If another cried out--'The coffee is coming immediately.'--'Yes,' he
would retort, 'and so is the next hour: and, by the way, it's about that
length of time that I have waited for it.' Then he would collect himself
with a stoical air, and say--'Well, one can die after all: it is but
dying; and in the next world, thank God! there is no drinking of coffee,
and consequently no--waiting for it.' Sometimes he would rise from his
chair, open the door, and cry out with a feeble querulousness--'Coffee!
coffee!' And when at length he heard the servant's step upon the stairs,
he would turn round to us, and, as joyfully as ever sailor from the
mast-head, he would call out--'Land, land! my dear friends, I see land.'
This general decline in Kant's powers, active and passive, gradually
brought about a revolution in his habits of life. Heretofore, as I have
already mentioned, he went to bed at ten, and rose a little before five.
The latter practice he still observed, but not the other. In 1802 he
retired as early as nine, and afterwards still earlier. He found himself
so much refreshed by this addition to his rest, that at first he was
disposed to utter a _Euraeka_, as over some great discovery in the
art of restoring exhausted nature: but afterwards, on pushing it still
farther, he did not find the success answer his expectations. His walks
he now limited to a few turns in the King's gardens, which were at no
great distance from his own house. In order to walk more firmly, he
adopted a peculiar method of stepping; he carried his foot to the
ground, not forward, and obliquely, but perpendicularly, and with a kind
of stamp, so as to secure a larger basis, by setting down the entire
sole at once. Notwithstanding this precaution, upon one occasion he
fell in the street. He was quite unable to raise himself; and two young
ladies, who saw the accident, ran to his assistance. With his usual
graciousness of manner he thanked them fervently for their assistance,
and presented one of them with a rose which he happened to have in his
hand. This lady was not personally known to Kant; but she was greatly
delighted with his little present, and still keeps the rose as a frail
memorial of her transitory interview with the great philosopher.
This accident, as I have reason to think, was the cause of his
henceforth renouncing exercise altogether. All labors, even that of
reading, were now performed slowly, and with manifest effort; and those
which cost him any bodily exertion became very exhausting to him. His
feet refused to do their office more and more; he fell continually, both
when moving across the room, and even when standing still: yet he
seldom suffered from these falls; and he constantly laughed at them,
maintaining that it was impossible he could hurt himself, from the
extreme lightness of his person, which was indeed by this time the
merest skeleton. Very often, especially in the morning, he dropped
asleep in his chair from pure weariness: on these occasions he fell
forward upon the floor, and lay there unable to raise himself up, until
accident brought one of his servants or his friends into the room.
Afterwards these falls were prevented, by substituting a chair with
circular supports, that met and clasped in front.
These unseasonable dozings exposed him to another danger. He fell
repeatedly, whilst reading, with his head into the candles; a cotton
night-cap which he wore was instantly in a blaze, and flaming about his
head. Whenever this happened, Kant behaved with great presence of mind.
Disregarding the pain, he seized the blazing cap, drew it from his head,
laid it quietly on the floor, and trod out the flames with his feet.
Yet, as this last act brought his dressing-gown into a dangerous
neighborhood to the flames, I changed the form of his cap, persuaded him
to arrange the candles differently, and had a decanter of water placed
constantly by his side; and in this way I applied a remedy to a danger,
which would else probably have been fatal to him.
From the sallies of impatience, which I have described in the case
of the coffee, there was reason to fear that, with the increasing
infirmities of Kant, would grow up a general waywardness and obstinacy
of temper. For my own sake, therefore, and not less for his, I now laid
down one rule for my future conduct in his house; which was, that I
would, on no occasion, allow my reverence for him to interfere with the
firmest expression of my opinion on subjects relating to his own health;
and in cases of great importance, that I would make no compromise with
his particular humors, but insist, not only on my view of the case, but
also on the practical adoption of my views; or, if this were refused me,
that I would take my departure at once, and not be made responsible
for the comfort of a person whom I had no power to influence. And this
behavior on my part it was that won Kant's confidence; for there was
nothing which disgusted him so much as any approach to fawning or
sycophancy. As his imbecility increased, he became daily more liable
to mental delusions; and, in particular, he fell into many fantastic
notions about the conduct of his servants, and, in consequence, into a
peevish mode of treating them. Upon these occasions I generally observed
a deep silence. But sometimes he would ask me for my opinion; and
when this happened, I did not scruple to say, 'Ingenuously, then, Mr.
Professor, I think that you are in the wrong.'--'You think so?' he would
reply calmly, at the same time asking for my reasons, which he would
listen to with great patience, and openness to conviction. Indeed,
it was evident that the firmest opposition, so long as it rested upon
assignable grounds and principles, won upon his regard; whilst his own
nobleness of character still moved him to habitual contempt for timorous
and partial acquiescence in his opinions, even when his infirmities made
him most anxious for such acquiescence.
Earlier in life Kant had been little used to contradiction. His superb
understanding, his brilliancy in conversation, founded in part upon his
ready and sometimes rather caustic wit, and in part upon his prodigious
command of knowledge--the air of noble self-confidence which the
consciousness of these advantages impressed upon his manners--and the
general knowledge of the severe innocence of his life--all combined to
give him a station of superiority to others, which generally secured
him from open contradiction. And if it sometimes happened that he met a
noisy and intemperate opposition, supported by any pretences to wit, he
usually withdrew himself from that sort of unprofitable altercation with
dignity, by contriving to give such a turn to the conversation as won
the general favor of the company to himself, and impressed, silence, or
modesty at least, upon the boldest disputant. From a person so little
familiar with opposition, it could scarcely have been anticipated that
he should daily surrender his wishes to mine--if not without discussion,
yet always without displeasure. So, however, it was. No habit, of
whatever long standing, could be objected to as injurious to his health,
but he would generally renounce it. And he had this excellent custom in
such cases, that either he would resolutely and at once decide for his
own opinion, or, if he professed to follow his friend's, he would follow
it sincerely, and not try it unfairly by trying it imperfectly. Any
plan, however trifling, which he had once consented to adopt on the
suggestion of another, was never afterwards defeated or embarrassed
by unseasonable interposition from his own humors. And thus, the
very period of his decay drew forth so many fresh expressions of his
character, in its amiable or noble features, as daily increased my
affection and reverence for his person.
Having mentioned his servants, I shall here take occasion to give some
account of his man-servant Lampe. It was a great misfortune for Kant, in
his old age and infirmities, that this man also became old, and subject
to a different sort of infirmities. This Lampe had originally served in
the Prussian army; on quitting which he entered the service of Kant. In
this situation he had lived about forty years; and, though always dull
and stupid, had, in the early part of this period, discharged his
duties with tolerable fidelity. But latterly, presuming upon his own
indispensableness, from his perfect knowledge of all the domestic
arrangements, and upon his master's weakness, he had fallen into
great irregularities and neglect of his duties. Kant had been obliged,
therefore, of late, to threaten repeatedly that he would discharge him.
I, who knew that Kant, though one of the kindest-hearted men, was also
one of the firmest, foresaw that this discharge, once given, would be
irrevocable: for the word of Kant was as sacred as other men's oaths.
Consequently, upon every opportunity, I remonstrated with Lampe on the
folly of his conduct, and his wife joined me on these occasions. Indeed,
it was high time that a change should be made in some quarter; for it
now became dangerous to leave Kant, who was constantly falling from
weakness, to the care of an old ruffian, who was himself apt to fall
from intoxication. The fact was, that from the moment I undertook the
management of Kant's affairs, Lampe saw there was an end to his old
system of abusing his master's confidence in pecuniary affairs, and the
other advantages which he took of his helpless situation. This made
him desperate, and he behaved worse and worse; until one morning,
in January, 1802, Kant told me, that, humiliating as he felt such a
confession, the fact was, that Lampe had just treated him in a way which
he was ashamed to repeat. I was too much shocked to distress him by
inquiring into the particulars. But the result was, that Kant now
insisted, temperately but firmly, on Lampe's dismissal. Accordingly, a
new servant, of the name of Kaufmann, was immediately engaged; and on
the next day Lampe was discharged with a handsome pension for life.
Here I must mention a little circumstance which does honor to Kant's
benevolence. In his last will, on the assumption that Lampe would
continue with him to his death, he had made a very liberal provision
for him; but upon this new arrangement of the pension, which was to take
effect immediately, it became necessary to revoke that part of his will,
which he did in a separate codicil, that began thus:--'In consequence of
the ill behavior of my servant Lampe, I think fit,' &c. But soon after,
considering that such a record of Lampe's misconduct might be seriously
injurious to his interests, he cancelled the passage, and expressed it
in such a way, that no trace remained behind of his just displeasure.
And his benign nature was gratified with knowing, that, this one
sentence blotted out, there remained no other in all his numerous
writings, published or confidential, which spoke the language of anger,
or could leave any ground for doubting that he died in charity with all
the world. Upon Lampe's calling to demand a written character, he was,
however, a good deal embarrassed; his stern reverence for truth being,
in this instance, armed against the first impulses of his kindness. Long
and anxiously he sat, with the certificate lying before him, debating
how he should fill up the blanks. I was present, but in such a matter I
did not take the liberty of suggesting any advice. At last, he took
his pen, and filled up the blank as follows:--'--has served me long and
faithfully,'--(for Kant was not aware that he had robbed him,)--'but did
not display those particular qualifications which fitted him for waiting
on an old and infirm man like myself.'
This scene of disturbance over, which to Kant, a lover of peace and
tranquillity, caused a shock that he would gladly have been spared; it
was fortunate that no other of that nature occurred during the rest
of his life. Kaufmann, the successor of Lampe, turned out to be a
respectable and upright man, and soon conceived a great attachment to
his master's person. Things now put on a new face in Kant's family: by
the removal of one of the belligerents, peace was once more restored
amongst his servants; for hitherto there had been eternal wars between
Lampe and the cook. Sometimes it was Lampe that carried a war of
aggression into the cook's territory of the kitchen; sometimes it was
the cook that revenged these insults, by sallying out upon Lampe in the
neutral ground of the hall, or invaded him even in his own sanctuary of
the butler's pantry. The uproars were everlasting; and thus far it was
fortunate for the peace of the philosopher, that his hearing had begun
to fail; by which means he was spared many an exhibition of hateful
passions and ruffian violence, which annoyed his guests and friends.
But now all things had changed: deep silence reigned in the pantry; the
kitchen rang no more with martial alarums; and the hall was unvexed with
skirmish or pursuit. Yet it may be readily supposed that to Kant, at the
age of seventy-eight, changes, even for the better, were not welcome: so
intense had been the uniformity of his life and habits, that the least
innovation in the arrangement of articles as trifling as a penknife, or
a pair of scissors, disturbed him; and not merely if they were pushed
two or three inches out of their customary position, but even if they
were laid a little awry; and as to larger objects, such as chairs,
&c., any dislocation of their usual arrangement, any trans position, or
addition to their number, perfectly confounded him; and his eye appeared
restlessly to haunt the seat of the mal-arrangement, until the ancient
order was restored. With such habits the reader may conceive how
distressing it must have been to him, at this period of decaying powers,
to adapt himself to a new servant, a new voice, a new step, &c.
Aware of this, I had on the day before he entered upon his duties,
written down for the new servant upon a sheet of paper the entire
routine of Kant's daily life, down to the minutest and most trivial
circumstances; all which he mastered with the greatest rapidity. To
make sure, however, we went through a rehearsal of the whole ritual;
he performing the manoeuvres, I looking on and giving the word. Still I
felt uneasy at the idea of his being left entirely to his own discretion
on his first _debut_ in good earnest, and therefore I made a point of
attending on this important day; and in the few instances where the new
recruit missed the accurate manoeuvre, a glance or a nod from me easily
made him comprehend his failure.
One part only there was of the daily ceremonial, where all of us were
at a loss, as it was a part which no mortal eyes had ever witnessed but
those of Lampe: this was breakfast. However, that we might do all in
our power, I myself attended at four o'clock in the morning. The day
happened, as I remember, to be the 1st of February, 1802. Precisely at
five, Kant made his appearance; and nothing could equal his astonishment
on finding me in the room. Fresh from the confusion of dreaming, and
bewildered alike by the sight of his new servant, by Lampe's absence,
and by my presence, he could with difficulty be made to comprehend the
purpose of my visit. A friend in need is a friend indeed; and we
would now have given any money to that learned person who could have
instructed us in the arrangement of the breakfast table. But this was a
mystery revealed to none but Lampe. At length Kant took this task upon
himself; and apparently all was now settled to his satisfaction. Yet
still it struck me that he was under some embarrassment or constraint.
Upon this I said--that, with his permission, I would take a cup of tea,
and afterwards smoke a pipe with him. He accepted my offer with his
usual courteous demeanor; but seemed unable to familiarize himself
with the novelty of his situation. I was at this time sitting directly
opposite to him; and at last he frankly told me, but with the kindest
and most apologetic air, that he was really under the necessity of
begging that I would sit out of his sight; for that, having sat alone at
the breakfast table for considerably more than half a century, he could
not abruptly adapt his mind to a change in this respect; and he found
his thoughts very sensibly disturbed. I did as he desired; the servant
retired into an antiroom, where he waited within call; and Kant
recovered his wonted composure. Just the same scene passed over again,
when I called at the same hour on a fine summer morning some months
after.
Henceforth all went right: or, if occasionally some little mistake
occurred, Kant showed himself very considerate and indulgent, and would
remark of his own accord, that a new servant could not be expected to
know all his peculiar ways and humors. In one respect, indeed, this man
adapted himself to Kant's scholarlike taste, in a way which Lampe
was incapable of doing. Kant was somewhat fastidious in matters of
pronunciation; and this man had a great facility in catching the true
sound of Latin words, the titles of books, and the names or designations
of Kant's friends: not one of which accomplishments could Lampe, the
most insufferable of blockheads, ever attain to. In particular, I have
been told by Kant's old friends, that for the space of more than thirty
years, during which he had been in the habit of reading the newspaper
published by Hartung, Lampe delivered it with the same identical blunder
on every day of publication.--'Mr. Professor, here is Hart_mann's_
journal.' Upon which Kant would reply--'Eh! what?--What's that you say?
Hartmann's journal? I tell you, it is not Hartmann, but Hartung: now,
repeat it after me--not Hartmann, but Hartung.' Then Lampe, looking
sulky, and drawing himself up with the stiff air of a soldier on guard,
and in the very same monotonous tone with which he had been used to sing
out his challenge of--_Who goes there?_ would roar--'not Hartmann, but
Hartung.' 'Now again!' Kant would say: on which again Lampe roared--'not
Hartmann, but Hartung.' 'Now a third time,' cried Kant: on which for
a third time the unhappy Lampe would howl out--'not Hartmann, but
Hartung.' And this whimsical scene of parade duty was continually
repeated: duly as the day of publication came, the irreclaimable old
dunce was put through the same manoeuvres, which were as invariably
followed by the same blunder on the next. In spite, however, of this
advantage, in the new servant, and his general superiority to his
predecessor, Kant's nature was too kind and good, and too indulgent to
all people's infirmities but his own, not to miss the voice and the 'old
familiar face' that he had been accustomed to for forty years. And I met
with what struck me as an affecting instance of Kant's yearning after
his old good-for-nothing servant in his memorandum-book: other people
record what they wish to remember; but Kant had here recorded what he
was to forget. 'Mem.: February, 1802, the name of Lampe must now be
remembered no more.'
In the spring of this year, 1802, I advised Kant to take the air. It
was very long since he had been out of doors, [Footnote: Wasianski here
returns thanks to some unknown person, who, having observed that Kant in
his latter walks took pleasure in leaning against a particular wall to
view the prospect, had caused a seat to be fixed at that point for his
use.] and walking was now out of the question. But I thought the motion
of a carriage and the air would be likely to revive him. On the power of
vernal sights and sounds I did not much rely; for these had long ceased
to affect him. Of all the changes that spring brings with it, there
was one only that now interested Kant; and he longed for it with an
eagerness and intensity of expectation, that it was almost painful to
witness: this was the return of a hedge sparrow that sang in his garden,
and before his window. This bird, either the same, or one of the next
generation, had sung for years in the same situation; and Kant grew
uneasy when the cold weather, lasting longer than usual, retarded its
return. Like Lord Bacon, indeed, he had a childlike love for birds in
general, and in particular, took pains to encourage the sparrows to
build above the windows of his study; and when this happened, (as it
often did, from the silence which prevailed in his study,) he watched
their proceedings with the delight and the tenderness which others give
to a human interest. To return to the point I was speaking of, Kant was
at first very unwilling to accede to my proposal of going abroad. 'I
shall sink down in the carriage,' said he, 'and fall together like a
heap of old rags.' But I persisted with a gentle importunity in urging
him to the attempt, assuring him that we would return immediately if he
found the effort too much for him. Accordingly, upon a tolerably warm
day of early [Footnote: Mr. Wasianski says--_late_ in summer: but, as
he elsewhere describes by the same expression of 'late in summer,' a day
which was confessedly _before_ the longest day, and as the multitude
of birds which continued to sing will not allow us to suppose that
the summer could be very far advanced, I have translated accordingly.]
summer, I, and an old friend of Kant's, accompanied him to a little
place which I rented in the country. As we drove through the streets,
Kant was delighted to find that he could sit upright, and bear the
motion of the carriage, and seemed to draw youthful pleasure from the
sight of the towers and other public buildings, which he had not seen
for years. We reached the place of our destination in high spirits. Kant
drank a cup of coffee, and attempted to smoke a little. After this, he
sat and sunned himself, listening with delight to the warbling of birds,
which congregated in great numbers about this spot. He distinguished
every bird by its song, and called it by its right name. After staying
about half an hour, we set off on our homeward journey, Kant still
cheerful, but apparently satiated with his day's enjoyment.
I had on this occasion purposely avoided taking him to any public
gardens, that I might not disturb his pleasure by exposing him to
the distressing gaze of public curiosity. However, it was known in
Königsberg that Kant had gone out; and accordingly, as the carriage
moved through the streets which led to his residence, there was a
general rush from all quarters in that direction, and, when we turned
into the street where the house stood, we found it already choked up
with people. As we slowly drew up to the door, a lane was formed in the
crowd, through which Kant was led, I and my friend supporting him on
our arms. Looking at the crowd, I observed the faces of many persons
of rank, and distinguished strangers, some of whom now saw Kant for the
first time, and many of them for the last.
As the winter of 1802-3 approached, he complained more than ever of
an affection of the stomach, which no medical man had been able to
mitigate, or even to explain. The winter passed over in a complaining
way; he was weary of life, and longed for the hour of dismission. 'I
can be of service to the world no more,' said he, 'and am a burden
to myself.' Often I endeavored to cheer him by the anticipation of
excursions that we would make together when summer came again. On these
he calculated with so much earnestness, that he had made a regular scale
or classification of them--l. Airings; 2. Journeys; 3. Travels. And
nothing could equal the yearning impatience expressed for the coming of
spring and summer, not so much for their own peculiar attractions, as
because they were the seasons for travelling. In his memorandum-book,
he made this note:--'The three summer months are June, July, and
August'--meaning that they were the three months for travelling. And
in conversation he expressed the feverish strength of his wishes so
plaintively and affectingly, that everybody was drawn into powerful
sympathy with him, and wished for some magical means of ante-dating the
course of the seasons.
In this winter his bed-room was often warmed. This was the room in which
he kept his little collection of books, of about four hundred and fifty
volumes, chiefly presentation-copies from the authors. It may seem
singular that Kant, who read so extensively, should have no larger
library; but he had less need of one than most scholars, having in his
earlier years been librarian at the Royal Library of the Castle;
and since then having enjoyed from the liberality of Hartknoch, his
publisher, (who, in his turn, had profited by the liberal terms on which
Kant had made over to him the copyright of his own works,) the first
sight of every new book that appeared.
At the close of this winter, that is in 1803, Kant first began to
complain of unpleasant dreams, sometimes of very terrific ones, which
awakened him in great agitation. Oftentimes melodies, which he had heard
in earliest youth sung in the streets of Königsberg, resounded painfully
in his ears, and dwelt upon them in a way from which no efforts of
abstraction could release him. These kept him awake to unseasonable
hours; and often when, after long watching, he had fallen asleep,
however deep his sleep might be, it was suddenly broken up by terrific
dreams, which alarmed him beyond description. Almost every night, the
bell-rope, which communicated with a bell in the room above his own,
where his servant slept, was pulled violently, and with the utmost
agitation. No matter how fast the servant might hurry down, he was
almost always too late, and was pretty sure to find his master out of
bed, and often making his way in terror to some other part of the house.
The weakness of his feet exposed him to such dreadful falls on these
occasions, that at length (but with much difficulty) I persuaded him to
let his servant sleep in the same room with himself.
The morbid affection of the stomach began now to be more and more
distressing; and he tried various applications, which he had formerly
been loud in condemning, such as a few drops of rum upon a piece of
sugar, naphtha, [Footnote: For Kant's particular complaint, as described
by other biographers, a quarter of a grain of opium, every twelve hours,
would have been the best remedy, perhaps a perfect remedy.] &c. But all
these were only palliatives; for his advanced age precluded the hope of
a radical cure. His dreadful dreams became continually more appalling:
single scenes, or passages in these dreams, were sufficient to compose
the whole course of mighty tragedies, the impression from which was
so profound as to stretch far into his waking hours. Amongst other
phantasmata more shocking and indescribable, his dreams constantly
represented to him the forms of murderers advancing to his bedside; and
so agitated was he by the awful trains of phantoms that swept past him
nightly, that in the first confusion of awaking he generally mistook
his servant, who was hastening to his assistance, for a murderer. In the
day-time we often conversed upon these shadowy illusions; and Kant, with
his usual spirit of stoical contempt for nervous weakness of every sort,
laughed at them; and, to fortify his own resolution to contend against
them, he wrote down in his memorandum-book, 'There must be no yielding
to panics of darkness.' At my suggestion, however, he now burned a light
in his chamber, so placed as that the rays might be shaded from his
face. At first he was very averse to this, though gradually he became
reconciled to it. But that he could bear it at all, was to me an
expression of the great revolution accomplished by the terrific agency
of his dreams. Heretofore, darkness and utter silence were the two
pillars on which his sleep rested: no step must approach his room;
and as to light, if he saw but a moonbeam penetrating a crevice of
the shutters, it made him unhappy; and, in fact, the windows of his
bed-chamber were barricadoed night and day. But now darkness was a
terror to him, and silence an oppression. In addition to his lamp,
therefore, he had now a repeater in his room; the sound was at first too
loud, but, after muffling the hammer with cloth, both the ticking and
the striking became companionable sounds to him.
At this time (spring of 1803) his appetite began to fail, which I
thought no good sign. Many persons insist that Kant was in the habit of
eating too much for health. [Footnote: Who these worthy people were
that criticised Kant's eating, is not mentioned. They could have had no
opportunity of exercising their abilities on this question, except
as hosts, guests, or fellow-guests; and in any of those characters, a
gentleman, one would suppose, must feel himself degraded by directing
his attention to a point of that nature. However, the merits of the
case stand thus between the parlies: Kant, it is agreed by all his
biographers, ate only once a day; for as to his breakfast, it was
nothing more than a very weak infusion of tea, (vide Jachmann's Letters,
p. 163,) with no bread, or eatable of any kind. Now, his critics, by
general confession, ate their way, from 'morn to dewy eve,' through
the following course of meals: 1. Breakfast early in the morning; 2.
Breakfast _à la fourchette_ about ten, A.M.; 3. Dinner at one or two;
4. Vesper Brod; 5. Abend Brod; all which does really seem a very fair
allowance for a man who means to lecture upon abstinence at night. But
I shall cut this matter short by stating one plain fact; there were two
things, and no more, for which Kant had an inordinate craving during
his whole life; these were tobacco and coffee; and from both these
he abstained almost altogether, merely under a sense of duty, resting
probably upon erroneous grounds. Of the first he allowed himself a very
small quantity, (and everybody knows that temperance is a more difficult
virtue than abstinence;) of the other none at all, until the labors of
his life were accomplished.] I, however, cannot assent to this opinion;
for he ate but once a day, and drank no beer. Of this liquor, (I mean
the strong black beer,) he was, indeed, the most determined enemy. If
ever a man died prematurely, Kant would say--'He has been drinking beer,
I presume.' Or, if another were indisposed, you might be sure he would
ask, 'But does he drink beer?' And, according to the answer on this
point, he regulated his anticipations for the patient. Strong beer, in
short, he uniformly maintained to be a slow poison. Voltaire, by the
way, had said to a young physician who denounced coffee under the same
bad name of a 'slow poison,' 'You're right there, my friend, however;
slow it is, and horribly slow; for I have been drinking it these seventy
years, and it has not killed me yet;' but this was an answer which, in
the case of beer, Kant would not allow of.
On the 22d of April, 1803, his birth-day, the last which he lived to
see, was celebrated in a full assembly of his friends. This festival he
had long looked forward to with great expectation, and delighted even
to hear the progress made in the preparations for it. But when the day
came, the over-excitement and tension of expectation seemed to have
defeated itself. He tried to appear happy; but the bustle of a numerous
company confounded and distressed him; and his spirits were manifestly
forced. He seemed first to revive to any real sense of pleasure at
night, when the company had departed, and he was undressing in his
study. He then talked with much pleasure about the presents which, as
usual, would be made to his servants on this occasion; for Kant was
never happy himself, unless he saw all around him happy. He was a great
maker of presents; but at the same time he had no toleration for the
studied theatrical effect, the accompaniment of formal congratulations,
and the sentimental pathos with which birth-day presents are made in
Germany. [Footnote: In this, as in many other things, the taste of Kant
was entirely English and Roman; as, on the other hand, some eminent
Englishmen, I am sorry to say, have, on this very point, shown the
effeminacy and _falsetto_ taste of the Germans. In particular, Mr.
Coleridge, describing, in The Friend, the custom amongst German children
of making presents to their parents on Christmas Eve, (a custom which
he unaccountably supposes to be peculiar to Ratzeburg,) represents the
mother as 'weeping aloud for joy'--the old idiot of a father with 'tears
running down his face,' &c. &c., and all for what? For a snuff-box, a
pencil-case, or some article of jewellery. Now, we English agree with
Kant on such maudlin display of stage sentimentality, and are prone to
suspect that papa's tears are the product of rum-punch. Tenderness
let us have by all means, and the deepest you can imagine, but upon
proportionate occasions, and with causes fitted to justify it and
sustain its dignity.] In all this, his masculine taste gave him a sense
of something fade and ludicrous.
The summer of 1803 was now come, and, visiting Kant one day, I was
thunderstruck to hear him direct me, in the most serious tone, to
provide the funds necessary for an extensive foreign tour. I made
no opposition, but asked his reasons for such a plan; he alleged
the miserable sensations he had in his stomach, which were no longer
endurable. Knowing what power over Kant a quotation from a Roman poet
had always had, I simply replied--'Post equitem sedet atra cura,'
and for the present he said no more. But the touching and pathetic
earnestness with which he was continually ejaculating prayers for warmer
weather, made it doubtful to me whether his wishes on this point ought
not, partially at least, to be gratified; and I therefore proposed to
him a little excursion to the cottage we had visited the year before.
'Anywhere,' said he, 'no matter whither, provided it be far enough.'
Towards the latter end of June, therefore, we executed this scheme;
on getting into the carriage, the order of the day with Kant was,
'Distance, distance. Only let us go far enough,' said he: but scarcely
had we reached the city-gates before the journey seemed already to have
lasted too long. On reaching the cottage we found coffee waiting for
us; but he would scarcely allow himself time for drinking it, before
he ordered the carriage to the door; and the journey back seemed
insupportably long to him, though it was performed in something less
than twenty minutes. 'Is this never to have an end?' was his continual
exclamation; and great was his joy when he found himself once more in
his study, undressed, and in bed. And for this night he slept in peace,
and once again was liberated from the persecution of dreams.
Soon after he began again to talk of journeys, of travels in remote
countries, &c., and, in consequence, we repeated our former excursion
several times; and though the circumstances were pretty nearly the same
on every occasion, and always terminating in disappointment as to the
immediate pleasure anticipated, yet, undoubtedly, they were, on the
whole, salutary to his spirits. In particular, the cottage itself,
standing under the shelter of tall alders, with a valley stretched
beneath it, through which a little brook meandered, broken by a
water-fall, whose pealing sound dwelt pleasantly on the ear, sometimes,
on a quiet sunny day, gave a lively delight to Kant: and once, under
accidental circumstances of summer clouds and sun-lights, the little
pastoral landscape suddenly awakened a lively remembrance which had been
long laid asleep, of a heavenly summer morning in youth, which he had
passed in a bower upon the banks of a rivulet that ran through the
grounds of a dear and early friend, Gen. Von Lossow. The strength of
the impression was such, that he seemed actually to be living over that
morning again, thinking as he then thought, and conversing with those
that were no more.
His very last excursion was in August of this year, (1803,) not to my
cottage, but to the garden of a friend. But on this day he manifested
great impatience. It had been arranged that he was to meet an old
friend at the gardens; and I, with two other gentlemen, attended him. It
happened that _out_ party arrived first; and such was Kant's weakness,
and total loss of power to estimate the duration of time, that, after
waiting a few moments, he insisted that some hours had elapsed--that
his friend could not be expected--and went away in great discomposure of
mind. And so ended Kant's travelling in this world.
In the beginning of autumn the sight of his right eye began to fail him;
the left he had long lost the use of. This earliest of his losses,
by the way, he discovered by mere accident, and without any previous
warning. Sitting down one day to rest himself in the course of a walk,
it occurred to him that he would try the comparative strength of his
eyes; but on taking out a newspaper which he had in his pocket, he was
surprised to find that with his left eye he could not distinguish a
letter. In earlier life he had two remarkable affections of the eyes:
once, on returning from a walk, he saw objects double for a long space
of time; and twice he became stone-blind. Whether these accidents are to
be considered as uncommon, I leave to the decision of oculists. Certain
it is, they gave very little disturbance to Kant; who, until old age had
reduced his powers, lived in a constant state of stoical preparation
for the worst that could befall him. I was now shocked to think of the
degree in which his burthensome sense of dependence would be aggravated,
if he should totally lose the power of sight. As it was, he read and
wrote with great difficulty: in fact, his writing was little better than
that which most people can produce as a trial of skill with their eyes
shut. From old habits of solitary study, he had no pleasure in
hearing others read to him; and he daily distressed me by the pathetic
earnestness of his entreaties that I would have a reading-glass devised
for him. Whatever my own optical skill could suggest, I tried; and
the best opticians were sent for to bring their glasses, and take his
directions for altering them; but all was to no purpose.
In this last year of his life Kant very unwillingly received the
visits of strangers; and, unless under particular circumstances, wholly
declined them. Yet, when travellers had come a very great way out of
their road to see him, I confess that I was at a loss how to conduct
myself. To have refused too pertinaciously, could not but give me the
air of wishing to make myself of importance. And I must acknowledge,
that, amongst some instances of importunity and coarse expressions of
low-bred curiosity, I witnessed, on the part of many people of rank,
a most delicate sensibility to the condition of the aged recluse. On
sending in their cards, they would generally accompany them by some
message, expressive of their unwillingness to gratify their wish to see
him at any risk of distressing him. The fact was, that such visits _did_
distress him much; for he felt it a degradation to be exhibited in his
helpless state, when he was aware of his own incapacity to meet properly
the attention that was paid to him. Some, however, were admitted,
[Footnote: To whom it appears that Kant would generally reply, upon
their expressing the pleasure it gave them to see him, 'In me you behold
a poor superannuated, weak, old man.'] according to the circumstances of
the case, and the state of Kant's spirits at the moment. Amongst these,
I remember that we were particularly pleased with M. Otto, the same who
signed the treaty of peace between France and England with the present
Lord Liverpool, (then Lord Hawkesbury.) A young Russian also rises to my
recollection at this moment, from the excessive (and I think unaffected)
enthusiasm which he displayed. On being introduced to Kant, he advanced
hastily, took both his hands, and kissed them. Kant, who, from living
so much amongst his English friends, had a good deal of the English
dignified reserve about him, and hated anything like _scenes_, appeared
to shrink a little from this mode of salutation, and was rather
embarrassed. However, the young man's manner, I believe, was not at all
beyond his genuine feelings; for next day he called again, made some
inquiries about Kant's health, was very anxious to know whether his old
age were burthensome to him, and above all things entreated for some
little memorial of the great man to carry away with him. By accident
the servant had found a small cancelled fragment of the original MS. of
Kant's 'Anthropologie:' this, with my sanction, he gave to the Russian;
who received it with rapture, kissed it, and then gave him in return the
only dollar he had about him; and, thinking that not enough, actually
pulled off his coat and waistcoat and forced them upon the man. Kant,
whose native simplicity of character very much indisposed him to
sympathy with any extravagances of feeling, could not, however, forbear
smiling good-humoredly on being made acquainted with this instance of
_naïveté_ and enthusiasm in his young admirer.
I now come to an event in Kant's life, which ushered in its closing
stage. On the 8th of October, 1803, for the first time since his youth,
he was seriously ill. When a student at the University, he had once
suffered from an ague, which, however, gave way to pedestrian exercise;
and in later years, he had endured some pain from a contusion on his
head; but, with these two exceptions, (if they can be considered such,)
he had never (properly speaking) been ill. The cause of his illness was
this: his appetite had latterly been irregular, or rather I should
say depraved; and he no longer took pleasure in anything but bread
and butter, and English cheese.[Footnote: Mr. W. here falls into the
ordinary mistake of confounding the cause and the occasion, and would
leave the impression, that Kant (who from his youth up had been a model
of temperance) died of sensual indulgence. The cause of Kant's death
was clearly the general decay of the vital powers, and in particular the
atony of the digestive organs, which must soon have destroyed him under
any care or abstinence whatever. This was the cause. The accidental
occasion, which made that cause operative on the 7th of October, might
or might not be what Mr. W. says. But in Kant's burthensome state of
existence, it could not be a question of much importance whether his
illness were to commence in an October or a November.] On the 7th of
October, at dinner, he ate little else, in spite of everything that I
and another friend then dining with him, could urge to dissuade him.
And for the first time I fancied that he seemed displeased with my
importunity, as though I were overstepping the just line of my duties.
He insisted that the cheese never had done him any harm, nor would now.
I had no course left me but to hold my tongue; and he did as he pleased.
The consequence was what might have been anticipated--a restless night,
succeeded by a day of memorable illness. The next morning all went on
as usual, till nine o'clock, when Kant, who was then leaning on his
sister's arm, suddenly fell senseless to the ground. A messenger was
immediately despatched for me; and I hurried down to his house, where I
found him lying in his bed, which had now been removed into his study,
speechless and insensible. I had already summoned his physician; but,
before he arrived, nature put forth efforts which brought Kant a little
to himself. In about an hour he opened his eyes, and continued to mutter
unintelligibly till towards the evening, when he rallied a little, and
began to talk rationally. For the first time in his life, he was now,
for a few days, confined to his bed, and ate nothing. On the 12th
October, he again took some refreshment, and would have had his favorite
food; but I was now resolved, at any risk of his displeasure, to oppose
him firmly. I therefore stated to him the whole consequences of his last
indulgence, of all which he manifestly had no recollection. He listened
to what I said very attentively, and calmly expressed his conviction
that I was perfectly in the wrong; but for the present he submitted.
However, some days after, I found that he had offered a florin for a
little bread and cheese, and then a dollar, and even more. Being again
refused, he complained heavily; but gradually he weaned himself from
asking for it, though at times he betrayed involuntarily how much he
desired it.
On the 13th of October, his usual dinner parties were resumed, and he
was considered convalescent; but it was seldom indeed that he recovered
the tone of tranquil spirits which he had preserved until his late
attack. Hitherto he had always loved to prolong this meal, the only one
he took--or, as he expressed it in classical phrase, 'coenam _ducere_;'
but now it was difficult to hurry it over fast enough for his wishes.
From dinner, which terminated about two o'clock, he went straight to
bed, and at intervals fell into slumbers; from which, however, he was
regularly awoke by phantasmata or terrific dreams. At seven in the
evening came on duly a period of great agitation, which lasted till five
or six in the morning--sometimes later; and he continued through the
night alternately to walk about and lie down, occasionally tranquil,
but more often in great distress. It now became necessary that somebody
should sit up with him, his man-servant being wearied out with the toils
of the day. No person seemed to be so proper for this office as his
sister, both as having long received a very liberal pension from him,
and also as his nearest relative, who would be the best witness to the
fact that her illustrious brother had wanted no comforts or attention
in his last hours, which his situation admitted of. Accordingly she was
applied to, and undertook to watch him alternately with his footman--a
separate table being kept for her, and a very handsome addition made
to her allowance. She turned out to be a quiet gentle-minded woman, who
raised no disturbances amongst the servants, and soon won her brother's
regard by the modest and retiring style of her manners; I may add, also,
by the truly sisterly affection which she displayed towards him to the
last.
The 8th of October had grievously affected Kant's faculties, but had
not wholly destroyed them. For short intervals the clouds seemed to roll
away that had settled upon his majestic intellect, and it shone forth
as heretofore. During these moments of brief self-possession, his
wonted benignity returned to him; and he expressed his gratitude for
the exertions of those about him, and his sense of the trouble they
underwent, in a very affecting way. With regard to his man-servant in
particular, he was very anxious that he should be rewarded by liberal
presents; and he pressed me earnestly on no account to be parsimonious.
Indeed Kant was nothing less than princely in his use of money; and
there was no occasion on which he was known to express the passion of
scorn very powerfully, but when he was commenting on mean and penurious
acts or habits. Those who knew him only in the streets, fancied that he
was not liberal; for he steadily refused, upon principle, to relieve
all common beggars. But, on the other hand, he was liberal to the public
charitable institutions; he secretly assisted his own poor relations in
a much ampler way than could reasonably have been expected of him; and
it now appeared that he had many other deserving pensioners upon
his bounty; a fact that was utterly unknown to any of us, until his
increasing blindness and other infirmities devolved the duty of paying
these pensions upon myself. It must be recollected, also, that Kant's
whole fortune, which amounted to about twenty thousand dollars, was the
product of his own honorable toils for nearly threescore years; and
that he had himself suffered all the hardships of poverty in his youth,
though he never once ran into any man's debt,--circumstances in his
history, which, as they express how fully he must have been acquainted
with the value of money, greatly enhance the merit of his munificence.
In December, 1803, he became incapable of signing his name. His sight,
indeed, had for some time failed him so much, that at dinner he could
not find his spoon without assistance; and, when I happened to dine with
him, I first cut in pieces whatever was on his plate, next put it into a
spoon, and then guided his hand to find the spoon. But his inability to
sign his name did not arise merely from blindness: the fact was, that,
from irretention of memory, he could not recollect the letters which
composed his name; and, when they were repeated to him, he could not
represent the figure of the letters in his imagination. At the latter
end of November, I had remarked that these incapacities were rapidly
growing upon him, and in consequence I prevailed on him to sign
beforehand all the receipts, &c., which would be wanted at the end
of the year; and, afterwards, on my representation, to prevent all
disputes, he gave me a regular legal power to sign on his behalf.
Much as Kant was now reduced, yet he had occasionally moods of social
hilarity. His birth-day was always an agreeable subject to him: some
weeks before his death, I was calculating the time which it still
wanted of that anniversary, and cheering him with the prospect of the
rejoicings which would then take place: 'All your old friends,' said
I, 'will meet together, and drink a glass of champagne to your health.'
'That,' said he, 'must be done upon the spot:' and he was not satisfied
till the party was actually assembled. He drank a glass of wine with
them, and with great elevation of spirits celebrated this birth-day
which he was destined never to see.
In the latter weeks of his life, however, a great change took place in
the tone of his spirits. At his dinner-table, where heretofore such a
cloudless spirit of joviality had reigned, there was now a melancholy
silence. It disturbed him to see his two dinner companions conversing
privately together, whilst he himself sat like a mute on the stage with
no part to perform. Yet to have engaged him in the conversation
would have been still more distressing; for his hearing was now very
imperfect; the effort to hear was itself painful to him; and his
expressions, even when his thoughts were accurate enough, became nearly
unintelligible. It is remarkable, however, that at the very lowest point
of his depression, when he became perfectly incapable of conversing with
any rational meaning on the ordinary affairs of life, he was still
able to answer correctly and distinctly, in a degree that was perfectly
astonishing, upon any question of philosophy or of science, especially
of physical geography, [Footnote: _Physical_ Geography, in opposition to
_Political_.] chemistry, or natural history. He talked satisfactorily,
in his very worst state, of the gases, and stated very accurately
different propositions of Kepler's, especially the law of the planetary
motions. And I remember in particular, that upon the very last Monday
of his life, when the extremity of his weakness moved a circle of his
friends to tears, and he sat amongst us insensible to all we could say
to him, cowering down, or rather I might say collapsing into a shapeless
heap upon his chair, deaf, blind, torpid, motionless,--even then I
whispered to the others that I would engage that Kant should take his
part in conversation with propriety and animation. This they found it
difficult to believe. Upon which I drew close to his ear, and put a
question to him about the Moors of Barbary. To the surprise of everybody
but myself, he immediately gave us a summary account of their habits
and customs; and told us by the way, that in the word _Algiers_, the _g_
ought to be pronounced hard (as in the English word _gear_).
During the last fortnight of Kant's life, he busied himself unceasingly
in a way that seemed not merely purposeless but self-contradictory.
Twenty times in a minute he would unloose and tie his neck
handkerchief--so also with a sort of belt which he wore about his
dressing-gown, the moment it was clasped, he unclasped it with
impatience, and was then equally impatient to have it clasped again.
But no description can convey an adequate impression of the weary
restlessness with which from morning to night he pursued these labors of
Sisyphus--doing and undoing--fretting that he could not do it, fretting
that he had done it.
By this time he seldom knew any of us who were about him, but took us
all for strangers. This happened first with his sister, then with me,
and finally with his servant. Such an alienation distressed me more than
any other instance of his decay: though I knew that he had not really
withdrawn his affection from me, yet his air and mode of addressing me
gave me constantly that feeling. So much the more affecting was it, when
the sanity of his perceptions and his remembrances returned; but these
intervals were of slower and slower occurrence. In this condition,
silent or babbling childishly, self-involved and torpidly abstracted, or
else busy with self-created phantoms and delusions, what a contrast did
he offer to _that_ Kant who had once been the brilliant centre of
the most brilliant circles for rank, wit, or knowledge, that Prussia
afforded! A distinguished person from Berlin, who had called upon him
during the preceding summer, was greatly shocked at his appearance, and
said, 'This is not Kant that I have seen, but the shell of Kant!' How
much more would he have said this, if he had seen him now!
Now came February, 1804, which was the last month that Kant was destined
to see. It is remarkable that, in the memorandum book which I have
before mentioned, I found a fragment of an old song, (inserted by Kant,
and dated in the summer about six months before the time of his death,)
which expressed that February was the month in which people had the
least weight to carry, for the obvious reason that it was shorter by two
and by three days than the others; and the concluding sentiment was in
a tone of fanciful pathos to this effect--'Oh, happy February! in which
man has least to bear--least pain, least sorrow, least self-reproach!'
Even of this short month, however, Kant had not twelve entire days to
bear; for it was on the 12th that he died; and in fact he may be said to
have been dying from the 1st. He now barely vegetated; though there were
still transitory gleams flashing by fits from the embers of his ancient
intellect.
On the 3d of February the springs of life seemed to be ceasing from
their play, for, from this day, strictly speaking, he ate nothing more.
His existence henceforward seemed to be the mere prolongation of an
impetus derived from an eighty years' life, after the moving power of
the mechanism was withdrawn. His physician visited him every day at a
particular hour; and it was settled that I should always be there to
meet him. Nine days before his death, on paying his usual visit, the
following little circumstance occurred, which affected us both, by
recalling forcibly to our minds the ineradicable courtesy and goodness
of Kant's nature. When the physician was announced, I went up to Kant
and said to him, 'Here is Dr. A----.' Kant rose from his chair, and,
offering his hand to the Doctor, murmured something in which the word
'posts' was frequently repeated, but with an air as though he wished
to be helped out with the rest of the sentence. Dr. A----, who thought
that, by _posts_, he meant the stations for relays of post-horses, and
therefore that his mind was wandering, replied that all the horses were
engaged, and begged him to compose himself. But Kant went on, with
great effort to himself, and added--'Many posts, heavy posts--then
much goodness--then much gratitude.' All this he said with apparent
incoherence, but with great warmth, and increasing self-possession. I
meantime perfectly divined what it was that Kant, under his cloud of
imbecility, wished to say, and I interpreted accordingly. 'What the
Professor wishes to say, Dr. A----, is this, that, considering the many
and weighty offices which you fill in the city and in the university,
it argues great goodness on your part to give up so much of your time to
him,' (for Dr. A---- would never take any fees from Kant;) 'and that he
has the deepest sense of this goodness.' 'Right,' said Kant, earnestly,
'right!' But he still continued to stand, and was nearly sinking to
the ground. Upon which I remarked to the physician, that I was so
well acquainted with Kant, that I was satisfied he would not sit down,
however much he suffered from standing, until he knew that his visitors
were seated. The Doctor seemed to doubt this--but Kant, who heard what
I said, by a prodigious effort confirmed my construction of his conduct,
and spoke distinctly these words--'God forbid I should be sunk so low as
to forget the offices of humanity.'
When dinner was announced, Dr. A---- took his leave. Another guest had
now arrived, and I was in hopes, from the animation which Kant had so
recently displayed, that we should to-day have a pleasant party, but
my hopes were vain--Kant was more than usually exhausted, and though
he raised a spoon to his mouth, he swallowed nothing. For some time
everything had been tasteless to him; and I had endeavored, but with
little success, to stimulate the organs of taste by nutmeg, cinnamon,
&c. To-day all failed, and I could not even prevail upon him to taste a
biscuit, rusk, or anything of that sort. I had once heard him say that
several of his friends, who had died of _marasmus_, had closed their
illness by four or five days of entire freedom from pain, but totally
without appetite, and then slumbered tranquilly away. Through this state
I apprehended that he was himself now passing.
Saturday, the 4th of February, I heard his guests loudly expressing
their fears that they should never meet him again; and I could not but
share these fears myself. However, on
Sunday, the 5th, I dined at his table in company with his particular
friend Mr. R. R. V. Kant was still present, but so weak that his head
drooped upon his knees, and he sank down against the right side of the
chair. I went and arranged his pillows so as to raise and support his
head; and, having done this, I said--'Now, my dear Sir, you are again in
right order.' Great was our astonishment when he answered clearly and
audibly in the Roman military phrase--'Yes, _testudine et facie;_' and
immediately after added, 'Ready for the enemy, and in battle array.' His
powers of mind were (if I may be allowed that expression) smouldering
away in their ashes; but every now and then some lambent flame, or grand
emanation of light, shot forth to make it evident that the ancient fire
still slumbered below.
Monday, the 6th, he was much weaker and more torpid: he spoke not
a word, except on the occasion of my question about the Moors, as
previously stated, and sate with sightless eyes, lost in himself, and
manifesting no sense of our presence, so that we had the feeling of some
mighty shade or phantom from some forgotten century being seated amongst
us.
About this time, Kant had become much more tranquil and composed. In
the earlier periods of his illness, when his yet unbroken strength was
brought into active contest with the first attacks of decay, he was
apt to be peevish, and sometimes spoke roughly or even harshly to his
servants. This, though very opposite to his natural disposition, was
altogether excusable under the circumstances. He could not make himself
understood: things were therefore brought to him continually which he
had not asked for; and often it happened that what he really wanted
he could not obtain, because all his efforts to name it were
unintelligible. A violent nervous irritation, besides, affected him
from the unsettling of the equilibrium in the different functions of
his nature; weakness in one organ being made more palpable to him by
disproportionate strength in another. But now the strife was over;
the whole system was at length undermined, and in rapid and harmonious
progress to dissolution. And from this time forward, no movement of
impatience, or expression of fretfulness, ever escaped him.