You may readily believe how tenderly I sympathised in the anxiety and distress of my venerable friend, though powerless to give her comfort, for my mind was painfully impressed with similar apprehensions; and vague surmises had for some time haunted me, that all was not well with the circumstances of Mr Devereux. As we talked together—forming various conjectures respecting the motives which could have led him to put such violence on his feelings, and even on his sense of propriety, as to require his respectable sister to receive, in the house of their ancestors, a person so every way unworthyof admittance there as was the wife of Mr Heneage Devereux—the sad gleams of truth seemed to flash momentarily across the mind of Mrs Eleanor; and as I considered the matter, my previous suspicions became more definite. But still, save and except the late inconsistencies of Mr Devereux’s conduct in relation to his subtle and unprepossessing kinsman, there had been nothing—absolutely nothing—in his conduct and apparent circumstances, to warrant a doubt respecting the perfect order and prosperousness of his worldly affairs. And I felt a delicacy—or rather a difficulty—in discussing the subject with Mrs Eleanor, which restrained me from fully opening my mind to her. I have regretted more than once that I did not overcome this morbid feeling, and that, overstepping, in the zeal and truth of friendship, the shallow suggestions of false delicacy, I had not spoken openly even to Mr Devereux. I might have spoken in time. One friendly hand stretched out in time might have prevented.... But I cannot dwell on that conjecture—It is too painful.
Well! I know not how the reception day passed off, nor how dear Mrs Eleanor was supported through her distressing task. But when I called, a few days after, at the Hall, I found her apparently reconciled to the appointed trial, looking, indeed, more pale and serious than was usual with her, but not less serenely composed, and her manner, andthe expression of her countenance, when she addressed her brother, or looked towards him, was almost heavenly—so eloquent of the tenderest compassion and respect. But that brother! I—my old respected friend—how had a few days of mental misery—the truth was evident—how fearfully had those few days altered him! He was alone with his sister when I entered his morning room.
“A little indisposed,” he said, smiling; “and faint, from the unusual heat.” And she stood by him as he reclined in his easy-chair, to take back the wine-glass, in which she had just administered to him some drops of ether. The ancient handmaiden, with whom you have made acquaintance, was in attendance with the salver, and having received the empty glass from her lady, withdrew with a respectful curtsy to myself, and, as she passed me, and her eyes met mine, I saw they were glistening with tears.
My old friend stretched out to me a trembling hand, and apologised, with his wonted and unfailing courtesy, for not rising to receive me: “But Eleanor insists on it that I have over-exerted myself lately,” he observed, smiling affectionately on her; “and I must be rude and self-indulgent to oblige her, and to recruit myself, to meet my guests at dinner. They are so good as to excuse me in the morning,” he added hurriedly, and a faint blush passed over his countenance as he continued with averted eyes,“By the by, L——, you have heard from my sister, that I have felt it due to my cousin Heneage to invite his wife and part of his family to the Hall? His feelings were naturally hurt by their exclusion from it—and—and”——The struggle to proceed was a painful one, but he achieved it, and in a firmer tone, and with eyes that were raised to meet mine with a deprecating look, went on to say,—“You are aware, L——, that I should not willingly have imposed on my dear sister the irksomeness of receiving as a guest a person so ill qualified to associate with her as is Mrs Heneage Devereux, by birth and breeding, and perhaps—I fear”——And again his voice faltered, and his eye avoided mine—“I fear, by other circumstances, previous to her union with my cousin; buthe ismy cousin, you know, and—and—my dear sistercould notdisoblige me;”—and as he pressed his lips to her hand as it lay upon the arm of his easy-chair, I saw a tear drop on it from his closed eyelids. “Of course,” he continued, recovering himself after a moment’s pause, during which I had endeavoured to relieve his distress by a few cheerful, though scarce connected words—“Of course, during the time of my cousin’s visit to us, we shall live secluded from our friends and neighbours; for I cannot expect from any lady the complaisance of meeting Mrs Heneage Devereux at my table.” Yet he looked at me half-imploringly as he spoke, and it would be impossiblefor me to describe the expression of grateful affection which beamed in the countenances of both brother and sister, when I hastened to remove the humiliating doubt, by exclaiming, “Whatever be your intention with regard to the neighbourhood in general, my dear sir, do not flatter yourself you will so easily banish your old and attached friends. Neither my wife nor I could endure a week’s exclusion from Devereux Hall, and I think it is more than that period of time since we have sat at your hospitable board. Mrs L—— would take it kindly if you were to invite us for to-morrow, and we would do our best to help you to entertain these inconvenient visitors.”
Mr Devereux grasped my hand, and looked his grateful acquiescence to my proposal, for it was more than a minute before he could speak it audibly, and I left my valued friends that morning with the comfort of believing that I had been so fortunate as to evince my affection for them in the way most grateful and soothing to their feelings.
As I passed through the Hall in my way out, the door of the eating-room burst open, and out rushed a couple of overdressed hoydens, with flame-coloured faces and arms, followed by a hopeful youth, all shirt-collar and cravat, booted and spurred, and armed with a dog-whip, which he flourished in playful menace after the fair fugitives, eloquently apostrophising them with—“Hoie! hoie! little dogs!—That’sit, Loa!—Well run, Phil!—Unkennel the old one!” At sight of me the frolicsome trio slunk back somewhat confused, and a shrill female voice called out from the eating-room, in a half-laughing, half-wrathful tone, “Come back, you combustious creturs! Come back, I tell ye, or I’ll tell your Pa when he comes in. Let alone your sisters, do, Watty, dear! or you’ll tear their tails again, as you did yesterday, wi’ them there nasty spurs!” My inclination to laugh was overpowered by sensations of a very different nature as I hurried past the scene of uproarious vulgarity, and I rode away from the old Hall, with a full heart, well-nigh lamenting that the last lineal descendants of the Devereuxs had lived so long as to witness its desecration.
From that day forward.... But I should tell you that my dear wife gave her ready assent to the engagement I had ventured to make for both of us, though she accompanied me next day to the Hall in painful expectation of witnessing the annoyance and distress of our valued friends. But the perfect good-breeding of Mr Devereux and his sister, especially the dignified self-possession of Mrs Eleanor, prevented all outward manifestation of what must have been the inward feeling. We found them assembled in the drawing-room with their uncongenial guests, and two neighbouring gentlemen, old bachelor friends of Mr Devereux, who had dropt in uninvited to dinner. We were previously acquaintedwith Mr Heneage, but were, of course, introduced to his lady and her daughters, and Walter Heneage Devereux, jun., who bobbed his chin into the depths of his starched cravat in the most approved style of dandy vulgarity—and Mrs and Misses Heneages! Heavens! that such masses of coarseness, finery, and ignorant assumption, should have borne in common with our venerable friends the honoured name of Devereux! It was my office (Mr Devereux having led out my wife) to conduct Mrs Heneage to the dining-room; and had my feelings been less painfully excited, I should have been amused at her evidently first attempt at the assumption of aristocratical ease and urbanity, as, thrusting her huge thick arm through mine up to the elbow, she leant on me with a weight that would have annihilated the fragile frame of our venerable host, and must have left on my arm the impression of the gilt jack-chain she wore by way of bracelet.
Ludicrous as was throughout the day the deportment of these incongruous personages, the remembrance of it is, even now, too painful, as connected with the distress and humiliated feelings of my lamented friends, for me to enter more fully into details that might be amusing enough under other circumstances. Whatever, however, must have been the feelings of our host and hostess, they were never for a moment betrayed into visible annoyance by the species of martyrdom to which they were subjected;and the remarkably dignified, though gentle deportment of Mrs Eleanor in particular, was not without its triumph in obtaining for her a degree of involuntary deference, even from the coarse-minded persons who were incapable of appreciating her real claims. Yet once (I remember it now)—onceshe was movedto the utterance of a reproof, the severity of which was felt rather than understood by the vulgar mind of Mrs Heneage, who had provoked it by some offensive comment on the portrait of “the old lady there,” as she familiarly designated the late Mrs Devereux. “I am sure, madam, you are not aware,” said the dear Mrs Eleanor, while her sweet voice faltered with emotion, and a faint blush suffused her venerable face,—“I am sure you cannot be aware that the lady represented by that portrait was our dear and venerated mother, to whose lifeless resemblance even, I should hope, no person would knowingly allude disrespectfully, least of all in the presence of her children.” The woman to whom this mild rebuke was addressed, coloured, fidgeted, fanned herself violently, and glancing as if half frightened towards her husband, who frowned tremendously, stammered out something of an apology, which was accepted with a grave and silent inclination of the head, as Mrs Eleanor rose to lead the way into the drawing-room.
The scenes I have sketched so hastily are but samples of a long long series of annoyances andmortifications, to which my dear friends were from thenceforward subjected at frequent intervals, until the close of the clouded evening of their lives; for the air of Devereux Hall was found to be particularly beneficial to the delicate health of Mrs Heneage, and the bloom (as she termed it) of the full-blown peonys, her daughters, besides that Walter Heneage, jun., took especial pleasure in thinning Mr Devereux’s preserves, and insolently trespassing on those of the neighbouring gentlemen, who submitted more patiently to the young Cockney’s inroads than they would have done, but for their regard and respect for their venerable neighbour, whose moral thraldom to his stern repulsive kinsman was now generally known and compassionated, as the fatal cause became gradually, and at last strongly suspected. Some attempts were made by myself and others to invite the confidence of Mr Devereux; but from all allusion to that mysterious influence so visibly exercised over him, he shrank with a morbid sensitiveness which made it impossible to proceed, without seriously offending; and when I last conferred on the subject with Mrs Eleanor, she requested me, with tears, to desist from all farther interposition, “for, alas!” said the dear lady, “all such attempts are, I am convinced, hopeless, and only inflict additional pain on my beloved brother, even exciting in him a degree of irritability, of which his mild spirit was till lately unsusceptible.” My late observations of the changein Mr Devereux’s once equable temper, but too well corroborated the qualified and reluctant hint thus drawn from his devoted sister; and to me it was obvious, likewise, that the mental powers of my venerable friend, always more characterised by kindliness of nature, than by admixture of the “sterner stuff,” which goes to the composition of moral strength, had been for some time yielding to the weight of some intolerable burden, and that as years and infirmities grew upon him, his natural timidity became almost shyness, and so helped to preclude him from the benefit of good offices which many were ready to render him, had the least opening on his part encouraged them to solicit greater confidence.
But the days drew near when our poor friend was to be bereaved of his last earthly comfort—the companionship of this tender sister, who had said truly, “That no evil influence could ever estrange their hearts from each other, however it might have robbed her of her brother’s confidence.” As they had grown up together in love and unity, so was her life devoted to him to the last, and her faithfulness perfected in the manner of her death. For though he never knew it (thank God! that drop of bitterness was spared), her life was sacrificed to her anxiety for his comfort, and her reluctance to cause him a moment’s distress, or even impatience, which it was in her power to avert.
For many years Mrs Eleanor Devereux, as well as her brother, had been subject to periodical fitsof gout, their hereditary malady. Mr Devereux’s attacks had always been most obstinate and painful, though never alarming, as affecting only the hands and feet. His sister’s were still slighter, though more frequent, and she even forgot her own pain, or thanked God it was so moderate, causing only a temporary lameness—and leaving her hands free to minister, as only hers could minister, to the comfort of her more suffering brother. As both advanced in age, however, the disease gained ground on both.
Mr Devereux was subjected to long and excruciating torture, and almost helplessness, being entirely confined to his bed and easy-chair; and not being aware—for she never complained—that his sister was often suffering at the same time, though not equally with himself, he not only accepted, as he had been wont to do, that unwearied attention and that tender ministry to which she had so long accustomed him, but unconsciously became more exacting and more difficult to please, as his mind and temper became enfeebled and irritable, from natural causes of decay, and the more fatal inroads of unconfided care. So it was that at seasons of suffering he could scarcely endure her absence for an hour together; and when the cruel malady left him free from pain, but reduced to greater feebleness, as little could he spare her from the side of his garden seat, or study chair, who was the sharer of all his intellectual pleasures, as she was the soother of his bodily anguish.
And when his evil genius was about him in the shape of cousin Heneage, ill could the tender sister brook the thought of leaving him to that hateful companionship, from which he evidently shrank with increasing repugnance, though too frequently compelled, as it seemed, by some secret necessity, to submit to long private conferences with his dark kinsman. From these interviews, I have since heard from Hallings, he always reappeared in a state of pitiable agitation or deep despondence; and more than once on his reaching Mrs Eleanor’s dressing-room, in which, as if in a haven of safety, he was wont to take refuge from the scene of torment, he has fallen into a sort of fit, his forehead breaking out into profuse cold perspiration, and his eyes fixed with perfect unconsciousness on his agonised sister.
It is wonderful that the mental fabric should not have been utterly overthrown by such cruel conflicts; but though weakened in its powers of endurance, and perhaps in its reflective faculties, the common course of nature was reversed with regard to its sensibilities, which became more painfully acute as those powers decayed which should have counterbalanced their morbid ascendancy.
Toward the close of the last summer preceding his decease, a season which had been made particularly irksome to him by the prolonged visitation of Mrs Heneage and her family, my old friend was left once more to the quiet society of his sister, andto her gentle tending, through one of his constitutional attacks, the effects of which still lingered about him, when the health of his kind nurse began to droop, and a fearful change in her appearance was manifest to all those who were not blinded to it by habits of hourly intercourse, and her uncomplaining serenity. Her own maid, however, the faithful Celia, was but too competent to perceive the alteration in her lady, and to surmise its cause; for she was aware, though enjoined to strict secresy, that for some time past, on the first indication of any gouty symptoms, Mrs Eleanor had had recourse to powerful repellants, counting as little her own personal risk, in comparison with the dread necessity of leaving her brother companionless in the midst of his intrusive guests, or alone on the bed of sickness, as might have been the case had her own malady been allowed to take its progress unchecked at the first indications, which were of a more than heretofore threatening nature. The antidote had been but too efficacious, and when Mrs Eleanor was at length induced by the entreaties of her faithful servant, and her own internal sensations, to speak privately to her medical attendant (an attached friend of the family), he saw so much cause for serious alarm, that it was with difficulty she prevailed on him to withhold for a few days only from her brother the shock of a communication, which she undoubtedly flattered herself might yet be rendered unnecessary by her amendment.
And for a day or two she appeared to rally, and there was a visible improvement in her, to my observation and that of Mrs L——, when we stopt at the Hall in our evening drive, and drank tea with her and Mr Devereux, on the last of those few days.
We had hardly done breakfast the following morning, when our medical friend (the attendant of the Devereuxs) sent in a request to speak to me in my library.
It was to announce to me the removal of our dear friend from earth to heaven. She had been found that morning in her bed asleep in death.
It needs not to say how promptly I betook myself to the house of mourning—how earnestly I pressed for admittance to the forlorn survivor, who had locked himself into his library, at the door of which stood Hallings in an agony of grief and apprehension, imploring leave to enter, if but for a moment. I joined my supplications to his, and after a time we heard a heavy sigh, and the approach of feeble footsteps to the door, on the opening of which the bereaved old man, as if overpowered by the effort, staggered backwards, and would have fallen, but that I caught him in my arms, and supported him to his easy-chair, still holding his hand, as I took my seat beside him, in that deep awe of silent sympathy, which feels it profanation to break in with human speech upon the sacredness of unutterable sorrow. Long he lay back, as he had sunk into his chair, silent and motionless. Thesmall thin hand I held, was as cold and pale as that of a corpse; and as I contemplated his venerable countenance, colourless as the hand, the closed eyelids, and sunken temples, and every sharpened feature set in rigid and unnatural composure, I was startled—not shocked—by a sudden thought that the imperishable spirit had departed already from that poor frame of decaying mortality.
In breathless awe I stole my fingers gently to the wrist of the hand I held in mine,almostpraying inwardly that I might find all quiet there; but even while I felt for the imperceptible pulse, a change came over the pale countenance—a slight tremor of the muscles about the mouth, a quivering of the lower eyelids, and then a tear stole glistening through the thin worn lashes of either eye, and slowly, heavily trickled down the furrowed cheek, and after a minute the trembling hand was withdrawn from the tender pressure of mine, and with its fellow joined and half upraised in the attitude of prayer. The old man’s eyes were still closed, but his lips moved, and in the tremulous accents which escaped them, I distinguished—“I thank thee!... I thank thee.... Oh Lord!... Thou hast takenherfrom the evil to come.”
Uninvited and unwelcome, Mr Heneage Devereux presented himself at the Hall, as suddenly as rapid travelling could bring him there, after the notification of Mrs Eleanor’s death had reached him in London. And it was evident to me and others thathe had motives for preventing as much as possible all unrestrained and confidential intercourse between his cousin and those old friends and neighbours, who would have rallied round him in his distress and perplexities, and, by their strenuous and disinterested counsels and assistance, have even then released him from his bondage to the fiend, had time been allowed them to win gradually upon the shyness and timidity of Mr Devereux’s character, so as to induce him to overstep the little weakness of that false pride which shrank from disclosure of worldly difficulties, and exposure—such as no doubt he had pictured to himself—to the humiliating comments of contemptuous pity. Mr Heneage came, and such perpetual and vexatious obstacles were thrown in the way of the neighbouring gentlemen, in all their attempts at a renewal of social intercourse with Mr Devereux, that one by one all relinquished their kindly hopes of serving him effectually, though a few, like myself, persevered in seeing him as often as we could obtain admission into that altered abode, where in past days such a gracious and smiling welcome had ever greeted us. But I fear our venerable friend derived little pleasure or comfort from these almost intrusive visits. Courteously and kindly indeed he ever received all who approached him; and to the few who had been particularly distinguished by his friendship and that of Mrs Eleanor, there was even a more touching expression—one of grateful tenderness in his accustomed affectionatenessof manner. But the exertion of conversation, absorbed as he was by corroding cares and fatal concealments, was evidently a painful effort to him, and he often sunk, even while his friends were endeavouring to engage his attention, into fits of sad abstraction, broken unconsciously by such deep-fetched sighs as went to the heart of those who were powerless to comfort. Little was even yet known of the real nature of those transactions between our venerable friend and his kinsman, which had wrought such lamentable change in him, and all connected with him; but whispers got abroad that Mr Devereux’s circumstances were in a very dilapidated state, and that there was even a possibility, if his life were spared beyond a certain period, that the old man might be driven forth from the home of his ancestors, to seek some meaner shelter for his grey head, before it was laid to rest in the vault of the Devereuxs.
Mr Heneage began to assume more arbitrary authority over the establishment at the Hall—conducting himself with an insolence of manner so disgusting to the old respectable servants, that, by degrees, all dropped off except Hallings and his wife, and a white-headed coachman, whose devoted fidelity strengthened them to endure all things rather than desert their aged master in the hour of his utmost need.
Towards the close of that sad winter succeeding the death of Mrs Eleanor, Hallings (as I have sinceheard from him) observed an unwonted degree of restlessness in his master, and at times, after having been closeted with Mr Heneage and an attorney, who now frequently accompanied the latter to the Hall—at such times especially a feverish and flushed excitement, during the continuance of which his ideas seemed to wander, and he uttered expressions which gave but too much ground of probability to those rumours I have alluded to.
On one of those occasions, when the forlorn old man had, as it seemed, been driven by his evil genius almost to the verge of desperation, his faithful servant, urged on by uncontrollable feeling, ventured, for the first time, to hint at the secret source of this overwhelming misery, and to press upon him the entreaty that he would open his heart freely to some old and true friend. “See Mr L——, sir!” implored the worthy Hallings; “for God’s sake, my dear, dear master! let me send directly for Mr L——, or go to him and tell him you would speak with him immediately.”
For a moment Mr Devereux seemed as if half moved to compliance with the prayer of his attached servant. For a moment he sat in trembling agitation, with half-opened lips and eyes fixed on Hallings, as if about to give the permission so earnestly supplicated; but the indecision ended fatally. Slowly and mournfully shaking his head, as it sank upon his breast, he waved his hand rejectingly, and faintly murmured in an inward tone, “Too late! toolate! Leave me, good Hallings! Your master will not be long a trouble to you;—but he has lived too long.”
On the day succeeding that on which this scene took place, Mr Devereux was again shut up in conference with Cousin Heneage and his assistant friend, the convenient scrivener. Hallings’s anxiety kept him hovering near the library where they were convened, and more than once he heard the hateful grating voice of Cousin Heneage raised to a threatening loudness, and then, after a pause, his master’s well-known accents, apparently pleading with pathetic earnestness, till overpowered by the discordant tones of his kinsman and the attorney.
“At last,” said Hallings, “I could distinguish a sort of choking, gasping cry, and a hysterical sob from my dear master; and then I could bear it no longer, but knocked loudly for admittance at the locked door. My interruption broke up the conference; a chair was pushed back with violence as Mr Heneage, it seemed, rose from it, for it was his voice that thundered out, as he thumped the table in his rage—‘To-morrow, sir! I tell you, to-morrow. I will be fooled no longer.’ And then my master almost shrieked out—‘A little time! a little time! Only a year; one little year, Cousin Heneage!’ But the savage laughed in scorn; and, as he strode past me, followed by that other viper, looked back with stern determination, while he uttered, in a loud insulting tone—‘Not a week, sir! Not a day beyond to-morrow.’”
On going to the assistance of his master, poor Hallings found him in a state of dreadful agitation. “His forehead, sir, was wet with perspiration, though the fire had burnt down to nothing, and there was snow upon the ground, and there was a deep red spot upon either cheek. His hands were grasping the arms of his chair, and he rose from it as I entered, but stared at me with seeming unconsciousness. I could not see him so, and control my own feelings. ‘My dear master!’ I said, and the tears gushed from my eyes. The sight of that seemed to bring him to himself a little—for you know, sir, how tender-hearted he was—and he fetched two or three short sighs, and said, ‘Oh, Hallings! it is all over,’ and trembled so violently that I feared he would fall, and ran to his support; but he recovered himself, and seemed to have more strength than usual in his crippled limbs, as he walked across the library and hall, and up-stairs to his own bedroom, to the door of which I followed him. But he forbade my entrance in a determined tone; and, desiring he might not be disturbed for an hour or two, as he should lie down and recover himself, he went in and shut the door, drawing the bolt after him.”
So far I have given you in substance the narrative of Hallings; but his farther statement was of a nature so agitating that it was made more unconnectedly, and I must briefly relate to you, in my own words, the miserable conclusion.
The habitual deference with which Hallings was ever accustomed to obey his master’s least imperative command, restrained him on that last fatal occasion from opposing his desire to be left alone and undisturbed.
But “something,” the old man said, would not let him rest, or keep away for ten minutes together from his master’s door, at which he was anxiously listening, when he heard the tinkling of glass, and the unlocking, as he well knew the sound, of Mr Devereux’s medicine-chest. Hallings noted the circumstance gladly, for he supposed from it that Mr Devereux was taking a nervous medicine—some drops of sal-volatile, to which he had often recourse at seasons of peculiar languor or nervous agitation. But still, as he strongly repeated, he “could not rest,” nor refrain from assuring himself of his master’s state a moment beyond the absolutely prescribed hour. He knocked at the door, and for some time awaited an answer; but none was made. And again, at the risk of disturbing his master’s slumber, he repeated the rap more loudly; and Mr Devereux being a very light sleeper, aroused by the faintest sound, Hallings said his heart sank within him when that knock, and the next, and another, and another, were still unnoticed.
“I thought of our dear lady, sir,” he said, “and how suddenly she was taken.”
And at that thought he grew desperate; andsummoning assistance, had the door forced open. There sat his master in his large easy-chair beside the fireplace, wrapt in profound slumber, breathing heavily, and his face overspread with a livid and ghastly paleness. Hallings stepped forward in great agitation, and taking his passive hand, made all possible attempts to arouse him from that death-like slumber, but in vain; and as he was thus busied, his eye fell accidentally on a phial that lay uncorked and empty beside a wine-glass, on the corner of the mantel-shelf, within reach of his master’s hand.
At that sight a fearful thought flashed upon him; and, turning to a groom who had pressed in with others of the servants, he ordered him to ride off instantly for Mr Maddox, the family apothecary, and urge his attendance with utmost speed, on a matter of life and death. Our medical friend was soon at the Hall, and by the side of him who still reclined motionless and insensible in that easy-chair, sleeping that fearful sleep. Heneage Devereux was absent for the day, and Hallings had, in consequence, uncontrolled liberty to act on that trying occasion as seemed best to him for the reputation as well as life of his dear master. He therefore requested to speak in private to the surgeon, whose feelings were, he knew, in all things relating to Mr Devereux, perfectly congenial with his own. Tohimonly he told that the empty phial labelled laudanum had, to his certain knowledge, been full that morning, when, by his master’s direction, hehad taken some required drug from the medicine-chest. To him also he confided the scene that had immediately preceded Mr Devereux’s retirement to his chamber. Little mutual consultation passed, or was necessary. Mr Maddox proceeded immediately to use such means as the exigency of the case demanded; but either they were too late resorted to, or would have been ineffectual from the first. Mr Devereux never awoke from that fatal slumber, and within a fortnight from that disastrous day, his mortal remains were deposited beside those of his beloved sister, and his earthly inheritance was claimed, and taken undisputed possession of, by that bad man, whose responsibility is awful indeed, if (aswehave too much reason to believe) the sudden, though not untimely death of our lamented friend, was occasioned by any other cause than that to which it was generally ascribed—as adjudged by a jury—an overdose of laudanum, taken incautiously, to allay a spasmodic affection, to which Mr Devereux had been often subject. Of this I am morally assured, that if the act was wilful, it was not deliberate. The last agony of that tender spirit must have overset the mental balance, or the Christian’s faith would have triumphed over human weakness, and the malice of the wicked, which, though it may kill the body, “hath no more that it can do.”
Aslight shudder came over me as I was entering the inner court of the College of Gottingen. It was, however, but momentary; and on recovering from it, I felt both taller and heavier, and altogether more vigorous, than the instant before. Being rather nervous, I did not much mind these feelings, imputing them to some sudden determination to the brain, or some unusual beating about the heart, which had assailed me suddenly, and as suddenly left me. On proceeding, I met a student coming in the opposite direction. I had never seen him before, but as he passed me by, he nodded familiarly—“There is a fine day, Wolstang.”—“What does this fellow mean?” said I to myself. “He speaks to me with as much ease as if I had been his intimate acquaintance. And he calls me Wolstang—a person to whom I bear no more resemblance than to theman in the moon.” I looked after him for some time, pondering whether I should call him back and demand an explanation; but before I could form any resolution, he was out of my sight.
Thinking it needless to take any further notice of the circumstance, I went on. Another student, whom I did not know, now passed me.—“Charming weather, Wolstang.”—“Wolstang again!” said I; “this is insufferable. Hello, I say! what do you mean?” But at this very moment he entered the library, and either did not hear my voice, or paid no attention to it.
As I was standing in a mood between rage and vexation, a batch of Collegians came up, talking loud and laughing. Three, with whom I was intimately acquainted, took no notice of me; while two, to whom I was totally unknown, saluted me with “Good morning, Wolstang.” One of these latter, after having passed me a few yards, turned round and cried out, “Wolstang, your cap is awry.”
I did not know what to make of this preposterous conduct. Could it be premeditated? It was hardly possible, or I must have discovered the trick in the countenances of those who addressed me. Could it be that they really mistook me for Wolstang? This was still more incredible, for Wolstang was fully six inches taller, four stones heavier, and ten years older than I. I found myself in a maze of bewilderment in endeavouring to discover the causeof all this. I reflected upon it in vain, summoning to my assistance the aids of Logic and Metaphysics to unravel the mystery. Nay, Euclid was not forgotten. I called to mind the intricate problems of science which a rigid study of this Prince of Mathematicians had enabled me to solve; but on the present occasion my thoughts, though screwed to the utmost pitch of philosophical acumen, completely failed in their aim.
While meditating as in a reverie on these events, I was aroused by approaching steps. On looking up, I beheld the most learned Doctor Dedimus Dunderhead, Provost, and Professor of Moral Philosophy to the College. He was a man about five feet high; but so far as rotundity of corporation went, noways deficient. On the contrary, he was uncommonly fat, and his long-waisted velvet coat of office, buttoning over a capacious belly, showed underneath a pair of thick stumpy legs, cased in short small-clothes and silk stockings, and bedizened at the knees with large buckles of silver. The Doctor had on, as usual, his cocked-hat, below whose rim at each side descended the copious curls of an immense bob-wig. His large carbuncle nose was adorned with a pair of spectacles, through which he looked pompously from side to side, holding back his head in grenadier fashion, and knocking his long silver-headed baton to the earth, as he walked with all the formal precision of a drum-major.
Now be it known that it is binding on every student who attends the University of Gottingen, to doff his cap on meeting this illustrious personage. This is not an optional ceremony; it is a compulsory one; and never on any occasion has it been known to be neglected, except once by a Dutchman, who, in consequence thereof, was expelled the College. It may be guessed, then, what was my degree of stupefaction when I saw Doctor Dunderhead approach—when I heard his baton striking upon the ground, responsive to his steps—when I saw his large eyes, reflected through the spectacles, looking intently upon me—I say my stupefaction may be guessed, when, even on this occasion, my hand did not make one single motion upward towards my cap. The latter still stuck to my head, and I stood folded in my college gown, my mouth half open, and my eyes fixed upon the Doctor in empty abstraction. I could see that he was angry at my tardy recognition of his presence; and as he came nearer me, he slackened his pace a little, as if to give me an opportunity of amending my neglect. However, I was so drowned in reflection that I did not take the hint. At last he made a sudden stop directly in front of me, folded his arms in the same manner as mine, and looked upwards in my face with a fixed glance, as much as to say, “Well, master, what now?” I never thought the Doctor so little, or myself so tall, as at this moment.
Having continued some time in the above attitude, he took off his hat, and made me a profound bow. “Mr Wolstang, I am your most humble servant.” Then rising up, he lifted his baton towards my cap, and knocked it off. “Your cap is awry,” continued he. “Excuse me, Mr Wolstang, it is really awry upon your head.” Another bow of mockery, as profound as the first, followed this action; and he marched away, striking his baton on the ground, holding back his head, and walking with slow pompous step down the College court.
“What the devil is the meaning of this?” said I. “Wolstang again! Confusion, this is no trick! The Provost of the College engage in a deception upon me—impossible! They are all mad, or I am mad! Wolstang from one—Wolstang from another—Wolstang from Doctor Dedimus Dunderhead! I will see to the bottom of this—I will go to Wolstang’s house immediately.” So saying, I snatched up my cap, put it on my head, and walked smartly down the court to gain the street where he lived. Before I got far, a young man met me. “By the by, Wolstang, I wish you could let me have the ten gilders I lent you. I require them immediately.”—“Ten gilders!” said I; “I don’t owe you a farthing. I never saw your face before, and my name is not Wolstang; it is Frederick Stadt.”
“Psha!—But, Wolstang, laying jesting aside,” continued he, “I must positively have them.”
“Have what?”
“My dear fellow, the ten gilders.”
“Ten devils!—I tell you, I don’t owe you a farthing.”
“Really, Wolstang, this joke is very silly. We know you are an odd fellow, but this is the most foolish prank I ever saw you play.”
“Wolstang again!” said I, my heart boiling with indignation. “I tell you, sir—I tell you, sir, that—that—” I could not get out another word, to such a degree had indignation confounded me. Without finishing my sentence, I rushed into the street, but not without hearing the person say, “By heaven, he is either mad or drunk!”
In a moment I was at Wolstang’s lodgings, and set the knocker agoing with violence. The door was opened by his servant-girl Louise, a buxom wench of some eighteen or twenty.
“Is Mr Wolstang in?” I demanded quickly.
“Mr who, sir?”
“Mr Wolstang, my dear.”
“Mr Wol—— Mr who, sir?—I did not hear you.”
“Mr Wolstang.”
“Mr Wolstang!” re-echoed the girl, with some surprise.
“Assuredly, I ask you if Mr Wolstang is within.”
“Mr Wolstang!” reiterated she. “Ha ha, ha! how droll you are to-day, master!”
“Damnation! what do you mean?” cried I in a fury, which I now found it impossible to suppress, “Tell me this instant if Mr Wolstang, your master, is at home, or by the beard of Socrates, I—I——”
“Ha, ha! this is the queerest thing I ever heard of,” said the little jade, retreating into the house, and holding her sides with laughter. “Come here, Barnabas, and hear our master asking for himself.”
I now thought that the rage into which I had thrown myself had excited the laughter of the wench, whom I knew very well to be of a frolicsome disposition, and much disposed to turn people into ridicule. I therefore put on as grave a face as I could—I even threw a smile into it—and said, with all the composure and good-humour I could muster, “Come now, my dear—conduct me to your master—I am sure he is within.” This only set her a-laughing more than ever; not a word could I get out of her. At last Barnabas made his appearance from the kitchen, and to him I addressed myself. “Barnabas,” said I, laying my hand upon his arm, “I conjure you, as you value my happiness, to tell me if Mr Wolstang is at home?”
“Sir!” said Barnabas, with a long stare.
I repeated my question.
“Did you ask,” replied he, “if Mr Wolstang was at home? If that gentleman is yourself, he is at home. O yes, I warrant you, my master is at home.”
“In what place is he, then?” I inquired.
“Wherever you are, he is not far off, I warrant you, master.”
“Can I find him in his study?”
“O yes,” continued Barnabas; “if you go to his study, I warrant you he’ll be there. Will you please to walk in, sir?” and I could see the fellow put his finger to his nose and wink to the girl, who kept tittering away in a corner. As soon as I was in the study she burst into a loud laugh, which ended by her declaring that I must be mad—“Or drunk,” quoth the sapient Barnabas, in his usual dry manner.
On entering the room, no person was to be seen; but from behind a large screen, which stood fronting the fire, I heard a sneeze. “This must be Wolstang,” thought I: “but it is not his sneeze either; it is too sharp and finical for him; however, let us see.” So on I went behind the screen, and there beheld, not the person I expected, but one very different—to wit, a little, meagre, brown-faced elderly gentleman, with hooked nose and chin, a long well-powdered queue, and a wooden leg. He was dressed in a snuff-coloured surtout, a scarlet waistcoat, and black small-clothes buckled at the knee; and on his nose was stuck a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, the glasses of which were of most unusual dimensions. A dapper-looking cocked-hat lay upon the table, together with a large open snuff-boxfull of rich rappee. Behind his right ear a pen was stuck, after the manner of the counting-house, and he seemed busily poring over a book in manuscript.
I looked a few seconds at this oddity, equally astonished and vexed at being put into what I naturally supposed the wrong room. “I am afraid, sir,” said I, as he turned his eyes towards me, “that I have intruded upon your privacy. I beg leave to apologise for the mistake. The servant led me to believe that Mr Wolstang, with whom I wished to speak, was in this chamber.”
“Don’t talk of apology, my dear sir,” said the little gentleman, rising up and bowing with the utmost politeness. “Be seated, sir—be seated. Indeed, I am just here on the same errand—to see Mr Wolstang—eh (a sneeze)—that rappee is certainly very strong. Do me the honour to occupy the seat opposite. I understand from the servants that he is expected soon.” (Another sneeze.)
For the first five minutes I did not form a very high opinion of this new acquaintance. He seemed to have all the fidgety politeness and intolerable chit-chat of a Frenchpetit maîtreof the old school. He bored me with questions and apologies, hoped I felt myself comfortable; and every interval of his speech was filled up by intolerable giggling and sneezing. In order, as it were, to increase the latter, he kept snuffing away at a preposterous rate;and when he addressed me, his mouth was drawn up into a most complacent smile, and his long nose and chin, which threatened each other like nutcrackers, thrown forward to within a foot of my face. However, in the next five minutes he improved upon me, from some very judicious observations, as I thought, which he made; and in five more I became convinced that, notwithstanding his outward frivolity and sneezing, he was far from being an ordinary man. This impression gained such strength, that in a short time I entirely forgot all my previous irritation, and even the reasons which brought me there. I found that he had a complete knowledge of the different philosophical systems of the day; among others, that of my favourite Kant;—and on the merits of the school in the North of Germany, founded by this great metaphysician, his opinions and mine tallied to a point. He also seemed deeply conversant with the mathematics. This was a subject on which I flattered myself I had few equals; but he shot far ahead of me, displaying a knowledge which scarcely any man in Europe could have matched. He traced the science downwards, in all its historical bearings, from Thales, Archimedes, and Euclid, to Newton, Euler, Leibnitz, and Laplace. In algebra, geometry, and astronomy, his information was equally extensive. From several hints which he threw out, I learned that he was no stranger to the science ofgeomancy; and he gave me to understand that he had cast the nativities of several individuals belonging to noble families; and that as their horoscopes portended, such invariably was their fate in after life. Nor was his knowledge confined to these abstruser branches of science; it embraced the whole circle of literature and the fine arts. Poetry, criticism, philology, painting, and sculpture, seemed to be equally within his range. He descanted upon them, illuminating his positions from such a vast source of illustration, that I gazed upon him with a feeling akin to amazement.
Let it not be supposed that all this was done with the formal pomp of a philosopher: on the contrary, he preserved throughout his frivolousness of manner, apologised for everything he advanced, hoped I was not offended if he differed in opinion from me, and concluded every position with a sneeze.
“By the by,” said I, “talking of Gall and Spurzheim, what do you think of their doctrine? I am inclined to believe there must be some truth in it; at least, I have seen it verified in a number of heads, and among others in that of Cicero, which I saw a few years ago in the sculpture-gallery of the Louvre. It was a beautiful head.”
“You are right there, my dear friend,” replied he. “The head, phrenologically considered, is extremely beautiful. I believe I have got it in my pocket.” (A sneeze.)
“You got the head of Cicero in your pocket!” cried I, with surprise.
“O no! not absolutely the head of Cicero,” said he, smiling. “Mark Antony disposed of that—but only his bust—the bust that you saw.”
“You mean a miniature of that bust?”
“No—not a miniature, but the real bust. Here it comes—how heavy it is!” And, to my amazement, I saw him take out of his pocket the identical bust, as large as life, of the Roman orator, and place it on the table before me.
“Have you any more heads of this description about you?” said I, not a little marvelling how he was able to stuff such a block of marble into his pocket.
“I have a few others at your service, my dear friend. Name any one you would wish to see, and I shall be most happy to produce it.”
“Let me see, then, the head of Copernicus.” I had scarcely spoken the word when he brought out the philosopher, and put him beside Cicero. I named successively Socrates, Thales, Galileo, Confucius, Zoroaster, Tycho Braché, Roger Bacon, and Paracelsus, and straightway they stood upon the table as fresh as if they had just received the last touch of the sculptor’s chisel. I must confess that such a number of large heads emanating from the pockets of the little meagre man in the snuff-coloured surtout and scarlet waistcoat, would have occasioned me incredible wonder, had my stock of astonishmentnot been exhausted by the previous display of his abilities. I had little more to throw away upon any new subject, and looked upon these fresh exhibitions without experiencing anything beyond a slight surprise.
“And do you,” I demanded, as the last named was brought forth, “always carry those heads about with you?”
“I generally do so for the amusement of my friends,” answered he. “But do not think that my stock is exhausted; I have still a few more that I can show you—for instance, Pythagoras.”
“Pythagoras!” exclaimed I; “no, don’t produce him. He is the last of all the philosophers I would wish to see. The Stoics, the Epicureans, ay, even the Cynics, with Diogenes or Menippus at their head, were sages compared with Pythagoras, the founder of the most preposterous system of philosophy that ever existed.”
“My dear friend,” said the little man, with unusual gravity, “you do not say so?”
“I do say so. Pythagoras was a fool, a madman, an impostor.”
“You don’t speak thus of the divine Pythagoras?” returned he, putting his bust upon the table.
“No, not of the divine Pythagoras, for such a person never existed. I speak of Pythagoras the Samian—him of the golden thigh, the founder of what is called the Pythagorean philosophy.”
“And the most rational system of philosophy that ever existed. Begging your pardon, I think it goes far beyond that of Plato or the Stagyrite.”
“If you mean that it goes beyond them in being as full of absurdity as they are of wisdom, I really agree with you,” said I, my anger rising at hearing the divine doctrines of Aristotle and the disciple of Socrates so irreverently spoken of.
“Pray, what were its absurdities?” asked he with the most imperturbable good-nature.
“Did not Pythagoras enjoin silence to his disciples for a period of five years,—absolute silence, muteness, dumbness?”
“And a very good injunction it was. No man can be philosopher unless he knows how to keep his tongue under a restraint.”
“I am afraid, then,youwill never be one,” I remarked, forcing a smile, although I was at bottom considerably nettled. He did not seem to take my observation ill, but passed it off with one of his characteristic giggles of laughter.
“You were talking of his absurdities, my dear friend.”
“Ah, well, did he not forbid the use of animal food to his followers? and, to crown all, did he not teach the monstrous doctrine of transmigration of souls—sending the spirits of men, after death, to inhabit the bodies of dogs, and cats, and frogs, and geese, and even insects?”
“And call you this a monstrous doctrine?”
“Monstrous!” I exclaimed with surprise—“it is thene plus ultra, the climax of fatuity, the raving of a disordered imagination.”
“So you do not believe in Metempsychosis?” asked he with a smile.
“I would as soon believe in demonology, or magic. There is nothing I would not rather credit. Kenelm Digby’s sympathetic powder, the philosopher’s stone, the elixir vitæ, animal magnetism, metallic tractors, judicial astrology—anything, in fact, would more readily find a place in my belief than this nonsensical jargon, which is credited by nobody but the superstitious Brahmins of India. But perhaps you are a believer?” He shrugged up his shoulders at this last remark, stroked his chin, and, giving me a sarcastic look, said, with a familiar nod and smile, “Yes,I ama believer.”
“What!” said I, “you—you with your immense learning, canyouput faith in such doctrines?”
“If I put faith in them,” said he, “it is my learning which has taught me to do so. If I were less learned, I might perhaps spurn at them as erroneous. Doubt is as often the offspring of ignorance as of credulity. Your great doubters are generally as ill-informed as your great believers, and much more self-conceited.”
“And do you really go all the lengths of Pythagoras?” I demanded.
“I not only go all his lengths, but I go much farther. For instance, he believed that the soul never left the body until the latter was dead. Now, my belief is, that two living bodies may exchange souls with each other. For instance, your soul may take possession of my body, and my soul of yours, and both our bodies may be alive.”
“In that case,” said I, laughing heartily, “you would be me, and I would be you.”
“Precisely so, my dear friend,” replied the little gentleman, laughing in his turn, and concluding with a sneeze.
“Faith, my good sir,” my reverence for his abilities somewhat lessened by this declaration, “I am afraid you have lost your senses.”
“I am afraid you have lost something of more importance,” returned he, with a smile, in which I thought I recognised a tinge of derision. I did not like it, so, eyeing him with some sternness, I said hastily, “And pray, what have I lost?” Instead of answering me, he burst into a loud fit of laughter, holding his sides while the tears ran down his cheeks, and he seemed half stifled with a flood of irresistible merriment. My passion at this rose to such a pitch, that had he been a man of any appearance I should have knocked him down; but I could not think of resorting to such an extremity with a meagre, little elderly fellow, who had, moreover, a wooden leg. I could, therefore, only waittill his mirth subsided, when I demanded, with as much calmness as I could assume, what I had lost.
“Are you sure you have not lost your body?” said he.
“My body!” answered I with some surprise; “what do you mean?”
“Now, my dear friend, tell me plainly, are you sure that this is your own body?”
“My own body—who the devil’s can it be?”
“Are you sure you are yourself?”
“Myself—who, in heaven’s name, could I be but myself?”
“Ay, that is the rub,” continued he; “are you perfectly satisfied that you are yourself, and nobody but yourself?” I could not help smiling at the apparent stupidity of this question; but before I was able to compose myself, he had resumed his query.—“Are you sure you are—that you are—”
“That I am who?” said I, hurriedly.
“That you are Frederick Stadt?”
“Perfectly.”
“And not Albert Wolstang?” concluded he.
A pang shot through my whole body at this last part of his question. I recalled in an instant all my previous vexation. I remembered the insults I had met with, not only from the students of Gottingen and Doctor Dedimus Dunderhead, but from the domestics of Wolstang; and lastly, I recollected thebusiness which had brought me to the house of the latter. Everything came as a flash of lightning through my brain, and I was more perplexed than ever. My first impression was, that the little man, in spite of his vast learning, was insane, or perhaps, as Festus said of Paul, his madness was the consequence of too much learning; but then, if he was insane, the Gottingen students must be insane, Doctor Dedimus Dunderhead must be insane, and Wolstang’s domestics must be insane. “I am perhaps insane myself,” thought I for an instant; but this idea, I was soon satisfied, was incorrect. I sat for several minutes pondering deeply upon the matter, and endeavouring to extricate myself from this vexatious dilemma, while my companion opposite kept eyeing me through his immense glasses, stroking his chin, and smiling with the most lugubrious self-complacency. At length, arousing myself from my stupor, I put the following question to him:—
“Did you ask me if I was sure that I am not Wolstang?”
“I did, sir,” answered he with a bow.
“Then, sir, I must tell you that I am not that person, but Frederick Stadt, student of philosophy in the University of Gottingen.” He looked incredulous.
“What, sir,” said I, “do you not believe me?” He shrugged up his shoulders.
“Confusion, sir! this is not to be borne. I tell you, sir, that my name is Stadt.” This I said in my loudest and most impassioned manner, but it did not affect him in the least degree. He continued his eternal smile, and had even the politeness or audacity (I know not which to call it) to offer me his snuff-box. I was so enraged at this piece of coolness, that I gave the box a knock, spilling its contents upon his scarlet waistcoat. Even this did not ruffle him. He commenced, in the most composed manner imaginable, to collect the particles, remarking with a smile, “You do not like snuff, sir,” and finishing, according to custom, by one of his everlasting sneezes.
“It is impossible, sir,” said I, “that you can mistake me for Wolstang—seeing that, on my entry, you told me you expected that gentleman in a short time, and desired me to be seated till he came in.” At this he seemed a little disconcerted, and was beginning to mutter something in explanation, when I interrupted him. “Besides, sir, Wolstang is a man at least six inches taller, four stones heavier, and ten years older than I.”
“What an immense fellow he must be, my dear friend! At that rate, he ought to stand six feet eight inches, and weigh twenty stones.”
I could hardly retain my gravity at this calculation. “Pray, what do you take my stature and weight to be?”
“I should take you,” replied he, “to be about six feet two inches high, and to weigh some sixteen stones.”
This admeasurement raised my merriment to its acme, and I laughed aloud. “Know, then, my good little man, that all your geometry has availed you nothing, for I only stand five feet eight, and never weighed more than twelve stones.” He shrugged up his shoulders once more, and put on another of his incredulous looks.
“Eh, eh—I may be mistaken—but I—I—”
“Mistaken!” exclaimed I; “zounds, you were never more egregiously mistaken, even when you advocated the Pythagorean doctrine of Metempsychosis!”
“I may be wrong, but I could lay five gilders that I am right. I never bet high—just a trifle, just a trifle occasionally.”
“You had better keep your gilders in your pocket,” said I, “and not risk them so foolishly.”
“With your permission, however, I shall back my pieces against yours,”—and he drew five from a little green silk purse, and put them on the table. I deposited an equal number.
“Now,” said I, “how is this dispute to be settled? where can I get myself weighed?”
“I believe,” answered he, “there is a pair of scales in the room hard by, and weights too, if I mistake not.” He accordingly got up and openedthe door of the adjoining chamber, where, to my surprise, I beheld a pair of immense scales hanging from the roof, and hundred and half-hundred weights, &c. lying around. I seated myself in one of the scales, chuckling very heartily at the scrape into which the little fellow had brought himself. He lifted up weight after weight, placing them upon the opposite scale. Eleven stones had been put in, and he was lifting the twelfth;—“Now,” says I, eyeing him waggishly, “for your five gilders.” He dropped the weight, but the beam never moved, and I still sat on the lowest scale. Thirteen were put on, but my weight yet triumphed. With amazement I saw fourteen and fifteen successively added to the number, without effect. At last, on putting down the sixteenth, the scale on which I sat was gently raised from the ground. I turned my eyes upwards towards the needle, which I saw quivering as if uncertain where to stop; at last it paused exactly in the centre, and stood erect: the beam lay perfectly horizontal, and I sat motionless, poised in middle air.
“You will observe, sir, that my calculation was correct,” observed my companion, taking a fresh pinch of snuff. “You are just sixteen stones. Nothing now remains but to measure your height.”
“There is no occasion for that,” I replied, rising slowly from the scale. “If you can contrive to make me weigh sixteen stones, you can readilymake me measure six feet two inches.” I now threw myself down on a seat in the study, which both of us had re-entered, placed my elbows on the table, and buried my face in my hands, absorbed in deep reflection. I thought and thought again upon every event which had befallen me since the morning. The students of Gottingen—Doctor Dedimus Dunderhead—the domestics of Wolstang—the little man with the snuff-coloured surtout, scarlet waistcoat, and wooden leg, passed like a whirlwind through my brain. Then the bust of Cicero, which I had seen in the Louvre, the busts of the others which he drew from his pockets—geometry—geomancy—transmigration of souls, and the affair of the scales—the whole formed a combination which I found myself utterly unable to comprehend. In a few minutes I looked up, exhausted with vain thought. All the heads were gone except that of Pythagoras, which he left lying in its place. He now took up his snuff-box and deposited it in his waistcoat pocket—drew an old-fashioned watch out of his fob, and looked at the hour—and, lastly, laying his hand upon the ten gilders, he dropped them one by one into his green purse. “I believe,” said he, with a smile, “the money is mine.” So saying, he snatched up his little cocked-hat, made me half-a-dozen of bows, and bade me adieu, after promising to see me at the same time and place two days after.
Again did I bury my face in my hands; again did my fit of meditation come on; I felt my bosom glowing with perplexity. It was now the scales which occupied my thoughts, to the exclusion of everything else. “Sixteen stones!—impossible, I cannot believe it. This old rascal has cheated me. The weights he has put on must be defective—they must be hollow. I will see to it in a moment, and if there has been any deception, I shall break his bones the first time I set my eyes upon him, maugre his wooden leg; I will at least smash his spectacles, trip up his heels, and pull his hook nose.” Full of these resolutions, I proceeded to the adjoining room. Guess of my amazement, when, instead of the great machines in which I had been weighed but ten minutes before, I beheld nothing but a small pair of apothecary’s scales, and a few drachm, scruple, and grain weights scattered upon the floor.
Not knowing what to make of this, I returned to the study, when, happening to look into a mirror placed behind the chair on which I had been sitting, I beheld (joyous sight) the reflection of Wolstang. “Ah, you have come?” said I, turning round to receive him, but nobody was to be seen. I looked again through every part of the room; noWolstang was there. This was passing strange; where could the man have gone in such a hurry? I was now in a greater funk than ever, when, casting my eyes a second time upon the mirror, he again made his appearance. I instantly looked round—no one was present; in another instant I turned to the glass, and there stood the reflection as before. Not knowing what this phenomenon could be, and thinking perhaps that my eyes were dazzled by some phantom, I raised my hands, and rubbed them; Wolstang did the same. I struck my forehead, bit my lip with vexation, and started back, when, marvellous to relate, the figure in the glass repeated all my gestures. I now got alarmed, and, shrinking away from the apparition, threw himself upon the chair. In a few minutes, my courage being somewhat revived, I ventured to face the mirror, but without any better success—the same object presented itself. I desisted, and renewed the trial several times with the like result. In vain was my philosophy exerted to unfold this mystery. The doctrines of Aristotle, the dreams of alchemy, and the wonders of the Cabala, presented themselves in succession to my disordered fancy. I bethought me of magic, necromancy, the witch of Endor, Simon Magus, the brazen head of Friar Bacon, and a multitude of other phantasies. All was in vain; nothing could account for thepresent occurrence; nothing in mystical or scientific lore bore any analogy to it.
In this perturbed state of mind my eye caught the bust of Pythagoras. This was a flood of light to my understanding. I instantly remembered what the old fellow had hinted about transmigration of souls: I remembered what he said about me being myself, or another person. Then connecting this with the previous events of the day, with the Gottingen students, with Doctor Dedimus Dunderhead, with Wolstang’s domestics, and, lastly, with the reflection in the looking-glass,—I say, coupling all these things together, I came to the horrible conclusion that I was not myself. “There must be some truth in the Pythagorean doctrine, and I am labouring under a Metempsychosis.”
To put the matter beyond a doubt, I went once more to the mirror, where I beheld the same figure which had first startled me. I then looked at my hands; they were larger and stronger than formerly. The dress I had on was also not my own, but evidently that of Wolstang. Every circumstance contributed to confirm me that I was no longer myself.
It would be a vain attempt for me to describe the horror I endured at this dreadful transmogrification. After the first burst of dismay was over, I wept bitterly, bewailing the loss of my dear body,which I now felt convinced was gone from me for ever. “And poor Wolstang,” cried I lamentably, “you are no longer yourself. You are me and I am you, and doubtless you are deploring your misfortune as bitterly as your unhappy friend Stadt.”
Night was now coming on, and it became necessary that I should resolve upon what ought to be done in my present state. I soon perceived that it would serve no purpose to say that I was myself; no one would have believed me, and I would run the risk of being put in a strait-jacket as a lunatic. To avoid these evils, there was no resource but to pass myself off upon the community as Wolstang. Even here there was considerable risk of being regarded mad; for how could I at once adapt myself to his circumstances, get a knowledge of them, think as he thought, and act as he acted? It was plain, that although I was Wolstang in body, I was only Stadt in mind; and I knew that in disposition I was as different as possible from Wolstang. “There is no help,” said I, weeping grievously; “it must be done.”
In order to cool my heated brain, I went out into the open air, and wandered about the streets. I was addressed by a number of persons whom I did not know; and several of my acquaintances, to whom I inadvertently spoke, did not know me. With the former I was very short, answering their questions at random, and getting off as soon aspossible. To the latter I could only apologise, assuring them that they had been mistaken by me for other persons. I felt my situation most unpleasant; for, besides the consciousness of no longer being myself, I was constantly running into the most perplexing blunders. For instance, after strolling about for a considerable period, I came, as it were, by a sort of instinct, to my own lodgings. For a time I forgot my situation, and knocked at the door. It was opened by my domestic, from whom I took the candle which he held in his hand, and, according to wont, walked into the study. “Mr Stadt is not in, sir,” said the man, following me; “perhaps you will sit till he comes: I expect him soon.” This aroused me from my reverie, confirming too truly the fact that I was changed. I started up from the seat into which I had dropped, rushed past him with dismay, and gained the street. Here I made up my mind to return to Wolstang’s lodgings, which I accordingly did, in a mood which a condemned criminal would hardly envy.
I kept the house for the whole of next day, employing myself in writing, in order that the servants might at least see some cause for my confinement. Notwithstanding this, it was easy to observe that they perceived something unusual about me; and several remarks which escaped them, convinced me that they considered my head touched in no slight degree. Although I did all that I wasable to compose myself, it was impossible that I could think like Wolstang, and still less that I could know a hundred private and household matters, on which the pert Louise and sapient Barnabas made a point of consulting me. Whenever I was spoken to concerning things that I knew, my answers were kind and condescending; but on any point about which I was ignorant, I utterly lost temper, and peremptorily forbade them to repeat it. Both shook their heads at such inconsistent behaviour; and it was soon bruited among the neighbours that Mr Albert Wolstang had parted with his senses.