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Atlantic Monthly,Volume 14, No. 82, August, 1864 by Various

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly,Volume 14, No. 82, August, 1864




The wit which sparkles and flashes in a Bavarian beer-house may be as
much less boisterous, or rather as much more quiet, than that which
explodes over the distilled spirits of our bar-rooms, as the stimulant
itself is less exciting, but is for this very reason the more genuine.
Like the myriads of fire-flies on a warm summer evening amid the rising
fog of a marshy ground, so gleams this wit in its smoky atmosphere;
still it is there, notwithstanding the popular notion of Bavarian
stupidity. The North German, and even English and American satirists of
these people, fare generally much as did Ulysses's men on drinking of
Circe's magic cup; and once turned into swine, they are seldom turned
back again, at least until they leave the charmed spot. When once drawn
into the vortex of students' convivial gatherings, they feel that there
is no escape without flying from the place.

A drinking frolic, involving Americans, once called in my aid to settle
a great international difficulty--that is, one about as threatening as
most of those diplomatic cases flaunted so often in our
newspapers--between the United States and Bavarian governments. Two
American art-students had taken a room at Nymphenburg, a little village
in the vicinity of Munich, the site of a royal _chateau_, which in
summer is always occupied by a royal prince. There the great Napoleon
lodged, when he visited the Bavarian capital. There the present king was
born. There, at the time to which I refer, the king's youngest brother,
Adalbert,--who would have succeeded Otho on the throne of Greece, if the
Greeks had not otherwise determined,--was residing in the palace, and a
company of cuirassiers was stationed in the town. The two students were
visited on a Sunday evening by three or four more Americans, and one
English and two Bavarian friends. The usual beer-guzzling prevailed;
some exciting topic was up, and each must have his glass empty when the
time for refilling was announced. One of the Americans felt his capacity
not quite equal to the demands made upon it. The shift often resorted to
in such a trying situation is quietly to empty the glass under the table
or out of a window, if this can be done without observation,--and most
young men are not very observing at such times. Under the window,
outside, sat a party of the cuirassiers drinking, about a dozen of whom
made a sudden irruption into that bacchanal chamber, and, with little
explanation, proceeded to clear it of its tenants and guests, knocking
down, beating, and pitching them headlong down-stairs, until the work
was done. There were sundry flesh-bruises inflicted, some small
blood-vessels lying near the surface tapped, one collar-bone fractured,
a wrist sprained, garments torn off or left hanging in shreds; and
rarely has the darkness of a summer evening concealed a more ludicrous
spectacle than that of these dispersed beer-bacchanalians, each running
on his own account, hatless or coatless, as he happened to have been
left by some stout cuirassier into whose hands he had fallen. The next
day, a deputation of the injured company and their friends came to me,
desiring that redress might be demanded of the Bavarian government. They
stated their case both verbally and in writing. They were conscious of
no offence. If the assailants gave any reason for their assault, it was
not understood. Most of the young men knew but little German, and
perhaps just then less than usual of that or any other language. The
supposition was, that the rough treatment grew out of the cuirassiers'
jealousy that they were not so well served by the waiting-maids as the
American company and their guests. One, however, stated the unimportant
incident, that the coat of the man who handled him so carelessly seemed
to be very wet. One of the Americans who had been present on this
occasion did not present himself until sent for several days afterwards.
He had observed an incident seen by no other,--one of which the
performer, himself as honest a young man as ever lived, was utterly
unconscious,--_the pouring of a glass of beer from the window_. The beer
did as little harm on the cuirassiers' coats as it would have done in
the American's stomach, and was at least the incidental means of
bringing the whole scene to an abrupt end. The government was inclined
to do us justice, but very naturally thought that the drenching of its
cuirassiers might be pleaded in abatement of the insult to our national
dignity; and so a nominal punishment of the offenders finally settled
the question.

If asked whether inebriation and its accompaniments are as marked under
the reign of beer as under that of the more fiery fluids used among us,
I should feel bound to reply negatively. The common Bavarian beer has
but about half the strength of the average malt liquors of our country,
and seldom produces real intoxication except upon novices. It may
stupefy, though this is by no means observable in the mental action of
learned Bavarians. The charge of dulness, so sarcastically made against
them, could be retorted with about as much show of reason against
Prussians, Hanoverians, Saxons, or, indeed, any other people. The
students, after their _Kneips_, have what they call
_Katzenjammer_,--cat-sickness,--the effect of debauch, loss of rest, and
general irregularities; and those who do most of the beer-drinking do
least of the studying. I should, indeed, fear fatal effects from
drinking half the quantity of water which some of them take of beer. The
drunkenness produced by beer is at least a very different thing from
that produced by distilled spirits. The one may be a stupor, the other
is a brief and sudden insanity. Beer holds no one captive by such spell
as that which seizes some natures on the first taste of ardent spirits,
throwing them beyond their own control until their week's frolic is
ended. The cases are rare, if they ever occur, in which the beer-drinker
is enticed from the prosecution of his business, if he has one,--and
beer furnishes the main substitute for business to those who have no
other employment. If it causes men to pursue their avocations lazily or
stupidly, it does not cause the irregularities and neglects of American
inebriation. Cases of pawning clothes and impoverishing families from
the appetite for beer may occur, just as from laziness, but not as from
the bewitching appetite for ardent spirits.

The practice of Americans in Bavaria, even of those who never drink a
drop of beer at home, is, so far as I know, to drink a little while in
the country, acting from a supposed necessity in that climate, or
impelled by the want of other beverages. Physicians advise it, and I
suppose that American physicians would do the same in the case of their
countrymen temporarily residing there. In my own family, it was taken
every day at dinner as a kind of prescription, and the children were
disciplined to drink their little glass daily with rather less urging
than would have been necessary, had the dose been castor-oil; and they
always felt that they deserved an expression of approbation as being
"good children," if they drank their entire portion. Our taste for beer
never increased, but rather the contrary; and should I again reside in
that country, notwithstanding the general impression that its use is a
kind of necessity, as a security against the fevers incident to the
climate, I should feel just as secure without a drop. My little boy,
born in Bavaria, and but four years old when we left the kingdom, liked
the beer better than the other children, and so gave some support to the
theory that the Bavarians take to beer by instinct. He shared, too, in
the patriotic doubt of the people as to the possibility of successfully
imitating the article in other countries. When, on our journey homeward,
the train brought us into the little city of Koethen, we found evidence
of one of those attempts so unsuccessfully made everywhere in North
Germany to imitate the Bavarian beer. A man passed along by the train,
crying at the top of his voice, "_Baierisches bier!_" upon which the
little fellow, in the height of his indignation, cried out,
"_Baierisches Bier nicht!_"--("Not Bavarian beer!")--and so the cry and
response continued until the parties were out of each other's hearing,
and all the passengers in the train had their attention called, and
their main amusement furnished, by this childish outburst of patriotic
indignation. At this point, my life, observation, and adventures in
connection with Bavarian beer ceased, and almost the last echo of its
magic name in the original tongue died on my ears. That the results may
not be lost and forgotten, I now commit them to paper and to the
public.

* * * * *

FRIAR JEROME'S BEAUTIFUL BOOK.


The Friar Jerome, for some slight sin,
Done in his youth, was struck with woe.
"When I am dead," quoth Friar Jerome,
"Surely, I think my soul will go
Shuddering through the darkened spheres,
Down to eternal fires below!
I shall not dare from that dread place
To lift mine eyes to Jesus' face,
Nor Mary's, as she sits adored
At the feet of Christ the Lord.
Alas! December's all too brief
For me to hope to wipe away
The memory of my sinful May!"
And Friar Jerome was full of grief,
That April evening, as he lay
On the straw pallet in his cell.
He scarcely heard the curfew-bell
Calling the brotherhood to prayer;
But he arose, for't was his care
Nightly to feed the hungry poor
That crowded to the Convent-door.

His choicest duty it had been:
But this one night it weighed him down.
"What work for an immortal soul,
To feed and clothe some lazy clown!
Is there no action worth my mood,
No deed of daring, high and pure,
That shall, when I am dead, endure,
A well-spring of perpetual good?"

And straight he thought of those great tomes
With clamps of gold,--the Convent's boast,--
How they endured, while kings and realms
Passed into darkness and were lost;
How they had stood from age to age,
Clad in their yellow vellum-mail,
'Gainst which the Paynim's godless rage,
The Vandal's fire could nought avail:
Though heathen sword-blows fell like hail,
Though cities ran with Christian blood,
Imperishable they had stood!
They did not seem like books to him,
But Heroes, Martyrs, Saints,--themselves
The things they told of, not mere books
Ranged grimly on the oaken shelves.

To those dim alcoves, far withdrawn,
He turned with measured steps and slow,
Trimming his lantern as he went;
And there, among the shadows, bent
Above one ponderous folio,
With whose miraculous text were blent
Seraphic faces: Angels, crowned
With rings of melting amethyst;
Mute, patient Martyrs, cruelly bound
To blazing fagots; here and there,
Some bold, serene Evangelist,
Or Mary in her sunny hair:
And here and there from out the words
A brilliant tropic bird took flight;
And through the margins many a vine
Went wandering--roses, red and white,
Tulip, wind-flower, and columbine
Blossomed. To his believing mind
These things were real, and the soft wind,
Blown through the mullioned window, took
Scent from the lilies in the book.

"Santa Maria!" cried Friar Jerome,
"Whatever man illumined this,
Though he were steeped heart-deep in sin,
Was worthy of unending bliss,
And no doubt hath it! Ah! dear Lord,
Might I so beautify Thy Word!
What sacristan, the convents through,
Transcribes with such precision? who
Does such initials as I do?
Lo! I will gird me to this work,
And save me, ere the one chance slips.
On smooth, clean parchment I'll engross
The Prophet's fell Apocalypse;
And as I write from day to day,
Perchance my sins will pass away."

So Friar Jerome began his Book.
From break of dawn till curfew-chime
He bent above the lengthening page,
Like some rapt poet o'er his rhyme.
He scarcely paused to tell his beads,
Except at night; and then he lay
And tossed, unrestful, on the straw,
Impatient for the coming day,--
Working like one who feels, perchance,
That, ere the longed-for goal be won,
Ere Beauty bare her perfect breast,
Black Death may pluck him from the sun.
At intervals the busy brook,
Turning the mill-wheel, caught his ear;
And through the grating of the cell
He saw the honeysuckles peer;
And knew't was summer, that the sheep
In golden pastures lay asleep;
And felt, that, somehow, God was near.
In his green pulpit on the elm,
The robin, abbot of that wood,
Held forth by times; and Friar Jerome
Listened, and smiled, and understood.

While summer wrapped the blissful land,
What joy it was to labor so,
To see the long-tressed Angels grow
Beneath the cunning of his hand,
Vignette and tail-piece deftly wrought!
And little recked he of the poor
That missed him at the Convent-door;
Or, thinking of them, put the thought
Aside. "I feed the souls of men
Henceforth, and not their bodies!"--yet
Their sharp, pinched features, now and then,
Stole in between him and his Book,
And filled him with a vague regret.

Now on that region fell a blight:
The corn grew cankered in its sheath;
And from the verdurous uplands rolled
A sultry vapor fraught with death,--
A poisonous mist, that, like a pall,
Hung black and stagnant over all.
Then came the sickness,--the malign
Green-spotted terror, called the Pest,
That took the light from loving eyes,
And made the young bride's gentle breast
A fatal pillow. Ah! the woe,
The crime, the madness that befell!
In one short night that vale became
More foul than Dante's inmost hell.
Men cursed their wives; and mothers left
Their nursing babes alone to die,
And wantoned, singing, through the streets,
With shameless brow and frenzied eye;
And senseless clowns, not fearing God,--
Such power the spotted fever had,--
Razed Cragwood Castle on the hill,
Pillaged the wine-bins, and went mad.
And evermore that dreadful pall
Of mist hung stagnant over all:
By day, a sickly light broke through
The heated fog, on town and field;
By night the moon, in anger, turned
Against the earth its mottled shield.

Then from the Convent, two and two,
The Prior chanting at their head,
The monks went forth to shrive the sick,
And give the hungry grave its dead,--
Only Jerome, he went not forth,
But hiding in his dusty nook,
"Let come what will, I must illume
The last ten pages of my Book!"
He drew his stool before the desk,
And sat him down, distraught and wan,
To paint his darling masterpiece,
The stately figure of Saint John.
He sketched the head with pious care,
Laid in the tint, when, powers of Grace!
He found a grinning Death's-head there,
And not the grand Apostle's face!

Then up he rose with one long cry:
"'Tis Satan's self does this," cried he,
"Because I shut and barred my heart
When Thou didst loudest call to me!
O Lord, Thou know'st the thoughts of men,
Thou know'st that I did yearn to make
Thy Word more lovely to the eyes
Of sinful souls, for Christ his sake!
Nathless, I leave the task undone:
I give up all to follow Thee,--
Even like him who gave his nets
To winds and waves by Galilee!"

Which said, he closed the precious Book
In silence with a reverent hand;
And, drawing his cowl about his face,
Went forth into the Stricken Land.
And there was joy in heaven that day,--
More joy o'er that forlorn old friar
Than over fifty sinless men
Who never struggled with desire!

What deeds he did in that dark town,
What hearts he soothed with anguish torn,
What weary ways of woe he trod,
Are written in the Book of God,
And shall be read at Judgment-Morn.
The weeks crept on, when, one still day,
God's awful presence filled the sky,
And that black vapor floated by,
And, lo! the sickness passed away.
With silvery clang, by thorp and town,
The bells made merry in their spires,
Men kissed each other on the street,
And music piped to dancing feet
The livelong night, by roaring fires!

Then Friar Jerome, a wasted shape,--.
For he had taken the Plague at last,--
Rose up, and through the happy town,
And through the wintry woodlands passed
Into the Convent. What a gloom
Sat brooding in each desolate room!
What silence in the corridor!
For of that long, innumerous train
Which issued forth a month before,
Scarce twenty had come back again!

Counting his rosary step by step,
With a forlorn and vacant air,
Like some unshriven church-yard thing,
The Friar crawled up the mouldy stair
To his damp cell, that he might look
Once more on his beloved Book.

And there it lay upon the stand,
Open!--he had not left it so.
He grasped it, with a cry; for, lo!
He saw that some angelic hand,
While he was gone, had finished it!
There't was complete, as he had planned!
There, at the end, stood _finis_, writ
And gilded as no man could do,--
Not even that pious anchoret,
Bilfrid, the wonderful,--nor yet
The miniatore Ethelwold,--
Nor Durham's Bishop, who of old
(England still hoards the priceless leaves)
Did the Four Gospels all in gold.
And Friar Jerome nor spoke nor stirred,
But, with his eyes fixed on that word,
He passed from sin and want and scorn;
And suddenly the chapel-bells
Rang in the holy Christmas-Morn!

In those wild wars which racked the land,
Since then, and kingdoms rent in twain.
The Friar's Beautiful Book was lost,--
That miracle of hand and brain:
Yet, though its leaves were torn and tossed,
The volume was not writ in vain!

* * * * *

LITERARY LIFE IN PARIS.

THE DRAWING-ROOM.


PART I.

We are no "lion-hunters." When we wish to learn something of eminent
authors, we hasten to the nearest book-shop and buy their works. They
put the best of themselves in their books. The old saw tells us how
completely all great men give the best part of themselves to the public,
while the _valet-de-chambre_ picks up little else than food for
contempt. Nevertheless, we are as inquisitive about everything that
concerns eminent people as anybody can be. We would not blot a single
line from Boswell. We protest against a word being effaced from the
garrulous pages of Lady Blessington and Leigh Hunt. We "hang" the stars
with which Earl Russell has _milky-wayed_ Moore's Diary. But we are no
"lion-hunters," (the name should be "lion-harriers,") simply because
this chase is not the best way to take the game we desire. What does the
lion-hunter secure? A commonplace observation upon the weather, an
adroit or awkward parry of flattery, and some superficial compliment
upon one's native place or present residence; for a great man at bay is
nothing more nor less than a casual acquaintance extremely on his guard,
and, commonly, extremely fatigued by admirers. True, one obtains an
acquaintance with the great man's voice, and the hearth where he lives,
and the right to boast with truth, "I have seen him." _Voila tout!_ Now
this is not what we want. We desire some good, clear, faithful account
of these people, as they are, when they talk freely and easily to their
contemporaries, to their peers. Boswell's picture of the Literary Club
is invaluable, although, with the insatiable curiosity of the nineteenth
century, we regret that the prince of reporters failed to sketch the
persons and peculiarities of the _dramatis personae_ whose conversations
he has so faithfully recorded.

We wish to go behind the scenes, and to hear the conversation engaged in
in the green-room. We expect to see some dirt, some grease-pots, stained
ropes, and unpainted pulleys,--and, to tell the truth, we want to see
these blemishes. They are encouraging. They lessen the distance between
us and it by teaching us that even fairy-land knows no exemption from
those imperfections which blur our purest natures.

A work has lately appeared in Europe which in some measure gratifies
this desire. It exhibits in full light a good many scenes of literary
life in Paris. They may be and probably are exaggerated, but
exaggerations do not mar truth; if they did, we should be obliged to
throw away the microscope, with nativities and divining-rods. We are
tempted to give our readers a share of the pleasure we have found in
perusing this picture of Paris life. We forewarn them that we have taken
liberties innumerable with the book. We have compressed into these few
leaves a volume of several hundred pages. We have discarded all the
machinery of the author, and introduced him personally to the reader in
the character of an autobiographer. We have not scrupled to make
explanations and additions wherever we thought them necessary, without
resorting to the artifice of notes or of quotation-marks. We repeat,
that we have taken a great many liberties with the author; but we have
made no statement, advanced no fact, indulged no reflection, which is
not to be found in the work referred to, or in some trustworthy
authority. And now we leave him the door without another observation.

I am Count Armand de Pontmartin. I was born of noble parents at Aix, in
Provence, in 1820. I was educated at Paris, but the first twelve years
after I left college were passed on my estate in the enjoyment of an
income of three thousand dollars a year. Belonging to a Legitimist
family, my principles forbade my serving the Orleans dynasty, and I
should scarcely have known how to satisfy that thirst for activity which
fevers youth, had I not for years burned with the ambition to acquire
literary fame. Circumstances conspired to thwart these literary schemes,
and it was not until I had reached my thirtieth year that I came to
Paris with a heart full of emotion and hope, a trunk full of
manuscripts, and some friends' addresses on my memorandum-book. Before I
had been a week in town they had introduced me to three or four editors
of newspapers or reviews, and to several publishers and theatrical
managers. In less than a fortnight I breakfasted alone at Cafe Bignon
with one of my favorite authors, the celebrated novelist, Monsieur Jules
Sandeau.[D] I was confounded with astonishment and gratitude that he
should allow me to sit at the same table and eat with him. I felt
embarrassed to know where to find viands meet to offer him, and
beverages not unworthy to pass his lips. There were in his works so many
souls exiled from heaven, so many tearful smiles, so many melancholy
glances constantly turned towards the infinite horizon, that it seemed
to me something like sacrilege to offer to the creator of this noble and
charming world a dish of _rosbif aux pommes_ and a _turbot a la
Hollandaise_ and a claret wine. I could have invented for him some of
those Oriental delicacies made by sultans during harem's heavy hours;
rose-leaves kneaded with snow-water, dreams or perfumes disguised as
sweetmeats, or citron and myrtle-flowers dew-diamonded in golden
beakers. Of a truth, the personal appearance of my poetical guest did
give something of a shock to the ideal I had formed. Many and many a
time I had pictured him to myself tall and thin and pale, with large
black eyes raised heavenwards, and hair curling naturally on a forehead
shadowed by melancholy! In reality, Monsieur Jules Sandeau is a good
stout fellow, with broad, stalwart shoulders, a tendency to premature
obesity, small, bright, gentle, acute eyes, a head as bald as my knee,
rather thick lips, and a rubicund complexion; he has an air of
good-nature and simplicity which excludes everything like sentimental
exaggeration; he wears a black cravat tied negligently around a muscular
neck; in fine, he looks like a sub-lieutenant dressed in
citizen's-clothes. I got over this shock, and hunted all through the
bill of fare, (which, as you know, forms in Paris a duodecimo volume of
a good many pages,) trying my best to discover some romantic dish and
some supernal _liqueur_, until he cut short my chase by suggesting a
dinner of the most vulgar solidity; and when I tried to retrieve this
commonplace dinner by ordering for dessert some vapory _liqueurs_, such
as uncomprehended women sip, he proposed a glass of brandy. This was my
first literary deception.

A theatrical newspaper was lying on the table. It contained an account
of a piece played the evening before. The writer spoke of the play as a
masterpiece, and of the performance as being one of those triumphs which
form an epoch in the history of dramatic art. I read this panegyric with
avidity, and exclaimed,--

"Oh, what a glorious thing success is! How happy that author must be!"

"He!" replied Monsieur Sandeau, smiling; "he is mortified to death; his
play is execrable, and it fell flat."

"You must be mistaken!"

"I was present at the performance; and I have no reason to be pleased at
the miscarriage of the piece, for I am neither an enemy nor an intimate
friend of the author."

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