|
[page 1, column 1:]
|
|
|
Written for the Saturday Courier.
—————————————
THE BARGAIN LOST.
———
[["]]The heathen philosopher, when he
had a mind
to eat a grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth,
meaning
thereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open.[["]] — As You Like
It.
———
At Venice, in the year ———, in the
street ———,
lived Pedro Garcia, a metaphysician. — With regard to date and
residence,
circumstances of a private and sacred nature forbid me to be more
explicit.
In all mental qualifications our hero was gigantic. Moreover, in bodily
circumference, he had no cause of complaint; but, in right ascension,
four
feet five was the philosopher's ne plus ultra.
Now Pedro was descended from a noble
Florentine
family;
yet it was with little concern that, in certain boilings of the pot
revolutionary,
(during which, saith Machiavelli, the scum always comes uppermost) he
beheld
his large estates silently slipping through his fingers. Indeed, from
his
earliest youth, had Pedro Garcia been addicted to the most desperate
abstrusities.
He had studied at Padua, at Milan, at Gottingen. It is he — but let
this
go no farther — it is he to whom Kant is mainly indebted for his
metaphysics.
I have MSS. in my possession sufficient to establish what I say.
The doctrines of our friend were not
very
generally
understood, although by no means difficult of comprehension. He was
not,
it is true, a Platonist — nor strictly an Aristotelian — nor did he,
with
Leibnitz, reconcile things irreconcileable [[sic]]. He was,
emphatically,
a Pedronist. He was Ionic and Italic. He reasoned a priori and a
posterior).
His ideas were innate, or otherwise. He believed in George of
Trebizond,
he believed in Bossarion. Of his other propensities little is recorded.
It is said that he preferred Catullus to Homer, and Sauterne to Medoc.
Yet even this comprehensive
philosophy proved an
insufficient protection against the shafts of calumny and malice. At
Venice
wicked men were not wanting to hint that the doctrines of certain
people
evinced neither the purity of the Academy nor the depth of the Lyceum.
*
*
*
*
* *
The great bell of St. Mark's had
already sounded
midnight, yet our hero was not in bed. He sat, alone, in the little
chamber,
his study, redeemed from the filth and bustle of the day. I hold minute
attention to trifles unworthy the dignity of serious narrative;
otherwise
I might here, following the example of the novelist, dilate upon the
subject
of habiliment, and other mere matters of the outward man. I might say
that
the hair of our patrician was worn short, combed smoothly over his
forehead,
and surmounted with a violet-coloured, conical cap with tassels — that
his green fustian jerkin was not after the fashion of those worn by the
nobility of Venice at that day — that the sleeves were more deeply
slashed
than the reigning costume permitted — that the slashes were faced —
not,
as usual in that barbarous period, with parti-coloured silk, but with
the
beautiful red leather of Morocco — that his stiletto was a specimen
piece
of workmanship from the factory of Pan Ispan, of Damascus,
attaghan-maker
to the Effendi — that his slip pers were of a bright purple, curiously
filagreed, and might have been made in Japan, but for the exquisite
pointing
of the toes, and the fact that Baptista, the Spanish cobler on the
Rialto,
opined to the contrary — that his breeches were of the white,
satin-like
cloth called 'celeste' — that his sky-blue cloak, or wrapper,
resembling,
in form, the anomaly, ycleped, a morning-gown, floated, like a mist,
upon
his shoulders, richly bestudded with crimson and yellow patches — and
that
his tout ensemble gave rise to the remarkable words of Benevenuta, the
improvisatrice, to wit: — "That the paroquet, upon a certain cathedral,
resembled nothing so much as Pedro, the metaphysician." All this and
more
— had I been a novelist — might I have detailed. But, thanks to St.
Urfino
[[type is broken, the saints name uncertain]], whatever I am, that am
I not. Therefore upon all these subjects I say 'mum.'
The chamber in which sat our hero was
of singular
beauty. The floor was covered with a mat (for it was the summer season)
of the most brilliant and glossy pale yellow, formed from the rare and
valuable reeds of Siam. All around from the ceiling fell
tapestry-hangings
of the richest crimson velvet. The ceiling, itself, was of brown and
highly-polished
oak, vaulted, carved, and fretted, until all its innumerable angles
were
rounded into a dense mass of shadow, from whose gloomy depth, by a
slender
golden chain with very long links, swung a fantastic Arabesque lamp of
solid silver. A black, heavy, and curiously-pannelled door, opening
inwardly,
was closed, after the fashion of that day, with a chased brazen bar;
while
a single, huge, bowed, and trelliced window glared out upon the waters
of the Adriatic.
The minor furniture of the room
consisted,
principally,
of a profusion of elegantly-bound and illuminated books scattered here
and there in classical disorder, on the tables, on the floor, and on
two
or three luxurious settees, having every appearance of the ottomans of
Mahomet.
It was a dark and stormy night. The
rain fell in
cataracts; and drowsy citizens started, from dreams of the deluge, to
gaze
upon the boisterous sea, which foamed and bellowed for admittance into
the proud towers and marble palaces. Who would have thought of passions
so fierce in that calm water that slumbers all day long? At a slight
alabaster
stand, trembling beneath the ponderous tomes which it supported, sat
the
hero of our story.
He heeded not the clanging of the
half
extinguished
lamp, as it rattled overhead in the currents of air; and the roar of
the
waters he heard not. A voluminous MSS., intended for publication on the
morrow, was receiving the last touches of its author. I am sorry that
our
record has extracted nothing from this valuable work, which has,
undoubtedly,
perished in some ecclesiastical intrigue. Its title, however, I find to
be "A complete exposition of things not to be exposed;" and its motto a
line from Pulci, thus happily translated by a modern satirist: —
Brethren, I come from lands afar
To show you all what fools you are.
As the storm grew stronger and more terrible, Pedro,
totally absorbed in his occupation, could not perceive that, while his
left palm rested upon a volume in sable binding, the blue lightning
fluttered
among its leaves with most portentous velocity.
"I am in no hurry, Signor Pedro,"
whispered a
soft
voice in the apartment.
"The devil!" ejaculated our hero,
starting from
his
seat, upsetting the alabaster stand, and looking around him in
astonishment.
"Very true!" calmly replied the
voice.
"Very true! — What is very true? —
How came you
here?"
vociferated the metaphysician, as his eye fell upon a man with
singularly
thin features, who lay, at full length, upon an ottoman in a corner of
the chamber.
"I was saying," continued the figure,
without
replying
to Pedro's interrogatories, "I was saying that I am in no hurry — that
the business upon which I took the liberty of calling is of minor
importance
— that I can wait until you have finished your Exposition."
"My Exposition! How do you
know I am
writing
an Exposition? Good God!"
"Hush!" replied the figure in a
shrill undertone;
and, arising from the settee, he made a step towards our hero, while
the
arabesque lamp suddenly ceased its convulsive swinging and became
motionless.
The philosopher's amazement did not
prevent a
narrow
scrutiny of the stranger's dress and appearance. The outlines of a
figure
much above the common standard were blurred and rendered indefinite by
the huge folds of a black Roman toga. Above his left ear he carried,
after
the fashion of a modern scribe, an instrument resembling the stylus of
the ancients; and, from his left arm, depended a crimson bag of a
material
totally unknown to our hero, being luminous. There was another article
of habiliment equally a mystery to the patrician. The toga, being left
open at the throat, displayed the neatly folded cravat and starched
shirt-collar
of 1832. All these things excited little of Pedro's attention; for his
antiquarian eye had fallen upon the sandals of the intruder,
and
he recognised therein the exact pattern of those worn before the flood,
[column 2:] as given, with minute
accuracy, in the
Ptolemaiad of the Rabbi Vathek.
I find, upon looking over certain
archives in
Venice,
that "Garcia, the metaphysician, was an exceedingly little, yet
pugnacious
man." Accordingly, when his visitor drew a chair close by the huge
bowed
window that looked out upon the sea, our hero silently followed his
example.
"A clever book that of yours, Pedro,"
said the
stranger,
tapping our friend, knowingly, upon the shoulder.
Pedro stared.
"It is a work after my own heart,"
continued the
former, "I suppose you knew Confucius.''
Our hero's amazement redoubled.
A sad set of fools now-a-days I
tell you.
Philosophy is a mere trumpery. O, nous estin autos, as some one very
justly
observed, meaning 'auyos.' But, to tell the truth, it was very little
better
at any time. The fact is, Garcia," here the stranger's voice dropped to
a whisper, "men know nothing about these matters. Your
doctrines,
however, come nearer to the point than any with which I am acquainted.
I like your doctrines, Signor Pedro, and have come a long way
to
tell you so."
The philosopher's eyes sparkled, and
he fumbled,
in great haste, among the rubbish on the floor, for his overthrown MSS.
Having found it, he took, from an ivory escrutoire, a flask of the
delightful
wine of Sauterne, and placing them, with the sable-bound volume, on the
alabaster stand, wheeled it before the visitor, and re-seated himself
at
his elbow.
Here, if the reader should wish to
know why our
hero
troubled himself to place upon the stand any thing so ominous as that
book
in sable binding, I reply that Pedro Garcia was, by no means, a fool;
no
man ever accused him of being a fool. He had, accordingly, very soon
arrived
at the conclusion that his knowing friend was neither more nor less
than
his August and Satanic Majesty. Now, although persons of greater height
have been frightened at less serious circumstances, and although under
certain dispensations of Providence (such as the visitation of a
spider,
a rat, or a physician) Pedro did not always evince the philosopher, yet
fear of the devil never once entered his imagination. — To tell the
truth,
he was rather gratified, than otherwise, at a visit from a gentleman
whom
he so highly respected. He flattered himself with spending an agreeable
hour; and it was with the air of being 'up to snuff' that he
accommodated
his visitor with a volume best suited to his acquirements and literary
taste.
"But I must say," continued
the stranger,
without noticing Pedro's arrangements, "I must say that, upon some
points,
you are wrong, my friend, wrong; totally out, as that rogue
Sanconiathon
used to say — ha! ha! ha! — poor Sanconiathon!''
"Pray, sir, how old — may — you —
call yourself?"
inquired the metaphysician, with a cut of his eye.
"Old? Sir? Eh? Oh! a mere trifle. As
I was
saying,
you have certain very outre notions in that book of yours.
Now,
what do you mean by all that humbug about the soul? Pray, sir, what is
the soul?"
"The soul," replied Pedro, referring
to his MSS.,
"is undoubtedly —"
"No, sir!"
"Indubitably —"
"No, sir!"
"Evidently —"
"No, sir!"
"And beyond all question —"
"No, sir! — the soul is no such
thing."
"Then what is it?"
"That is neither here nor there,
Signor Pedro,"
replied
the stranger, musing, "I have tasted — that is I mean I have known some
very bad souls and some pretty good ones."
Here the stranger licked his lips;
and having,
unconsciously,
let fall his hand upon the sable volume, was seized with a violent fit
of sneezing upon which our hero, reaching his common-place book,
inserted
the follow memorandum: —
N. B. — Divorum inferorum cachinnatio sternutamentis
mortalium
verisimillima
est.
The stranger 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 Catullus, and Naso,
and
Plautus, and Quinty — dear Quinty, as I called him when he
sung
a 'seculare' for my amusement, while I toasted him good-humouredly on a
fork. But they want flavour, these Romans, one fat Greek is worth a
dozen
of them, and, besides, will keep, which cannot be said of a
Quirite.
— Terence, however, was an exception — firm as an Esquimaux, and juicy
as a German — the very recollection of the dog makes my mouth water. —
Let us taste your Sauterne."
Our hero had, by this time, made up
his mind to
the
'nil admirari,' and merely filled his visitor's glass. He was,
however,
conscious of a strange sound in the chamber, like the wagging of a
tail,
but of this he took no notice, simply kicking the large water-dog that
lay asleep under his chair, and requesting him to be quiet. — The
stranger
proceeded.
"But, if I have a penchant,
Signor
Pedro,
if I have a penchant, it is for a philosopher. Yet let me tell
you,
sir, it is not every dev — I mean every gentleman who knows how to choose
a philosopher. Long ones are not good, and the
best, if
not
very carefully shelled, are apt to be a little rancid on account of the
gall.
"Shelled?"
"I mean taken out of the body."
"What do you think of a physician?"
"Don't mention them," here
the stranger
retched
violently, "ugh! I never tried but one, that rascal — (ugh!) —
Hippocrates.
Smelt of asafœtida — (ugh! ugh!) — took particular pains with the
villain
too — caught a wretched cold washing him in the Styx — and, after all,
he gave me the cholera morbus."
"The wretch! the abortion of a pill
box!"
ejaculated
Pedro, dropping a tear, and, reaching another bottle of Sauterne, he
swallowed
three bumpers in rapid succession. The stranger followed his example.
"After all, Signor Pedro," said he,
"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 ought to know that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is
frequently
impossible to keep a soul 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."
"Good God! how do you manage?"
Here the Arabesque lamp commenced
swinging with
redoubled
violence, and the stranger 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, Pedro Garcia, once for all, we must
have
no more swearing."
Pedro swallowed another bumper, and
his visitor
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, my dear sir, the
body!"
vociferated
the philosopher, for the wine had gotten a little into his head. Here
he
reached another bottle of Sauterne.
"The body! — well, what of the body?
oh! ah! I
perceive
— why the body is not all affected by the transaction. I have
made
innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties never
experience
any inconvenience. There was Cain, and Nimrod, and Nero, and Caligula,
and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and — and the Jew — and — and a
thousand
others, all very good men in their way, who never knew what a soul was
during the latter part of their lives. Yet these men adorned society.
Why
is n't [[sic]] there V—— , now? — whom you know as well as I — is he
not
in full possession of his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a
keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who ——- but I have his
agreement
in my pocket book." Thus saying, he drew, from the luminous bag, a book
with [column 3:] clasps of cornelian, and, from
the
book, a bundle of papers, upon some of which Pedro caught a glimpse of
the letters MACHIA, MAZA, RICHEL, and the words DOMITIAN and ELIZABETH.
From these papers he selected a narrow slip of parchment, and, from it,
read aloud the following words: —
In consideration of
certain
mental
endowments, which it would be unnecessary to specify, and in farther
consideration
of the sum of one thousand Louis d'or, I, being aged one year and one
month,
do, hereby, from this date, make over, to the bearer of this bond, all
my right, title, and appurtenance in the shadow called 'my soul.'
Done at Paris, this
——— day of
———
, in the year of our Lord ——— , FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET.
"A clever fellow that," resumed the
stranger,
"but
he was wrong about the shadow — the soul a shadow! — no such nonsense,
Signor Pedro. — Only think of a fricaseed shadow!"
"Only think of a fricaseed s — h — a
— d — o —
w!"
echoed our hero, whose faculties were becoming gloriously illuminated,
"now, damme," continued he, "Mr. — humph! — damme! (hiccup) if I would
have been such a nincompoop. My soul, Mr. — humph! — yes, sir, my
soul."
"Your soul, Signor Pedro?"
"Yes, sir, my soul is — is —
is — no
shadow,
damme!"
"I should be sorry to suppose, Signor
Pedro —"
"Yes, sir, my soul is peculiarly
calculated for —
for — a stew, damme!"
"Ha!"
"A ragout —"
"Eh?"
"A fricasee —"
"Ah!"
"Or (hiccup) a cotelette — and I'll
let you have
it a bargain."
"Could n't think of such a thing,"
said the
stranger,
calmly, at the same time arising from his seat.
Pedro stared.
"Am supplied at present —"
"Eh?"
"Have no cash on hand —"
"What?"
"Very ungentlemanly in me —"
"Humph! " "To take advantage of —"
"Sir!"
"Your peculiar situation."
Here the stranger bowed and withdrew,
in what
manner
our philosopher could not exactly ascertain; but, in a well concerted
effort
to discharge a bottle at the scoundrel, the slender chain was severed
that
hung from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall
of the lamp. |
|
|
|
|
|