Mystification

Slid, if these be your “passados” and “montantes,” I’ll have none

o’ them.

—NED KNOWLES.

The Baron Ritzner von Jung was a noble Hungarian family, every

member of which (at least as far back into antiquity as any

certain records extend) was more or less remarkable for talent of

some description—the majority for that species of grotesquerie

in conception of which Tieck, a scion of the house, has given a

vivid, although by no means the most vivid exemplifications. My

acquaintance with Ritzner commenced at the magnificent Chateau

Jung, into which a train of droll adventures, not to be made

public, threw me during the summer months of the year 18—. Here

it was that I obtained a place in his regard, and here, with

somewhat more difficulty, a partial insight into his mental

conformation. In later days this insight grew more clear, as the

intimacy which had at first permitted it became more close; and

when, after three years separation, we met at G——n, I knew all

that it was necessary to know of the character of the Baron

Ritzner von Jung.

I remember the buzz of curiosity which his advent excited within

the college precincts on the night of the twenty-fifth of June. I

remember still more distinctly, that while he was pronounced by

all parties at first sight “the most remarkable man in the

world,” no person made any attempt at accounting for his opinion.

That he was unique appeared so undeniable, that it was deemed

impertinent to inquire wherein the uniquity consisted. But,

letting this matter pass for the present, I will merely observe

that, from the first moment of his setting foot within the limits

of the university, he began to exercise over the habits, manners,

persons, purses, and propensities of the whole community which

surrounded him, an influence the most extensive and despotic, yet

at the same time the most indefinite and altogether

unaccountable. Thus the brief period of his residence at the

university forms an era in its annals, and is characterized by

all classes of people appertaining to it or its dependencies as

“that very extraordinary epoch forming the domination of the

Baron Ritzner von Jung.”

Upon his advent to G——n, he sought me out in my apartments. He

was then of no particular age, by which I mean that it was

impossible to form a guess respecting his age by any data

personally afforded. He might have been fifteen or fifty, and was

twenty-one years and seven months. He was by no means a handsome

man—perhaps the reverse. The contour of his face was somewhat

angular and harsh. His forehead was lofty and very fair; his nose

a snub; his eyes large, heavy, glassy, and meaningless. About the

mouth there was more to be observed. The lips were gently

protruded, and rested the one upon the other, after such a

fashion that it is impossible to conceive any, even the most

complex, combination of human features, conveying so entirely,

and so singly, the idea of unmitigated gravity, solemnity and

repose.

It will be perceived, no doubt, from what I have already said,

that the Baron was one of those human anomalies now and then to

be found, who make the science of mystification the study and the

business of their lives. For this science a peculiar turn of mind

gave him instinctively the cue, while his physical appearance

afforded him unusual facilities for carrying his prospects into

effect. I firmly believe that no student at G——n, during that

renowned epoch so quaintly termed the domination of the Baron

Ritzner von Jung, ever rightly entered into the mystery which

overshadowed his character. I truly think that no person at the

university, with the exception of myself, ever suspected him to

be capable of a joke, verbal or practical:—the old bull-dog at

the garden-gate would sooner have been accused,—the ghost of

Heraclitus,—or the wig of the Emeritus Professor of Theology.

This, too, when it was evident that the most egregious and

unpardonable of all conceivable tricks, whimsicalities and

buffooneries were brought about, if not directly by him, at least

plainly through his intermediate agency or connivance. The

beauty, if I may so call it, of his art mystifique, lay in that

consummate ability (resulting from an almost intuitive knowledge

of human nature, and a most wonderful self-possession,) by means

of which he never failed to make it appear that the drolleries he

was occupied in bringing to a point, arose partly in spite, and

partly in consequence of the laudable efforts he was making for

their prevention, and for the preservation of the good order and

dignity of Alma Mater. The deep, the poignant, the overwhelming

mortification, which upon each such failure of his praise worthy

endeavors, would suffuse every lineament of his countenance, left

not the slightest room for doubt of his sincerity in the bosoms

of even his most skeptical companions. The adroitness, too, was

no less worthy of observation by which he contrived to shift the

sense of the grotesque from the creator to the created—from his

own person to the absurdities to which he had given rise. In no

instance before that of which I speak, have I known the habitual

mystific escape the natural consequence of his manoevres—an

attachment of the ludicrous to his own character and person.

Continually enveloped in an atmosphere of whim, my friend

appeared to live only for the severities of society; and not even

his own household have for a moment associated other ideas than

those of the rigid and august with the memory of the Baron

Ritzner von Jung.

During the epoch of his residence at G——n it really appeared that

the demon of the dolce far niente lay like an incubus upon the

university. Nothing, at least, was done beyond eating and

drinking and making merry. The apartments of the students were

converted into so many pot-houses, and there was no pot-house of

them all more famous or more frequented than that of the Baron.

Our carousals here were many, and boisterous, and long, and never

unfruitful of events.

Upon one occasion we had protracted our sitting until nearly

daybreak, and an unusual quantity of wine had been drunk. The

company consisted of seven or eight individuals besides the Baron

and myself. Most of these were young men of wealth, of high

connection, of great family pride, and all alive with an

exaggerated sense of honor. They abounded in the most ultra

German opinions respecting the duello. To these Quixotic notions

some recent Parisian publications, backed by three or four

desperate and fatal rencounters at G——n, had given new vigor and

impulse; and thus the conversation, during the greater part of

the night, had run wild upon the all-engrossing topic of the

times. The Baron, who had been unusually silent and abstracted in

the earlier portion of the evening, at length seemed to be

aroused from his apathy, took a leading part in the discourse,

and dwelt upon the benefits, and more especially upon the

beauties, of the received code of etiquette in passages of arms

with an ardor, an eloquence, an impressiveness, and an

affectionateness of manner, which elicited the warmest enthusiasm

from his hearers in general, and absolutely staggered even

myself, who well knew him to be at heart a ridiculer of those

very points for which he contended, and especially to hold the

entire fanfaronade of duelling etiquette in the sovereign

contempt which it deserves.

Looking around me during a pause in the Baron’s discourse (of

which my readers may gather some faint idea when I say that it

bore resemblance to the fervid, chanting, monotonous, yet musical

sermonic manner of Coleridge), I perceived symptoms of even more

than the general interest in the countenance of one of the party.

This gentleman, whom I shall call Hermann, was an original in

every respect—except, perhaps, in the single particular that he

was a very great fool. He contrived to bear, however, among a

particular set at the university, a reputation for deep

metaphysical thinking, and, I believe, for some logical talent.

As a duellist he had acquired great renown, even at G——n. I

forget the precise number of victims who had fallen at his hands;

but they were many. He was a man of courage undoubtedly. But it

was upon his minute acquaintance with the etiquette of the

duello, and the nicety of his sense of honor, that he most

especially prided himself. These things were a hobby which he

rode to the death. To Ritzner, ever upon the lookout for the

grotesque, his peculiarities had for a long time past afforded

food for mystification. Of this, however, I was not aware;

although, in the present instance, I saw clearly that something

of a whimsical nature was upon the tapis with my friend, and that

Hermann was its especial object.

As the former proceeded in his discourse, or rather monologue, I

perceived the excitement of the latter momently increasing. At

length he spoke; offering some objection to a point insisted upon

by R., and giving his reasons in detail. To these the Baron

replied at length (still maintaining his exaggerated tone of

sentiment) and concluding, in what I thought very bad taste, with

a sarcasm and a sneer. The hobby of Hermann now took the bit in

his teeth. This I could discern by the studied hair-splitting

farrago of his rejoinder. His last words I distinctly remember.

“Your opinions, allow me to say, Baron von Jung, although in the

main correct, are, in many nice points, discreditable to yourself

and to the university of which you are a member. In a few

respects they are even unworthy of serious refutation. I would

say more than this, sir, were it not for the fear of giving you

offence (here the speaker smiled blandly), I would say, sir, that

your opinions are not the opinions to be expected from a

gentleman.”

As Hermann completed this equivocal sentence, all eyes were

turned upon the Baron. He became pale, then excessively red;

then, dropping his pocket-handkerchief, stooped to recover it,

when I caught a glimpse of his countenance, while it could be

seen by no one else at the table. It was radiant with the

quizzical expression which was its natural character, but which I

had never seen it assume except when we were alone together, and

when he unbent himself freely. In an instant afterward he stood

erect, confronting Hermann; and so total an alteration of

countenance in so short a period I certainly never saw before.

For a moment I even fancied that I had misconceived him, and that

he was in sober earnest. He appeared to be stifling with passion,

and his face was cadaverously white. For a short time he remained

silent, apparently striving to master his emotion. Having at

length seemingly succeeded, he reached a decanter which stood

near him, saying as he held it firmly clenched—“The language you

have thought proper to employ, Mynheer Hermann, in addressing

yourself to me, is objectionable in so many particulars, that I

have neither temper nor time for specification. That my opinions,

however, are not the opinions to be expected from a gentleman, is

an observation so directly offensive as to allow me but one line

of conduct. Some courtesy, nevertheless, is due to the presence

of this company, and to yourself, at this moment, as my guest.

You will pardon me, therefore, if, upon this consideration, I

deviate slightly from the general usage among gentlemen in

similar cases of personal affront. You will forgive me for the

moderate tax I shall make upon your imagination, and endeavor to

consider, for an instant, the reflection of your person in yonder

mirror as the living Mynheer Hermann himself. This being done,

there will be no difficulty whatever. I shall discharge this

decanter of wine at your image in yonder mirror, and thus fulfil

all the spirit, if not the exact letter, of resentment for your

insult, while the necessity of physical violence to your real

person will be obviated.”

With these words he hurled the decanter, full of wine, against

the mirror which hung directly opposite Hermann; striking the

reflection of his person with great precision, and of course

shattering the glass into fragments. The whole company at once

started to their feet, and, with the exception of myself and

Ritzner, took their departure. As Hermann went out, the Baron

whispered me that I should follow him and make an offer of my

services. To this I agreed; not knowing precisely what to make of

so ridiculous a piece of business.

The duellist accepted my aid with his stiff and ultra recherché

air, and, taking my arm, led me to his apartment. I could hardly

forbear laughing in his face while he proceeded to discuss, with

the profoundest gravity, what he termed “the refinedly peculiar

character” of the insult he had received. After a tiresome

harangue in his ordinary style, he took down from his book

shelves a number of musty volumes on the subject of the duello,

and entertained me for a long time with their contents; reading

aloud, and commenting earnestly as he read. I can just remember

the titles of some of the works. There were the “Ordonnance of

Philip le Bel on Single Combat”; the “Theatre of Honor,” by

Favyn, and a treatise “On the Permission of Duels,” by Andiguier.

He displayed, also, with much pomposity, Brantome’s “Memoirs of

Duels,” published at Cologne, 1666, in the types of Elzevir—a

precious and unique vellum-paper volume, with a fine margin, and

bound by Derome. But he requested my attention particularly, and

with an air of mysterious sagacity, to a thick octavo, written in

barbarous Latin by one Hedelin, a Frenchman, and having the

quaint title, “Duelli Lex Scripta, et non; aliterque.” From this

he read me one of the drollest chapters in the world concerning

“Injuriae per applicationem, per constructionem, et per se,”

about half of which, he averred, was strictly applicable to his

own “refinedly peculiar” case, although not one syllable of the

whole matter could I understand for the life of me. Having

finished the chapter, he closed the book, and demanded what I

thought necessary to be done. I replied that I had entire

confidence in his superior delicacy of feeling, and would abide

by what he proposed. With this answer he seemed flattered, and

sat down to write a note to the Baron. It ran thus:

Sir,—My friend, M. P.-, will hand you this note. I find it

incumbent upon me to request, at your earliest convenience, an

explanation of this evening’s occurrences at your chambers. In

the event of your declining this request, Mr. P. will be happy to

arrange, with any friend whom you may appoint, the steps

preliminary to a meeting.

With sentiments of perfect respect,

Your most humble servant,

JOHANN HERMAN.

“_To the Baron Ritzner von Jung,

August 18th, 18_—.”

Not knowing what better to do, I called upon Ritzner with this

epistle. He bowed as I presented it; then, with a grave

countenance, motioned me to a seat. Having perused the cartel, he

wrote the following reply, which I carried to Hermann.

“SIR,—Through our common friend, Mr. P., I have received your

note of this evening. Upon due reflection I frankly admit the

propriety of the explanation you suggest. This being admitted, I

still find great difficulty, (owing to the refinedly peculiar

nature of our disagreement, and of the personal affront offered

on my part,) in so wording what I have to say by way of apology,

as to meet all the minute exigencies, and all the variable

shadows, of the case. I have great reliance, however, on that

extreme delicacy of discrimination, in matters appertaining to

the rules of etiquette, for which you have been so long and so

pre-eminently distinguished. With perfect certainty, therefore,

of being comprehended, I beg leave, in lieu of offering any

sentiments of my own, to refer you to the opinions of Sieur

Hedelin, as set forth in the ninth paragraph of the chapter of

“Injuriae per applicationem, per constructionem, et per se,” in

his “Duelli Lex scripta, et non; aliterque.” The nicety of your

discernment in all the matters here treated, will be sufficient,

I am assured, to convince you _that the mere circumstance of me

referring you_ to this admirable passage, ought to satisfy your

request, as a man of honor, for explanation.

“With sentiments of profound respect,

“Your most obedient servant,

“VON JUNG.”

“The Herr Johann Hermann,

August 18th, 18—”

Hermann commenced the perusal of this epistle with a scowl,

which, however, was converted into a smile of the most ludicrous

self-complacency as he came to the rigmarole about Injuriae per

applicationem, per constructionem, et per se. Having finished

reading, he begged me, with the blandest of all possible smiles,

to be seated, while he made reference to the treatise in

question. Turning to the passage specified, he read it with great

care to himself, then closed the book, and desired me, in my

character of confidential acquaintance, to express to the Baron

von Jung his exalted sense of his chivalrous behavior, and, in

that of second, to assure him that the explanation offered was of

the fullest, the most honorable, and the most unequivocally

satisfactory nature.

Somewhat amazed at all this, I made my retreat to the Baron. He

seemed to receive Hermann’s amicable letter as a matter of

course, and after a few words of general conversation, went to an

inner room and brought out the everlasting treatise “_Duelli Lex

scripta, et non; aliterque_.” He handed me the volume and asked

me to look over some portion of it. I did so, but to little

purpose, not being able to gather the least particle of meaning.

He then took the book himself, and read me a chapter aloud. To my

surprise, what he read proved to be a most horribly absurd

account of a duel between two baboons. He now explained the

mystery; showing that the volume, as it appeared prima facie,

was written upon the plan of the nonsense verses of Du Bartas;

that is to say, the language was ingeniously framed so as to

present to the ear all the outward signs of intelligibility, and

even of profundity, while in fact not a shadow of meaning

existed. The key to the whole was found in leaving out every

second and third word alternately, when there appeared a series

of ludicrous quizzes upon a single combat as practised in modern

times.

The Baron afterwards informed me that he had purposely thrown the

treatise in Hermann’s way two or three weeks before the

adventure, and that he was satisfied, from the general tenor of

his conversation, that he had studied it with the deepest

attention, and firmly believed it to be a work of unusual merit.

Upon this hint he proceeded. Hermann would have died a thousand

deaths rather than acknowledge his inability to understand

anything and everything in the universe that had ever been

written about the duello.