University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE PROFESSOR'S SUPPER.

Contrary to my expectations, I do not find that I
have preserved any thing remarkable concerning the
supper at Poodleberg's. I should have passed it over
without a comment, if it had not been necessary to show
the beginning of a plot of Pappenheim's, which was frustrated.
This plot, in conjunction with another undertaken
about the same time by Trump Von Toggenburg,
led mainly to a singular event, which I shall soon have
occasion to detail, and with which it is my purpose to
conclude this portion of my biography.

I arrived with Lackland at the house of the professor
at about nine o'clock. This establishment was on a decidedly
more extensive scale than Frau Von Rumplestern's.
A servant in a porter's gala dress presented himself
at the door on our arrival, and I immediately recognised
by his voice, my acquaintance, Diedrich. We
were announced in due form, and on ascending to the
drawing-room, found the company already assembled.

His “Magnificence,” the Pro-Rector, Professor, Counsellor,
and Baron Von Poodleberg, advanced in a dignified
manner to receive us. I found it very difficult to

address him with the elaborate accuracy which etiquette
demanded. I mingled his “excellency” and his “magnificence,”
in a very incongruous manner. The one
was his by virtue of his title, the other by that of his
temporary office; but the former I believe ought to have
taken precedence.

No where, in fact, are such fine distinctions in the
forms of address observed as in Germany. The system
is complicated, and extends from the lowest to the highest
grades of society. If you write, for example, to a
shoe-maker or a tailor, you address the “well-born” tailor
Schneiderff, or his “well-born-ship” the shoe-maker
Braun; but if to a gentleman, whose name has the
magical prefix, Von, you style him the “highly-well-born,”
Mr. Von Katzenjammer. A count of the empire
is “high-born;” a prince is not born at all, but is addressed
as His Serenity, or (literally) His Transparency,
(Durchlaucht;) a minister of state, or an ambassador,
is His Excellency; but the pro-rector of a university is
His Magnificence.

Of course His Magnificence was too great a man to
recollect our names, so I introduced Lackland, and then
Lackland introduced me. After this we were permitted
to pay our respects to his daughter, Fräulein Ida.

She blushed excessively as I approached her, and I
at once deduced the conclusion that Pappenheim had
found time, even in this short interval, to give her a key
to the mysterious events of the preceding evening. I
was able, however, only to exchange with her a few common-place
observations, for the approach of other persons
prevented any confidential communication. Accordingly,
after a very short colloquy, I turned from her,
and surveyed the company.

The first person I noticed was Pappenheim. His dress
was so totally different from mine, that the resemblance
between us was hardly striking, and I could hardly believe
it possible that so decided a mistake could have
been made. He begged to speak a few words with me
after supper, as he had something of importance to communicate,
and then left me to enjoy a hurried intercourse
with Ida.

The next person whom I observed, was little Popp,
the librarian. He seemed overjoyed to meet me, and
earnestly requested my opinion of the great works of the
great Mr. Von Poodleberg, which, as the reader may recollect,
he had sent me. I was ashamed to confess
that I had not even looked at the title page of any of
them, and so thought myself safe in bestowing unlimited
and unqualified praise upon every line of them.

“And the work of Professor Noodleberg?” asked
Popp. “You have found time to master that also?”

“Why;—why, no,—to say the truth, I have not entirely
finished that,” I replied.

“I knew it—I knew it,” cried Popp, rubbing his
hands triumphantly. “I knew you would be entirely
absorbed with my great patron, the great Baron Von
Poodleberg. Psha! how ridiculous to make any comparison
between the genius of Poodleberg and Noodleberg!”

“Yes; how very ridiculous!” I replied, glad to get
out of the scrape on any terms.

I passed from the humble toady of the great Poodleberg,
to pay my respects to a really great man, the Professor
and Historian Harlem. He was a plain, demurelooking
little man, with silver hair, and a placid and benevolent
cast of features. His age was at that time at

least eighty, and yet the temperate and regular habits,
peculiar to the literati of Germany, had preserved his
constitution, and enabled him to retain the hale and robust
appearance of a healthy sexagenarian. His lectures,—which,
in the midst of my idleness and dissipation,
I never neglected regularly to attend, were still full
of youthful fire and enthusiasm, and the collection of
his printed works, which he was just about completing,
had filled a vacuum in the historical world, which had
existed for many centuries,—centuries unable to produce
a man equal to the gigantic task which this simple-looking
and simple-minded man had accomplished. His
conversation was vivacious, and almost child like in its
earnestness and its simplicity. His modesty was so perfect,
that you were apt yourself, for an instant, to forget
that you were conversing with so distinguished a historian;
and his justice and his liberality were so great,
that he had even found something to praise in the treatises
of Professor Poodleberg.

Besides these, there were present two or three painters,
a sculptor, half a dozen professors, and a nose-making
doctor. There were no ladies but Ida, and no young
men but Pappenheim, Lackland, and myself.

Supper was now announced, and the Professor, leaning
on the trusty Popp, led the way to the next room.
The rest followed, helter-skelter, and Pappenheim remained
for a few seconds tête-à-tête with Ida, who I
found, to my infinite disappointment, was not to make
one at the supper-table. On entering the room, we
found the table covered with silver, and a bottle of Rhenish
to each plate.

Two or three servants in the Poodleberg livery (which
was crimson and orange turned up with scarlet, with a

poodle rampant on the button) were in attendance, and
the clatter of knives and forks soon began.

Whatever had been my opinion of the Professor's
literary achievements, I could not help paying profound
reverence to the excellence of his cook. It was among
the few instances in which I had found the German
cuisine (which in general is only a caricature of the
French) to my taste, and the Rhenish was certainly
magnificent.

“I am glad you approve of this Marcobrunner,” said
Poodleberg to Pappenheim. “It was a present from my
particular friend, the elector of Hesse Cassel.”

“It is worthy of the Emperor's table,” said Pappenheim,
with enthusiasm.

“Why, it is a fair wine —very fair Hock—very fair,”
said Poodleberg pompously. “Nothing, however, to
compare with some in my cellar—that which I reserve
for guests of distinction.—Is it Popp?” said he, appealing
to his today.

“Oh! no comparison, your excellency,” said the deputy-librarian.

“This is a good Rüdesheimer, Mr. Lackland,” passing
him a bottle of splendid Rhenish of that denomination.
“It is also a present. It was sent me last Wednesday
by the Archbischop of Brandenburg.”

“Yes, yes,” said Lackland, after tasting it carelessly,
“A fair wine—very fair Hock—very fair.”

The Professor looked annoyed — for it was his finest
wine; but Lackland was fond of mortifying people of the
Professor's character. It was a long time, however,
before he received another invitation from Baron Poodleberg.

The conversation was aesthetic, as may be supposed

The pictures of Vetsch and Brandermier were discussed,
as also the poems of Offendorf, and the great tragedy of
Professor Funk. In short, the conversation was pretty
nearly on the same topics, and discussed in nearly the
same manner, as at the conversaziones of Madame de
Rumplestern.

I happened to sit near the Professor, and amused myself
for a few minutes in admiring his dress. His hair
was frizzed and powdered in an elaborate manner, and he
wore a voluminous cravat of the finest cambric, together
with ostentatious ruffles, apparently from the manufactory
of my friend the coffin-maker. His coat was of velvet,
and he wore at least a dozen orders on his left breast.
I asked him, very imprudently, as I soon discovered, the
order of which a large diamond star, the most conspicuous
of his decorations, was the symbol, and “upon that
hint he spake.”

“That star, Mr. Morton, is the sign of a Knight Grand
Cross of the Three-tailed Tiger, of the first class — an
order, Sir, which is worn almost exclusively by crowned
heads, and which, in fact, has only been bestowed on
three subjects in Europe, of which I have the honour to
be one. It was presented to me exactly six years and
nine months ago by the Grand Duke of Mecklenburg, on
the publication of my treatise on the `Comparative Anatomy
of Philology.'

“This smaller cross, Sir,” he continued, holding it up
in his thumb and finger, “is the emblem of the order of
the Polar Bear, presented to me on the same occasion by
the Emperor of all the Russias. This next is the
`Golden Jackass,' an order bestowed exclusively on literati;
and this is the great double-headed ostrich, third
class, which I have just receive from the Emperor of

Austria. Besides these, you perceive I have many others;
but I will not fatigue you at present with their history.”

“Thank God, you have some conscience,” thought I,
as I expressed my gratitude for his condescension.

In the mean time, Professor Harlem had slipped off,
as well as several other of the guests, among whom was
Lackland.

At a moment when the Professor was engaged in a
pompous explanation of a certain disputed chapter in his
last treatise to Popp and half-a-dozen others of his
warmest admirers, Pappenheim made me a sign, and together
we made our escape.

“Wait for me an instant in the street,” said he, when
he had shut the door. “I wish to exchange half-a-dozen
words with Ida, and then, as our way home is the same,
I can tell you what I wish.”

“I went down stairs, and stepped into the porter's room,
where I had left my cloak. On pretence of looking for
a stick, which I had not brought with me, I took a survey
of the inmates of the room — Diedrich, namely, and his
wife, Gretel.

“You keep the Baron pretty safe, Master Diedrich,”
said I, taking up the ponderous house-key. No fear of
housebreakers, I suppose, in this peaceful city.”

“Ah! Herr Jesus!” said the porter's wife. Not as
peaceful as you may suppose, Sir.”

“Why, how so?” said I.

“This house, Sir,” resumed Gretel solemnly, was
broken open yesterday night.”

“Ah! indeed!” “No damage done, I hope.”

“None Sir; but all owing to the valour of my husband
Diedrich. Twelve men, Sir, if you will believe me
assaulted the house. The gate was broken open, and one

rushed rapidly up the stairs; before any of the rest had
found time to follow him, my husband, Diedrich, sprang
from this room, and disputed the passage. After over-throwing
seven, he was at last set upon and discomfited
by the rest, who immediately decamped carrying with
them all the silver spoons. We followed them, but could
not come up with them; and on our return we found
half-a dozen more, who had secreted themselves in the
passage during our absence. These my husband Diedrich
succeeded in thrusting out, after incredible exertions,
just as the Professor's carriage came up to the door.”

I presented her husband Diedrich with a gulden, in
recompense for his broken head the night before, and
herself with another, for her ingenious version of the
story, and then I left the house.

As I stood waiting for Pappenheim, in the shadow of
the house, two figures passed me, engaged in earnest
conversation. They were muffled in cloaks; but I recognized
in them the Jew Potiphar, and Skamp the coffin-maker.

Directly afterwards Pappenheim joined me, and we
took our way homewards.

“You will not be surprised,” said he, “considering
the singular circumstances of our acquaintance, if I admit
you at once to my confidence, particularly as accident
has already almost taken the task off my hands.”

“Well,” thought I, “here I am, a confidant, for the
third time; and it is a little odd that I should be the
chosen depositary of the secrets of three such different
persons as Rabenmark, Trump, and Pappenheim.”

“We have not time,” he continued, “to enter into
particulars. All that is necessary for you to know, however,
till to-morrow, I can say in three words. My purpose

is to marry Ida Von Poodleberg. Her father will
not consent, because I am poor, and dependent on my
uncle, who he thinks is also poor. It is a mistake, however,
for he is rich. My uncle, however, will not consent,
for Poodleberg is a plebeian—a baronized butcher's
boy, (his original trade) whose muddy blood should never
flow in the pure veins of the Pappenheims. The consequence
is, we are determined to elope, and gain the
consent of the other parties afterwards.

“To do this, however, is no easy matter, and I very
much desire the assistance of one trusty friend.—Will
you be that friend?”

“With pleasure.”

“Thank you. It will, perhaps, afford you some
amusement to know that our principal colleague in the
enterprise is your friend Popp, the librarian. Here is
my room—it is too late, I suppose, to invite you in. Will
you try to come here punctually at ten to-morrow
night?”

“Yes—good-night.”

“Sleep well,” said Pappenheim.