Sartor Resartus: The Life and Opinions of Herr Teufelsdröckh
whole Future, are heaving in unquiet eddies within him.
"Often, in far less agitating scenes, had our still Friend shrunk
forcibly together; and shrouded up his tremors and flutterings, of
what sort soever, in a safe cover of Silence, and perhaps of seeming
Stolidity. How was it, then, that here, when trembling to the core of
his heart, he did not sink into swoons, but rose into strength, into
fearlessness and clearness? It was his guiding Genius (_Damon_) that
inspired him; he must go forth and meet his Destiny. Show thyself now,
whispered it, or be forever hid. Thus sometimes it is even when your
anxiety becomes transcendental, that the soul first feels herself able
to transcend it; that she rises above it, in fiery victory; and borne on
new-found wings of victory, moves so calmly, even because so rapidly,
so irresistibly. Always must the Wanderer remember, with a certain
satisfaction and surprise, how in this case he sat not silent but struck
adroitly into the stream of conversation; which thenceforth, to speak
with an apparent not a real vanity, he may say that he continued to
lead. Surely, in those hours, a certain inspiration was imparted him,
such inspiration as is still possible in our late era. The self-secluded
unfolds himself in noble thoughts, in free, glowing words; his soul is
as one sea of light, the peculiar home of Truth and Intellect; wherein
also Fantasy bodies forth form after form, radiant with all prismatic
hues."
It appears, in this otherwise so happy meeting, there talked one
"Philisitine;" who even now, to the general weariness, was dominantly
pouring forth Philistinism (_Philistriositaten_.); little witting what
hero was here entering to demolish him! We omit the series of Socratic,
or rather Diogenic utterances, not unhappy in their way, whereby the
monster, "persuaded into silence," seems soon after to have withdrawn
for the night. "Of which dialectic marauder," writes our hero, "the
discomfiture was visibly felt as a benefit by most: but what were all
applauses to the glad smile, threatening every moment to become a laugh,
wherewith Blumine herself repaid the victor? He ventured to address her
she answered with attention: nay what if there were a slight tremor
in that silver voice; what if the red glow of evening were hiding a
transient blush!
"The conversation took a higher tone, one fine thought called forth
another: it was one of those rare seasons, when the soul expands with
full freedom, and man feels himself brought near to man. Gayly in light,
graceful abandonment, the friendly talk played round that circle; for
the burden was rolled from every heart; the barriers of Ceremony, which
are indeed the laws of polite living, had melted as into vapor; and the
poor claims of _Me_ and _Thee_, no longer parted by rigid fences,
now flowed softly into one another; and Life lay all harmonious,
many-tinted, like some fair royal champaign, the sovereign and owner
of which were Love only. Such music springs from kind hearts, in a kind
environment of place and time. And yet as the light grew more aerial
on the mountaintops, and the shadows fell longer over the valley, some
faint tone of sadness may have breathed through the heart; and, in
whispers more or less audible, reminded every one that as this bright
day was drawing towards its close, so likewise must the Day of Man's
Existence decline into dust and darkness; and with all its sick
toilings, and joyful and mournful noises, sink in the still Eternity.
"To our Friend the hours seemed moments; holy was he and happy: the
words from those sweetest lips came over him like dew on thirsty grass;
all better feelings in his soul seemed to whisper, It is good for us
to be here. At parting, the Blumine's hand was in his: in the balmy
twilight, with the kind stars above them, he spoke something of meeting
again, which was not contradicted; he pressed gently those small
soft fingers, and it seemed as if they were not hastily, not angrily
withdrawn."
Poor Teufelsdrockh! it is clear to demonstration thou art smit: the
Queen of Hearts would see a "man of genius" also sigh for her; and
there, by art-magic, in that preternatural hour, has she bound
and spell-bound thee. "Love is not altogether a Delirium," says he
elsewhere; "yet has it many points in common therewith. I call it rather
a discerning of the Infinite in the Finite, of the Idea made Real;
which discerning again may be either true or false, either seraphic or
demoniac, Inspiration or Insanity. But in the former case too, as in
common Madness, it is Fantasy that superadds itself to sight; on the so
petty domain of the Actual plants its Archimedes-lever, whereby to
move at will the infinite Spiritual. Fantasy I might call the true
Heaven-gate and Hell-gate of man: his sensuous life is but the small
temporary stage (_Zeitbuhne_), whereon thick-streaming influences
from both these far yet near regions meet visibly, and act tragedy and
melodrama. Sense can support herself handsomely, in most countries, for
some eighteenpence a day; but for Fantasy planets and solar-systems will
not suffice. Witness your Pyrrhus conquering the world, yet drinking no
better red wine than he had before." Alas! witness also your Diogenes,
flame-clad, scaling the upper Heaven, and verging towards Insanity, for
prize of a "high-souled Brunette," as if the Earth held but one and not
several of these!
He says that, in Town, they met again: "day after day, like his heart's
sun, the blooming Blumine shone on him. Ah! a little while ago, and he
was yet in all darkness: him what Graceful (_Holde_) would ever love?
Disbelieving all things, the poor youth had never learned to believe
in himself. Withdrawn, in proud timidity, within his own fastnesses;
solitary from men, yet baited by night-spectres enough, he saw himself,
with a sad indignation, constrained to renounce the fairest hopes of
existence. And now, O now! 'She looks on thee,' cried he: 'she the
fairest, noblest; do not her dark eyes tell thee, thou art not despised?
The Heaven's-Messenger! All Heaven's blessings be hers!' Thus did
soft melodies flow through his heart; tones of an infinite gratitude;
sweetest intimations that he also was a man, that for him also
unutterable joys had been provided.
"In free speech, earnest or gay, amid lambent glances, laughter, tears,
and often with the inarticulate mystic speech of Music: such was the
element they now lived in; in such a many-tinted, radiant Aurora, and by
this fairest of Orient Light-bringers must our Friend be blandished, and
the new Apocalypse of Nature enrolled to him. Fairest Blumine! And, even
as a Star, all Fire and humid Softness, a very Light-ray incarnate! Was
there so much as a fault, a 'caprice,' he could have dispensed with? Was
she not to him in very deed a Morning-star; did not her presence bring
with it airs from Heaven? As from AEolian Harps in the breath of
dawn, as from the Memnon's Statue struck by the rosy finger of Aurora,
unearthly music was around him, and lapped him into untried balmy Rest.
Pale Doubt fled away to the distance; Life bloomed up with happiness and
hope. The past, then, was all a haggard dream; he had been in the Garden
of Eden, then, and could not discern it! But lo now! the black walls
of his prison melt away; the captive is alive, is free. If he loved his
Disenchantress? _Ach Gott_! His whole heart and soul and life were hers,
but never had he named it Love: existence was all a Feeling, not yet
shaped into a Thought."
Nevertheless, into a Thought, nay into an Action, it must be shaped; for
neither Disenchanter nor Disenchantress, mere "Children of Time," can
abide by Feeling alone. The Professor knows not, to this day, "how in
her soft, fervid bosom the Lovely found determination, even on hest
of Necessity, to cut asunder these so blissful bonds." He even appears
surprised at the "Duenna Cousin," whoever she may have been, "in whose
meagre hunger-bitten philosophy, the religion of young hearts was, from
the first, faintly approved of." We, even at such distance, can explain
it without necromancy. Let the Philosopher answer this one question:
What figure, at that period, was a Mrs. Teufelsdrockh likely to make in
polished society? Could she have driven so much as a brass-bound Gig,
or even a simple iron-spring one? Thou foolish "absolved Auscultator,"
before whom lies no prospect of capital, will any yet known "religion
of young hearts" keep the human kitchen warm? Pshaw! thy divine Blumine,
when she "resigned herself to wed some richer," shows more philosophy,
though but "a woman of genius," than thou, a pretended man.
Our readers have witnessed the origin of this Love-mania, and with what
royal splendor it waxes, and rises. Let no one ask us to unfold the
glories of its dominant state; much less the horrors of its almost
instantaneous dissolution. How from such inorganic masses, henceforth
madder than ever, as lie in these Bags, can even fragments of a living
delineation be organized? Besides, of what profit were it? We view, with
a lively pleasure, the gay silk Montgolfier start from the ground, and
shoot upwards, cleaving the liquid deeps, till it dwindle to a luminous
star: but what is there to look longer on, when once, by natural
elasticity, or accident of fire, it has exploded? A hapless
air-navigator, plunging, amid torn parachutes, sand-bags, and confused
wreck, fast enough into the jaws of the Devil! Suffice it to know
that Teufelsdrockh rose into the highest regions of the Empyrean, by a
natural parabolic track, and returned thence in a quick perpendicular
one. For the rest, let any feeling reader, who has been unhappy enough
to do the like, paint it out for himself: considering only that if he,
for his perhaps comparatively insignificant mistress, underwent such
agonies and frenzies, what must Teufelsdrockh's have been, with a
fire-heart, and for a nonpareil Blumine! We glance merely at the final
scene:--
"One morning, he found his Morning-star all dimmed and dusky-red; the
fair creature was silent, absent, she seemed to have been weeping. Alas,
no longer a Morning-star, but a troublous skyey Portent, announcing that
the Doomsday had dawned! She said, in a tremulous voice, They were to
meet no more." The thunder-struck Air-sailor is not wanting to
himself in this dread hour: but what avails it? We omit the passionate
expostulations, entreaties, indignations, since all was vain, and not
even an explanation was conceded him; and hasten to the catastrophe.
"'Farewell, then, Madam!' said he, not without sternness, for his stung
pride helped him. She put her hand in his, she looked in his face, tears
started to her eyes; in wild audacity he clasped her to his bosom;
their lips were joined, their two souls, like two dew-drops, rushed into
one,--for the first time and for the last!" Thus was Teufelsdrockh made
immortal by a kiss. And then? Why, then--"thick curtains of Night rushed
over his soul, as rose the immeasurable Crash of Doom; and through the
ruins as of a shivered Universe was he falling, falling, towards the
Abyss."
CHAPTER VI. SORROWS OF TEUFELSDROCKH.
We have long felt that, with a man like our Professor, matters must
often be expected to take a course of their own; that in so multiplex,
intricate a nature, there might be channels, both for admitting and
emitting, such as the Psychologist had seldom noted; in short, that on
no grand occasion and convulsion, neither in the joy-storm nor in the
woe-storm could you predict his demeanor.
To our less philosophical readers, for example, it is now clear that the
so passionate Teufelsdrockh precipitated through "a shivered Universe"
in this extraordinary way, has only one of three things which he can
next do: Establish himself in Bedlam; begin writing Satanic Poetry; or