# Vivian Grey/Volume 4/Chapter 7.3

CHAPTER III.
Madame Carolina held her soirée in her own private apartments; the Grand Duke himself appearing in the capacity of a visitor. The company was very numerous, and very brilliant. His Royal Highness, surrounded by a select circle, dignified one corner of the saloon: Madame Carolina at the other end of the room, in the midst of poets, philosophers, and politicians, in turn decided upon the most interesting and important topics of poetry, philosophy, and politics. Boston, and Zwicken, and Whist interested some; and Puzzles, and other ingenious games, others. A few were above conversing, or gambling, or guessing; superior intelligences who would neither be interested, nor amused;—​among these, Emilius von Aslingen was most prominent; he leant against a door, in full uniform, with his vacant eyes fixed on no object. The others were only awkward copies of an easy original; and among these, stiff or stretching, lounging on a chaise-longue, or posted against the wall, Vivian's quick eye recognized more than one of the unhappy votaries of white hats lined with crimson.
When Vivian made his bow to the Grand Duke, he was surprised by his Royal Highness coming forward a few steps from the surrounding circle, and extending to him his hand. His Royal Highness continued conversing with him for upwards of a quarter of an hour; expressed the great pleasure he felt at seeing at his Court a gentleman of whose abilities he had the highest opinion; and after a variety of agreeable compliments—compliments are doubly agreeable from crowned heads—the Grand Duke retired to a game of Boston with his royal visitors. Vivian's reception made a great sensation through the room. Various rumours were immediately afloat.
​"Who can he be?"
"Don't you know?—Oh! most curious story—killed a boar as big as a bonassus, which was ravaging half Reisenburg, and saved the lives of his Excellency the Grand Marshal and his whole suite."
"What is that about the Grand Marshal, and a boar as big as a bonassus? Quite wrong—natural son of Beckendorff—know it for a a fact—don't you see he is being introduced to von Sohnspeer!—brothers, you know—managed the whole business about the leagued Princes—not a son of Beckendorff, only a particular friend—the son of the late General—, I forget his name exactly—killed at Leipsic you know—that famous General, what was his name?—that very famous General—don't you know? Never mind—well! he is his son—father particular friend of Beckendorff—College friend—brought up the orphan—very handsome of him!—they say he does handsome things sometimes."
"Ah! well—I've heard so too—and so this young man is to be the new Under Secretary! ​very much approved by the Countess von S——."
"No, it can't be!—your story is quite wrong. He is an Englishman."
"An Englishman! no!"
"Yes he is. I had it from Madame—high rank incog—going to Vienna—secret mission."
"Something to do with Greece? of course—independence recognized?"
"Oh! certainly—pay a tribute to the Porte, and governed by a Hospodar. Admirable arrangement!—have to support their own government and a foreign one besides!"
It was with great pleasure that Vivian at length observed Mr. Sievers enter the room, and extricating himself from the enlightened and enthusiastic crowd who were disserting round the tribunal of Madame, he hastened to his amusing friend.
"Ah! my dear Sir, how glad I am to see you! I have, since we met last, been introduced to your fashionable ruler, and some of her most fashionable slaves. I have been honoured by a long conversation with his Royal ​Highness, and have listened to some of the most eloquent of the Carolina coterie. What a Babel! there all are, at the same time, talkers and listeners. To what a pitch of perfection may the 'science' of conversation be carried! My mind teems with original ideas to which I can annex no definite meaning. What a variety of contradictory theories, which are all apparently sound! I begin to suspect that there is a great difference between reasoning and reason!"
"Your suspicion is well founded, my dear Sir," said Mr. Sievers; "and I know no circumstance which would sooner prove it, than listening for a few minutes to this little man, in a snuff-coloured coat, near me. But I will save you from so terrible a demonstration. He has been endeavouring to catch my eye these last ten minutes, and I have as studiously avoided seeing him. Let us move."
"Willingly: who may this fear-inspiring monster be?"
"A philosopher," said Mr. Sievers, "as most of us call ourselves here; that is to say, his ​profession is to observe the course of Nature; and if by chance he can discover any slight deviation of the good dame from the path which our ignorance has marked out as her only track, he claps his hands, cries ευρηκά! and is dubbed 'illustrious' on the spot. Such is the world's reward for a great discovery, which generally in a twelvemonth's time is found out to be a blunder of the philosopher, and not an eccentricity of Nature. I am not underrating those great men who, by deep study, or rather by some mysterious inspiration, have produced combinations, and effected results, which have materially assisted the progress of civilization, and the security of our happiness. No, no! to them be due adoration. Would that the reverence of posterity could be some consolation to these great spirits, for neglect and persecution when they lived! I have invariably observed of great natural philosophers, that if they lived in former ages they were persecuted as magicians, and in periods which profess to be more enlightened, they have always been ridiculed as quacks. The succeeding century ​the real quack arises. He adopts and developes the suppressed, and despised, and forgotten discovery of his unfortunate predecessor; and Fame trumpets this resurrection-man of science with as loud a blast of rapture, as if, instead of being merely the accidental animator of the corpse, he were the cunning artist himself, who had devised and executed the miraculous machinery which the other had only wound up."
"Let us sit down on this sofa. I think we have escaped from your brown-coated friend."
"Ay! I forgot we were speaking of him. He is, as the phrase goes, a philosopher. To think that a student of butterflies and beetles, a nice observer of the amorous passions of an ant, or the caprices of a cockchafer, should bear a title once consecrated to those lights of Nature who taught us to be wise, and free, and eloquent. Philosophy! I am sick of the word."
"And this is an entomologist, I suppose?"
"Not exactly. He is about to publish a quarto on the Villa Pliniana on the Lake of ​Como. Sir Philosopher, forsooth! has been watching for these eight months the intermittent fountain there; but though his attention was quite unlike his subject, no 'discovery' has taken place. Pity that a freak of Nature should waste eight months of a philosopher's life! Though annoyed by his failure, my learned gentleman is consoled by what he styles 'an approximation to a theory;' and solves the phenomenon by a whisper of the evening winds."
"But in this country," said Vivian, "surely you have no reason to complain of the want of moral philosophers, or of the respect paid to them. The country of Kant——of——"
"Yes, yes! we have plenty of metaphysicians, if you mean them. Watch that lively-looking gentleman, who is stuffing kalte schale so voraciously in the corner. The leader of the Idealists—a pupil of the celebrated Fichte! To gain an idea of his character, know that he out-herods his master; and Fichte is to Kant, what Kant is to the unenlightened vulgar. You can now form a slight conception of the ​spiritual nature of our friend who is stuffing kalte schale. The first principle of his school is to reject all expressions which incline in the slightest degree to substantiality. Existence is, in his opinion, a word too absolute. Being, principle, essence, are terms scarcely sufficiently etherial, even to indicate the subtile shadowings of his opinions. Some say that he dreads the contact of all real things, and that he makes it the study of his life to avoid them. Matter is his great enemy. When you converse with him, you lose all consciousness of this world. My dear Sir," continued Mr. Sievers, "observe how exquisitely Nature revenges herself upon these capricious and fantastic children. Believe me, Nature is the most brilliant of wits; and that no repartees that were ever inspired by hate, or wine, or beauty, ever equalled the calm effects of her indomitable power upon those who are rejecting her authority. You understand me? Methinks that the best answer to the idealism of M. Fichte is to see his pupil devouring kalte schale!"
"And this is really one of your great lights?"
​"Verily! His works are the most famous, and the most unreadable, in all Germany. Surely you have heard of his 'Treatise on Man?' A treatise on a subject in which every one is interested, written in a style which no one can understand."
"I could point you out," continued Mr. Sievers," another species of Idealist more ridiculous even than this. Schelling has revived pantheism in Germany. According to him, on our death our identity is lost for ever, but our internal qualities become part of the great whole. I could show you also, to prove my impartiality, materialists more ridiculous than both these. But I will not weary you. You asked me, however, if, in Germany, we had not philosophers. I have pointed them out to you. My dear Sir, as I told you before, philosophy is a term which it is the fashion for every one to assume. We have a fellow at Reisenburg who always writes, 'On the Philosophy,' of something. He has just published a volume 'On the Philosophy of Pipe-heads!' We have even come to this! But considering the term ​philosophy as I do myself, and as I have reason to believe you do, I am not rash when I say, that in Germany she has no real votaries. All here are imitating to excess the only part of the ancient philosophy, which is as despicable as it is useless. The ever inexplicable enigma of the Universe is what the modern Germans profess to solve; the ring which they ever strive to carry off in their intellectual tilts. In no nation sooner than in Germany, can you gain more detailed information about every other world except the present. Here, we take nothing for granted; an excellent preventive of superficialness; but as our premises can never be settled, it unfortunately happens that our river of knowledge, though very profound, is extremely narrow. While we are all anticipating immortality, we forget that we are mortal. Believe me, that the foundations of true philosophy are admissions. We must take something for granted. In morals, as well as in algebra, we must form our calculations by the assistance of unknown numbers. Whatever doubts may exist as to the causes of our being, or ​the origin of our passions, no doubt can exist respecting their results. It is those results that we must regulate, and it is them that we should study. For the course of the river, which is visible to all, may be cleared or changed; but the unknown and secret fountain—what profits it to ponder on its origin, or even to discover its site, or to plumb its unfathomable and mysterious waters? When I find a man, instead of meditating on the nature of our essence, and the principle of our spirit,—on which points no two persons ever agreed—developing and directing the energies of that essence and that spirit, energies which all feel and all acknowledge; when I find a man, instead of musing over the absolute principle of the universe, forming a code of moral principles by which this single planet may be regulated and harmonized; when I find him, instead of pouring forth obscure oracles on the reunion of an inexplicable soul with an unintelligible nature, demonstrating the indissoluble connexion of private happiness and public weal, and detailing the modes by which the interests ​of the indispensable classes of necessary society may at the same time be considered and confirmed, I recognize in this man the true philosopher; I distinguish him from the dreamers who arrogate that title; and if he be my countryman, I congratulate Germany on her illustrious son."
"You think, then," said Vivian, "that posterity will rank the German metaphysicians with the latter Platonists?"
"I hardly know—they are a body of men not less acute, but I doubt whether they will be as celebrated. In this age of print, notoriety is more attainable than in the age of manuscript; but lasting fame certainly is not. That tall thin man in black, that just bowed to me, is the editor of one of our great Reisenburg reviews. The journal he edits is one of the most successful periodical publications ever set afloat. Among its contributors may assuredly be classed many men of eminent talents; yet to their abilities, the surprising success and influence of this work is scarcely to be ascribed: it is the result rather of the consistent spirit ​which has always inspired its masterly critiques. One principle has ever regulated its management; it is a simple rule, but an effective one—each author is reviewed by his personal enemy. You may imagine the point of the critique; but you would hardly credit, if I were to inform you, the circulation of the review. You will tell me that you are not surprised, and talk of the natural appetite of our species for malice and slander. Be not too quick. The rival of this review, both in influence and in sale, is conducted on as simple a principle, but not a similar one. In this journal every author is reviewed by his personal friend—of course, perfect panegyric. Each number is flattering as a lover's tale, every article an eloge. What say you to this? These are the influential literary and political journals of Reisenburg. There was yet another; it was edited by an eloquent scholar; all its contributors were, at the same time, brilliant and profound. It numbered among its writers some of the most celebrated names in Germany; its critiques and articles were as impartial as they were able—as sincere ​as they were sound; it never paid the expense of the first number. As philanthropists and admirers of our species, my dear Sir, these are gratifying results; they satisfactorily demonstrate, that mankind have no innate desire for scandal, calumny, and backbiting; it only proves that they have an innate desire to be gulled and deceived.
"The Editor of the first Review," continued Mr. Sievers, "is a very celebrated character here. He calls himself a philosophical historian. Professing the greatest admiration of Montesquieu, this luminous gentleman has, in his 'History of Society in all Nations and all Ages,' produced one of the most ludicrous caricatures of the 'Esprit des Loix,' that can be possibly imagined. The first principle of these philosophical historians is to generalize. According to them, man, in every nation and in every clime, is the same animal. His conduct is influenced by general laws, and no important change ever takes place in his condition through the agency of accidental circumstances, or individual exertion. All, necessarily, arises by an ​uniform and natural process, which can neither be effectually resisted, nor prematurely accelerated. From these premises, our philosophical historian has deduced a most ingenious and agreeable delineation of the progress of society from barbarism to refinement. With this writer, recorded truth has no charms, and facts have no value. They are the consequence of his theory; and it is therefore easier for him, at once, to imagine his details, than to give himself the trouble of collecting them from dusty chronicles, or original manuscripts. With these generalizers, man is a machine. Accident, and individual character, the two most powerful springs of revolution, are not allowed to influence their theoretic calculations; and setting out, as they all do, with an avowed opinion of what man ought to be, they have no difficulty in proving what, in certain situations, he has been, and what, in singular situations, he ever must be."
"We have no want of these gentry in my own country," said Vivian; "although, of late years, this mode of writing history has become ​rather unfashionable. The English are naturally great lovers of detail. They like a Gerard Dow better than a Poussin; and in literature, in spite of their philosophical historians, their old chronicles are not yet obsolete. Of late, indeed, even the common people have exhibited a taste for this species of antique literature."
"The genius, and delightful works of the Chevalier Scott (the Germans always use titles, and speaking even of their most illustrious men, never omit their due style,—as 'the Baron von Goëthe,' the 'Baron von Leibnitz,') of the Chevalier Scott," continued Mr. Sievers, "has in a great measure revived this taste. You are of course aware that he has influenced the literatures of the Continent scarcely less than that of his own country: he is the favourite author of the French, and in Germany we are fast losing our hobgoblin taste. When I first came to Reisenburg, now eight years ago, the popular writer of fiction was a man, the most probable of whose numerous romances was one ​in which the hero sold his shadow to a demon, over the dice-box; then married an unknown woman in a church-yard; afterwards wedded a river nymph; and having committed bigamy, finally stabbed himself, to enable his first wife to marry his own father. He and his works are quite obsolete; and the star of his genius, with those of many others, has paled before the superior brilliancy of that literary comet, Mr. Von Chronicle, our great historical novelist. von Chronicle is one of those writers who never would have existed had it not been for the Chevalier Scott: he is a wonderful copyist of that part of your countryman's works which is easy to copy, but without a spark of his genius. According to Von Chronicle, we have all, for a long time, been under a mistake, and your great author among us. We have ever considered that the first point to be studied in novel writing. is character: miserable error! It is costume. Variety of incident, novelty, and nice discrimination of character; interest of story, and all those points which we have hitherto looked upon ​as necessary qualities of a fine novel; vanish before the superior attractions of variety of dresses, exquisite descriptions of the cloak of a signor, or the trunk-hose of a serving- man.
"Amuse yourself while you are at Reisenburg, by turning over some volumes which every one is reading; Von Chronicle's last great historical novel. The subject is a magnificent one—Rienzi—yet it is strange that the hero only appears in the first and the last scenes. You look astonished. Ah! I see you are not a great historical novelist. You forget the effect which is produced by the contrast of the costume of Master Nicholas, the notary in the quarter of the Jews, and that of Rienzi the tribune, in his robe of purple, at his coronation in the Capitol. Conceive the effect, the contrast. With that coronation, Von Chronicle's novel terminates; for, as he well observes, after that, what is there in the career of Rienzi which would afford matter for the novelist? Nothing! All that afterwards occurs is a mere contest of passions, and a de​velopement of character; but where is a procession, a triumph, or a marriage?
"One of Von Chronicle's great characters in this novel is a Cardinal. It was only last night that I was fortunate enough to have the beauties of the work pointed out to me by the author himself. He entreated, and gained my permission, to read to me what he himself considered 'the great scene;' I settled myself in my chair, took out my handkerchief, and prepared my mind for the worst. While I was anticipating the terrors of a heroine, he introduced me to his Cardinal. Thirty pages were devoted to the description of the prelate's costume. Although clothed in purple, still, by a skilful adjustment of the drapery, Von Chronicle managed to bring in six other petticoats. I thought this beginning would never finish, but to my surprise, when he had got to the seventh petticoat, he shut his book, and leaning over the table, asked me what I thought of his 'great scene?' 'My friend,' said I, 'you are not only the greatest historical novelist that ever lived, but that ever will live.'"
​"I shall certainly get Rienzi," said Vivian; "it seems to me to be an original work.”
"Von Chronicle tells me that he looks upon it as his master-piece, and that it may be considered as the highest point of perfection to which his system of novel-writing can be carried. Not a single name is given in the work, down even to the rabble, for which he has not contemporary authority; but what he is particularly proud of, are his oaths. Nothing, he tells me, has cost him more trouble than the management of the swearing; and the Romans, you know, are a most profane nation. The great difficulty to be avoided, was using the ejaculations of two different ages. The ''sblood' of the sixteenth century, must not be confounded with the 'zounds' of the seventeeth. Enough of Von Chronicle! The most amusing thing," continued Mr. Sievers, "is to contrast this mode of writing works of fiction, with the prevalent and fashionable method of writing works of history. Contrast the 'Rienzi' of Von Chronicle, with the 'Haroun Al Raschid' of Ma​dame Carolina. Here we write novels like history, and history like novels: all our facts are fancy, and all our imagination reality."
So saying, Mr. Sievers rose, and wishing Vivian good night, quitted the room. He was one of those prudent geniuses who always leave off with a point.
Mr. Sievers had not left Vivian more than a minute, when the little Prince Maximilian came up, and bowed to him in a very condescending manner. Our hero, who had not yet had an opportunity of speaking with him, thanked him cordially for his handsome present, and asked him how he liked the Court.
"Oh delightful! I pass all my time with the Grand Duke and Madame:" and here the young apostate settled his military stock, and arranged the girdle of his sword. "Madame Carolina," continued he, "has commanded me to inform you, that she desires the pleasure of your attendance."
The summons was immediately obeyed, and ​Vivian had the honour of a very long conversation with the interesting Consort of the Grand Duke. He was, for a considerable time, complimented by her enthusiastic panegyric of England; her original ideas of the character and genius of Lord Byron; her veneration for Sir Humphrey Davy, and her admiration of Sir Walter Scott. Not remiss was Vivian in paying, in his happiest manner, due compliments to the fair and royal authoress of the Court of Charlemagne. While she spoke his native tongue, he admired her accurate English; and while she professed to have derived her imperfect knowledge of his perfect language from a study of its best authors, she avowed her belief of the impossibility of ever speaking it correctly, without the assistance of a native. Conversation became more interesting. Madame Carolina lamented Vivian's indisposition, and fearing that he had not been properly attended, she insisted upon his seeing the Court physician. It was in vain he protested that he was quite well. She, convinced by his ​looks, insisted upon sending Dr. von Spittergen to him the next morning.
When Vivian left the palace, he was not unmindful of an engagement to return there the next day, to give a first lesson in English pronunciation to Madame Carolina.
END OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.
LONDON PRINTED BY S. AND R. BENTLEY, DORSET-STREET.