Nothing.
As this supplement to a little Post-Day was too small, I kept waiting
for the dog and for new biographical pipe-clay and dough.--Since,
however, the _post-aux-chiens_ still delays, I will just score down the
few cat-tones which I left out of the concert of love in the former
chapter. It is nothing but vexatious stuff that I have still to supply
here, and just these creaking tones may topple down again a new
avalanche and institute new mischief. It is simply stupid that in this
way the book is done, and yet not done, since the dog of a--dog is
quite unexpectedly out of the way, like snuff.
The step-mother, the Chamberlain's lady, who has been long since
banished the country by the biographical conjurer of spirits and bodies
out of these leaves, had, on the advent of her Ladyship, from a very
natural antipathy, marched off to a little country-seat. Speed on;
besides, thou art not my Amancebada![195]--Matthieu had, in the former
chapter, conformably to his old audacity, stayed awhile among none but
antagonists of his dark nature, and was sitting in the hall as the
happy procession marched in from the garden. He knew not yet that the
courtier Victor was in reality nothing but a mere, flat parson's son.
At first he continued to carry on the antique joke of his declaration
of love to Agatha, and set the Parson up to compliments and addresses
of thanks for the services which he had rendered all to-day. But when
he found there was too much indifference to his cold malice, he took
away from his contempt its ambiguity. In fact, his heart was sincere,
and rather made itself out more malicious, than more virtuous, than it
was; he hated a dissimulation, whereby many a courtling easily gives
himself that look of the virtuous man, which is best to be explained by
Lavater's observation, that the angry person transfers to his own face
the looks of the one whom he hates.
At last, Matthieu guessed the secrets, and the Parson ratified his
guess. Such a water for his saw-mill, on which he cut men straight for
his throne-scaffolding, had never before flowed in upon him.--If he
represents to the Prince this falsehood, this new, terrible, abominable
fraud, which his Lordship has played upon him, then--he concludes--must
January go beside himself with amazement at Lord Horion's lies and at
Matthieu's truths.--Now, he held it for his duty to smile, indeed, but
no more with malicious pleasure, like Mat, but with a regular
contemptuousness, as a court-vassal should; he felt, too, how much
beneath his dignity it was to let himself any longer be twisted into
this citizenly quodlibet, without at least making a fool of it. He went
accordingly,--for the sake of throwing out the news from his seed-apron
into good ground,--after a short but sincere congratulation upon the
marriage, the very same night back to the court,----and the Devil,
following him as attendant blackamoor, decorously brought up the rear.
I wish the villain would never step into my biographical
writing-chamber and _casa santa_ again; he is conscious of so many
immoral resources, that, in the feeling of strength they impart to him,
he actually plays with sins, and always ventures upon several more than
he needs; just as, e. g., in the Maienthal alley, out of mere
wantonness, he enticed Victor and Clotilda into his neighborhood with
the voice of the nightingale, although Flamin might have overheard both
without that Philomelic machinery. In this view, I could absolutely
almost wish that the Post-Dog would not come again; I have too much
reason to fear that Matthieu may bring new frog-spawn and new
mother-of-vinegar to January's warmth, that it may hatch out new,
sharp, poisonous misery; for he will certainly report in the highest
quarters, that the three Englishmen are hiding themselves in the island
as in a catacomb,--that Flamin is associated with them,--that Victor
has hitherto deceived a Prince, whose subject he is,--to say nothing of
still other things, which the ministerial spy and Chamberlainess von Le
Baut communicates, and his father, who is so much of an anti-clubbist,
paints black,--which the former draws and the latter colors. And when I
consider that in this biography a little misfortune has always been the
egg-shell and the white-of-the-egg of a great one,--I am very much
inclined to believe that the expression of the Parson on the 21st of
October contained more wit than truth: "That they were all at present,
instead of the bread of tears, cutting into the bride's cake of joy."
... Ye good people! in which may now, at this moment, your bosoms be
rising and falling,--in the soft, thin ether of gladness, or in the
stormy vapor of agony?