not
the other's mystery, and both twin brethren of one fate, in mutually
reflected spheres. Oh, friend, canst thou not hear and
answer me? Break down the barrier between us! Grasp my
hand! Speak! Listen! A few words, perhaps, might satisfy
the feverish yearning of my soul for some master-thought, that
should guide me through this labyrinth of life, teaching wherefore
I was born, and how to do my task on earth, and what is death.
Alas! Even that unreal image should forget to ape me, and
smile at these vain questions. Thus do mortals deify, as it were,
a mere shadow of themselves, a spectre of human reason, and ask
of that to unveil the mysteries, which Divine Intelligence has
revealed so far as needful to our guidance, and hid the rest.
Farewell, Monsieur du Miroir. Of you, perhaps, as of many
men, it may be doubted whether you are the wiser, though your
whole business is reflection.
| Mosses from an old manse | |