 | Tales of the grotesque and arabesque |  |
VON JUNG.
My friend, the Baron Ritzner Von Jung, was of a
noble Hungarian family, every member of which (at
least as far back into antiquity as any certain records
extend) was more or less remarkable for talent of
some description—the majority for that species of
grotesquerie in conception of which Tieck, a scion
of the house, has given some vivid, although by no
means the most vivid exemplifications. My acquaintance
with him—with Ritzner—commenced at the
magnificent Chateau Jung, into which a train of
droll adventures, not to be made public, threw me
par hazard during the summer months of the year
18—. Here it was I obtained a place in his regard,
and here, with somewhat more difficulty, a partial
insight into his mental conformation. In later days
this insight grew more clear, as the intimacy which
had at first permitted it became more close; and
when, after three years separation, we met at G—n,
I knew all that it was necessary to know of the
character of the Baron Ritzner Von Jung.
I remember the buzz of curiosity which his advent
excited within the college precincts on the night of the
that while he was pronounced by all parties at first
sight “the most remarkable man in the world,” no
person made any attempt at accounting for this
opinion. That he was unique appeared so undeniable,
it was deemed not pertinent to inquire wherein
the uniquity consisted. But, letting this matter pass
for the present, I will merely observe that, from the
first moment of his setting foot within the limits of
the university, he began to exercise over the habits,
manners, persons, purses, moral feelings, and physical
propensities of the whole community which surrounded
him, an influence the most extensive and absolutely
despotic, yet at the same time the most indefinitive
and altogether unaccountable. Thus the brief period
of his residence at the university forms an era in its
annals, and is characterized by all classes of people
appertaining to it or its dependencies as “that very
extraordinary epoch forming the domination of the
Baron Ritzner Vong Jung.”
I have seen—and be it here borne in mind that
gentlemen still living in Gotham who have been with
myself witness of these things will have full recollection
of the passages to which I now merely allude
—I have seen, then, the most outrageously preposterous
of events brought about by the most intangible
and apparently inadequate of means. I have seen
—what, indeed, have I not seen? I have seen Villanova,
the danseuse, lecturing in the chair of National
Law, and I have seen D—, P—, T—,
and Von C—, all enraptured with her profundity.
faculty aghast at the convolutions of a weathercock.
I have seen Sontag received with hisses, and a
hurdy-gurdy with sighs. I have seen an ox-cart,
with oxen, on the summit of the Rotunda. I have
seen all the pigs of G—n in periwigs, and all her
cows in canonicals. I have seen fifteen hundred
vociferous cats in the steeple of St. P—. I have
seen the college chapel bombarded—I have seen the
college ramparts most distressingly placarded—I
have seen the whole world by the ears—I have seen
old Wertemuller in tears—and, more than all, I have
seen such events come to be regarded as the most
reasonable, commendable, and inevitable things in
creation, through the silent, yet all-pervading and
magical influence of the dominator Baron Ritzner
Von Jung.
Upon the Baron's advent to G—n, he sought me
out in my apartments. He was then of no particular
age—by which I mean that it was impossible to
form a guess respecting his age by any data personally
afforded. He might have been fifteen or fifty, and
was twenty-one years and seven months. In stature
he was about five feet eight inches. He was by no
means a handsome man—perhaps rather the reverse.
The contour of his face was somewhat angular and
harsh. His forehead was lofty and very fair; his
nose a snub; his eyes large, heavy, glassy and
meaningless. About the mouth there was more to
be observed. The lips were gently protruded, and
rested the one upon the other after such fashion that
combination of human features, conveying so
entirely, and so singly, the idea of unmitigated gravity,
solemnity, and repose. My readers have thus the
physical baron before them. What I shall add respecting
those mental peculiarities to which I have as yet
only partially adverted, will be told in my own words
—for I find that, in speaking of my friend, I have
been falling unwittingly into one of the many odd
literary mannerisms of the dominator Baron Ritzner
Von Jung.
It will be perceived, no doubt, from what I have
already said, that the Baron was neither more nor
less than one of those human anomalies now and then
to be found, who make the science of mystification
the study and the business of their lives. For this
science a peculiar turn of mind gave him instinctively
the cue, while his physical appearance afforded him
unusual facilities for carrying his projects into effect.
I firmly believe that no student at G—n, during
that renowned epoch so quaintly termed the domination
of the Baron Ritzner Von Jung, ever rightly
entered into the mystery which overshadowed his
character. I truly think that no person at the university,
with the exception of myself, ever suspected
him to be capable of a joke, verbal or practical—
the old bull-dog at the garden-gate would sooner have
been accused—the ghost of Heraclitus—or the
wig of the Emeritus Professor of Theology. This,
too, when it was evident that the most egregious and
unpardonable of all conceivable tricks, whimsicalities,
by him, at least plainly through his intermediate
agency or connivance. The beauty, if I may so call
it, of his art mystifique lay in that consummate ability
(resulting from an almost intuitive knowledge of
human nature, and the most wonderful self-possession),
by means of which he never failed to make it
appear that the drolleries he was occupied in bringing
to a point, arose partly in spite, and partly in consequence
of the laudable efforts he was making for
their prevention, and for the preservation of the good
order and dignity of Alma Mater. The deep, the
poignant, the overwhelming mortification which, upon
each such failure of his praiseworthy endeavors,
would suffuse every lineament of his countenance,
left not the slightest room for doubt of his sincerity in
the bosoms of even his most sceptical companions.
The adroitness, too, was no less worthy of observation
by which he contrived to shift the sense of the
grotesque from the creator to the created—from his
own person to the absurdities to which he had given
rise. How this difficult point was accomplished I
have become fully aware by means of a long course
of observation on the oddities of my friend, and by
means of frequent dissertations on the subject from
himself; but upon this matter I cannot dilate. In
no instance, however, before that of which I speak,
have I known the habitual mystific escape the natural
consequence of his manœuvres, an attachment of the
ludicrous to his own character and person. Continually
enveloped in an atmosphere of whim, my
society; and not even his own household have for
a moment associated other ideas than those of the
rigid and august with the memory of the Baron Ritzner
Von Jung.
To enter fully into the labyrinths of the Baron's
finesse, or even to follow him in that droll career of
practical mystification which gave him so wonderful
an ascendency over the mad spirits of G—n, would
lead me to a far greater length than I have prescribed
to myself in this article. I may dwell upon these
topics hereafter, and then not in petto. I am well
aware that in tracing minutely and deliberately to
their almost magical results the operations of an
intellect like that of Ritzner, wherein an hereditary
and cultivated taste for the bizarre was allied with
an intuitive acumen in regard to the every-day impulses
of the heart—an untrodden field would be
found to lie open before me, rich in novelty and vigor,
of emotion and incident, and abounding in rare food
for both speculation and analysis. But this, I have
already said, could not be accomplished in little space.
Moreover, the Baron is still living in Belgium, and it
is not without the limits of the possible that his eye
may rest upon what I am now writing. I shall be
careful, therefore, not to disclose, at least thus and
here, the mental machinery which he has a pleasure,
however whimsical, in keeping concealed. An anecdote
at random, however, may convey some idea of
the spirit of his practice. The method varied ad infinitum;
and in this well-sustained variety lay chiefly
multifarious operations were conducted.
During the epoch of the domination it really appeared
that the demon of the dolce far niente lay
like an incubus upon the university. Nothing was
done, at least, beyond eating and drinking, and making
merry. The apartments of the students were converted
into so many pot-houses, and there was no
pot-house of them all more famous or more frequented
than that of your humble servant, and the Baron
Ritzner Von Jung—for it must be understood that
we were chums. Our carousals here were many,
and boisterous, and long, and never unfruitful of
events.
Upon one occasion we had protracted our sitting
until nearly daybreak, and an unusual quantity of
wine had been drunk. The company consisted of
seven or eight individuals besides the Baron and
myself. Most of these were young men of wealth,
of high connexion, of great family pride, and all alive
with an exaggerated sense of honor. They abounded
in the most ultra German opinions respecting the
duello. To these Quixottic notions some recent Parisian
publications, backed by three or four desperate
and fatal rencontres at G—n, had given new
vigor and impulse; and thus the conversation, during
the greater part of the night, had run wild upon the
all-engrossing topic of the times. The Baron, who
had been unusually silent and abstracted in the earlier
portion of the evening, at length seemed to be aroused
from his apathy, took a leading part in the discourse,
the beauties, of the received code of etiquette in passages
of arms, with an ardor, an eloquence, an impressiveness,
and, if I may so speak, an affectionateness
of manner, which elicited the warmest enthusiasm
from his hearers in general, and absolutely staggered
even myself, who well knew him to be at heart a
ridiculer of those very points for which he contended,
and especially to hold the entire fanfaronade of
duelling etiquette in the sovereign contempt which it
deserves.
Looking around me during a pause in the Baron's
discourse, (of which my readers, may gather some
faint idea when I say that it bore resemblance to the
fervid, chanting, monotonous, yet musical, sermonic
manner of Coleridge,) I perceived symptoms of even
more than the general interest in the countenance of
one of the party. This gentleman, whom I shall
call Hermann, was an original in every respect, except
perhaps in the single particular that he was one
of the greatest asses in all Christendom. He contrived
to bear, however, among a particular set at
the university, a reputation for deep metaphysical
thinking, and, I believe, for some logical talent. His
personal appearance was so peculiar that I feel confident
my outline of him will be recognised at once
by all who have been in company with the model.
He was one of the tallest men I have ever seen, being
full six feet and a half. His proportions were singularly
mal-apropos. His legs were brief, bowed,
and very slender; while above them arose a trunk
nevertheless, were round, his neck long although
thick, and a general stoop forward gave him a
slouching air. His head was of colossal dimensions,
and overshadowed by a dense mass of straight raven
hair, two huge locks of which, stiffly plastered with
pomatum, extended with a lachrymose air down the
temples, and partially over the cheek bones—a
fashion which of late days has wormed itself (the
wonder is that it has not arrived here before) into
the good graces of the denizens of the United States.
But the face itself was the chief oddity. The upper
region was finely proportioned, and gave indication
of the loftiest species of intellect. The forehead was
massive and broad, the organs of ideality over the
temples, as well as those of causality, comparison,
and eventuality, which betray themselves above the
os frontis, being so astonishingly developed as to
attract the instant notice of every person who saw
him. The eyes were full, brilliant, beaming with
what might be mistaken for intelligence, and well
relieved by the short, straight, picturesque-looking
eyebrow, which is perhaps one of the surest indications
of general ability. The aquiline nose, too, was
superb; certainly nothing more magnificent was ever
beheld, nothing more delicate nor more exquisitely
modelled. All these things were well enough, as I
have said; it was the inferior portions of the visage
which abounded in deformity, and which gave the
lie instanter to the tittle-tattle of the superior. The
upper lip (a huge lip in length) had the appearance
rendered still more atrocious by a little spot of very
black mustachio immediately beneath the nose. The
under lip, apparently disgusted with the gross obesity
of its fellow, seemed bent upon resembling it as little
as might be, and getting as far removed from it as
possible. It was accordingly very curt and thin,
hanging back as if utterly ashamed of being seen;
while the chin, retreating still an inch or two farther,
might have been taken for—anything in the universe
but a chin.
In this abrupt transition, or rather descent, in
regard to character, from the upper to the lower regions
of the face, an analogy was preserved between
the face itself and the body at large, whose peculiar
construction I have spoken of before. The result of
the entire conformation was, that opinions directly
conflicting were daily entertained in respect to the
personal appearance of Hermann. Erect, he was
absolutely hideous, and seemed to be, what in fact
he really was, a fool. At table, with his hands covering
the lower part of his visage, (an attitude of deep
meditation which he much affected,) truly I never
witnessed a more impressive tableau than his general
appearance presented. As a duellist he had acquired
great renown, even at G—n. I forget the precise
number of victims who had fallen at his hands—but
they were many. He was a man of courage undoubtedly.
But it was upon his minute acquaintance
with the etiquette of the duello, and the nicety of his
sense of honor, that he most especially prided himself.
death. To Ritzner, ever upon the look-out for the
grotesque, his peculiarities, bodily and mental, had
for a long time past afforded food for mystification.
Of this, however, I was not aware, although in the
present instance I saw clearly that something of a
whimsical nature was upon the tapis with my chum,
and that Hermann was its especial object.
As the former proceeded in his discourse, or rather
monologue, I perceived the excitement of Hermann
momently increasing. At length he spoke, offering
some objection to a point insisted upon by R., and
giving his reasons in detail. To these the Baron
replied at length (still maintaining his exaggerated
tone of sentiment), and concluding, in what I thought
very bad taste, with a sarcasm and a sneer. The
hobby of Hermann now took the bit in his teeth.
This I could discern by the studied hair-splitting farrago
of his rejoinder. His last words I distinctly
remember. “Your opinions, allow me to say, Baron
Von Jung, although in the main correct, are in many
nice points discreditable to yourself and to the university
of which you are a member. In a few respects
they are even unworthy of serious refutation. I would
say more than this, sir, were it not for the fear of
giving you offence, (here the speaker smiled
blandly,) I would say, sir, that your opinions are
not the opinions to be expected from a gentleman.”
As Hermann completed this equivocal sentence, all
eyes were turned upon the Baron. He became very
pale, then excessively red, then, dropping his pocket-handkerchief,
glimpse of his countenance while it could be seen by
no one else at the table. It was radiant with the
quizzical expression which was its natural character,
but which I had never seen it assume except when
we were alone together, and when he unbent himself
freely. In an instant afterwards he stood erect, confronting
Hermann, and so total an alteration of countenance
in so short a period I certainly never witnessed
before. For a moment I even fancied that I
had misconceived him, and that he was in sober
earnest. He appeared to be stifling with passion,
and his face was cadaverously white. For a short
time he remained silent apparently striving to master
his emotion. Having at length seemingly succeeded,
he reached a decanter which stood near him, saying,
as he held it firmly clenched—“The language you
have thought proper to employ, Mynheer Hermann,
in addressing yourself to me, is objectionable in so
many particulars, that I have neither temper nor time
for specification. That my opinions, however, are
not the opinions to be expected from a gentleman,
is an observation so directly offensive as to allow
me but one line of conduct. Some courtesy, nevertheless,
is due to the presence of this company, and
to yourself, at the present moment, as my guest.
You will pardon me, therefore, if, upon this consideration,
I deviate slightly from the general usage
among gentlemen in similar cases of personal affront.
You will forgive me for the moderate tax I shall
make upon your imagination, and endeavor to consider,
younder mirror as the living Mynheer Hermann himself.
This being done there will be no difficulty
whatever. I shall discharge this decanter of wine at
your image in yonder mirror, and thus fulfil all the
spirit, if not the exact letter, of resentment for your
insult, while the necessity of physical violence to your
real person will be obviated,” With these words he
hurled the decanter full of wine furiously against the
mirror which hung directly opposite Hermann,
striking the reflection of his person with great precision,
and of course shattering the glass into fragments.
The whole company at once started to their
feet, and, with the exception of myself and Ritzner,
took their hats for departure. As Hermann went
out, the Baron whispered me that I should follow him
and make an offer of my services. To this I agreed,
not knowing precisely what to make of so ridiculous
a piece of business.
The duellist accepted my aid with his usual stiff,
and ultra-recherché air, and taking my arm, led me
to his apartment. I could hardly forbear laughing
in his face while he proceeded to discuss with the
profoundest gravity what he termed “the refinedly
peculiar character” of the insult he had received.
After a tiresome harangue in his ordinary style, he
took down from his book-shelves a number of musty
volumes on the subject of the duello, and entertained
me for a long time with their contents; reading
aloud, and commenting earnestly as he read. I can
just remember the titles of some of the works. There
Combat;” the “Theatre of Honor” by Favyn; and
a treatise “On the Permission of Duels” by Andigiuer.
He displayed, also, with much pomposity,
Brantome's “Memoirs of Duels,” published at
Cologne, in 1666, in the types of Elzevir—a precious
and unique vellum-paper volume, with a fine
margin, and bound by Derôme. But he requested
my attention particularly, and with an air of mysterious
sagacity, to a thick octavo, written in barbarous
Latin by one Hedelin a Frenchman, and
having the quaint title, “Duelli Lex scripta, et non,
aliterque.” From this he read me one of the drollest
chapters in the world concerning “(Injuriœ per applicationem,
per constructionem, et per se,” about
half of which, he averred, was strictly applicable to
his own “refinedly peculiar” case, although not
one syllable of the whole matter could I understand
for the life of me. Having finished the chapter he
closed the book, and demanded what I thought necessary
to be done. I replied that I had entire confidence
in his superior delicacy of feeling, and would
abide by what he proposed. With this answer he
seemed flattered, and sat down to write a note to
the Baron. It ran thus:
“Sir,
My friend, Mr. P—, will hand you this note. I
find it incumbent upon me to request, at your earliest
convenience, an explanation of this evening's occurrences
at your chambers. In the event of your
with any friend whom you may appoint, the steps
preliminary to a meeting.
With sentiments of perfect respect,
Your most humble servant,
Johan Hermann.
To the Baron Ritzner Von Jung.
August 18th, 18—.”
Not knowing what better to do, I called upon
Ritzner with this epistle. He bowed as I presented
it, and, with a grave countenance, motioned me to
a seat. He then said that he was aware of the contents
of the note, and that he did not wish to peruse
it. With this, to my great astonishment, he repeated
the letter nearly verbatim, handing me, at the same
time, an already written reply. This, which ran
as follows, I carried to Hermann:
“Sir,
Through our common friend, Mr. P., I have received
your note of this evening. Upon due reflection
I frankly admit the propriety of the explanation
you suggest. This being admitted, I still find great
difficulty, (owing to the refinedly peculiar nature of
our disagreement, and of the personal affront offered
on my part,) in so wording what I have to say by
way of apology, as to meet all the minute exigencies,
and, as it were, all the variable shadows of the case.
I have great reliance, however, on that extreme
delicacy of discrimination, in matters appertaining to
long so pre-eminently distinguished. With perfect
certainty, therefore, of being comprehended, I beg
leave, in lieu of offering any sentiments of my own,
to refer you to the opinions of the Sieur Hedelin, as
set forth in the ninth paragraph of the chapter on
`Injuriœ per applicationem, per constructionem, et
per se” in his “Duelli Lex scripta, et non, aliterque.'
The nicety of your discernment in all the matters here
treated of will be sufficient, I am assured, to convince
you that the mere circumstance of my referring
you to this admirable passage ought to satisfy
your request, as a man of honor, for explanation.
With sentiments of profound respect,
Your most obedient servant,
Von Jung.
The Herr Johan Hermann.
August 18th, 18—.”
Hermann commenced the perusal of this epistle with
a scowl, which, however, was converted into a smile
of the most ludicrous self-complacency as he came to
the rigmarole about Injuriœ per applicationem, per
constructionem, et per se. Having finished reading.
he begged me, with the blandest of all possible airs,
to be seated while he made reference to the treatise
in question. Turning to the passage specified, he
read it with great care to himself, then closed the
book, and desired me, in my character of confidential
acquaintance, to express to the Baron Von Jung his
exalted sense of his chivalrous behaviour, and, in that
was of the fullest, the most honorable, and the most
unequivocally satisfactory nature. Somewhat amazed
at all this, I made my retreat to the Baron. He
seemed to receive Hermann's amicable letter as a
matter of course, and, after a few words of general
conversation, went to an inner room and brought out
the everlasting treatise “Duelli Lex scripta, et non,
aliterque.” He handed me the volume and asked
me to look over some portion of it. I did so, but to
little purpose, not being able to gather the least particle
of definite meaning. He then took the book
himself, and read me a chapter aloud. To my surprise
what he read proved to be a most horribly
absurd account of a duel between two baboons.
He now explained the mystery, showing that the
volume, as it appeared Primâ facie, was written upon
the plan of the nonsense verses of Du Bartas; that is
to say, the language was ingeniously framed so as to
present to the ear all the outward signs of intelligibility,
and even of profound analysis, while in fact
not a shadow of meaning existed, except in insulated
sentences. The key to the whole was found in leaving
out every second and third word alternately, when
there appeared a series of ludicrous quizzes upon
single combat as practised in modern times.
The Baron afterwards informed me that he had
purposely thrown the treatise in Hermann's way two
or three weeks before the adventure, and that he was
satisfied from the general tenor of his conversation
that he had studied it with the deepest attention, and
Upon this hint he proceeded. Hermann would have
died a thousand deaths rather than acknowledge his
inability to understand any and everything in the universe
that had ever been written about the duello.
| Tales of the grotesque and arabesque | |