Читать книгу Asmodeus at Large - Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон - Страница 5

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After all, there are few pleasanter modes of spending your time than over a bottle of good Chamberlin, enjoyed with an agreeable Devil. As we leave the age of five-and-twenty behind us, we begin to like wine and talk. Women and moonlight are still charming,—but they have, passed from the drama of life to the interlude. “And what,” said I to Asmodeus,—“what do you propose for the rest of the night? shall we visit Berenger, and make him sing us one of his own songs, or shall we hire a guitar between us and go a-serenading with Messieurs les Chats? perhaps your present Don Cleofas may discover a new Seraphina.” "As to that,”—replied Asmodeus, as he quaffed the first glass of a new bottle, for those devils are judges of good wine, and their constitutional thirst is a great advantage to them in a place like the Rocher;—“as to that, whenever you wish to turn lover, I am at your service—’tis my vocation—I am the imp of valets and billetsdoux, and an intrigue is the breath of my nostrils —but I warn you, I have a little of the Mephistopheles in my nature when it comes to love-making, and my assistance may not turn out so happily as it seems. You see how frank wine makes one."

The Devil said this with great gravity—but I who was bent upon falling in love at the first favourable opportunity, and who, the more I see of life, am the more convinced that falling in love is far better than business, ambition, law or even fighting—for disrobing oneself of ennui—filled my glass gaily—and drinking to the memory of Le Sage, cried to the Devil—“A truce with your warnings, Asmodeus—I renounce human friends, because they are always advising and foretelling—plunge me into embarrassments—I will not blame —I will love you for it—I like a difficulty above all things—it is such a pleasure to get out of it I never knew either despair or regret, and I defy the devil himself to subdue my hearty confidence in my own resources. But drink, Asmodeus—drink to the memory of that incomparable wit, who has left us in the Boy of Santillane, the epic of daily life: how I envy you the honour of having made his acquaintance! By the by—hem!—pray what become of novel-writers in the next world? You see nothing of them, I hope.”

“They are punished according to their literary demerits,” replied the Devil, “for a bad novel is a serious injury to mankind. Of good writers know we naught—for it is held that a man can do more good by a book than harm by a life, and it is not even asked in the next world whether or not Shakspeare loved le beau sexe et le bon vin.”

“Monsieur le Diable, & votre sante. Your sentiments do the highest honour to your head and heart; and in future I will study the canons of criticism, instead of the laws of morality.”

“They are one and the same, properly understood,” said the Devil, coolly;—and tossing off his last glass, for no sooner had he begun to moralize, than he made double haste towards the end of the bottle—he rose up, and proposed an Haroun-al-Raschid sort of excursion.

“With all my heart,” said I, seizing my hat. So we paid the bill, and sauntered into the street The Devil began to whistle. “I have summoned, ” said he, after he had finished an air from Der Freischutz,—“I have summoned a couple of notions of travelling from the mind of a German Prince—here they are—and will serve us for horses in our ride about the city. His Highness lately visited you, entered people’s houses under a feigned name, and where he was received as the Prince, he lived as the spy. His notions of travelling are particularly useful to us in our excursion, for they are excessively rapid: so much so, that they distance recollection, and play the deuce with exactness. But that’s nothing to us, we are not writing travels. Allons!” We sprang on our steeds, and I felt myself instantly seized with the furor of describing. Nay, the more I saw of a house, the more I felt inclined to abuse its inhabitants. But my horse shied so that I was all but over—when it came unawares on a house called, from the English original, ‘The Traveller’s Club.’"

“Look,” said Asmodeus, pointing to me the house of the Home Department; "do you see in that room those two gentlemen, who are very busily reading a despatch. That long-faced, bald man is M. Foudras, the secretary-general of Perier—the very man who was the bosom friend of Decazes and Corbiere: he is the best inventor and discoverer of mock conspiracies that Paris possesses—they are going to give him a patent for it. The other, he on the right hand, is M. Gisquet, the Prefet of Police—an ex-porteur of the house of Perier, and homme depaille of the present President of the Council. The paper they are reading is a denunciation against les amis du peuple, who are divided in several sections, and who assemble secretly in private houses to plot and to discuss political matters. According to the Arguses of M. Gisquet, they are every where, but are never found when the police makes a descent on the suspected rendezvous.”

While Asmodeus was giving me this information, the door opened; a thin, pale man entered. Foudras and Gisquet rose respectfully. “And who is he?” said I.—“That is no less a person than Casimir Perier,” replied Asmodeus. “You see how attentively he is perusing that paper. It is the evening journal, 'The Mouvement.' Observe what contortions, and what grimaces he makes: see how he trembles with rage. General Dubourg attacks him personally every evening. Look, now, how fiercely he falls upon the Prefet de Police. Satan! his Prefetship has no sinecure! He has ordered that two new spies should be directed to watch and follow every step of General Dubourg. See, now, they have taken again to the denunciation! The Minister is furious, and has threatened to disgrace M. Foudras if he does not find out the chief rendezvous of the amis du peuple. Our gentlemen seem abashed. Perier has exposed to them his painful situation; strong suspicions are entertained that the conspiracy of Notre Dame has been one of his political stratagems; it is also to be apprehended, that before the Justice the persons arrested will prove it to be so.

Perier will throw all the blame on M. Foudras and Gisquet, if he cannot by other means prevent certain disclosures of his conduct This they will submit to. Hear them—they promise to take Upon themselves all the blame in the transaction, should it come to light; but they have demanded a new supply of money to arrange the matter: it is granted. Money is the last thing a good Minister cares about, especially if it’s the Nation’s.”

After this the Prime Minister sat down to write. I begged Asmodeus to inform me upon what subject; the Devil replied that he was inditing a letter to Metternich, and that it related to the affairs of Italy. “Perier will not interfere, should the Austrians go again into the Roman States.”-—“Is it possible?” replied I.—“Nay, it is necessary!” retorted Asmodeus; “France has lost the opportunity of commanding respect, and she must now act with forbearance.”

“But,” continued my guide, “turn yourself this way, and I will show you a meeting of the amis du peuple.” I obeyed, and saw a great number of young men, assembled in a large room: they were all standing, and a little man, with black hair, and very dark complexion, was haranguing them. "Who is he?” asked I, “That is M. Marrast, the most violent of the amis du peuple, and the most constant personal enemy of Louis Philippe and Casimir Perier. That tall man that stands by him is M. Fazy, the Editor of 'La Revolution;' and the dark and tall fine-looking man, whom you see next to Fazy, is General Dubourg. ” While Asmodeus was speaking to me, the assembly gradually warmed into great agitation. They seemed exasperated, and gesticulated vehemently:—those foreigners cannot get coolly into a passion, as we do! “And why all that agitation?” said I to Asmodeus. “Why? Because Marrast has ended his speech by advising his comrades not to lose time—to prepare for attacking openly the Government as soon as possible; for if they delay, there is little hope for them.”

“And who is that young man now speaking so violently?”

“That is Gallois, the same who was tried for having threatened to murder Louis Philippe, and who was acquitted. That other, next to him, is Guinard, a true Republican, who has more respect for a chiffonnier than for Louis Philippe and all his Ministers. That little fellow with a bald head is Cauchois le Maire, a very liberal writer, and the only independent redacteur of 'The Constitutionnel.'"

"Now I will show you a Comite Doctrinaire. In that drawing-room, you see those stern-looking gentlemen sitting around that sofa which is occupied by three persons? Well, that in the middle is the Duke de Broglie; the one on the right hand is M. Guizot, and that on the left is the President of the Chamber of Deputies. That very little man, now talking, is M. Thiers,—the great champion of the juste milieu. Next to him observe that crafty-looking man, that is M. Dupin, the elder, the bosom friend of Louis Philippe, and the best turn-coat of Europe. He who stands by M. Gazot is Montalivet, late Minister of the Home Department, present Minister of Instruction, and who would not object to be Ministre du Pot de Chambre, provided he was only a Minister.”—'“But what are they chatting about?” said I, somewhat irreverently.—"They are consulting,” answered Asmodeus, “.the best means of preventing Odilon Barrot, Mauguin, and Lamarque from overthrowing the present Administration. The Duke has proposed to make them Peers of France, in order to take them from the Chamber of Deputies, and therefore Thiers has put himself into the rage proper to a man who admires le juste milieu, and has declared this project dangerous; first, because the proposed Peers would, probably, not accept the honour_;; and, secondly, because, if they did accept it, it would be an admission on the part of the present Administration that the Opposition had almost conquered the juste milieu. The little orator, you perceive; has succeeded, and all the assembly are of his opinion.” At this moment entered Casimir Perier. He was received with great eagerness. Asmodeus told me that he Had brought the original of the letter he had just written to Metternich. It was read en comite, and all present approved the political principles it contained. I next saw coming in a gentleman, tall and of a yellowish complexion; with a cast in his eye. I inquired whp he was, and Asmodeus told me that he was M. Barthe, the Minister of Justice. As soon as he was seated, I remarked that all the members collected around him, and were listening with great attention to what he was saying. “And what is he speaking of?” said I.—“Why, he is repeating the examination of the principal persons arrested for the conspiracy of Notre Dame. Have you seen how markedly Guizot and Perier are struck by his narration? Well, the procedure does not promise a favourable result for the present Administration.”

We now spurred on our horses, and entered the garden of the Tuileries—dear-remembered garden of assignations and hopes—of meetings, of quarrels, of reconciliations! Never, till youth itself be forgotten, shall I forget thee!

I turned, with a sigh, to contemplate the interior of the Tuileries. I saw that beautiful apartment which had been inhabited by Marie Antoinette, Josephine, Marie Louise, the Duchesse d’Angouleme, and of which the Queen of the French is now the possessor. Here, in the drawing-room which opens on the gardens, the Queen was with her girls, and her two younger sons.—She was reading a pious Italian book, “La Manna dell’ anima;” Princess Marie, who is destined to be the wife of all the new-created kings, was writing a letter, and Asmodeus told me that it was addressed to General Beilliard, and turned on the projected marriage with King Leopold; Princess Clementine was embroidering, and Princess Louise was making up linen for the poor.'The Dukes de Monpensier and D’Aumale were playing at draughts, and both dressed as Gardes Nationales. After this, Asmodeus showed me the former habitation of Madame de Barry, now the residence of the sister of Louis Philippe. She was very busy in casting up accounts, and in making notes for the curtailing the emoluments of those who are employed about the Court. She had in her hands the bill of M. Paer, of the last musical concert, and had reduced it almost to half the sum usually given. Ah, if I could but get her for my house-keeper!

“Now,” said Asmodeus to me, you will see Louis Philippe.” I turned, and beheld a man, with a respectable father-of-a-family look, sitting by a table with a bald-headed gentleman, and poring very attentively over an architectural design.

“The bald-headed gentleman is M. Fontaine, the architect; they are concerting a plan for a Royal Bazaar. His Majesty has a great turn for such projects; in fact, between you and me, his character has been mistaken; he only looks on the Crown as a great commercial speculation. He has at once the soul and the civility of a tax-gatherer; and if he loses the Throne, give him a patent for building shops on a new plan, with a certain gain, and he will be at once the happiest and most popular man in the kingdom.”

By these remarks it was easy to perceive that Asmodeus was no lover of the Citizen King; but who knows whether the satire of the Devil was not the best compliment the Monarch could receive? I settle not these points. I wish to keep well with a Government that could banish one from the Rocher de Cancale. And I would fain not share with Lady Morgan the honours of an interdict.

The Devil proceeded to descant on the royal menage, when turning round he perceived me very unequivocally yawning. He had lived too long with the aristocracy not to be well bred, and he immediately proposed to me a change of scene: the wine, however, had made me drowsy, and I proposed a return to London in order to let the newspapers know what was really going on at the Metropolis of Europe. The Devil consented, and telling our steeds to be steady for once in a way, we set off in an easy canter. The Devil fell into a profound silence—it lasted so long that I was surprised at it, despite of my own drowsiness. “What are you thinking of, my friend?” said I. “I was thinking,” quoth Asmodeus, "of the Lord Chancellor.”—“Better now than later,” said I; “he would be delighted if he knew who was so honouring him.”—“I was thinking,” resumed the Devil, disregarding my remark, “how desirable it would be for France to possess such a man! the misfortune of France is that her men of reflection are not men of action—her men of action are not men of reflection. Had she possessed one who was both, and who, as great a man as Harry Brougham, was also as profound an actor, and had he been thrown uppermost as he undoubtedly would, Franee now would have sprung up from her revolution on the wings of her proper eagle. He would apparently have spurned the juste milieu—he would have marched at the head of the mouvement. But he would have restrained while he appeared to have encouraged, and won confidence for principles while he was guiding those principles into legitimate channels. ”

"Doubtless,” said I, “but Harry Brougham has pretty nearly the same part to play at home!”

"Not at all,” rejoined Asmodeus, quickly; “do you not perceive that in England he is chained by the fetters of his vocation? With all his versatility, Lord Brougham cannot be Prime Minister and Lord Chancellor both. His law reforms, and his law hearings, and his woolsack, and his replies to'Lord Dudley give him enough to do. Pity that he was ever a lawyer—he ought to be your Prime Minister at this moment He, at least, would not have been wavering between six Peers and thirty. The Reform would have been gained ere this, and England—” Here, having had enough of Reform from human lips, I fell fast asleep, and when I woke it was broad noon on the next day, and I was in my own bed-room in—Street

O Novelty! Mother of all our delights—the bright-eyed,—the fresh-breathing,—the seraphwinged!—Morning of the soul—wishes are the birds that hymn thee—hopes are the dews that sparkle beneath thy tread—where thou walkest, "all things are eloquent with gladness, and life’s air is quaffed as an elixir. What Is love without thee? —what ambition?—what social conviviality?—what even solitary aspirings?—the first of any thing how delightful—the repetition how palling! Thee do I hunt with an eager heart through an existence that I feel is not fated to endure long. Come when it will, the last day shall find me prepared, and I will walk with a bold step across that bridge which conducts me at least to a world hitherto untried! in truth, a man must indeed be an adorer of novelty when he rides out in the nights of January with the Devil for a companion!

While I was thus musing and sipping my coffee, Asmodeus entered the room. I greeted him with joy. “And what news?” cried I, throwing down the papers which I had just taken up in despair.

“Why, I find,” said Asmodeus—(“have you any cigars here? ah! thank you, they’re all the fashion not only in Regent Street above, but in Pandemonium below, ever since James the First flattered our national pride by attributing the invention of tobacco to us”)—why, I find some one —not you, of course, you have been too busy—has been putting our adventures into a Magazine, and I have been asking the world what they think of us.”

"Ah! that must be interesting,” said I, drawing my chair nearer my visiter’s, for I dare say the reader has lived long enough to know that any thing about oneself is interesting:—and that is the charm of notoriety.

‘Why, they say that my reappearance is not new.”

"A discovery, few reappearances are! But what does that signify?—you appear after a new fashion —surely that is novelty enough in the world. We will make the adventures new before we part, and, by the by, you shall introduce me au plutot to the Fairies, since you insinuate they still exist. It will be pleasant to spend one of these frosty nights among the green knolls of the pigmy gentles. The Magazine—what sort of a thing is that?”

“Oh, an old friend with a new face. It proposes to fill up a certain vacuum in English literature, and aims at the design of the Encyclopedists of France, leaving out their infidelity and so forth —to keep up philosophically with the mouvement, and to fight the old opinions with the new. It takes a modest name, but has more aims and more intentions than it puts forth.”

“May it prosper!" said I, disinterestedly; “doubtless it deserves it: and what else is there stirring in the great Republic of Literature?”

“Marry!” returned the Devil, “you are growing so good that there are very few books now published that a Devil can read. I remember the time when every Novel smacked of the stews—when a Play was villany made pleasant—and every doctrinal controversy was brimfull of envy, malice, and the inhumanities of hatred. Now all is smooth, civil, and oily. Your Novelists moralize, and your Plays fast on a meagre double entendre. As to controversy there’s an end of it—except in politics. This growing decency is not peculiar to England—it extends all over Europe. Manners wear petticoats, and are ladylike exceedingly. Yet, you are not a bit better for it—we have just as large a proportion of you below. Why is this? I don’t understand it. Nor does your conversation in this respect reflect the modest colours of your literature. Men talk just as naughtily after dinner—Divines and ladies abuse each other just as vehemently as ever. In jesting, the most popular jokes are still the least delicate, and yet the moment you see in a book any thing the least resembling what you are all talking, laughing, chuckling, and hugging yourselves about every day in the week, you set up your backs at it, and call the author all the names you can think of. In fact, all men have two suits of character—the everyday suit and the, Sunday suit. And the best of you are much deeper hypocrites than the world is aware of.”

The morning looked fine, and so I proposed a stroll. Asmodeus, who seemed not himself to be always free from ennui, agreed to the proposition with considerable avidity. We had scarce got into the street before we met the Bishop of London. I had some slight acquaintance with his Lordship—he joined us, and the Devil, with great politeness, offered him his arm. I pass over our conversation, lest the good Bishop should regret his familiarity with my companion. But what can a Bishop expect from a Reformer? “I know not,” said the Devil, as we now tete-a-tete entered the Green Park, “what I should more observe in you English, than your half-and-halfness. You are so bold and so timid—so lavish and so economical. You order a New Palace slap dash—and just when it’s finished, you think it would be better to let it go to ruin. But really you have no grounds for such niggardly conduct in the case of this splendid edifice,” and the Devil, putting on his spectacles, peered at the pile of Pimlico which stood majestically before us. “ How grand!” ejaculated Asmodeus; “what a noble simplicity!—here are no crowded ornaments, no paltry figures, no overladen imagery—all is simple and striking—then the building is so lofty and so commanding—you may see it all over London. Ah, your architects study the sublime! And what a beautiful idea that round thing at the top—the crown or rather nightcap of the whole; it looks just as if you had first put up the house, and were now going to put it out! Doubtless a moral is ingeniously meant—something about Time destroying the noblest edifices. And indeed that would be very emblematic—for I hear the palace was not intended to last.

“All that’s bright must fade.”

’Tis a pretty idea making ephemera in brick and mortar—poetical !”

“Pooh!” said I, patriotically, for Buckingham Palace, as the reader well knows, is a sore point with us!—“Pooh! the Palace is a very fine Palace, and Mr. Nash says it will be quite another thing when it comes to have its gold gates (mosaic gold) put on. But indeed we shall probably let it stay as it is. The nation can’t spend any more money upon objects of show. ”

“That is exactly it,” returned the Devil, in his d—d sententious way; “you make a sacrifice to Extravagance, that you may leave it unfinished—-a monument of Folly!“

While we were thus conversing, the Duke of Wellington drove by in his carriage.

“Now, quoth the Devil, “I am curious to know what that man thinks of human nature. Between you and me, I suspect that he heartily despises it One thing he must despise, and that is Popular Opinion. No man ever saw it through so many varieties. Adored to-day, hissed tomorrow—now worshipped with huzzas, now pelted with brickbats—now receiving a magnificent house from the public bounty, and now seeing its windows smashed by the public indignation. Can that man respect those who are all idolaters at one hour, all execrators the next? Impossible! for he must know himself to have been always the same!—the «ame when hissed, the same when huzzaed! And he has only, therefore, the choice, whether he shall despise in his fellow-subjects the want of consistency, or the want of penetration.”

“Signor Don Asmodeus, you talk very well for a Spanish Devil, but you are not profound enough for an Englishman. The people are all very right—when the man served their cause (or they fancied he did,) they were grateful—when he impeded it, they were indignant Voila, a very simple way of viewing the case.”

“It is not saying much for mankind, when your best apology for them is insisting on the naturalness of being selfish,” said the Devil.

“Nonsense!” said I. “Tell me one thing—will the Duke of Wellington ever be Prime Minister again? ”

“Possibly; in a reformed Parliament”

“Ha! ha!”

“I’m very serious. Re-action may follow Reform—the absurdity is, to suppose that it can precede it.”

“That’s true enough,” said. I, and I fell into a reverie; “for my friends are all Whigs!”

"Observe that old gentleman in his green carriage,” quoth the Devil; “he is J—, the wit of a former age. He has become deaf, in order not to hear the dull things of his successors. Poor J-! It is a curious sight, and full of interest, the spectacle of a superannuated jester!—it is like the skeleton of a butterfly! There is one thing that seems strange to me in the nature of wit—it fluctuates. A man, very witty in one age, is thought either very vulgar or very dull in the next: it is because wit depends upon the tone of the times, and thus becomes, in the vein of its persiflage, in fashion or out. Poor J—! I remember being behind his elbow some hundred or two years ago, when a tax was laid on hair powder and tea, J-scratched off the following impromptu—it was, thought wonderful then:—

'You tax your powder, and you tax our tea—

We’ll soon have no beaux left—not ev'n bo-hea!'"

“The wit,” said I, “is certainly not of the most elevated order; and thereupon the Devil and I fell into a long dispute about the nature of wit, in which, selon la regle, nothing was omitted—but wit itself.

“What is this?” said I, some little while afterwards, as we were looking over the newspapers at the Athenaeum—“'A Public Dinner,'to celebrate the memory of Burns and the arrival of the Ettrick Shepherd!—let us go.” The Devil sneered, and we went

Oh! what a failure! Dinner presumptive at six o’clock, and apparent at a quarter past seven! Then the literary gentlemen present! the flower of England, warmed, from ill-humour to noise; and the row became stunning. It was evidently a Tory trap, none of the Liberals advertised as stewards, Campbell, &c. were present, doubtless they heard the meeting was to be political, and discreetly kept away. Such is the mania of Politics, that even the peaceful ground of Literature is not to be left unpolluted! the high name of Burns, the noblest of Scotland’s reformers, is to be prostituted to the purposes of Anti-reform! and Hogg (whose bold and native genius required more generous treatment) is to be considered, not as the Poet of “Kilmene,” but the incarnation of Blackwood’s Magazine. These devices of party despair make a freeman sick; they make a Tory traveller exceedingly drunk, verbum sat! Great Burns! brave and unhappy spirit! couldst thou have looked down and beheld thy haughty name bowed to such purposes? Out on it!

The Devil saw me in a passion: “Come home,” said he, "for to-morrow night I have better sport in store for you. Talking of Burns, puts me in mind of Witches and Tam O’Shanter. I know some most agreeable Witches, to-morrow night is a gala, I will introduce you to them.”

“Are you in earnest?—are Witches still extant?”

“In plenty.”

Give me your hand. O Diamond of Devils, you restore me to life!—is it possible that at this day I still have one novelty left me, and that of the feminine sex! Oh! Asmodeus, an amour with a Witch will be heaven itself!”

“Are not ordinary women possessed of sufficient witchcraft?” said the Devil.

I was about to reply, when suddenly