# Nightmare Abbey/Chapter VIII

CHAP. VIII.
Marionetta observed, the next day, a remarkable perturbation in Scythrop, for which she could not imagine any probable cause. She was willing to believe, at first, that it had some transient and trifling source, and would pass off in a day or two; but, contrary to this expectation, it daily increased. She was well aware that Scythrop had a strong tendency to the love of mystery, for its own sake; that is to say, he would employ mystery to serve a purpose, but would first choose his purpose by its capability of mystery. He seemed now to have more mystery on his hands than the laws of the system allowed, and to wear ​his coat of darkness with an air of great discomfort. All her little playful arts lost by degrees much of their power either to irritate or to soothe, and the first perception of her diminished influence produced in her an immediate depression of spirits, and a consequent sadness of demeanour, that rendered her very interesting to Mr. Glowry; who, duly considering the improbability of accomplishing his wishes with respect to Miss Toobad (which improbability naturally increased in the diurnal ratio of that young lady's absence,) began to reconcile himself by degrees to the idea of Marionetta being his daughter.
Marionetta made many ineffectual attempts to extract from Scythrop the secret of his mystery; and, in despair of drawing it from himself, began to form hopes that she might find a clue to it from Mr. Flosky, ​who was Scythrop's dearest friend, and was more frequently than any other person admitted to his solitary tower. Mr. Flosky, however, had ceased to be visible in a morning. He was engaged in the composition of a dismal ballad; and, Marionetta's uneasiness overcoming her scruples of decorum, she determined to seek him in the apartment which he had chosen for his study. She tapped at the door, and, at the sound "Come in," entered the apartment. It was noon, and the sun was shining in full splendour, much to the annoyance of Mr. Flosky, who had obviated the inconvenience by closing the shutters, and drawing the window curtains. He was sitting at his table by the light of a solitary candle, with a pen in one hand, and a muffineer in the other, with which he occasionally sprinkled salt on the wick, to make it burn blue. He ​sate with "his eye in a fine frenzy rolling," and turned his inspired gaze on Marionetta as if she had been the ghastly ladie of a magical vision; then placed his hand before his eyes, with an appearance of manifest pain—shook his head—withdrew his hand—rubbed his eyes, like a waking man—and said, in a tone of ruefulness most jeremitaylorically pathetic, "To what am I to attribute this very unexpected pleasure, my dear Miss O'Carroll?"
Marionetta.
I must apologise for intruding on you, Mr. Flosky; but the interest which I—you—take in my cousin Scythrop—
Mr. Flosky.
Pardon me, Miss O'Carroll: I do not take any interest in any person or thing on the face of the earth; which sentiment, if you ​analyse it, you will find to be the quintessence of the most refined philanthropy.
Marionetta.
I will take it for granted that it is so, Mr. Flosky; I am not conversant with metaphysical subtleties, but—
Mr. Flosky.
Subtleties! my dear Miss O'Carroll. I am sorry to find you participating in the vulgar error of the reading public, to whom an unusual collocation of words, involving a juxtaposition of antiperistatical ideas, immediately suggests the notion of hyperoxysophistical paradoxology.
Marionetta.
Indeed, Mr. Flosky, it suggests no such notion to me. I have sought you for the purpose of obtaining information.
Mr. Flosky (shaking his head).
No one ever sought me for such a purpose before.
Marionetta.
I think, Mr. Flosky—that is, I believe—that is, I fancy—that is, I imagine—
Mr. Flosky.
The τουτεστι, the id est, the cioè, the c'est à dire, the that is, my dear Miss O'Carroll, is not applicable in this case,—if you will permit me to take the liberty of saying so. Think is not synonimous with believe—for belief, in many most important particulars, results from the total absence, the absolute negation of thought, and is thereby the sane and orthodox condition of mind; and thought and belief are both essentially different from fancy, and fancy, again, is distinct from imagination. This distinction ​between fancy and imagination is one of the most abstruse and important points of metaphysics. I have written seven hundred pages of promise to elucidate it, which promise I shall keep as faithfully as the bank will its promise to pay.
Marionetta.
I assure you, Mr Flosky, I care no more about metaphysics than I do about the bank; and, if you will condescend to talk to a simple girl in intelligible terms—
Mr. Flosky.
Say not condescend! Know you not that you talk to the most humble of men, to one who has buckled on the armour of sanctity, and clothed himself with humility as with a garment?
Marionetta.
My cousin Scythrop has of late had an ​air of mystery about him, which gives me great uneasiness.
Mr. Flosky.
That is strange. Nothing is so becoming to a man as an air of mystery. Mystery is the very key-stone of all that is beautiful in poetry, all that is sacred in faith, and all that is recondite in transcendental psychology. I am writing a ballad, which is all mystery: it is "such stuff as dreams are made of," and is, indeed, stuff made of a dream: for, last night I fell asleep, as usual, over my book, and had a vision of pure reason. I composed five hundred lines in my sleep; so that as I had a dream of a ballad, I am now officiating as my own Peter Quince, and making a ballad of my dream, and it shall be called Bottom's Dream, because it has no bottom.
Marionetta.
I see, Mr. Flosky, you think my intrusion unseasonable, and are inclined to punish it, by talking nonsense to me. (Mr. Flosky gave a start at the word nonsense, which almost overturned the table.) I assure you, I would not have intruded if I had not been very much interested in the question I wish to ask you.—(Mr. Flosky listened in sullen dignity.)—My cousin Scythrop seems to have some secret preying on his mind.—(Mr. Flosky was silent.)—He seems very unhappy—Mr. Flosky.—Perhaps you are acquainted with the cause.—(Mr. Flosky was still silent.)—I only wish to know—Mr. Flosky—if it is anything—that could be remedied by anything—that any one—of whom I know anything—could do.
Mr. Flosky (after a pause).
There are various ways of getting at ​secrets. The most approved methods, as recommended both theoretically and practically in philosophical novels, are eavesdropping at key-holes, picking the locks of chests and desks, peeping into letters, steaming wafers, and insinuating hot wire under sealing wax: none of which methods I hold it lawful to practise.
Marionetta.
Surely, Mr. Flosky, you cannot suspect me of wishing to adopt or encourage such base and contemptible arts.
Mr. Flosky.
Yet are they recommended, and with well-strung reasons, by writers of gravity and note, as simple and easy methods of studying character, and gratifying that ​laudable curiosity which aims at the knowledge of man.
Marionetta.
I am as ignorant of this morality which you do not approve, as of the metaphysics which you do: I should be glad to know, by your means, what is the matter with my cousin: I do not like to see him unhappy, and I suppose there is some reason for it.
Mr. Flosky.
Now I should rather suppose there is no reason for it. It is the fashion to be unhappy. To have a reason for being so would be exceedingly common-place: to be so without any is the province of genius: the art of being miserable, for misery's sake, has been brought to great perfection in our days; and the ancient Odyssey, which held forth a shining example of the endurance ​of real misfortune, will give place to a modern one, setting out a more instructive picture of querulous impatience under imaginary evils.
Marionetta.
Will you oblige me, Mr. Flosky, by giving me a plain answer to a plain question?
Mr. Flosky.
It is impossible, my dear Miss O'Carroll. I never gave a plain answer to a question in my life.
Marionetta.
Do you, or do you not, know what is the matter with my cousin?
Mr. Flosky.
To say that I do not know, would be to say that I am ignorant of something: and God forbid, that a transcendental metaphysician, who has pure anticipated cognitions ​of every thing, and carries the whole science of geometry in his head without ever having looked into Euclid, should fall into so empirical an error as to declare himself ignorant of any thing: to say that I do know, would be to pretend to positive and circumstantial knowledge touching present matter of fact, which, when you consider the nature of evidence, and the various lights in which the same thing may be seen—
Marionetta.
I see, Mr. Flosky, that either you have no information, or are determined not to impart it; and I beg your pardon for having given you this unnecessary trouble. {dhr}}
Mr. Flosky.
My dear Miss O'Carroll, it would have given me great pleasure to have said any ​thing that would have given you pleasure; but, if any person living could have it to say, that they had obtained any information on any subject from Ferdinando Flosky, my transcendental reputation would be ruined for ever.