by Poe · Cluster: Satire of Society · Epigram · Satire
Abstract
A comic tale of the trickster Baron Ritzner von Jung, master of mystification, who humiliates a pompous duellist with a nonsense treatise and a decanter hurled at a mirror; satire of the duello and honor.
Testo / Text
Parti / Parts
Readability (prose)48.5 Flesch ease13 FK grade16 Fog14% complex26.2 words/sent
Connections
Archetypes: Trickster, Fool Motifs: Mirror, Book Reading, Wine and Drink, Swords and Weapons, Letters and Writing Themes & Concepts: Deception, Appearance vs Reality, Satire of Society, Honour, Grotesque, Pride Forms & Genres: Satire, Short Story
Testo integrale / Full text
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_.