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Title: A Virtuoso’s Collection
Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne
Release Date: September 6, 2003 [eBook #9235]
[Most recently updated: November 9, 2022]
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
Produced by: David Widger and Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A VIRTUOSO’S COLLECTION ***
A Virtuoso’s Collection
by Nathaniel Hawthorne
The other day, having a leisure hour at my disposal, I stepped into a new
museum, to which my notice was casually drawn by a small and unobtrusive sign:
“TO BE SEEN HERE, AVIRTUOSO’SCOLLECTION.” Such was the simple yet not altogether unpromising
announcement that turned my steps aside for a little while from the sunny
sidewalk of our principal thoroughfare. Mounting a sombre staircase, I pushed
open a door at its summit, and found myself in the presence of a person, who
mentioned the moderate sum that would entitle me to admittance.
“Three shillings, Massachusetts tenor,” said he. “No, I mean half a dollar, as
you reckon in these days.”
While searching my pocket for the coin I glanced at the doorkeeper, the marked
character and individuality of whose aspect encouraged me to expect something
not quite in the ordinary way. He wore an old-fashioned great-coat, much faded,
within which his meagre person was so completely enveloped that the rest of his
attire was undistinguishable. But his visage was remarkably wind-flushed,
sunburnt, and weather-worn, and had a most, unquiet, nervous, and apprehensive
expression. It seemed as if this man had some all-important object in view,
some point of deepest interest to be decided, some momentous question to ask,
might he but hope for a reply. As it was evident, however, that I could have
nothing to do with his private affairs, I passed through an open doorway, which
admitted me into the extensive hall of the museum.
Directly in front of the portal was the bronze statue of a youth with winged
feet. He was represented in the act of flitting away from earth, yet wore such
a look of earnest invitation that it impressed me like a summons to enter the
hall.
“It is the original statue of Opportunity, by the ancient sculptor Lysippus,”
said a gentleman who now approached me. “I place it at the entrance of my
museum, because it is not at all times that one can gain admittance to such a
collection.”
The speaker was a middle-aged person, of whom it was not easy to determine
whether he had spent his life as a scholar or as a man of action; in truth, all
outward and obvious peculiarities had been worn away by an extensive and
promiscuous intercourse with the world. There was no mark about him of
profession, individual habits, or scarcely of country; although his dark
complexion and high features made me conjecture that he was a native of some
southern clime of Europe. At all events, he was evidently the virtuoso in
person.
“With your permission,” said he, “as we have no descriptive catalogue, I will
accompany you through the museum and point out whatever may be most worthy of
attention. In the first place, here is a choice collection of stuffed animals.”
Nearest the door stood the outward semblance of a wolf, exquisitely prepared,
it is true, and showing a very wolfish fierceness in the large glass eyes which
were inserted into its wild and crafty head. Still it was merely the skin of a
wolf, with nothing to distinguish it from other individuals of that unlovely
breed.
“How does this animal deserve a place in your collection?” inquired I.
“It is the wolf that devoured Little Red Riding Hood,” answered the virtuoso;
“and by his side—with a milder and more matronly look, as you
perceive—stands the she-wolf that suckled Romulus and Remus.”
“Ah, indeed!” exclaimed I. “And what lovely lamb is this with the snow-white
fleece, which seems to be of as delicate a texture as innocence itself?”
“Methinks you have but carelessly read Spenser,” replied my guide, “or you
would at once recognize the ‘milk-white lamb’ which Una led. But I set no great
value upon the lamb. The next specimen is better worth our notice.”
“What!” cried I, “this strange animal, with the black head of an ox upon the
body of a white horse? Were it possible to suppose it, I should say that this
was Alexander’s steed Bucephalus.”
“The same,” said the virtuoso. “And can you likewise give a name to the famous
charger that stands beside him?”
Next to the renowned Bucephalus stood the mere skeleton of a horse, with the
white bones peeping through his ill-conditioned hide; but, if my heart had not
warmed towards that pitiful anatomy, I might as well have quitted the museum at
once. Its rarities had not been collected with pain and toil from the four
quarters of the earth, and from the depths of the sea, and from the palaces and
sepulchres of ages, for those who could mistake this illustrious steed.
“It, is Rosinante!” exclaimed I, with enthusiasm.
And so it proved. My admiration for the noble and gallant horse caused me to
glance with less interest at the other animals, although many of them might
have deserved the notice of Cuvier himself. There was the donkey which Peter
Bell cudgelled so soundly, and a brother of the same species who had suffered a
similar infliction from the ancient prophet Balaam. Some doubts were
entertained, however, as to the authenticity of the latter beast. My guide
pointed out the venerable Argus, that faithful dog of Ulysses, and also another
dog (for so the skin bespoke it), which, though imperfectly preserved, seemed
once to have had three heads. It was Cerberus. I was considerably amused at
detecting in an obscure corner the fox that became so famous by the loss of his
tail. There were several stuffed cats, which, as a dear lover of that
comfortable beast, attracted my affectionate regards. One was Dr. Johnson’s cat
Hodge; and in the same row stood the favorite cats of Mahomet, Gray, and Walter
Scott, together with Puss in Boots, and a cat of very noble aspect—who
had once been a deity of ancient Egypt. Byron’s tame bear came next. I must not
forget to mention the Eryruanthean boar, the skin of St. George’s dragon, and
that of the serpent Python; and another skin with beautifully variegated hues,
supposed to have been the garment of the “spirited sly snake,” which tempted
Eve. Against the walls were suspended the horns of the stag that Shakespeare
shot; and on the floor lay the ponderous shell of the tortoise which fell upon
the head of Aeschylus. In one row, as natural as life, stood the sacred bull
Apis, the “cow with the crumpled horn,” and a very wild-looking young heifer,
which I guessed to be the cow that jumped over the moon. She was probably
killed by the rapidity of her descent. As I turned away, my eyes fell upon an
indescribable monster, which proved to be a griffin.
“I look in vain,” observed I, “for the skin of an animal which might well
deserve the closest study of a naturalist,—the winged horse, Pegasus.”
“He is not yet dead,” replied the virtuoso; “but he is so hard ridden by many
young gentlemen of the day that I hope soon to add his skin and skeleton to my
collection.”
We now passed to the next alcove of the hall, in which was a multitude of
stuffed birds. They were very prettily arranged, some upon the branches of
trees, others brooding upon nests, and others suspended by wires so
artificially that they seemed in the very act of flight. Among them was a white
dove, with a withered branch of olive-leaves in her mouth.
“Can this be the very dove,” inquired I, “that brought the message of peace and
hope to the tempest-beaten passengers of the ark?”
“Even so,” said my companion.
“And this raven, I suppose,” continued I, “is the same that fed Elijah in the
wilderness.”
“The raven? No,” said the virtuoso; “it is a bird of modern date. He belonged
to one Barnaby Rudge, and many people fancied that the Devil himself was
disguised under his sable plumage. But poor Grip has drawn his last cork, and
has been forced to ‘say die’ at last. This other raven, hardly less curious, is
that in which the soul of King George I. revisited his lady-love, the Duchess
of Kendall.”
My guide next pointed out Minerva’s owl and the vulture that preyed upon the
liver of Prometheus. There was likewise the sacred ibis of Egypt, and one of
the Stymphalides which Hercules shot in his sixth labor. Shelley’s skylark,
Bryant’s water-fowl, and a pigeon from the belfry of the Old South Church,
preserved by N. P. Willis, were placed on the same perch. I could not but
shudder on beholding Coleridge’s albatross, transfixed with the Ancient
Mariner’s crossbow shaft. Beside this bird of awful poesy stood a gray goose of
very ordinary aspect.
“Stuffed goose is no such rarity,” observed I. “Why do you preserve such a
specimen in your museum?”
“It is one of the flock whose cackling saved the Roman Capitol,” answered the
virtuoso. “Many geese have cackled and hissed both before and since; but none,
like those, have clamored themselves into immortality.”
There seemed to be little else that demanded notice in this department of the
museum, unless we except Robinson Crusoe’s parrot, a live phoenix, a footless
bird of paradise, and a splendid peacock, supposed to be the same that once
contained the soul of Pythagoras. I therefore passed to the next alcove, the
shelves of which were covered with a miscellaneous collection of curiosities
such as are usually found in similar establishments. One of the first things
that took my eye was a strange-looking cap, woven of some substance that
appeared to be neither woollen, cotton, nor linen.
“Is this a magician’s cap?” I asked.
“No,” replied the virtuoso; “it is merely Dr. Franklin’s cap of asbestos. But
here is one which, perhaps, may suit you better. It is the wishing-cap of
Fortunatus. Will you try it on?”
“By no means,” answered I, putting it aside with my hand. “The day of wild
wishes is past with me. I desire nothing that may not come in the ordinary
course of Providence.”
“Then probably,” returned the virtuoso, “you will not be tempted to rub this
lamp?”
While speaking, he took from the shelf an antique brass lamp, curiously wrought
with embossed figures, but so covered with verdigris that the sculpture was
almost eaten away.
“It is a thousand years,” said he, “since the genius of this lamp constructed
Aladdin’s palace in a single night. But he still retains his power; and the man
who rubs Aladdin’s lamp has but to desire either a palace or a cottage.”
“I might desire a cottage,” replied I; “but I would have it founded on sure and
stable truth, not on dreams and fantasies. I have learned to look for the real
and the true.”
My guide next showed me Prospero’s magic wand, broken into three fragments by
the hand of its mighty master. On the same shelf lay the gold ring of ancient
Gyges, which enabled the wearer to walk invisible. On the other side of the
alcove was a tall looking-glass in a frame of ebony, but veiled with a curtain
of purple silk, through the rents of which the gleam of the mirror was
perceptible.
“This is Cornelius Agrippa’s magic glass,” observed the virtuoso. “Draw aside
the curtain, and picture any human form within your mind, and it will be
reflected in the mirror.”
“It is enough if I can picture it within my mind,” answered I. “Why should I
wish it to be repeated in the mirror? But, indeed, these works of magic have
grown wearisome to me. There are so many greater wonders in the world, to those
who keep their eyes open and their sight undimmed by custom, that all the
delusions of the old sorcerers seem flat and stale. Unless you can show me
something really curious, I care not to look further into your museum.”
“Ah, well, then,” said the virtuoso, composedly, “perhaps you may deem some of
my antiquarian rarities deserving of a glance.”
He pointed out the iron mask, now corroded with rust; and my heart grew sick at
the sight of this dreadful relic, which had shut out a human being from
sympathy with his race. There was nothing half so terrible in the axe that
beheaded King Charles, nor in the dagger that slew Henry of Navarre, nor in the
arrow that pierced the heart of William Rufus,—all of which were shown to
me. Many of the articles derived their interest, such as it was, from having
been formerly in the possession of royalty. For instance, here was
Charlemagne’s sheepskin cloak, the flowing wig of Louis Quatorze, the
spinning-wheel of Sardanapalus, and King Stephen’s famous breeches which cost
him but a crown. The heart of the Bloody Mary, with the word “Calais” worn into
its diseased substance, was preserved in a bottle of spirits; and near it lay
the golden case in which the queen of Gustavus Adolphus treasured up that
hero’s heart. Among these relics and heirlooms of kings I must not forget the
long, hairy ears of Midas, and a piece of bread which had been changed to gold
by the touch of that unlucky monarch. And as Grecian Helen was a queen, it may
here be mentioned that I was permitted to take into my hand a lock of her
golden hair and the bowl which a sculptor modelled from the curve of her
perfect breast. Here, likewise, was the robe that smothered Agamemnon, Nero’s
fiddle, the Czar Peter’s brandy-bottle, the crown of Semiramis, and Canute’s
sceptre which he extended over the sea. That my own land may not deem itself
neglected, let me add that I was favored with a sight of the skull of King
Philip, the famous Indian chief, whose head the Puritans smote off and
exhibited upon a pole.
“Show me something else,” said I to the virtuoso. “Kings are in such an
artificial position that people in the ordinary walks of life cannot feel an
interest in their relics. If you could show me the straw hat of sweet little
Nell, I would far rather see it than a king’s golden crown.”
“There it is,” said my guide, pointing carelessly with his staff to the straw
hat in question. “But, indeed, you are hard to please. Here are the
seven-league boots. Will you try them on?”
“Our modern railroads have superseded their use,” answered I; “and as to these
cowhide boots, I could show you quite as curious a pair at the Transcendental
community in Roxbury.”
We next examined a collection of swords and other weapons, belonging to
different epochs, but thrown together without much attempt at arrangement. Here
Was Arthur’s sword Excalibar, and that of the Cid Campeader, and the sword of
Brutus rusted with Caesar’s blood and his own, and the sword of Joan of Arc,
and that of Horatius, and that with which Virginius slew his daughter, and the
one which Dionysius suspended over the head of Damocles. Here also was Arria’s
sword, which she plunged into her own breast, in order to taste of death before
her husband. The crooked blade of Saladin’s cimeter next attracted my notice. I
know not by what chance, but so it happened, that the sword of one of our own
militia generals was suspended between Don Quixote’s lance and the brown blade
of Hudibras. My heart throbbed high at the sight of the helmet of Miltiades and
the spear that was broken in the breast of Epaminondas. I recognized the shield
of Achilles by its resemblance to the admirable cast in the possession of
Professor Felton. Nothing in this apartment interested me more than Major
Pitcairn’s pistol, the discharge of which, at Lexington, began the war of the
Revolution, and was reverberated in thunder around the land for seven long
years. The bow of Ulysses, though unstrung for ages, was placed against the
wall, together with a sheaf of Robin Hood’s arrows and the rifle of Daniel
Boone.
“Enough of weapons,” said I, at length; “although I would gladly have seen the
sacred shield which fell from heaven in the time of Numa. And surely you should
obtain the sword which Washington unsheathed at Cambridge. But the collection
does you much credit. Let us pass on.”
In the next alcove we saw the golden thigh of Pythagoras, which had so divine a
meaning; and, by one of the queer analogies to which the virtuoso seemed to be
addicted, this ancient emblem lay on the same shelf with Peter Stuyvesant’s
wooden leg, that was fabled to be of silver. Here was a remnant of the Golden
Fleece, and a sprig of yellow leaves that resembled the foliage of a
frost-bitten elm, but was duly authenticated as a portion of the golden branch
by which AEneas gained admittance to the realm of Pluto. Atalanta’s golden
apple and one of the apples of discord were wrapped in the napkin of gold which
Rampsinitus brought from Hades; and the whole were deposited in the golden vase
of Bias, with its inscription: “TO THE WISEST.”
“And how did you obtain this vase?” said I to the virtuoso.
“It was given me long ago,” replied he, with a scornful expression in his eye,
“because I had learned to despise all things.”
It had not escaped me that, though the virtuoso was evidently a man of high
cultivation, yet he seemed to lack sympathy with the spiritual, the sublime,
and the tender. Apart from the whim that had led him to devote so much time,
pains, and expense to the collection of this museum, he impressed me as one of
the hardest and coldest men of the world whom I had ever met.
“To despise all things!” repeated I. “This, at best, is the wisdom of the
understanding. It is the creed of a man whose soul, whose better and diviner
part, has never been awakened, or has died out of him.”
“I did not think that you were still so young,” said the virtuoso. “Should you
live to my years, you will acknowledge that the vase of Bias was not ill
bestowed.”
Without further discussion of the point, he directed my attention to other
curiosities. I examined Cinderella’s little glass slipper, and compared it with
one of Diana’s sandals, and with Fanny Elssler’s shoe, which bore testimony to
the muscular character of her illustrious foot. On the same shelf were Thomas
the Rhymer’s green velvet shoes, and the brazen shoe of Empedocles which was
thrown out of Mount AEtna. Anacreon’s drinking-cup was placed in apt
juxtaposition with one of Tom Moore’s wine-glasses and Circe’s magic bowl.
These were symbols of luxury and riot; but near them stood the cup whence
Socrates drank his hemlock, and that which Sir Philip Sidney put from his
death-parched lips to bestow the draught upon a dying soldier. Next appeared a
cluster of tobacco-pipes, consisting of Sir Walter Raleigh’s, the earliest on
record, Dr. Parr’s, Charles Lamb’s, and the first calumet of peace which was
ever smoked between a European and an Indian. Among other musical instruments,
I noticed the lyre of Orpheus and those of Homer and Sappho, Dr. Franklin’s
famous whistle, the trumpet of Anthony Van Corlear, and the flute which
Goldsmith played upon in his rambles through the French provinces. The staff of
Peter the Hermit stood in a corner with that of good old Bishop Jewel, and one
of ivory, which had belonged to Papirius, the Roman senator. The ponderous club
of Hercules was close at hand. The virtuoso showed me the chisel of Phidias,
Claude’s palette, and the brush of Apelles, observing that he intended to
bestow the former either on Greenough, Crawford, or Powers, and the two latter
upon Washington Allston. There was a small vase of oracular gas from Delphos,
which I trust will be submitted to the scientific analysis of Professor
Silliman. I was deeply moved on beholding a vial of the tears into which Niobe
was dissolved; nor less so on learning that a shapeless fragment of salt was a
relic of that victim of despondency and sinful regrets,—Lot’s wife. My
companion appeared to set great value upon some Egyptian darkness in a
blacking-jug. Several of the shelves were covered by a collection of coins,
among which, however, I remember none but the Splendid Shilling, celebrated by
Phillips, and a dollar’s worth of the iron money of Lycurgus, weighing about
fifty pounds.
Walking carelessly onward, I had nearly fallen over a huge bundle, like a
peddler’s pack, done up in sackcloth, and very securely strapped and corded.
“It is Christian’s burden of sin,” said the virtuoso.
“O, pray let us open it!” cried I. “For many a year I have longed to know its
contents.”
“Look into your own consciousness and memory,” replied the virtuoso. “You will
there find a list of whatever it contains.”
As this was all undeniable truth, I threw a melancholy look at the burden and
passed on. A collection of old garments, banging on pegs, was worthy of some
attention, especially the shirt of Nessus, Caesar’s mantle, Joseph’s coat of
many colors, the Vicar of Bray’s cassock, Goldsmith’s peach-bloom suit, a pair
of President Jefferson’s scarlet breeches, John Randolph’s red baize
hunting-shirt, the drab small-clothes of the Stout Gentleman, and the rags of
the “man all tattered and torn.” George Fox’s hat impressed me with deep
reverence as a relic of perhaps the truest apostle that has appeared on earth
for these eighteen hundred years. My eye was next attracted by an old pair of
shears, which I should have taken for a memorial of some famous tailor, only
that the virtuoso pledged his veracity that they were the identical scissors of
Atropos. He also showed me a broken hourglass which had been thrown aside by
Father Time, together with the old gentleman’s gray forelock, tastefully
braided into a brooch. In the hour-glass was the handful of sand, the grains of
which had numbered the years of the Cumeean sibyl. I think it was in this
alcove that I saw the inkstand which Luther threw at the Devil, and the ring
which Essex, while under sentence of death, sent to Queen Elizabeth. And here
was the blood-incrusted pen of steel with which Faust signed away his
salvation.
The virtuoso now opened the door of a closet and showed me a lamp burning,
while three others stood unlighted by its side. One of the three was the lamp
of Diogenes, another that of Guy Fawkes, and the third that which Hero set
forth to the midnight breeze in the high tower of Ahydos.
“See!” said the virtuoso, blowing with all his force at the lighted lamp.
The flame quivered and shrank away from his breath, but clung to the wick, and
resumed its brilliancy as soon as the blast was exhausted.
“It is an undying lamp from the tomb of Charlemagne,” observed my guide. “That
flame was kindled a thousand years ago.”
“How ridiculous to kindle an unnatural light in tombs!” exclaimed I. “We should
seek to behold the dead in the light of heaven. But what is the meaning of this
chafing-dish of glowing coals?”
“That,” answered the virtuoso, “is the original fire which Prometheus stole
from heaven. Look steadfastly into it, and you will discern another curiosity.”
I gazed into that fire,—which, symbolically, was the origin of all that
was bright and glorious in the soul of man,—and in the midst of it,
behold a little reptile, sporting with evident enjoyment of the fervid heat! It
was a salamander.
“What a sacrilege!” cried I, with inexpressible disgust. “Can you find no
better use for this ethereal fire than to cherish a loathsome reptile in it?
Yet there are men who abuse the sacred fire of their own souls to as foul and
guilty a purpose.”
The virtuoso made no answer except by a dry laugh and an assurance that the
salamander was the very same which Benvenuto Cellini had seen in his father’s
household fire. He then proceeded to show me other rarities; for this closet
appeared to be the receptacle of what he considered most valuable in his
collection.
“There,” said he, “is the Great Carbuncle of the White Mountains.”
I gazed with no little interest at this mighty gem, which it had been one of
the wild projects of my youth to discover. Possibly it might have looked
brighter to me in those days than now; at all events, it had not such
brilliancy as to detain me long from the other articles of the museum. The
virtuoso pointed out to me a crystalline stone which hung by a gold chain
against the wall.
“That is the philosopher’s stone,” said he.
“And have you the elixir vita which generally accompanies it?” inquired I.
“Even so; this urn is filled with it,” he replied. “A draught would refresh
you. Here is Hebe’s cup; will you quaff a health from it?”
My heart thrilled within me at the idea of such a reviving draught; for
methought I had great need of it after travelling so far on the dusty road of
life. But I know not whether it were a peculiar glance in the virtuoso’s eye,
or the circumstance that this most precious liquid was contained in an antique
sepulchral urn, that made me pause. Then came many a thought with which, in the
calmer and better hours of life, I had strengthened myself to feel that Death
is the very friend whom, in his due season, even the happiest mortal should be
willing to embrace.
“No; I desire not an earthly immortality,” said I.
“Were man to live longer on the earth, the spiritual would die out of him. The
spark of ethereal fire would be choked by the material, the sensual. There is a
celestial something within us that requires, after a certain time, the
atmosphere of heaven to preserve it from decay and ruin. I will have none of
this liquid. You do well to keep it in a sepulchral urn; for it would produce
death while bestowing the shadow of life.”
“All this is unintelligible to me,” responded my guide, with indifference.
“Life—earthly life—is the only good. But you refuse the draught?
Well, it is not likely to be offered twice within one man’s experience.
Probably you have griefs which you seek to forget in death. I can enable you to
forget them in life. Will you take a draught of Lethe?”
As he spoke, the virtuoso took from the shelf a crystal vase containing a sable
liquor, which caught no reflected image from the objects around.
“Not for the world!” exclaimed I, shrinking back. “I can spare none of my
recollections, not even those of error or sorrow. They are all alike the food
of my spirit. As well never to have lived as to lose them now.”
Without further parley we passed to the next alcove, the shelves of which were
burdened with ancient volumes and with those rolls of papyrus in which was
treasured up the eldest wisdom of the earth. Perhaps the most valuable work in
the collection, to a bibliomaniac, was the Book of Hermes. For my part,
however, I would have given a higher price for those six of the Sibyl’s books
which Tarquin refused to purchase, and which the virtuoso informed me he had
himself found in the cave of Trophonius. Doubtless these old volumes contain
prophecies of the fate of Rome, both as respects the decline and fall of her
temporal empire and the rise of her spiritual one. Not without value, likewise,
was the work of Anaxagoras on Nature, hitherto supposed to be irrecoverably
lost, and the missing treatises of Longinus, by which modern criticism might
profit, and those books of Livy for which the classic student has so long
sorrowed without hope. Among these precious tomes I observed the original
manuscript of the Koran, and also that of the Mormon Bible in Joe Smith’s
authentic autograph. Alexander’s copy of the Iliad was also there, enclosed in
the jewelled casket of Darius, still fragrant of the perfumes which the Persian
kept in it.
Opening an iron-clasped volume, bound in black leather, I discovered it to be
Cornelius Agrippa’s book of magic; and it was rendered still more interesting
by the fact that many flowers, ancient and modern, were pressed between its
leaves. Here was a rose from Eve’s bridal bower, and all those red and white
roses which were plucked in the garden of the Temple by the partisans of York
and Lancaster. Here was Halleck’s Wild Rose of Alloway. Cowper had contributed
a Sensitive Plant, and Wordsworth an Eglantine, and Burns a Mountain Daisy, and
Kirke White a Star of Bethlehem, and Longfellow a Sprig of Fennel, with its
yellow flowers. James Russell Lowell had given a Pressed Flower, but fragrant
still, which had been shadowed in the Rhine. There was also a sprig from
Southey’s Holly Tree. One of the most beautiful specimens was a Fringed
Gentian, which had been plucked and preserved for immortality by Bryant. From
Jones Very, a poet whose voice is scarcely heard among us by reason of its
depth, there was a Wind Flower and a Columbine.
As I closed Cornelius Agrippa’s magic volume, an old, mildewed letter fell upon
the floor. It proved to be an autograph from the Flying Dutchman to his wife. I
could linger no longer among books; for the afternoon was waning, and there was
yet much to see. The bare mention of a few more curiosities must suffice. The
immense skull of Polyphemus was recognizable by the cavernous hollow in the
centre of the forehead where once had blazed the giant’s single eye. The tub of
Diogenes, Medea’s caldron, and Psyche’s vase of beauty were placed one within
another. Pandora’s box, without the lid, stood next, containing nothing but the
girdle of Venus, which had been carelessly flung into it. A bundle of
birch-rods which had been used by Shenstone’s schoolmistress were tied up with
the Countess of Salisbury’s garter. I know not which to value most, a roc’s egg
as big as an ordinary hogshead, or the shell of the egg which Columbus set upon
its end. Perhaps the most delicate article in the whole museum was Queen Mab’s
chariot, which, to guard it from the touch of meddlesome fingers, was placed
under a glass tumbler.
Several of the shelves were occupied by specimens of entomology. Feeling but
little interest in the science, I noticed only Anacreon’s grasshopper, and a
bumblebee which had been presented to the virtuoso by Ralph Waldo Emerson.
In the part of the hall which we had now reached I observed a curtain, that
descended from the ceiling to the floor in voluminous folds, of a depth,
richness, and magnificence which I had never seen equalled. It was not to be
doubted that this splendid though dark and solemn veil concealed a portion of
the museum even richer in wonders than that through which I had already passed;
but, on my attempting to grasp the edge of the curtain and draw it aside, it
proved to be an illusive picture.
“You need not blush,” remarked the virtuoso; “for that same curtain deceived
Zeuxis. It is the celebrated painting of Parrhasius.”
In a range with the curtain there were a number of other choice pictures by
artists of ancient days. Here was the famous cluster of grapes by Zeuxis, so
admirably depicted that it seemed as if the ripe juice were bursting forth. As
to the picture of the old woman by the same illustrious painter, and which was
so ludicrous that he himself died with laughing at it, I cannot say that it
particularly moved my risibility. Ancient humor seems to have little power over
modern muscles. Here, also, was the horse painted by Apelles which living
horses neighed at; his first portrait of Alexander the Great, and his last
unfinished picture of Venus asleep. Each of these works of art, together with
others by Parrhasius, Timanthes, Polygnotus, Apollodorus, Pausias, and
Pamplulus, required more time and study than I could bestow for the adequate
perception of their merits. I shall therefore leave them undescribed and
uncriticised, nor attempt to settle the question of superiority between ancient
and modern art.
For the same reason I shall pass lightly over the specimens of antique
sculpture which this indefatigable and fortunate virtuoso had dug out of the
dust of fallen empires. Here was AEtion’s cedar statue of AEsculapius, much
decayed, and Alcon’s iron statue of Hercules, lamentably rusted. Here was the
statue of Victory, six feet high, which the Jupiter Olympus of Phidias had held
in his hand. Here was a forefinger of the Colossus of Rhodes, seven feet in
length. Here was the Venus Urania of Phidias, and other images of male and
female beauty or grandeur, wrought by sculptors who appeared never to have
debased their souls by the sight of any meaner forms than those of gods or
godlike mortals. But the deep simplicity of these great works was not to be
comprehended by a mind excited and disturbed, as mine was, by the various
objects that had recently been presented to it. I therefore turned away with
merely a passing glance, resolving on some future occasion to brood over each
individual statue and picture until my inmost spirit should feel their
excellence. In this department, again, I noticed the tendency to whimsical
combinations and ludicrous analogies which seemed to influence many of the
arrangements of the museum. The wooden statue so well known as the Palladium of
Troy was placed in close apposition with the wooden head of General Jackson,
which was stolen a few years since from the bows of the frigate Constitution.
We had now completed the circuit of the spacious hall, and found ourselves
again near the door. Feeling somewhat wearied with the survey of so many
novelties and antiquities, I sat down upon Cowper’s sofa, while the virtuoso
threw himself carelessly into Rabelais’s easychair. Casting my eyes upon the
opposite wall, I was surprised to perceive the shadow of a man flickering
unsteadily across the wainscot, and looking as if it were stirred by some
breath of air that found its way through the door or windows. No substantial
figure was visible from which this shadow might be thrown; nor, had there been
such, was there any sunshine that would have caused it to darken upon the wall.
“It is Peter Schlemihl’s shadow,” observed the virtuoso, “and one of the most
valuable articles in my collection.”
“Methinks a shadow would have made a fitting doorkeeper to such a museum,” said
I; “although, indeed, yonder figure has something strange and fantastic about
him, which suits well enough with many of the impressions which I have received
here. Pray, who is he?”
While speaking, I gazed more scrutinizingly than before at the antiquated
presence of the person who had admitted me, and who still sat on his bench with
the same restless aspect, and dim, confused, questioning anxiety that I had
noticed on my first entrance. At this moment he looked eagerly towards us, and,
half starting from his seat, addressed me.
“I beseech you, kind sir,” said he, in a cracked, melancholy tone, “have pity
on the most unfortunate man in the world. For Heaven’s sake, answer me a single
question! Is this the town of Boston?”
“You have recognized him now,” said the virtuoso. “It is Peter Rugg, the
missing man. I chanced to meet him the other day still in search of Boston, and
conducted him hither; and, as he could not succeed in finding his friends, I
have taken him into my service as doorkeeper. He is somewhat too apt to ramble,
but otherwise a man of trust and integrity.”
“And might I venture to ask,” continued I, “to whom am I indebted for this
afternoon’s gratification?”
The virtuoso, before replying, laid his hand upon an antique dart, or javelin,
the rusty steel head of winch seemed to have been blunted, as if it had
encountered the resistance of a tempered shield, or breastplate.
“My name has not been without its distinction in the world for a longer period
than that of any other man alive,” answered he. “Yet many doubt of my
existence; perhaps you will do so to-morrow. This dart which I hold in my hand
was once grim Death’s own weapon. It served him well for the space of four
thousand years; but it fell blunted, as you see, when he directed it against my
breast.”
These words were spoken with the calm and cold courtesy of manner that had
characterized this singular personage throughout our interview. I fancied, it
is true, that there was a bitterness indefinably mingled with his tone, as of
one cut off from natural sympathies and blasted with a doom that had been
inflicted on no other human being, and by the results of which he had ceased to
be human. Yet, withal, it seemed one of the most terrible consequences of that
doom that the victim no longer regarded it as a calamity, but had finally
accepted it as the greatest good that could have befallen him.
“You are the Wandering Jew!” exclaimed I.
The virtuoso bowed without emotion of any kind; for, by centuries of custom, he
had almost lost the sense of strangeness in his fate, and was but imperfectly
conscious of the astonishment and awe with which it affected such as are
capable of death.
“Your doom is indeed a fearful one!” said I, with irrepressible feeling and a
frankness that afterwards startled me; “yet perhaps the ethereal spirit is not
entirely extinct under all this corrupted or frozen mass of earthly life.
Perhaps the immortal spark may yet be rekindled by a breath of heaven. Perhaps
you may yet be permitted to die before it is too late to live eternally. You
have my prayers for such a consummation. Farewell.”
“Your prayers will be in vain,” replied he, with a smile of cold triumph. “My
destiny is linked with the realities of earth. You are welcome to your visions
and shadows of a future state; but give me what I can see, and touch, and
understand, and I ask no more.”
“It is indeed too late,” thought I. “The soul is dead within him.”
Struggling between pity and horror, I extended my hand, to which the virtuoso
gave his own, still with the habitual courtesy of a man of the world, but
without a single heart-throb of human brotherhood. The touch seemed like ice,
yet I know not whether morally or physically. As I departed, he bade me observe
that the inner door of the hall was constructed with the ivory leaves of the
gateway through which Aeneas and the Sibyl had been dismissed from Hades.
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