The 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 château, 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 goShuddering through the darkened spheres,Down to eternal fires below!I shall not dare from that dread placeTo lift mine eyes to Jesus' face,Nor Mary's, as she sits adoredAt the feet of Christ the Lord.Alas! December's all too briefFor me to hope to wipe awayThe memory of my sinful May!"And Friar Jerome was full of grief,That April evening, as he layOn the straw pallet in his cell.He scarcely heard the curfew-bellCalling the brotherhood to prayer;But he arose, for't was his careNightly to feed the hungry poorThat 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 tomesWith clamps of gold,—the Convent's boast,—How they endured, while kings and realmsPassed 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,—themselvesThe things they told of, not mere booksRanged 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, bentAbove one ponderous folio,With whose miraculous text were blentSeraphic faces: Angels, crownedWith rings of melting amethyst;Mute, patient Martyrs, cruelly boundTo blazing fagots; here and there,Some bold, serene Evangelist,Or Mary in her sunny hair:And here and there from out the wordsA brilliant tropic bird took flight;And through the margins many a vineWent wandering—roses, red and white,Tulip, wind-flower, and columbineBlossomed. To his believing mindThese things were real, and the soft wind,Blown through the mullioned window, tookScent 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? whoDoes 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 engrossThe 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-chimeHe 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 layAnd 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 cellHe saw the honeysuckles peer;And knew't was summer, that the sheepIn 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 JeromeListened, and smiled, and understood.While summer wrapped the blissful land,What joy it was to labor so,To see the long-tressed Angels growBeneath the cunning of his hand,Vignette and tail-piece deftly wrought!And little recked he of the poorThat missed him at the Convent-door;Or, thinking of them, put the thoughtAside. "I feed the souls of menHenceforth, and not their bodies!"—yetTheir 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 rolledA sultry vapor fraught with death,—A poisonous mist, that, like a pall,Hung black and stagnant over all.Then came the sickness,—the malignGreen-spotted terror, called the Pest,That took the light from loving eyes,And made the young bride's gentle breastA fatal pillow. Ah! the woe,The crime, the madness that befell!In one short night that vale becameMore foul than Dante's inmost hell.Men cursed their wives; and mothers leftTheir 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 pallOf mist hung stagnant over all:By day, a sickly light broke throughThe heated fog, on town and field;By night the moon, in anger, turnedAgainst 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 illumeThe 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 heartWhen Thou didst loudest call to me!O Lord, Thou know'st the thoughts of men,Thou know'st that I did yearn to makeThy Word more lovely to the eyesOf 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 netsTo winds and waves by Galilee!"Which said, he closed the precious BookIn 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 friarThan over fifty sinless menWho 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 feetThe 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 passedInto the Convent. What a gloomSat brooding in each desolate room!What silence in the corridor!For of that long, innumerous trainWhich 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 stairTo his damp cell, that he might lookOnce 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, writAnd gilded as no man could do,—Not even that pious anchoret,Bilfrid, the wonderful,—nor yetThe 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-bellsRang 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." Voilà 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 personæ 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 Orléans 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 Café Bignon with one of my favorite authors, the celebrated novelist, Monsieur Jules Sandeau.4 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 à 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."

Monsieur Jules Sandeau then went on to explain to me how the theatrical newspapers, which contain the lists of performers and of pieces in all the theatres of Paris, (play-bills being unknown,) enter into a contract, which is the condition precedent of their sale in the theatres, stipulating that they will never speak otherwise than in praise of the pieces brought out. The report of the new piece is often written and set up before the performance takes place.

I blushed and said,—

"That is deplorable! But, thank Heaven! these are only the Grub-Street writers, the mere penny-a-liners; the influential reporters of the great morning papers, fortunately, are animated by a love of truth and justice."