DOCTOR SPHEX
Doctor Aloysius Sphex lived in a very retired house, at the end of one
of the faubourgs of Vienna. Heavy bars protected all the windows; thick
plates of iron strengthened a low and narrow door, secured by a strong
lock.
One had to pass boldly between two enormous mountain-dogs, chained
behind the door, in order to reach a little interior court, where grass
was growing, and which led to the kitchen. In this cold and gloomy place
the doctor's old housekeeper was to be seen crouching near two expiring
brands.
On the first floor the doctor had a large library, dusty and in
disorder, encumbered with large folios, which seemed not to have been
opened for a long time. A high window, with small panes of glass set in
leaden sashes, and half hidden by a curtain of old tapestry, admitted a
doubtful and dingy daylight. A vast chimney, with twisted stone columns
and a sculptured mantle-piece, had been transformed into a part of the
library; for the doctor never had a fire lighted, for fear of burning
his books.
In order to guard himself against the sharp cold of the autumn, the
councillor had conceived the idea of shutting himself up in an old
sedan-chair, which had been placed in the middle of his study; closing
its glasses, he found himself comfortably established to read and write.
Doctor Sphex, a little, thin, stooping old man, with thick eyebrows,
piercing eyes, a caustic smile, projecting lower jaw, high-cheek bones
and wrinkled skin, had a singularly sardonic and malignant countenance.
When his old inlaid clock struck two, the councillor came out of his
sedan-chair, with almost automatic precision.
He wore an old rusty black coat, over which he drew a sort of gray
overcoat, placed a hat with a broad brim on his red wig, and, in order
to keep his head-dress in place, used a square handkerchief, folded
triangularly, the two ends being tied under his chin.
Putting his spectacles into one of his pockets, and into the other a
precious Elzevir, a little volume bound in black leather, Doctor Sphex
took his cane and prepared to go out.
But, as if struck by a sudden thought, he turned back, recrossed the
library and entered another room, closing the door behind him.
His eyes seemed to sparkle with joy. He took a key suspended from his
watch-chain, opened a little chest, and drew from it with religious
respect a flat and oblong cedar box. It contained a vellum manuscript in
quarto. The forms of the written characters were those used in the tenth
century; the titles and capital letters were gilt, and ornamented with
vignettes.
After contemplating this manuscript with looks as eager, uneasy, and
insatiable as those with which a miser gloats over his treasure, Doctor
Sphex replaced the box, and carefully closed the chest which contained
this precious specimen of caligraphy. Reassured of the safety of his
dearest treasure, he went out to take his accustomed walk.
In passing by the housekeeper's room, he said to her, in an impatient
tone:
"If the French Marquis comes to the charge again, whether I am at home
or not, always tell him that I am absent."
"He has been again this morning, sir."
"That's good, that's good! What need have I to see this silly coxcomb,
this spark, this beau, who, they say, _Non pudet ad morem discincti
vivere Nattœ._"[2]
The old man directed his steps to a little valley situated behind the
faubourgs, called the Vale of the Lindens.
Even as certain disdainfully exclusive amateurs acknowledge but one
school of painting, and admire but one master of that school, so Doctor
Sphex was infatuated with the Satires of Persius, and ranked him above
all other ancient Latin poets.
Not only did he possess all the editions of this poet, from the most
rare, the edition _Princeps de Brescia_ (1470), to the most modern, that
of Homs (1770), but he had, at a high price, secured the manuscript of
which we have spoken, and which he considered an inestimable treasure.
The councillor had translated and commented upon Persius, and still
studied him daily. By dint of penetrating into the mind of this author,
he had come to assimilate him so constantly in his thoughts, that he
applied, continually, to himself and others, quotations borrowed from
that satirical stoic.
This admiration bordered on monomania. Even as by the aid of a
microscope the observer discovers unknown worlds in a blade of grass or
a drop of water, so the exalted imagination of the doctor found in the
most simple words of his cherished author the most profound
significances.
The councillor proceeded, then, with slow steps towards the place of his
daily walk. Approaching the overthrown tree which generally served him
as a seat, he heard some one speaking in a loud voice. . . .
Annoyed by finding his place occupied, he stopped behind a holly-bush.
But what was his surprise, when he heard a young and sweet voice
reciting with admirable accentuation and elegant expression, these
verses from the first Satire of Persius:
"O curas hominum! O quantum est in rebus inane!" etc.[3]
The councillor held his breath, listened, and when the voice ceased, he
quickly advanced to see who was this stranger who appeared to enjoy so
much his favorite author.
He saw a young man negligently dressed, with rolls of paper thrust into
the pockets of his old black coat; beside him was a voluminous quarto.
The exterior of Létorière, for it was he, gave an instant impression
of a poor poet; a narrow cravat of coarse linen, an old felt hat, rusty
with age, a pale and half-famished countenance; nothing was wanting to
this new metamorphosis.
At sight of the old councillor, the Marquis respectfully arose.
"Ah, young man, is not our Persius the king of poets?" cried Sphex,
eagerly, striking the palm of his hand on the Elzevir which he drew from
his pocket, and approaching Létorière with a radiant air.
"Sir!" said the Marquis abashed, "I did not know" . . .
"I was there, I was there behind the holly-bush; I heard you begin the
recital of the first satire of our poet, of our god! for, by Hercules,
young man, I see that you appreciate him as I do! Never could a Tuscan
pronounce with more purity than you, the inimitable poetry of our common
hero; and truly, my old heart is rejoiced at this meeting, as happy as
it is unexpected.
"'_Hunc, Macrine, diem numera meliore lapillo!_'"[4] cried the old man;
and he cordially held out his hand to his new acquaintance, having
borrowed this quotation from his favorite author.
"If it were not too presumptuous, sir," answered Létorière, with
humility, "I should dare to answer you:"
"'Non equidem hoc dubites, amboram fœdere certo
Consentira dies, et ah uno sidere duci.'"[5]
"Bravo! my young friend, it would be impossible to answer with more
spirit, or more to the point! You must know my Persius, my inimitable
stoic, as well as I do; but what is given to you, and which, alas! I
have not, is this beautiful and harmonious pronunciation, so musical
that I am transported by it! So," added the councillor, hesitating, "if
I dared, I would ask you, in the name of our common admiration, to
repeat to me the first verses of the third satire."
"With pleasure, sir," said Létorière, smiling.
"'Hæc cedo, ut admoveam templis et farre litabo.'"[6]
"Better and better!" cried the savant, clapping his hands. "But
_apropos_ to this quotation, what signification do you give to _far?_"
and the doctor fastened an anxious look on the young man, whose
knowledge he wished to put to the proof by this question.
"According to my slender experience," unhesitatingly replied the
Marquis, "_far_ signifies the grain of which flour is made; and,
contrary to the opinion of Casaubon and Scaliger, I believe that this
word applies not only to bread, but to corn, to barley, in a word, to
all sorts of grain; for you know, sir, that _far_ was with salt, the
most common of offerings; and it is that, I think, that Virgil means by
these words, _fruges salsae . . . salsa mola_ . . . it is then as a kind
of humble offering to our common divinity, sir, that I will repeat the
verses which please you." Then Létorière kindly recited the whole
satire, giving to his harmonious voice an expression by turns so fine,
so pointed, and so energetic, that doctor Sphex, delighted, cried out:
"Nothing has escaped him! not a shade! not an idea! he has not stopped
on the surface of the words! he scrutinizes them, he examines them, he
weighs them, he penetrates through the brilliant exterior, and brings to
light the profound and hidden sense. . . . Young man! . . . young man!"
. . . added Sphex, rising, . . . "my respects to you. To read thus is to
translate! To translate thus is so to assimilate yourself with the mind
of the original as to substitute the individuality of the author for
your own! Now I declare to you, that a man so happy and so rarely
endowed as to individualize himself with Persius, deserves, in my
opinion, almost as much respect as Persius himself! Yes, I consider this
phenomenon of assimilation as a kind of relation . . . of intellectual
parentage! Now then, mark this, young man! . . . Were it not for the
immense difference in age which separates us, I should say that we were
brothers in intelligence, children of one father."
Dr. Sphex had spoken with so much vehemence and enthusiasm, that
Létorière regarded him with profound astonishment, fearing that he had
been deceived, and was talking to a monomaniac instead of the Aulic
Councillor, for whom he was waiting.
The _savant_, differently interpreting his silence, continued: "You see
I act like an old fool. . . . I treat you as a brother, and have not
thought of asking to what learned Latin scholar I have the honor of
speaking."
"My name is Létorière, sir," said the Marquis, saluting him.
"Létorière!" cried Sphex, turning away suddenly. "You may perhaps be a
relative of the Marquis of that name?"
"I myself am the Marquis of Létorière, sir."
"You! you!! you!!!" cried the doctor, in three different tones. "Come
now, that's impossible. The Marquis of Létorière is, they say, as
ignorant as a carp, and as flighty as a butterfly; he is one of those
beautiful triflers incapable of understanding a word of Latin, and who,
as to Persius, know only stuffs of that name," added the councillor,
well pleased with this detestable joke.
"I see, with pain, that I have been calumniated, sir," said the Marquis.
"Are you really, then, M. de Létorière?" said Sphex, stupefied.
"I have the honor to repeat it to you, sir," said the Marquis.
"But are you here about a lawsuit? Answer, sir, answer, and do not
deceive me!"
"Sir!" said the Marquis, as if he were shocked with the indiscretion of
the councillor.
"Pardon my vivacity, sir. . . . If I appear to be well acquainted with
what concerns you, it is because"--and the doctor hesitated--"it is
because I have some relatives in the Aulic Council, and I am informed of
all which passes there."
"Ah, well! it is true, sir, I am here, unhappily, in regard to a
lawsuit," said Létorière, sighing.
"But, my young friend, permit me to tell you that you appear very
unmindful of your business! Here you are reciting verses to the zephyrs;
. . . admirable verses, it is true, but, between ourselves, hardly the
means of gaining your lawsuit. Believe me, young man, if justice is
blind she is not deaf, and there are a thousand ways of interesting your
judges."
"Alas! sir, I have seen my judges . . . and it is because I have seen
them that I have but little hope. In my grief I ask of literature
consolation and information; I especially ask it from my favorite poet.
. . . I seek strength to wrestle against adverse fate in reading over
these verses. Do you not think, sir, that this energetic, bold and
sonorous poetry must reanimate enfeebled souls, as the warlike sound of
a clarion reanimates discouraged soldiers?"
The _savant_ was profoundly touched with the expression, at once simple
and dignified, with which Létorière pronounced these last words.
"Pardon an old man," said he, "the interest which he feels in you. But
do you not exaggerate the unkindly feelings of your judges? Have you
done everything in your power to interest them in your cause before
giving up all hope thus?"
"Those of my judges whom I have seen, sir, could have very little
sympathy with me, and I ought not otherwise to expect to interest them
in it."
"Why so, my young friend?"
"Our poet could, at a pinch, answer you, sir:"
"'Velle suum cuique est, nec voto vivitur uno.
* * * *
Hic satur irriguo mavult turgescere somno;
Hic campo indulget!'" . . .[7]
"I understand, I understand," said the councillor, laughing at the just
and malignant application of these verses. "I know it is said in Vienna
that the Councillor Flachsinfingen would have figured well enough among
the convivial gourmands of the banquet of Trimalchyon, and that the
brutal baron of Henferester would have been able to wrestle in the Roman
circus among the wild beasts. In fine, you poor student! poor poet! poor
nightingale of the sweet song I . . . what relations could you have with
this dull paunch of a Flachsinfingen, who dreams only of his table? What
could you have said to him if it were not--"
'Quæ tibi summa boni est? Uncta vixisse patella
Semper? . . .'[8]
"It is the same thing with this gladiator, this brute of
Henferester . . . whose great heavy body I cannot see without recalling
these words of our divine master:
"'Hic aliquis de gente hircosa centurionum
Dicat; quod satis est sapio mihi; non ego curo
Esse quod Arcesilas ærumnosique Solones.'"[9]
"Ah well! you will own up then, sir," said the Marquis, laughing, "that
having nothing else to say to my judges, I can hardly hope to interest
them. Alas! I am neither a huntsman nor a _gourmand._ . . . If I had
been I might, perhaps, have awakened some sympathy in my judges!"
"But all the councillors are not gladiators, nor sheep led by their
wives, my young friend." . . .
"'At me nocturnis juvat impallescere chartis.'"[10]
"Ah! sir, my greatest misfortune is not to have judges like you." . . .
"I have sometimes heard a certain Doctor Sphex spoken of," said the
councillor, casting a piercing look on the Marquis, "an old man, who is
not unlettered, who is a judge in the morning, and who devotes himself
in the evening to his favorite studies. . . ."
"'Hic mane edictum, post prandia Callirhoën do!'"[11]
"I have presented myself several times at the door of the Councillor
Sphex, sir," said Létorière, "and, if what you tell me is true, I
doubly regret not having met him, for he is perhaps the only one of my
judges whom I could hope to inspire with any sentiment of benevolence,
or from whom I might be able to claim any interest in the name of our
common tastes."
"By Hercules! young man, don't doubt it! . . . But all is not yet
hopeless. . . . I am slightly acquainted with this original Sphex; if
you will accompany me, I will do myself the pleasure to recommend you,
and even to present you to him."
"Ah! sir, how shall I ever be able to recognize and deserve this
precious favor?"
"Young man, people like you and the Councillor Sphex are rare; and you
both ought to gain by the meeting which I propose. Give me your arm, and
let us proceed."
The old man took a malicious pleasure in the surprise which he had
planned for Létorière, who did not fail to enlarge on the strangeness
and good luck of destiny, when, arriving at the door of the councillor,
the latter discovered to him his identity.
To the great astonishment of old Catherine, the doctor ordered her to
place two covers, for the Marquis could not refuse to partake of the
councillor's repast, who, alluding to the frugality of his _ménage_,
quoted:
"'. . . Positum est algente catino,
Durum olus, et populi cribro decussa farina,'"[12]
which announcement was realized in all points. An anchorite would hardly
have been contented with the dishes served in the library by old
Catherine.
The councillor, more and more enchanted with his guest, read to him his
translations and his commentaries; and, unhoped-for favor! last evidence
and proof of confidence! showed him the precious manuscript.
At sight of this Létorière manifested such a passionate and jealous
admiration, that the doctor began to regard his guest with uneasiness,
and almost regretted his imprudent confidence.
"Do you and your housekeeper live alone in this house?" asked the
Marquis suddenly, with a gloomy air, passing between his hands the
precious manuscript, as if he wished to appropriate it to himself.
"Can it be that he is so enthusiastic in his admiration of Persius that
he means to assassinate me and steal my manuscript?" queried the
councillor of himself.
But the Marquis, putting the manuscript back into his hands, exclaimed
vehemently:
"For the love of Heaven, sir, hide it, hide it! . . . Pardon a madman!"
And he ran precipitately from the room, covering his eyes with his
hands.
The councillor shut up his treasure, and found his guest seated, looking
dejected, in the library.
"What's the matter, young man?" said the savant with interest.
"Alas! sir, pardon me! At the sight of that manuscript an infamous, a
monstrous thought took possession of me . . . in spite of the holy law
of hospitality."
"You would then rob me of my treasure?"
Létorière bowed his head in embarrassment.
"Never mind, my young friend. I understand you . . . I understand you
only too well," said the councillor, heaving a sigh. "It is a great
compliment you have just rendered to our author; and if you only knew
the history of this manuscript," . . . after a moment's silence, he
added, "you would see that I ought to excuse the terrible temptation
which you have just been enabled to overcome."
Unfortunately, the confidence of the councillor stopped there.
The two friends passed the remainder of the day in a learned analysis of
the judgments of Casaubon, of Koenig, and Ruperti, on their favorite
poet. They discovered in him hidden beauties which had escaped all the
editors.
Létorière, by a happy chance of memory, raised the admiration of Sphex
almost to ecstasy, by calling his attention to the fact that this
passage in the third satire, "The lessons of the portico in which is
depicted the overthrow of the Medes," relates to Zeno, the chief of the
Stoics. In one word, in this long and learned conversation, Létorière,
admirably assisted by his memory, by the profound study which he had
recently devoted to Persius, at Dominique's recommendation, and by the
surprising flexibility of his intelligence, completely captivated Sphex.
Yet not one word of the lawsuit had been spoken on either side. The
Marquis was silent from prudence, the councillor from embarrassment;
for, however well-disposed he might be towards Létorière, he reflected
regretfully that his voice alone could not win the cause for his young
_protégé._
"What a pity!" cried the councillor, "that you will leave Vienna so
soon. We would have passed long and delightful days in ever-fresh
admiration of our god, and we would have said, like him:
"'Unum opus et requiem pariter disponimus ambo,
Atque verecunda laxamus seria mensa.'"[13]
"I feel this privation as much as you do, sir. Unhappily we must
sacrifice our pleasures to our duties." And Létorière arose.
Struck by the reserve of the Marquis on the subject of his lawsuit, the
councillor said, casting on his guest a penetrating look:
"But this lawsuit, we forget that." . . .
"The idea of thinking, sir, of sad material interests, when we are
speaking of the object of our worship to one who shares our admiration!"
"Hum! hum!" said the doctor, shaking his head; and smiling with a
caustic air, he recited these verses:
"'Mens bona, fama, fides! hæc clare, et ut audiat hospes;
Illa sibi introrsum, et sub lingua immurmurat: Oh! si
Ebullit patrui præclarum funus!'"[14]
"Yes . . . yes . . . 'one says, aloud, I forget my lawsuit; . . . and,
in a low tone, devote to the infernal gods the wicked councillor who
will not give me a word of hope.' . . . Isn't that it?"
"What do you mean, sir?" said the Marquis, smiling, and answering by a
quotation from the same book:
"'Messe tenus propria vive!'"[15]
"And you believe you have reaped indifference, young man?" said the
_savant_, laughing at this _apropos_ quotation. "Well, I will undeceive
you. . . . It shall not be said that the voice of old Sphex will not, at
least, protest against the judgment of an old tun-belly like
Flachsinfingen, or an old he-goat of a centurion, a brutal gladiator
like Henferester. In my opinion, your rights and those of the German
princes are so perfectly balanced, that a breath only would turn the
scale."
"'Scis etenim justum gemina suspendere lance
Ancipitis libræ,'"[16]
said the Marquis. "Not doubting the integrity of my judge, I have never
doubted the success of my cause before him."
Enchanted with this new quotation, the councillor cried:
"And you have done well, young man; my voice will be solitary; but thus
it will protest more forcibly against a judgment that I shall regard as
unjust, if it goes against you, as I fear it will. Adieu, then. . . .
Day after to-morrow we pronounce on your cause . . . and may the gods be
favorable to you! As for me, by Castor! I know what I have to do"--and
the doctor brought this conversation to a close by another quotation:
"'Ast vocat officium; trabe rupta, Bruttia saxa
Prendit amicus inops; remque omnem surdaque vota
Condidit Ionio! . . .'"[17]
[Footnote 2: Who is not ashamed to live like a Natta.]
[Footnote 3: With what cares is man occupied! Oh, what vanity in
life!. . .]
[Footnote 4: Mark this day, Macrinus, with a propitious stone.]
[Footnote 5: Do not doubt, the gods have wished to unite us by certain
affinities, and that we should be guided by the same constellation.]
[Footnote 6: Oh that I could bring to the temple this offering, even
barley will suffice to make my prayer heard.]
[Footnote 7: Each one his own taste; no one resembles the other; one
prefers to grow fat by the pleasures of the table and of sleep; another
prefers the hardships of the chase.]
[Footnote 8: What is the sovereign good for you? To junket every day?]
[Footnote 9: But I hear an old he-goat of a centurion reply: "I have as
much learning as is needful for me! I do not care to become an Arcesilas
or a morose Solon!"]
[Footnote 10: But for me, it is my delight to grow pale over books at
night.]
[Footnote 11: To my duties in the morning, to my pleasures in the
evening.]
[Footnote 12: The table is spread with a dish of raw vegetables, with
bread of coarse barley-flour.]
[Footnote 13: Together would we work and rest, and refresh ourselves
after toil with pleasant festivity.]
[Footnote 14: Wisdom, honor, virtue. This said aloud, so that the guest
may hear. To himself, and in a low whisper, he murmurs: "Oh, for a
magnificent funeral for the father-in-law!"]
[Footnote 15: One must live on what he reaps.]
[Footnote 16: You know, indeed, how to hold the balance of justice with
an impartial hand.]
[Footnote 17: But duty calls; a friend has been shipwrecked; he is cast
helpless on the Brutian rocks; all his property and his empty vows have
gone to the bottom of the sea.]