University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
AN AESTHETIC TEA-PARTY.

I have carefully abstained, in this part of my memoirs,
from being the hero of my own work. It is
my purpose, for the present at least, to carry out
this plan. The events which I have detailed in
the first book of this little autobiography could not
fail to produce their effect. With time, however,
the effects were less visible, not because they had
been effaced from the surface, but because they had
sunk below it; and at the period of which I now
write, and which, as nearly as I can ascertain, was
about a year after the death of Vassal Deane, I had
attained an outward calm, very different from the
dull melancholy with which I had been previously
affected.

During this portion of my life, although personally
engaged at times in certain turbulent and (as
it will in the sequel perhaps appear to the reader)
not very commendable transactions, I was, in all
matters of the heart at least, a spectator rather than
an actor.

Would that I had remained so during the whole
period of my exile; but it is unnecessary to anticipate

what it will soon enough be my duty to
record.

I wish accordingly, for the present, to interest the
reader rather in others than in myself, and I shall
therefore, while detailing whatever may seem worth
preserving of my adventures, lay an attachment, as
a lawyer would say, on all the sympathy he might
otherwise have placed at my disposal in sentimental
matters, for the benefit of others.

On the afternoon succeeding our visit to the Pommeranian
Kneipe, I had been walking in the neighbourhood
of Göttingen. I was returning about dusk
through one of the most elegant streets to keep my
appointment with Trump, when, as I passed under
the balcony of a large and respectable-looking house,
a bunch of violets dropped upon the pavement at
my feet. I looked up, and just distinguished a female
face at the window immediately over the balcony.
She placed her finger on her mouth, shook
her head playfully, and vanished.

“Donner wetter!” said I to myself.

The street was one of the most elegant in the
town, and the house particularly imposing in its appearance.
I was sadly puzzled.

I rang at the street-door. A servant in livery
presented himself.

“Who lives here?” I asked.

“The Ablic-councillor, Privy-councillor Baron
Von Poodleberg,” was the reply.

“The devil!” I muttered. “What! not Professor
Poodleberg?”

“At your service,” said the lackey.

“Does the house belong to him?”

“Certainly.”

“He has probably a large family then,” said I.

“Only one daughter.”

“But he has a wife?”

“Frau Von Poodleberg has been dead for some
years. Old Mrs. Meerschaum, who has lived in
his family some sixty years, is housekeeper and
manager.”

“Is the Professor at home?”

“He has just driven out.”

“Thank you—I will call again,” said I, and
turned away from the door.

“One thing is certain,” said I to myself, as I
thrust the violets into my button-hole, and strutted
homewards, “I have made a conquest of somebody;
but whether it is the Professor's daughter Fräulein
Poodleberg, or old mother Meerschaum, the housekeeper,
time must show. Perhaps, after all, it is
only one of the housemaids.”

I had, however, no time to speculate further on
the subject, for it was necessary to get ready for
Frau Von Rumplestern's conversazione. So, with
a determination to investigate the subject thoroughly
as soon as an opportunity offered, I dismissed all
thoughts of it for the present.

It was late when Trump and I made our appearance
at the party. A small boy took our cloaks in
the passage, and went forward to announce us.

“His Excellency Count Trump Von Toggenburg,

and his friend and Excellency Baron Von
Morton!” bawled the errand-boy at the bottom of
the stairs, to the man-servant in livery at the top.

“Count Trump Von Toggenburg, and Baron
Von Morton!” echoed the servant in livery, and a
dead silence succeeded the buzzing and humming
which we had heard from the saloon, in the midst
of which we marched into the room.

It was a saloon of tolerable dimensions and neat
appearance. The floor was, of course, without a
carpet, and well polished. The curtains were of
red taffeta. The chairs and sofas were covered
with a sort of striped woolen material, and the rest
of the furniture was of dark polished oak. An Albert
Dürer, and two or three of Lucas Cranach's
portraits garnished the walls, and a plaster cast or
two from the ancient models stood in the different
corners; a knot of men and women of all ages,
with tea-cups in their hands, surrounded a chair
placed on an elevated platform. The chair was at
the moment without an occupant, but seemed to
have been just vacated.

Frau Von Rumplestern moved out from the little
crowd on our announcement to receive our
obeisance. She was a short, pursy little body of
fifty, with a red face, a brocaded gown, and a remarkably
ugly cap.

“Allow me to recommend to you, gracious Madame
de Rumplestern, my particular and distinguished
friend, Baron Von Morton!” said Trump,
with a great flourish.

“Delighted to make the acquaintance of any one
who has the honour to be a friend of Count Trump
Von Toggenburg!” said Frau Von Rumplestern.
“Have you heard lately from your gracious father,
Count Trump Von Toggenburg?”

“He is at present in Silesia, on a visit to our relation,
Prince Hohenstaufer! Have you had much
literature this evening?”

“Professor Funk has done us the favour to read
us a passage from his new tragedy, but as it was
only ten lines in length, of course there was not
much time consumed.”

“He has been some time engaged upon this tragedy,
has he not?” I inquired.

“Twenty-five years of intense labour have been
employed upon it, and he has as yet completed but
two acts and a half. He, however, hopes to complete
the remaining two and a half in ten years.
And after all,” said the lady, enthusiastically, “thirty-five
years is but little time to spend on so vast,
and so immortal a work!”

“I have heard that it was in the classical taste,
but I must beg to be informed of the subject and the
plan.”

“Ah! you have a great pleasure to come,” said
the Frau, “but yonder is Professor Funk, let us
walk forward, and I will introduce you to him.”

“The great dramatist was standing near the
reciting chair, which he had recently vacated.
He was a thin, pleuretical looking man, upwards
of fifty in appearance, with a pallid, unhealthy

face, large spectacles, and very grey hair, parted
on the forehead and hanging wildly down over
his shoulders. I observed that his coat was both
rusty and dusty, and his black worsted stockings
were full of holes. It seemed to be doubtful
whether he had any linen; but he wore a very ample
shirt-bosom of black silk which answered the
purpose of a shirt, and saved washing. He was
altogether what is called a very interesting man, and
was surrounded by half a dozen admiring old ladies.

As we approached, I observed that he was descanting
to his respectable audience on the superiority
of his tragedy to any other, modern or ancient.
I could not have selected a more favourable moment,
and accordingly after Frau Von Rumplestern had
carried me through the form of an introduction, I
remained a silent listener.

“I first conceived the plan,” said the Professor,
“of, what my modesty forbids me to call, my immortal
work, when only ten years of age. I, however,
did not put pen to paper till I was twenty, and
since then, I have been diligently employed upon
it. It will be a grand jubilee, when the remaining
portion is finished, and the labours of a life crowned
with success.”

“Great indeed!” said the six old women, enthusiastically.

“You must excuse the ignorance of a stranger,”
said I, “but I have but lately arrived in these regions,
and have not had the advantage of becoming
acquainted with the name and design of your work.

Great indeed was my mortification on arriving, to
find that I had missed hearing the passage you
have done us the honour to read.”

“In compassion for your loss, which it must be
confessed was excessive,” modestly rejoined Funk,
“I will in a few words state the design of my tragedy,
or rather, to speak more correctly, my dramatic
poem; for although, I have no doubt that the
various theatres in Germany will be most anxious
to represent it, yet it can hardly be called a tragedy
in the modern sense of the term.

“My tragedy of `Vulcan Degraded,' is an attempt
to revive the Grecian drama. Vulcan, you
may probably be aware, if your education has not
been neglected, (but you come from a barbarous
country, and excuses are to be made for you,)” continued
Funk, who considered an habitual impertinence
to be a privilege either of his genius or of his
imbecile physical conformation—“Vulcan, according
to the most received accounts, endeavoured to
liberate his mother, who had been chained to a post
in heaven by Jupiter, her husband, as a punishment
for her obstinacy. The father of gods, seeing
the attempt, kicked Vulcan down from heaven He
fell for nine days, and at last alighted in Lemnos,
where the inhabitants, seeing him in the air, caught
him in their arms. Now, the only liberty I have
taken with the history, is to shorten the duration of
his fall from nine days to one; and you see at once
the sublime simplicity of the whole plan. The action
is the kicking of Jupiter, and the consequent

falling of Vulcan, both of which, as they are in reality
only parts of the same proposition, may be naturally
compressed into one and the same act. The
unities are, as you may see, admirably preserved.
In the first place, the unity of time—exactly one
day;—the unity of place—you will observe that the
scene is intended to represent only heaven, earth,
and the intermediate space. Above is Olympus,—
personages, Jupiter, Juno, Vulcan, and a chorus of
gods and goddesses. Jupiter, and the chorus are
naturally stationary from choice, so that they give
me no trouble. Juno, who might be inclined to
change her position, is carefully chained to a post.
Vulcan, of course, in falling from heaven all the
way to earth, may be supposed to violate this second
unity; but as he is to represent the third unity, or
the unity of action, he may be excused for the little
impropriety towards the second. The devil is in it,
if in making a man fall all the way from heaven
to earth, (a journey of nine days according to the
usual calculation,) I may not allow him to change
his position?” said he, appealing to his audience.

“Quite right, quite right, Mr. Professor!” said
the old women.

“Thus you see,” he continued, “the whole state
of the scene. Above is Olympus—Juno sitting—
Jupiter kicking—Vulcan falling. In the centre,
Vulcan falling—falling—falling. At the bottom,
the inhabitants of Lemnos looking up with outstretched
arms, all waiting to catch the god, and be instructed
in horse-shoeing. This brings me to the

third unity, or the unity of action, which you see is
perfect, and might at pleasure be compressed into
an instant. It is simply—Jupiter kicks—Vulcan
falls—the Lemnians catch—and all is over.”

“It seems astonishing that a plot so simple in appearance,
should require such intense labour, and so
many years?” said I.

“Astonishing only to the ignorant,” said the Professor,
politely; “but on the least reflection the ten
thousand difficulties will present themselves. For
instance, I have been ten years writing the soliloquy
of Vulcan which he utters in falling, and which in
itself will occupy one act; as he is the principal personage
in the drama, he ought certainly to speak
more than any; but as the drama opens with his
departure from Olympus, and closes with his arrival
at Lemnos, no one of the other dramatis personæ
could hear a word he said. It would of course, then,
be superfluous, and a violation of the rules to make
him utter any thing worth hearing. How do you
think I get over this difficulty?” said he to me in a
triumphant manner.

“I suppose you make him talk nonsense!” said I.

“Psha—psha!” resumed Funk impatiently, “I
make him talk nothing but Interjections! Five
years was I employed in devising this solution of my
difficulty, and five more in carrying it into effect;
and now, that it is done, it seems simple enough on
looking back upon it. In effect, what could be more
natural than for a person in Vulcan's disagreeable
situation to vent his various emotions of hatred, rage,

fear, misery, despair, hope, joy, in a series of exclamations.
But I assure you, it was a great difficulty to
find all the interjections necessary to show the various
shades, deepening at first from rage to despair,
and then gradually and faintly heightening as he perceives
assistance awaiting him on earth. I, in the
first place, collected all the interjections of all the
Grecian poets—

The pedantry of the Professor became at last (as
Dogberry says) “most tolerable and not to be endured,”
so I turned away and sought amusement
elsewhere.

The aesthetic party had become more numerous.
From drinking and talking literature, they had
taken to quadrilles and waltzing, and the company
had been reinforced by a number of young and
pretty women.

“Who is that old gentleman with the star on his
breast, and half a dozen orders in his button-hole?”
asked I of Trump.

“He, with his hair so nicely powdered, and so respectable
a paunch?”

“Yes, talking in an authoritative kind of tone to
that pretty girl?”

“That is the celebrated Professor Von Poodleberg!”
said Trump.

“And the pretty girl?” said I eagerly.

“Is his daughter!”

“Ho ho!” said I to myself, “I am on the scent
already:” so I lounged towards them, cast a most

mysterious glance at Miss Poodleberg, and then requested
Trump to introduce me to her father.

He agreed to do so presently, but left me for a few
minutes, during which I continued to cast sundry
mysterious and passionate glances at Fräulein Von
Poodleberg. The young lady took no notice of
them, however, but looked at me as carelessly, as if
she had never heard of my existence.

I determined I would sift the mystery, in one way
or another, and so determined to gain admission to
the house. Trump soon made his appearance, and
we approached the famous Professor.

“Allow me to recommend to you, Baron Von
Poodleberg, a young American, who has already
commenced studying your famous work, and is so
impatient for an introduction to you?” said Trump
Von Toggenburg.

The great man nodded his head with all the dignity
of Jupiter, and asked me how long I had been
in Germany. We engaged in a most interesting
conversation, and in the mean time Trump disappeared.
I expressed my inclination to attend his
course of lectures, assured him of my intense admiration
for his great works, and talked a whole string
of unmeaning gibberish, which I told him was the
Narragansett language. He professed to understand
it, although imperfectly, as his attention had been
confined to the Choctaw, the Chicasaw and the
other dialects connected with his work. In the
end the Professor was so much pleased with my
apparent admiration, that he concluded the conversation

by inviting me to supper a few nights
afterwards. This was what I wanted, and that
business concluded, I turned to look around the
room.