Vivian Grey/Volume 5/Chapter 7.4
VIVIAN GREY.
BOOK THE SEVENTH.
VIVIAN GREY.
BOOK THE SEVENTH.
CHAPTER IV.
On the morning after the Court dinner, as Vivian was amusing himself over Von Chronicle's last new novel, Essper George announced Dr. von Spittergen. Our hero was rather annoyed at the kind interest which Madame Carolina evidently took in his convalescence. He was by no means in the humour to endure the affectations and perfumes of that most finical of prigs, a Court physician; but so important a personage could scarcely be refused admission, and accordingly Dr. von Spittergen entered the room. He was a very tall, and immensely stout man, with a small head, short neck, and high shoulders. His little quick grey eyes saved his countenance from the expression of sullen dullness, which otherwise would have been given to it by his very thick lips. His dress was singular, and was even more striking from the great contrast which it afforded to the costume which Vivian had anticipated. There was no sword, no wig, no lace ruffles, no diamond ring. The tail of his dark mixture coat nearly reached the ground; its waist encircled his groin, and the lappets of his waistcoat fell over his thighs. He wore very square-toed shoes, and large silver buckles, and partridge-coloured woollen stockings were drawn over the knees of his black pantaloons. Holding in one hand his large straw hat, and in the other a gold-headed cane as big as Goliath's spear, without any preliminary, he thus addressed, in a loud voice, his hew patient:—
"Well, Sir! what is the matter with you?"
"Pray be seated, doctor. The honour of this visit—very sensible—"
"Never sit down."
As Vivian, rather confounded by the unexpected appearance and manners of his visitor, did not immediately answer, Dr. von Spittergen again spoke.
"Well, Sir! have you got any thing to say to me?"
"Really, doctor, you are so very kind!—unnecessarily so.—I am not quite well—that is, not exactly quite well; perhaps a little cold— nothing more."
"Little cold, indeed! Why what would you have, young man;—the Plague?"
"Dr. von Spittergen," thought Vivian, "is evidently one of those mild practitioners, who are of opinion, that Learning is never so lovely as when Brutality is her handmaid; and that Skill is never so respected, as when she not only cures, but disgusts you."
"Ah!" continued the doctor; "I suppose you got this cold by forgetting to wear your gloves one day. Gloves are the origin of every disease. Nobody can expect to be well, who ever covers the palm of his hand."
"Well, doctor, I confess I do not ascribe my present indisposition to encouraging the glove manufactory of Reisenburg."
"Pish! what should you know about it, Sir?"
"Oh! nothing. Do not be alarmed that I am about to destroy a favourite theory."
"Pish! young men have always something to say; never to the purpose. Show your teeth, Sir! I don't want to see your tongue; show your teeth—all pulled out at five years old?—suppose you know nothing about it: well! if they were not, there is no chance for you; you will be an invalid all your life."
"Well, doctor!" said Vivian, with imperturbable good humour; "however crazy may be my body, I still trust, with your good assistance, to reach a very advanced period."
"You do, do you? I don't think you will; there's nothing of you; no stamina"—see what can be done though." Here the good doctor rang the bell.
"Kelner! go and ask your master for his list of medicines."
"Sir!" said the astonished waiter at the Grand Hotel of the Four Nations—"Sir!"
"What, are you deaf?—Go and bring the list directly."
"I don't know what you mean, Sir."
"How long have you lived here?"
"Three days, Sir!"
"Pish!—go, and tell your master what I said."
The waiter accordingly departed; and the master of the house, bowing and smiling, soon appeared in his own person.
"I beg your pardon, doctor," said he; "but it was a new hand who answered your bell;" and so saying the good gentleman delivered to Dr. von Spittergen the Carte des Vins.
"Stop here a moment, my friend!" said Von Spittergen, "while I prescribe for this young man." He began reading—"Vins de Bourgogne—pish! Clos de Vougeot—Mousseux—Chambertin—St. George—Richebourg—pish! vins de Bordeaux—Lafitte—Margaux—Haût-brion—Leonville—Medoc—Sauterne—Barsac—Preignac—Grave—pish! pish! pish! pish!—Côtes du Rhône—paille—rouge—grillé—St. Peray—pish! pish! pish!—Champagne—p—i—s—h!Vins du Rhine—drank too much of them already—Porto-Porto—Ah! that will do—Give him a pint at two—Let him dine at that hour, en particulier—and not at the table d'hôte—Give him a pint, I say, with his dinner, and repeat the dose before he goes to bed. Young man, I have done for you all that human skill can—I have given you a very powerful medicine, but all medicine is trash—Are you a horseman?—you are! very well! I will send my daughter to you—good morning!"
Vivian duly kept his appointment with Madame Carolina. The Chamberlain ushered him into a Library, where Madame Carolina was seated at a large table covered with books and manuscripts. Her costume and her countenance were equally engaging. Fascination was alike in her smile, and her sash—her bow, and her buckle. What a delightful pupil to perfect in English pronunciation! Madame pointed, with a pride pleasing to Vivian's feelings as an Englishman, to her shelves, graced with the most eminent of English writers. Madame Carolina was not like one of those admirers of English literature which you often meet on the Continent: people who think that Beattie's Minstrel is our most modern and fashionable poem; that the Night Thoughts are the masterpiece of our literature; and that Richardson is our only novelist. Oh, no!—Madame Carolina would not have disgraced May Fair. She knew Childe Harold by rote, and had even peeped into Don Juan. Her admiration of the Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews, was great and similar. To a Continental liberal, indeed, even the Toryism of the Quarterly is philosophy; and not an under-Secretary ever yet massacred a radical innovator, without giving loose to some sentiments and sentences, which are considered rank treason in the meridian of Vienna.
After some conversation, in which Madame evinced great eagerness to gain details about the persons and manners of our most eminent literary characters, she naturally began to speak of the literary productions of other countries; and in short, ere an hour was passed, Vivian Grey, instead of giving a lesson in English pronunciation to the Consort of the Grand Duke of Reisenburg, found himself listening, in an easy chair, and with folded arms, to a long treatise by that lady de l'Esprit de Conversation. It was a most brilliant dissertation. Her kindness in reading it to him was most particular; nevertheless, for unexpected blessings we are not always sufficiently grateful.
Another hour was consumed by the treatise. How she refined! what unexpected distinctions! what exquisite discrimination of national character! what skilful eulogium of her own! Nothing could be more splendid than her elaborate character of a repartee; it would have sufficed for an epic poem. At length Madame Carolina ceased de l'Esprit de Conversation, and Vivian was most successful in concealing his weariness, and testifying his admiration. "The evil is over," thought he; "I may as well gain credit for my good taste." The lesson in English pronunciation, however, was not yet terminated. Madame was charmed with our hero's uncommon discrimination and extraordinary talents. He was the most skilful, and the most agreeable, critic with whom she had ever been acquainted. How invaluable must the opinion of such a person be to her, on her great work! No one had yet seen a line of it; but there are moments when we are irresistibly impelled to seek a confidant—that confidant was before her. The morocco case was unlocked, and the manuscript of Haroun Al Raschid revealed to the enraptured eye of Vivian Grey.
"I flatter myself," said Madame Carolina, "that this work will create a great sensation; not only in Germany. It abounds, I think, with the most interesting story, the most engaging incidents, and the most animated and effective descriptions. I have not, of course, been able to obtain any new matter respecting His Sublimity, the Caliph. Between ourselves, I do not think this is very important. As far as I have observed, we have matter enough in this world on every possible subject already. It is manner in which the literature of all nations is deficient. It appears to me, that the great point for persons of genius now to direct their attention to, is the expansion of matter. This, I conceive to be the great secret; and this must be effected by the art of picturesque writing. For instance, my dear Mr. Grey, I will open the Arabian Night's Entertainments, merely for an exemplification, at the one hundred and eighty-fifth night—good! Let us attend to the following passage:—
'In the reign of the Caliph Haroun Al Raschid, there was at Bagdad a druggist, called Alboussan Ebn Thaher, a very rich handsome man. He had more wit, and politeness, than people of his profession ordinarily have. His integrity, sincerity, and jovial humour, made him beloved and sought after by all sorts of people. The Caliph, who knew his merit, had an entire confidence in him. He had so great an esteem for him, that he entrusted him with the care to provide his favourite ladies with all the things they stood in need of. He chose for them their clothes, furniture, and jewels, with admirable taste. His good qualities, and the favour of the Caliph, made the sons of Emirs, and other Officers of the first rank, be always about him. His house was the rendezvous of all the nobility of the Court."
"What capabilities lurk in this dry passage!" exclaimed Madame Carolina; "I touch it with my pen, and transform it into a chapter. It shall be one of those that I will read to you. The description of Alboussan alone demands ten pages. There is no doubt that his countenance was oriental. The tale says that he was handsome: I paint him with his eastern eye, his thin arched brow, his fragrant beard, his graceful mustachio. The tale says he was rich: I have authorities for the costume of men of his dignity in contemporary writers. In my history, he appears in an upper garment of green velvet, and loose trowsers of pink satin; a jewelled dagger lies in his golden girdle; his slippers are of the richest embroidery; and he never omits the bath of roses daily. On this system, which in my opinion elicits truth, for by it you are enabled to form a conception of the manners of the age, on this system I proceed throughout the paragraph. Conceive my account of his house being the 'rendezvous of all the nobility of the Court.' What a brilliant scene! what variety of dress and character! what splendour! what luxury! what magnificence! Imagine the detail of the banquet; which, by the bye, gives me an opportunity of inserting, after the manner of your own Gibbon, 'a dissertation on sherbet.' What think you of the art of picturesque writing?"
"Admirable!" said Vivian; "Von Chronicle himself"
"How can you mention the name of that odious man!" almost shrieked Madame Carolina, forgetting the dignity of her semi-regal character, in the jealous feelings of the author. "How can you mention him! A scribbler without a spark, not only of genius, but even of common invention. A miserable fellow, who seems to do nothing but clothe and amplify, in his own fantastic style, the details of a parcel of old chronicles!"
Madame's indignation reminded Vivian of a very true, but rather vulgar proverb of his own country; and he extricated himself from his very awkward situation, with a dexterity worthy of his former years.
"Von Chronicle himself," said Vivian, "Von Chronicle himself, as I was going to observe, will be the most mortified of all on the appearance of your work. He cannot be so blinded by self-conceit, as to fail to observe that your history is a thousand times more interesting than his fiction. Ah! Madame Carolina, if you can thus spread enchantment over the hitherto weary page of history, what must be your work of imagination!"