# Vivian Grey/Volume 4/Chapter 7.1

VIVIAN GREY.
BOOK THE SEVENTH.
BOOK THE SEVENTH.
CHAPTER I.
As Vivian left the room, Mr. Beckendorff was seized with an unusual desire to converse with the Prince of Little Lilliput, and his Highness was consequently debarred the consolation of walking with his friend as far as the horses. At the little gate Vivian and Essper encountered the only male attendant who was allowed to approach the house of Mr. Beckendorff. As Vivian quietly walked his horse up the rough turf road, he could not refrain from recurring to his conversation of the previous night; and when he called to mind ​the adventures of the last six days, he had new cause to wonder at, and perhaps to lament over, his singular fate. In that short time he had saved the life of a powerful Prince, and been immediately signalled out, without any exertion on his part, as the object of that Prince's friendship. The moment he arrives at his castle, by a wonderful contingency, he becomes the depositary of important state secrets, and assists in a consultation of the utmost importance with one of the most powerful Ministers in Europe. And now the object of so much friendship, confidence, and honour, he is suddenly on the road to the capital of the State of which his late host is the prime Minister, and his friend the chief subject, without even the convenience of a common letter of introduction; and with no prospect of viewing with even the usual advantages of a common traveller, one of the most interesting of European Courts.
When he had proceeded about half way up the turf lane, he found a private road to his right; which, with that spirit of adventure for ​which Englishmen are celebrated, he immediately resolved must not only lead to Reisenburg, but also carry him to that city much sooner than the regular high road. He had not advanced far up this road before he came to the gate at which he had parted with Beckendorff on the morning that gentleman had roused him so unexpectedly from his reverie in a green lane. He was surprised to find a horseman dismounting at the gate. Struck by this singular circumstance, the appearance of the stranger was not unnoticed. He was a tall and well-proportioned man, and as the traveller passed he stared Vivian so fully in the face, that our hero did not fail to remark his very handsome countenance, the expression of which, however, was rather vacant and unpleasing. He was dressed in a riding-coat, exactly similar to the one always worn by Beckendorff's messenger; and had Vivian not seen him so distinctly, he would have mistaken him for that person. The stranger was rather indifferently mounted, and carried his cloak and a small portmanteau at the back of his saddle.
​"I suppose it is the butler," said Essper George, who now spoke for the first time since his dismissal from the room. Vivian did not answer him; not because he entertained any angry feeling on account of his exceedingly unpleasant visit. By no means:—it was impossible for a man like Vivian Grey to cherish an irritated feeling for a second. The Emperor Augustus, (I quote from my last school theme;) the Emperor Augustus had a habit, whenever he was on the point of falling into a passion, of repeating his alphabet. It was then the fashion for emperors to be somewhat more erudite than they are at present. Whether the Roman's recipe for keeping his temper could be pursued by some modern emperors, or many private persons that I could mention, is a point on which I do not feel qualified to decide. Saying the alphabet, for instance, accurately in the language of Thibet, where the characters are of two kinds—the uchem and the umin—and consist principally of arbitrary guttural and nasal sounds, would be no joke. My plan to moderate a temper is much briefer ​than that of Imperial Cæsar. You have only to repeat nine letters, and spell human life; and if there be a man who can grieve or rage when any thing so inexpressibly ludicrous is recalled to his attention, why then he deserves to live all his life in a volcano, and snuff high-dried cayenne instead of pounded tobacco.
But Vivian Grey did not exchange a syllable with Essper George, merely because he was not in the humour to speak. He could not refrain from musing on the singular events of the last few days; and, above all, the character of Beckendorff particularly engrossed his meditation. Their extraordinary conversation of the preceding night excited in his mind new feelings of wonder, and revived emotions which he thought were dead, or everlastingly dormant. Apparently, the philosophy on which Beckendorff had regulated his extraordinary career, and by which he had arrived at his almost unparalleled pitch of greatness, was exactly the same with which he himself, Vivian Grey, had started in life; which he had found so fatal in its consequences; which he believed ​to be so vain in its principles. How was this? What radical error had he committed? It required little consideration. Thirty, and more than thirty, years had passed over the head of Beckendorff, ere the world felt his power, or indeed was conscious of his existence. A deep student, not only of man in detail, but of man in groupes—not only of individuals, but of nations,—Beckendorff had hived up his ample knowledge of all subjects which could interest his fellow-creatures; and when that opportunity, which in this world occurs to all men, occurred to Beckendorff, he was prepared. With acquirements equal to his genius, Beckendorff depended only upon himself, and succeeded. Vivian Grey, with a mind inferior to no man's, dashed on the stage, in years a boy, though in feelings a man. Brilliant as might have been his genius, his acquirements necessarily were insufficient. He could not depend only upon himself; a consequent necessity arose to have recourse to the assistance of others; to inspire them with feelings which they could not share; and humour and manage the ​petty weaknesses which he himself could not experience. His colleagues were, at the same time, to work for the gratification of their own private interests, the most palpable of all abstract things; and to carry into execution a great purpose, which their feeble minds, interested only by the first point, cared not to comprehend. The unnatural combination failed; and its originator fell. To believe that he could recur again to the hopes, the feelings, the pursuits of his boyhood, he felt to be the vainest of delusions. It was the expectation of a man like Beckendorff—whose career, though difficult, though hazardous, had been uniformly successful—of a man who mistook cares for grief, and anxiety for sorrow.
The travellers entered the city at sunset. Proceeding through an ancient and unseemly town, full of long, narrow, and ill-paved streets, and black uneven built houses, they ascended the hill, on the top of which was situated the new and Residence town of Reisenburg. The proud palace, the white squares, the architectural streets, the new churches, the elegant ​opera house, the splendid hotels, and the gay public gardens full of busts, vases, and statues, and surrounded by an iron railing cast out of the cannon taken from both sides during the war, by the Reisenburg troops, and now formed into pikes and fasces, glittering with gilded heads—all these shining in the setting sun, produced an effect which, at any time, and in any place, would have been beautiful and striking; but on the present occasion were still more so, from the remarkable contrast they afforded to the ancient, gloomy, and filthy town through which Vivian had just passed; and where, from the lowness of its situation, the sun had already set. There was as much difference between the old and new town of Reisenburg, as between the old barbarous Margrave, and the new and noble Grand Duke.
A man is never sooner domesticated than in a first-rate hotel, particularly on the Continent; where, in fact, life is never domestic, and where, dining every day as you do at a table d'hôte, at which half of the respectable housekeepers in the city attend, you feel from this circumstance ​that there is no mode of life to be preferred to the one that your situation obliges you to adopt. In London it is sometimes different; and a man retiring, after his daily lounge, to his solitary meal at Long's or Stevens's, is apt sometimes to feel lonely, particularly when he has not an engagement for the evening, or his claret is not in the most superb condition.
Claret, bright Claret! solace of the soul, and the heart's best friend! How many suicides hast thou prevented! how many bruised spirits and breaking hearts has thy soft and soothing flow assuaged and made whole! Man, do thy worst and woman, do thy best—one consolation always remains. Long bills and libels, a duel and a dun, a jealous woman and a boring man are evils, and the worst—as also are a rowing father and a surly son, pert daughters and manoeuvering mothers. Some dislike old maids, few dislike young ones. Few have a partiality for taxes; but this is a national grievance, and if judiciously arranged, does not press upon the individual. Sermons on Sunday are proper and pleasant, if not over long. I only know one ​man who loves a losing card. Poetry also is endurable, particularly if it be a Tragedy, and make us laugh. A rabid poetaster, foaming over a critique, none can tolerate. Yet bills and slander, duels, duns and dungeons, and bores and green-eyed dames, disorganized families, old maids and cold maids, and grinding taxes, sermons and tragedies, and bards and cards, all can be borne, if we may only forget their noise and nonsense in the red glories of thy oblivious stream! By stream, I mean the stream of Claret. From the length of the sentence, it might be misunderstood; and if any one, in our chill winter clime, at any time find this liquor lie cold within its accustomed receptacle, why, after every third glass, let him warm it with one of Cognac.
"Chill winter clime" is, after all, a vulgar error, and merely brought in to round the period. Our atmosphere, like our taste, has of late much improved; and it is probable, that when our present monarch has concluded his architectural labours by perfectly banishing brick from all outward appearance, our cli​mate proportionately improving, an Italian sky may illumine our palaces of stucco. By which phrase I do not mean to sneer at modern London. Some wiseheads laugh at our plaster, and talk of our unhappy deficiency in marble. I wish to know which of the boasted cities of the European continent is built of this vaunted marble? As for myself, the only difference that I ever observed between our own new streets and the elevations of foreign cities, is, that our stucco being of a much superior quality, and kept in a much superior condition, produces a general effect which their cracked and peeling walls never can. But we are the victims of smoke, and the Italians have a magnificent climate! True! they have a sky like Belshazzar's purple robe, and a sea blue enough to make a modern poet a bedlamite. They have a land covered with myrtle, and glittering with aloes, and radiant with orange, and lemon, and citron trees. They have all these, and a thousand sand other glories besides. The Italians live in a garden of Eden; but it is a Paradise which they will never forfeit by plucking the golden ​fruit. All their religion consists in confession, and all their food in macaroni. What can you expect from such a people? A length of time elapses before the action of the air affects their stucco; but when it is affected, it is never renovated. The boasted Palladian palaces are all of stucco, and look like the lonely and dilapidated halls of Irish Lords.
The result of midnight promenades, whether philosophical or poetical, analytical or amatory, is usually the same—a cold; and as Vivian Grey sat shivering in his chair on the evening of his arrival at Reisenburg, he sent Mr. Beckendorff and his theory, his politics, his philosophy, and his summer-house, to the devil, with a most hearty imprecation. It is astonishing how a little indisposition unfits us for meditation. Man with a head-ach, a cold, or a slight spasm, is not exactly in the humour to pile Ossa upon Pelion, and scale the skies. The perfectibility of the species seems never at a more woful discount than on a morning after a debauch; and ourselves never less like reasoning animals than when suffering under indigestion. Nothing is more ludicrous than a ​philosopher with the tooth-ache,—except perhaps a poet with the gout.
Essper George, who, in a much more serious illness, had already proved himself to Vivian the most skilful of nurses, was now of infinite use. Though having the greatest contempt for the power and professors of medicine when in perfect health, Vivian, now that he was indisposed was quite ready to accept the proffered assistance of the first quack who presented himself. The landlord of the hotel had a relation who, since the war, had given up his profession of farrier, and commenced that of physician. This disciple of Esculapius was speedily introduced to our hero, as the first physician at Reisenburg; and judging by his appearance that his patient was a man of blood, he proceeded to prescribe for him the remedies usually applied to a first rate courser. This indeed was the grand and sole principle of Dr. von Hoofstettein's Pharmacopeia. Considering his present patients as horses, he arranged them in classes according to their station in society. A substantial burgher, went for a stout cavalry ​charger; a peasant, for a sutler's hack; a lawyer or ignoble official, was treated as attentively as the steed of an aid-de-camp; and the precedent for a recipe for a prime Minister, might be found in that of his former General's crack charger. Prime Ministers, however, were persons whom von Hoofstettein seldom had the pleasure of killing; for he was not the Court-physician. Seeing that Vivian had a cold and slight fever, he ordered him a very recherché mash, and wished him good morning. Essper George saved our hero from a dose strong enough to have reduced a cart-horse to a lady's jennet; and by quickly extricating his master from the fatal grasp of this Galen of fetlocks, whose real origin he suspected, from the odd manner in which he felt a pulse, his action strangely resembling a delicate examination of a hoof—Essper, perhaps, prevented the history of Vivian Grey from closing with the present chapter.
On the second day after his arrival at Reisenburg, Vivian received the following letter ​from the Prince of Little Lilliput.—His luggage did not accompany the epistle.
"Mr. von Grey.
"My dear Friend,
"By the time you have received this, I shall have returned to Turriparva. My visit to a certain gentleman was prolonged for one day. I never can convey to you by words the sense I entertain of the value of your friendship, and of your services; I trust that time will afford me opportunities of testifying it by my actions. I return home by the same road by which we came; you remember how excellent the road was, as indeed are all the roads in Reisenburg; that must be confessed by all. I fear that the most partial admirers of the old regime cannot say as much for the convenience of travelling in the time of our fathers. Good roads are most excellent things, and one of the first marks of civilization and prosperity. The Emperor Napoleon, who, it must be confessed, was after all no common mind, was celebrated for his roads. ​You have doubtless admired the Route Napoleon on the Rhine, and if you travel into Italy, I am informed that you will be equally, and even more struck by the passage over the Simplon, and the other Italian roads. Reisenburg has certainly kept pace with the spirit of the time: nobody can deny that; and I confess to you that the more I consider the subject, it appears to me that the happiness, prosperity, and content of a State, are the best evidences of the wisdom and beneficent rule of a government. Many things are very excellent in theory, which are quite the reverse in practice, and even ludicrous.—And while we should do our most to promote the cause and uphold the interests of rational liberty, still, at the same time, we should ever be on our guard against the crude ideas and revolutionary systems of those, who are quite inexperienced in that sort of particular knowledge which is necessary for all statesmen. Nothing is so easy as to make things look fine on paper,—we should never forget that there is a great difference between high sounding generalities, and laborious details. ​Is it reasonable to expect that men who have passed their lives dreaming in Colleges and old musty Studies, should be at all calculated to take the head of affairs, or know what measures those at the head of affairs ought to adopt?—I think not. A certain personage, who by the bye, is one of the most clear-headed, and most perfect men of business that I ever had the pleasure of being acquainted with; a real practical man, in short; he tells me that Professor Skyrocket, whom you will most likely see at Reisenburg, wrote an article in the Military Quarterly Review which is published there, on the probable expenses of a war between Austria and Prussia, and forgot the commissariat altogether. Did you ever know any thing so ridiculous? What business have such fellows to meddle with affairs of state? They should certainly be put down: that I think none can deny. A liberal spirit in government is certainly a most excellent thing; but we must always remember that liberty may degenerate into licentiousness. Liberty is certainly an excellent thing,—that all admit; but, as a cer​tain person very well observed, so is physic, and yet it is not to be given at all times, but only when the frame is in a state to require it. People may be as unprepared for a wise and discreet use of liberty, as a vulgar person may be for the management of a great estate, unexpectedly inherited: there is a great deal in this, and in my opinion there are cases in which to force liberty down a people's throat, is presenting them, not with a blessing, but a curse. I shall send your luggage on immediately; it is very probable that I may be in town at the end of the week, for a short time. I wish much to see, and to consult you, and therefore hope that you will not leave Reisenburg before you see
Your faithful and obliged friend,
Little Lilliput."
Two days after the receipt of this letter, Essper George ran into the room with greater animation than he was usually accustomed to exhibit in the chamber of an invalid; and with a much less solemn physiognomy than he had ​thought proper to assume since his master's arrival at Reisenburg.
"Lord, Sir! whom do you think I have just met?"
"Whom?" asked Vivian with eagerness, for, as is always the case when such questions are asked us, he was thinking of every person in the world except the right one. It might be——
"To think that I should see him!" continued Essper. "It is a man then," thought Vivian;—"who is it at once, Essper?"
"I thought your Highness would not guess; it will quite cure you to hear it—Master Rodolph!"
"Master Rodolph!"
"Ay! and there's great news in the wind."
"Which of course you have confidentially extracted from him. Pray let us have it."
"The Prince of Little Lilliput is coming to Reisenburg," said Essper.
"Well! I had some idea of that before," said Vivian.
​"Oh! then your Highness knows it all, I suppose," said Essper, with a look of great disappointment.
"I know nothing more than I have mentioned," said his master.
"What! does not your Highness know that the Prince has come over; that he is going to live at Court; and be, heaven knows what! that he is to carry a staff every day before the Grand Duke at dinner, stuffed out with padding, and covered with orders; does not your Highness know that?"
"I know nothing of all this; and so tell me in plain German what the case is."
"Well, then," continued Essper; "I suppose you do not know that his Highness the Prince is to be his Excellency the Grand Marshal—that unfortunate, but principal Officer of state, having received his dismissal yesterday: they are coming up immediately. Not a moment is to be lost, which seems to me very odd. Master Rodolph is arranging every thing; and he has this morning purchased from his master's predecessor, his palace, furniture, wines, ​and pictures; in short, his whole establishment: the late Grand Marshal consoling himself for his loss of office, and revenging himself on his successor, by selling him his property at a hundred per cent. profit. However, Master Rodolph seems quite contented with his bargain; and your luggage is come, Sir. His Highness. the Prince, will be in town at the end of the week; and all the men are to be put in new livery. Mr. Arnelm is to be his Highness' chamberlain; and Von Neuwied master of the horse. So you see, Sir, you were right; and that old puss in boots was no traitor, after all. Upon my soul, I did not much believe your Highness, until I heard all this good news."