The Uncollected Writings of Thomas de Quincey, Vol. 2

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'Well done, signor Paradox-monger!' exclaimed the mask. 'Why, you are so far
gone, that you think the most natural, most innocent, and merriest thing in
the world unnatural, ay, and shocking.'

'I cannot change my feelings,' said his grave friend. 'From my very
childhood these tunes have made me wretched, and have often well-nigh driven
me out of my senses. They are to me the ghosts and spectres and furies in
the world of sound, and come thus and buzz round my head, and grin at me
with horrid laughter.'

'All nervous irritability!' returned the other; 'just like your extravagant
abhorrence of spiders and many other harmless insects.'

'Harmless you call them,' cried Emilius, now quite untuned, 'because you
have no repugnance toward them. To one, however, who feels the same disgust
and loathing, the same nameless horror, that I feel, rise up in his soul and
shoot through his whole being at the sight of them, these miscreate
deformities, such as toads, spiders, or that most loathsome of nature's
excrements, the bat, are not indifferent or insignificant: their very
existence is directly at enmity and wages war with his. In truth, one might
smile at the unbelievers whose imagination is too barren for ghosts and
fearful spectres, and those births of night which we see in sickness, to
take root therein, or who stare and marvel at Dante's descriptions, when the
commonest every-day life brings before our eyes such frightful distorted
master-pieces among the works of horror. Yet, can we really and faithfully
love the beautiful, without being stricken with pain at the sight of such
monstrosities?'

'Wherefore stricken with pain?' asked Roderick. 'Why should the great realm
of the waters and the seas present us with nothing but those terrors which
you have accustomed yourself to find there? Why not rather look on such
creatures as strange, entertaining, and ludicrous mummers, and on the whole
region in the light of a great masked ball-room? But your whims go still
further; for as you love roses with a kind of idolatry, there are many
flowers for which you have a no less vehement hatred: yet what harm has the
dear good tulip ever done you, or all the other dutiful children of summer
that you persecute? So again you have an aversion to many colours, to many
scents, and to many thoughts; and you take no pains to harden yourself
against these weaknesses, but yield to them and sink down into them as into
a luxurious feather-bed; and I often fear I shall lose you altogether some
day, and find nothing but a patchwork of whims and prejudices sitting at
that table instead of my Emilius.'

Emilius was wrath to the bottom of his heart, and answered not a word.
He had long given up all design of making his intended confession; nor
did the thoughtless Roderick show the least wish to hear the secret
which his melancholy friend had announced to him with such an air of
solemnity. He sat carelessly in the arm-chair, playing with his mask,
when he suddenly cried: 'Be so kind, Emilius, as to lend me your large
cloak.'

'What for?' asked the other.

'I hear music in the church on the opposite side of the street,'
answered Roderick, 'and this hour has hitherto escaped me every evening
since we have been here. To-day it comes just as if called for. I can
hide my dress under your cloak, which will also cover my mask and
turban, and when it is over I can go straight to the ball.'

Emilius muttered between his teeth as he looked in the wardrobe for his
cloak, then constraining himself to an ironical smile, gave it to
Roderick, who was already on his legs. 'There is my Turkish dagger which
I bought yesterday,' said the mask, as he wrapped himself up; 'put it by
for me; it is a bad habit carrying about toys of cold steel: one can
never tell what ill use may be made of them, should a quarrel arise, or
any other knot which it is easier to cut than to untie. We meet again
to-morrow; farewell; a pleasant evening to you.' He waited for no reply,
but hastened down-stairs.

When Emilius was alone, he tried to forget his anger, and to fix his
attention on the laughable side of his friend's behaviour. After a while
his eyes rested upon the shining, finely-wrought dagger, and he said:
'What must be the feelings of a man who could thrust this sharp iron
into the breast of an enemy! but oh, what must be those of one who could
hurt a beloved object with it! He locked it up, then gently folded back
the shutters of his window, and looked across the narrow street. But no
light was there; all was dark in the opposite house; the dear form that
dwelt in it, and that used about this time to show herself at her
household occupations, seemed to be absent. 'Perhaps she is at the
ball,' thought Emilius, little as it suited her retired way of life.

Suddenly, however, a light entered; the little girl whom his beloved
unknown had about her, and with whom, during the day and evening, she
busied herself in various ways, carried a candle through the room, and
closed the window-shutters. An opening remained light, large enough for
over-looking a part of the little chamber from the spot where Emilius
stood; and there the happy youth would often bide till after midnight,
fixed as though he had been charmed there. He was full of gladness when
he saw her teaching the child to read, or instructing her in sewing and
knitting. Upon inquiry he had learnt that the little girl was a poor
orphan whom his fair maiden had charitably taken into the house to
educate her. Emilius's friends could not conceive why he lived in this
narrow street, in this comfortless lodging, why he was so little to be
seen in society, or how he employed himself. Without employment, in
solitude he was happy: only he felt angry with himself and his own
timidity and shyness, which kept him from venturing to seek a nearer
acquaintance with this fair being, notwithstanding the friendliness with
which on many occasions she had greeted and thanked him. He knew not
that she would often bend over him eyes no less love-sick than his own;
nor boded what wishes were forming in her heart, of what an effort, of
what a sacrifice she felt herself capable, so she might but attain to
the possession of his love.

After walking a few times up and down the room, when the light had
departed with the child, he suddenly resolved upon going to the ball,
though it was so against his inclination and his nature; for it struck
him that his Unknown might have made an exception to her quiet mode of
life, in order for once to enjoy the world, and its gaieties. The
streets were brilliantly lighted up, the snow crackled under his feet,
carriages rolled by, and masks in every variety of dress whistled and
chirped as they passed him. From many a house there sounded the
dancing-music he so abhorred, and he could not bring himself to go the
nearest way towards the ball-room, whither people from every direction
were streaming and thronging. He walked round the old church, gazed at
its lofty tower rising solemnly into the dark sky, and felt gladdened by
the stillness and loneliness of the remote square. Within the recess of
a large door-way, the varied sculptures of which he had always
contemplated with pleasure, recollecting, while so engaged, the olden
times and the arts which adorned them, he now again paused, to give
himself up for a few moments to his thoughts. He had not stood long,
before a figure drew his attention, which kept restlessly walking to and
fro, and seemed to be waiting for somebody. By the light of a lamp that
was burning before an image of the Virgin, he clearly distinguished its
features as well as its strange garb. It was an old woman of the
uttermost hideousness, which struck the eye the more from being brought
out by its extravagant contrast with a scarlet bodice embroidered with
gold; the gown she wore was dark, and the cap on her head shone likewise
with gold. Emilius fancied at first it must be some tasteless mask that
had strayed there by mistake; but he was soon convinced by the clear
light that the old, brown, wrinkled face was one of Nature's ploughing,
and no mimic exaggeration. Many minutes had not passed when there
appeared two men, wrapped up in cloaks, who seemed to approach the spot
with cautions footsteps, often looking about them, as if to observe
whether anybody was following. The old woman walked up to them. 'Have
you got the candles?' asked she hastily, and with a gruff voice. 'Here
they are,' said one of the men; 'you know the price; let the matter be
settled forthwith.' The old woman seemed to be giving him money, which
he counted over beneath his cloak. 'I rely upon you,' she again began,
'that they are made exactly according to the prescription, at the right
time and place, so that the work cannot fail.' 'Feel safe as to that,'
returned the man, and walked rapidly away. The other, who remained
behind, was a youth: he took the old woman by the hand, and said: 'Can
it then be, Alexia, that such rites and forms of words, as those old
stories, in which I never could put faith, tell us, can fetter the free
will of man, and make love and hatred grow in the heart?' 'So it is,'
answered the scarlet woman; 'but one and one must make two, and many a
one must be added thereto, before such things come to pass. It is not
these candles alone, moulded beneath the midnight darkness of the new
moon, and drenched with human blood, it is not the muttering magical
words and invocations alone, that can give you the mastery over the soul
of another; much more than this belongs to such works; but it is all
known to the initiated.' 'I rely on you then,' said the stranger.
'To-morrow after midnight I am at your service,' returned the old woman.
'You shall not be the first person that ever was dissatisfied with the
tidings I brought him. To-night, as you have heard, I have some one else
in hand, one whose senses and understanding our art shall twist about
whichever way we choose, as easily as I twist this hair out of my head.'
These last words she uttered with a half grin: they now separated, and
withdrew in different directions.

Emilius came from the dark niche shuddering, and raised his looks upon
the image of the Virgin with the Child. 'Before thine eyes, thou mild
and blessed one,' said he, half aloud, 'are these miscreants daring to
hold their market, and trafficking in their hellish drugs. But as thou
embracest thy Child with thy love, even so doth the unseen Love hold us
all in its protecting arms, and we feel their touch, and our poor hearts
beat in joy and in trembling toward a greater heart that will never
forsake us.'

Clouds were wandering along over the pinnacles of the tower and the
steep roof of the church; the everlasting stars looked down from amongst
them, sparkling with mild serenity; and Emilius turned his thoughts
resolutely away from these nightly horrors, and thought upon the beauty
of his Unknown. He again entered the living streets, and bent his steps
toward the brightly illuminated ball-room, whence voices, and the
rattling of carriages, and now and then, between the pauses, the
clamorous music came sounding to his ears.

In the hall he was instantly lost amid the streaming throng; dancers
sprang round him, masks shot by him to and fro, kettle-drums and
trumpets deafened his ears, and it was unto him as though human life
were nothing but a dream. He walked along the lines; his eye alone was
watchful, seeking for those beloved eyes and that fair head with its
brown locks, for the sight of which he yearned to-day even more
intensely than at other times; and yet he inwardly reproached the adored
being for enduring to plunge into and lose itself in such a stormy sea
of confusion and folly. 'No,' said he to himself, 'no heart that loves
can lay itself open to this waste hubbub of noise, in which every
longing and every tear of love is scoffed and mocked at by the pealing
laughter of wild trumpets. The whispering of trees, the murmuring of
fountains, harp-tones, and gentle song gushing forth from an overflowing
bosom, are the sounds in which love abides. But this is the very
thundering and shouting of hell in the trance of its despair.'

He found not what he was seeking; for the belief that her beloved face
might perchance be lying hid behind some odious mask was what he could
not possibly bring himself to. Thrice already had he ranged up and down
the hall, and had vainly passed in array every sitting and unmasked
female, when the Spaniard joined him and said: 'I am glad that after all
you are come. You seem to be looking for your friend.'

Emilius had quite forgotten him: he said, however, in some confusion:
'Indeed I wonder at not having met him here; his mask is easily known.'

'Can you guess what the strange fellow is about?' answered the young
officer. 'He did not dance, or even remain half an hour in the
ball-room; for he soon met with his friend Anderson, who is just come
from the country. Their conversation fell upon literature. As Anderson
had not yet seen the new poem, Roderick would not rest till they had
opened one of the back rooms for him; and there he now is, sitting with
his companion beside a solitary taper, and declaiming the whole poem to
him, beginning with the invocation to the Muse.'

'It is just like him,' said Emilius; 'he is always the child of the
moment. I have done all in my power, not even shunning some amicable
quarrels, to break him of this habit of always living extempore, and
playing away his whole being in impromptus, card after card, as it
happens to turn up, without once looking through his hand. But these
follies have taken such deep root in his heart, he would sooner part
with his best friend than with them. That very same poem, of which he is
so fond that he always carries a copy of it in his pocket, he was
desirous of reading to me, and I had even urgently entreated him to do
so; but we were scarcely over the first description of the moon, when,
just as I was resigning myself to an enjoyment of its beauties, he
suddenly jumped up, ran off, came back with the cook's apron round his
waist, tore down the bell-rope in ringing to have the fire lighted, and
insisted on dressing me some beef-steaks, for which I had not the least
appetite, and of which he fancies himself the best cook in Europe,
though, if he is lucky, he spoils them only nine times out of ten.'

The Spaniard laughed, and asked: 'Has he never been in love?'

'In his way,' replied Emilius very gravely; 'as if he were making game
both of love and of himself, with a dozen women at a time, and, if you
would believe his words, raving after every one of them; but ere a week
passes over his head they are all sponged out of it together, and not
even a blot of them remains.'

They parted in the crowd, and Emilius walked toward the remote
apartment, whence already from afar he heard his friend's loud
recitative. 'Ah, so you are here too,' cried Roderick, as he entered;
'that is just what it should be. I have got to the very passage at which
we broke down the other day; seat yourself, and you may listen to the
rest.'

'I am not in a humour for it now,' said Emilius; 'besides, the room and
the hour do not seem to me altogether fitted for such an employment.'

'And why not?' answered Roderick. 'Time and place are made for us, and
not we for time and place. Is not good poetry as good at one place as at
another? Or would you prefer dancing? there is scarcity of men; and with
the help of nothing more than a few hours' jumping and a pair of tired
legs, you may lay strong siege to the hearts of as many grateful
beauties as you please.'

'Good-bye!' cried the other, already in the door-way; 'I am going home.'

Roderick called after him: 'Only one word! I set off with this gentleman
at daybreak to-morrow, to spend a few days in the country, but will
look in upon you to take leave before we start. Should you be asleep, as
is most likely, do not take the trouble of waking; for in a couple of
days I shall be with you again.--The strangest being on earth!' he
continued, turning to his new friend, 'so moping and fretful and gloomy,
that he turns all his pleasures sour; or rather there is no such thing
as pleasure for him. Instead of walking about with his fellow-creatures
in broad daylight and enjoying himself, he gets down to the bottom of
the well of his thoughts, for the sake of now and then having a glimpse
of a star. Everything must be in the superlative for him; everything
must be pure and noble and celestial; his heart must be always heaving
and throbbing, even when he is standing before a puppet-show. He never
laughs or cries, but can only smile and weep; and there is mighty little
difference between his weeping and his smiling. When anything, be it
what you will, falls short of his anticipations and preconceptions,
which are always flying up out of reach and sight, he puts on a tragical
face, and complains that it is a base and soulless world. At this
moment, I doubt not, he is exacting, that under the masks of a Pantaloon
and a Pulcinello there should be a heart glowing with unearthly desires
and ideal aspirations, and that Harlequin should out moralise Hamlet
upon the nothingness of sublunary things; and should it not be so, the
dew will rise into his eyes, and he will turn his back on the whole
scene with desponding contempt.'

'He must be melancholic then?' asked his hearer.

'Not that exactly,' answered Roderick. 'He has only been spoilt by his
over-fond parents, and by himself. He has accustomed himself to let his
heart ebb and flow as regularly as the sea, and if this motion ever
chances to intermit, he cries out _miracle!_ and would offer a prize to
the genius that can satisfactorily explain so marvellous a phenomenon.
He is the best fellow under the sun; but all my painstaking to break him
of this perverseness is utterly vain and thrown away; and if I would not
earn sorry thanks for my good intentions, I must even let him follow his
own course.'

'He seems to need a physician,' remarked Anderson.

'It is one of his whims,' said Roderick, 'to entertain a supreme
contempt for the whole medical art. He will have it that every disease
is something different and distinct in every patient, that it can be
brought under no class, and that it is absurd to think of healing it,
either by attention to ancient practice or by what is called theory.
Indeed he would much rather apply to an old woman, and make use of
sympathetic cures. On the same principle, he despises all foresight, on
whatever occasion, as well as everything like regularity, moderation,
and common sense. The last above all he holds in especial abhorrence, as
the antipodes and arch-enemy of all enthusiasm. From his very childhood
he framed for himself an ideal of a noble character; and his highest aim
is to render himself what he considers such, that is, a being who shows
his superiority to all things earthy by his contempt for gold. Merely in
order that he may not be suspected of being parsimonious, or giving
unwillingly, or ever talking about money, he tosses it about him right
and left by handfuls; with all his large income is for ever poor and
distressed, and becomes the fool of everybody not endowed with precisely
the same kind of magnanimity, which for himself he is determined that he
will have. To be his friend is the undertaking of all undertakings; for
he is so irritable, one need only cough or eat with one's knife, or even
pick one's teeth, to offend him mortally.'

'Was he never in love?' asked his country friend.

'Whom should he love? whom could he love?' answered Roderick. 'He scorns
all the daughters of earth; and were he ever to suspect that his beloved
had not an angelical contempt for dress, or liked dancing as well as
star-gazing, it would break his heart; still more appalling would it be,
if she were ever so unfortunate as to sneeze.'

Meanwhile Emilius was again standing amid the throng; but suddenly there
came over him that uneasiness, that shivering, which had already so
often seized his heart when among a crowd in a state of similar
excitement; it chased him out of the ball-room and house, down along the
deserted streets; nor, till he reached his lonely chamber, did he
recover himself and the quiet possession of his senses. The night-light
was already kindled; he sent his servant to bed; everything in the
opposite house was silent and dark; and he sat down to pour forth in
verse the feelings which had been aroused by the ball.

Within the heart 'tis still;
Sleep each wild thought encages;
Now stirs a wicked will,
Would see how madness rages.
And cries, Wild Spirit, awake!
Loud cymbals catch the cry
And back its echoes shake;
And shouting peals of laughter,
The trumpet rushes after,
And cries, Wild Spirit, awake!
Amidst them flute tones fly,
Like arrows keen and numberless;
And with bloodhound yell
Pipes the onset swell;
And violins and violoncellos,
Creeking, clattering,
Shrieking and shattering;
And horns whence thunder bellows;
To leave the victim slumberless,
And drag forth prisoned madness,
And cruelly murder all quiet and innocent gladness.
What will be the end of this commotion?
Where the shore to this turmoiling ocean?
What seeks the tossing throng,
As it wheels and whirls along?
On! on! the lustres
Like hell-stars bicker:
Let us twine in closer clusters.
On! on! ever thicker and quicker!
How the silly things throb, throb amain!
Hence, all quiet!
Hither, riot!
Peal more proudly,
Squeal more loudly,
Ye cymbals, ye trumpets! Be-dull all pain,
Till it laugh again.

Thou becomest to me, beauty's daughter;
Smiles ripple over thy lips,
And o'er thine eyes blue water;
O let me breathe on thee,
Ere parted hence we flee.
Ere aught that light eclipse.
I know that beauty's flowers soon wither;
Those lips within whose rosy cells
Thy spirit warbles its sweet spells,
Death's clammy kiss ere long will press together.
I know, that face so fair and full
Is but a masquerading skull;
But hail to thee, skull so fair and so fresh!
Why should I weep and whine and wail,
That what blooms now must soon grow pale,
That worms must feed on that sweet flesh?
Let me laugh but to-day and to-morrow,
And I care not for sorrow,
While thus on the waves of the dance by each other we sail!

Now thou art mine
And I am thine:
And what though pain and sorrow wait
To seize thee at the gate,
And sob and tear and groan and sigh
Stand ranged in state
On thee to fly;
Blithely let us look and cheerily
On death, that grins so drearily.
What would grief with us, or anguish?
They are foes that we know how to vanquish.
I press thine answering fingers,
Thy look upon me lingers,
Or the fringe of thy garment will waft me a kiss:
Thou rollest on in light;
I fall back into night;
Even despair is bliss.

From this delight,
From this wild laughter's surge,
Perchance there may emerge
Foul jealousy and scorn and spite.
But this our glory! and pride!
When thee I despise,
I turn but mine eyes,
And the fair one beside thee will welcome my gaze;
And she is my bride;
Oh, happy, happy days!
Or shall it be her neighbour,
Whose eyes like a sabre
Flash and pierce,
Their glance is so fierce?

Thus capering and prancing,
All together go dancing
Adown life's giddy cave;
Nor living nor loving,
But dizzily roving
Through dreams to a grave.
There below 'tis yet worse;
Its flowers and its clay
Roof a gloomier day,
Hide a still deeper curse.
Ring then, ye cymbals, enliven this dream!
Ye horns, shout a fiercer, more vulture-like scream!
And jump, caper, leap, prance, dance yourselves out of breath!
For your life is all art;
Love has given you no heart:
Therefore shout till ye plunge into bottomless death.

He had ended and was standing at the window. Then came she into the
opposite chamber, lovely, as he had never yet seen her; her brown hair
floated freely and played in wanton ringlets about the whitest of necks;
she was but lightly clad, and it seemed as though she was about to
finish some household task at this late hour of the night before going
to bed; for she placed two lights in two corners of the room, set to
rights the green baize on the table, and again retired. Emilius was
still sunk in his sweet dreams, and gazing on the image which his
beloved had left on his mind, when to his horror the fearful, the
scarlet old woman walked through the chamber; the gold on her head and
breast glared ghastlily as it threw back the light. She had vanished
again. Was he to believe his eyes? Was it not some blinding deception of
the night, some spectre that his own feverish imagination had conjured
up before him? But no! she returned still more hideous than before, with
a long gray-and-black mane flying wildly and ruggedly about her breast
and back. The fair maiden followed her, pale, frozen up; her lovely
bosom was without a covering; but the whole form was like a marble
statue. Betwixt them they led the little sweet child, weeping and
clinging entreatingly to the fair maiden, who looked not down upon it.
The child clasped and lifted up its little beseeching hands, and stroked
the pale neck and cheeks of the marble beauty. But she held it fast by
the hair, and in the other hand a silver basin. Then the old woman gave
a growl, and pulled out a long knife, and drew it across the white neck
of the child. Here something wound forth from behind them, which they
seemed not to perceive; or it must have produced in them the same deep
horror as in Emilius. The ghastly neck of a serpent curled forth, scale
after scale, lengthening and ever lengthening out of the darkness, and
stooped down between them over the child, whose lifeless limbs hung from
the old woman's arms; its black tongue licked up the spirting red blood,
and a green sparkling eye shot over into Emilius's eye, and brain, and
heart, so that he fell at the same instant to the ground.

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