CHAPTER XIII

DOCTOR SPHEX

Doctor Aloysius Sphex lived in a very retired house, at the end of one of the faubourgs of Vienna. Heavy bars protected all the windows; thick plates of iron strengthened a low and narrow door, secured by a strong lock.

One had to pass boldly between two enormous mountain-dogs, chained behind the door, in order to reach a little interior court, where grass was growing, and which led to the kitchen. In this cold and gloomy place the doctor's old housekeeper was to be seen crouching near two expiring brands.

On the first floor the doctor had a large library, dusty and in disorder, encumbered with large folios, which seemed not to have been opened for a long time. A high window, with small panes of glass set in leaden sashes, and half hidden by a curtain of old tapestry, admitted a doubtful and dingy daylight. A vast chimney, with twisted stone columns and a sculptured mantle-piece, had been transformed into a part of the library; for the doctor never had a fire lighted, for fear of burning his books.

In order to guard himself against the sharp cold of the autumn, the councillor had conceived the idea of shutting himself up in an old sedan-chair, which had been placed in the middle of his study; closing its glasses, he found himself comfortably established to read and write.

Doctor Sphex, a little, thin, stooping old man, with thick eyebrows, piercing eyes, a caustic smile, projecting lower jaw, high-cheek bones and wrinkled skin, had a singularly sardonic and malignant countenance.

When his old inlaid clock struck two, the councillor came out of his sedan-chair, with almost automatic precision.

He wore an old rusty black coat, over which he drew a sort of gray overcoat, placed a hat with a broad brim on his red wig, and, in order to keep his head-dress in place, used a square handkerchief, folded triangularly, the two ends being tied under his chin.

Putting his spectacles into one of his pockets, and into the other a precious Elzevir, a little volume bound in black leather, Doctor Sphex took his cane and prepared to go out.

But, as if struck by a sudden thought, he turned back, recrossed the library and entered another room, closing the door behind him.

His eyes seemed to sparkle with joy. He took a key suspended from his watch-chain, opened a little chest, and drew from it with religious respect a flat and oblong cedar box. It contained a vellum manuscript in quarto. The forms of the written characters were those used in the tenth century; the titles and capital letters were gilt, and ornamented with vignettes.

After contemplating this manuscript with looks as eager, uneasy, and insatiable as those with which a miser gloats over his treasure, Doctor Sphex replaced the box, and carefully closed the chest which contained this precious specimen of caligraphy. Reassured of the safety of his dearest treasure, he went out to take his accustomed walk.

In passing by the housekeeper's room, he said to her, in an impatient tone:

"If the French Marquis comes to the charge again, whether I am at home or not, always tell him that I am absent."

"He has been again this morning, sir."

"That's good, that's good! What need have I to see this silly coxcomb, this spark, this beau, who, they say, _Non pudet ad morem discincti vivere Nattœ._"[2]

The old man directed his steps to a little valley situated behind the faubourgs, called the Vale of the Lindens.

Even as certain disdainfully exclusive amateurs acknowledge but one school of painting, and admire but one master of that school, so Doctor Sphex was infatuated with the Satires of Persius, and ranked him above all other ancient Latin poets.

Not only did he possess all the editions of this poet, from the most rare, the edition _Princeps de Brescia_ (1470), to the most modern, that of Homs (1770), but he had, at a high price, secured the manuscript of which we have spoken, and which he considered an inestimable treasure.

The councillor had translated and commented upon Persius, and still studied him daily. By dint of penetrating into the mind of this author, he had come to assimilate him so constantly in his thoughts, that he applied, continually, to himself and others, quotations borrowed from that satirical stoic.

This admiration bordered on monomania. Even as by the aid of a microscope the observer discovers unknown worlds in a blade of grass or a drop of water, so the exalted imagination of the doctor found in the most simple words of his cherished author the most profound significances.

The councillor proceeded, then, with slow steps towards the place of his daily walk. Approaching the overthrown tree which generally served him as a seat, he heard some one speaking in a loud voice. . . .

Annoyed by finding his place occupied, he stopped behind a holly-bush.

But what was his surprise, when he heard a young and sweet voice reciting with admirable accentuation and elegant expression, these verses from the first Satire of Persius:

"O curas hominum! O quantum est in rebus inane!" etc.[3]

The councillor held his breath, listened, and when the voice ceased, he quickly advanced to see who was this stranger who appeared to enjoy so much his favorite author.

He saw a young man negligently dressed, with rolls of paper thrust into the pockets of his old black coat; beside him was a voluminous quarto. The exterior of Létorière, for it was he, gave an instant impression of a poor poet; a narrow cravat of coarse linen, an old felt hat, rusty with age, a pale and half-famished countenance; nothing was wanting to this new metamorphosis.

At sight of the old councillor, the Marquis respectfully arose.

"Ah, young man, is not our Persius the king of poets?" cried Sphex, eagerly, striking the palm of his hand on the Elzevir which he drew from his pocket, and approaching Létorière with a radiant air.

"Sir!" said the Marquis abashed, "I did not know" . . .

"I was there, I was there behind the holly-bush; I heard you begin the recital of the first satire of our poet, of our god! for, by Hercules, young man, I see that you appreciate him as I do! Never could a Tuscan pronounce with more purity than you, the inimitable poetry of our common hero; and truly, my old heart is rejoiced at this meeting, as happy as it is unexpected.

"'_Hunc, Macrine, diem numera meliore lapillo!_'"[4] cried the old man; and he cordially held out his hand to his new acquaintance, having borrowed this quotation from his favorite author.

"If it were not too presumptuous, sir," answered Létorière, with humility, "I should dare to answer you:"

"'Non equidem hoc dubites, amboram fœdere certo Consentira dies, et ah uno sidere duci.'"[5]

"Bravo! my young friend, it would be impossible to answer with more spirit, or more to the point! You must know my Persius, my inimitable stoic, as well as I do; but what is given to you, and which, alas! I have not, is this beautiful and harmonious pronunciation, so musical that I am transported by it! So," added the councillor, hesitating, "if I dared, I would ask you, in the name of our common admiration, to repeat to me the first verses of the third satire."

"With pleasure, sir," said Létorière, smiling.

"'Hæc cedo, ut admoveam templis et farre litabo.'"[6]

"Better and better!" cried the savant, clapping his hands. "But _apropos_ to this quotation, what signification do you give to _far?_" and the doctor fastened an anxious look on the young man, whose knowledge he wished to put to the proof by this question.

"According to my slender experience," unhesitatingly replied the Marquis, "_far_ signifies the grain of which flour is made; and, contrary to the opinion of Casaubon and Scaliger, I believe that this word applies not only to bread, but to corn, to barley, in a word, to all sorts of grain; for you know, sir, that _far_ was with salt, the most common of offerings; and it is that, I think, that Virgil means by these words, _fruges salsae . . . salsa mola_ . . . it is then as a kind of humble offering to our common divinity, sir, that I will repeat the verses which please you." Then Létorière kindly recited the whole satire, giving to his harmonious voice an expression by turns so fine, so pointed, and so energetic, that doctor Sphex, delighted, cried out:

"Nothing has escaped him! not a shade! not an idea! he has not stopped on the surface of the words! he scrutinizes them, he examines them, he weighs them, he penetrates through the brilliant exterior, and brings to light the profound and hidden sense. . . . Young man! . . . young man!" . . . added Sphex, rising, . . . "my respects to you. To read thus is to translate! To translate thus is so to assimilate yourself with the mind of the original as to substitute the individuality of the author for your own! Now I declare to you, that a man so happy and so rarely endowed as to individualize himself with Persius, deserves, in my opinion, almost as much respect as Persius himself! Yes, I consider this phenomenon of assimilation as a kind of relation . . . of intellectual parentage! Now then, mark this, young man! . . . Were it not for the immense difference in age which separates us, I should say that we were brothers in intelligence, children of one father."

Dr. Sphex had spoken with so much vehemence and enthusiasm, that Létorière regarded him with profound astonishment, fearing that he had been deceived, and was talking to a monomaniac instead of the Aulic Councillor, for whom he was waiting.

The _savant_, differently interpreting his silence, continued: "You see I act like an old fool. . . . I treat you as a brother, and have not thought of asking to what learned Latin scholar I have the honor of speaking."

"My name is Létorière, sir," said the Marquis, saluting him.

"Létorière!" cried Sphex, turning away suddenly. "You may perhaps be a relative of the Marquis of that name?"

"I myself am the Marquis of Létorière, sir."

"You! you!! you!!!" cried the doctor, in three different tones. "Come now, that's impossible. The Marquis of Létorière is, they say, as ignorant as a carp, and as flighty as a butterfly; he is one of those beautiful triflers incapable of understanding a word of Latin, and who, as to Persius, know only stuffs of that name," added the councillor, well pleased with this detestable joke.

"I see, with pain, that I have been calumniated, sir," said the Marquis.

"Are you really, then, M. de Létorière?" said Sphex, stupefied.

"I have the honor to repeat it to you, sir," said the Marquis.

"But are you here about a lawsuit? Answer, sir, answer, and do not deceive me!"

"Sir!" said the Marquis, as if he were shocked with the indiscretion of the councillor.

"Pardon my vivacity, sir. . . . If I appear to be well acquainted with what concerns you, it is because"--and the doctor hesitated--"it is because I have some relatives in the Aulic Council, and I am informed of all which passes there."

"Ah, well! it is true, sir, I am here, unhappily, in regard to a lawsuit," said Létorière, sighing.

"But, my young friend, permit me to tell you that you appear very unmindful of your business! Here you are reciting verses to the zephyrs; . . . admirable verses, it is true, but, between ourselves, hardly the means of gaining your lawsuit. Believe me, young man, if justice is blind she is not deaf, and there are a thousand ways of interesting your judges."

"Alas! sir, I have seen my judges . . . and it is because I have seen them that I have but little hope. In my grief I ask of literature consolation and information; I especially ask it from my favorite poet. . . . I seek strength to wrestle against adverse fate in reading over these verses. Do you not think, sir, that this energetic, bold and sonorous poetry must reanimate enfeebled souls, as the warlike sound of a clarion reanimates discouraged soldiers?"

The _savant_ was profoundly touched with the expression, at once simple and dignified, with which Létorière pronounced these last words.

"Pardon an old man," said he, "the interest which he feels in you. But do you not exaggerate the unkindly feelings of your judges? Have you done everything in your power to interest them in your cause before giving up all hope thus?"

"Those of my judges whom I have seen, sir, could have very little sympathy with me, and I ought not otherwise to expect to interest them in it."

"Why so, my young friend?"

"Our poet could, at a pinch, answer you, sir:"

"'Velle suum cuique est, nec voto vivitur uno.

* * * *

Hic satur irriguo mavult turgescere somno; Hic campo indulget!'" . . .[7]

"I understand, I understand," said the councillor, laughing at the just and malignant application of these verses. "I know it is said in Vienna that the Councillor Flachsinfingen would have figured well enough among the convivial gourmands of the banquet of Trimalchyon, and that the brutal baron of Henferester would have been able to wrestle in the Roman circus among the wild beasts. In fine, you poor student! poor poet! poor nightingale of the sweet song I . . . what relations could you have with this dull paunch of a Flachsinfingen, who dreams only of his table? What could you have said to him if it were not--"

'Quæ tibi summa boni est? Uncta vixisse patella Semper? . . .'[8]

"It is the same thing with this gladiator, this brute of Henferester . . . whose great heavy body I cannot see without recalling these words of our divine master:

"'Hic aliquis de gente hircosa centurionum Dicat; quod satis est sapio mihi; non ego curo Esse quod Arcesilas ærumnosique Solones.'"[9]

"Ah well! you will own up then, sir," said the Marquis, laughing, "that having nothing else to say to my judges, I can hardly hope to interest them. Alas! I am neither a huntsman nor a _gourmand._ . . . If I had been I might, perhaps, have awakened some sympathy in my judges!"

"But all the councillors are not gladiators, nor sheep led by their wives, my young friend." . . .

"'At me nocturnis juvat impallescere chartis.'"[10]

"Ah! sir, my greatest misfortune is not to have judges like you." . . .

"I have sometimes heard a certain Doctor Sphex spoken of," said the councillor, casting a piercing look on the Marquis, "an old man, who is not unlettered, who is a judge in the morning, and who devotes himself in the evening to his favorite studies. . . ."

"'Hic mane edictum, post prandia Callirhoën do!'"[11]

"I have presented myself several times at the door of the Councillor Sphex, sir," said Létorière, "and, if what you tell me is true, I doubly regret not having met him, for he is perhaps the only one of my judges whom I could hope to inspire with any sentiment of benevolence, or from whom I might be able to claim any interest in the name of our common tastes."

"By Hercules! young man, don't doubt it! . . . But all is not yet hopeless. . . . I am slightly acquainted with this original Sphex; if you will accompany me, I will do myself the pleasure to recommend you, and even to present you to him."

"Ah! sir, how shall I ever be able to recognize and deserve this precious favor?"

"Young man, people like you and the Councillor Sphex are rare; and you both ought to gain by the meeting which I propose. Give me your arm, and let us proceed."

The old man took a malicious pleasure in the surprise which he had planned for Létorière, who did not fail to enlarge on the strangeness and good luck of destiny, when, arriving at the door of the councillor, the latter discovered to him his identity.

To the great astonishment of old Catherine, the doctor ordered her to place two covers, for the Marquis could not refuse to partake of the councillor's repast, who, alluding to the frugality of his _ménage_, quoted:

"'. . . Positum est algente catino, Durum olus, et populi cribro decussa farina,'"[12]

which announcement was realized in all points. An anchorite would hardly have been contented with the dishes served in the library by old Catherine.

The councillor, more and more enchanted with his guest, read to him his translations and his commentaries; and, unhoped-for favor! last evidence and proof of confidence! showed him the precious manuscript.

At sight of this Létorière manifested such a passionate and jealous admiration, that the doctor began to regard his guest with uneasiness, and almost regretted his imprudent confidence.

"Do you and your housekeeper live alone in this house?" asked the Marquis suddenly, with a gloomy air, passing between his hands the precious manuscript, as if he wished to appropriate it to himself.

"Can it be that he is so enthusiastic in his admiration of Persius that he means to assassinate me and steal my manuscript?" queried the councillor of himself.

But the Marquis, putting the manuscript back into his hands, exclaimed vehemently:

"For the love of Heaven, sir, hide it, hide it! . . . Pardon a madman!"

And he ran precipitately from the room, covering his eyes with his hands.

The councillor shut up his treasure, and found his guest seated, looking dejected, in the library.

"What's the matter, young man?" said the savant with interest.

"Alas! sir, pardon me! At the sight of that manuscript an infamous, a monstrous thought took possession of me . . . in spite of the holy law of hospitality."

"You would then rob me of my treasure?"

Létorière bowed his head in embarrassment.

"Never mind, my young friend. I understand you . . . I understand you only too well," said the councillor, heaving a sigh. "It is a great compliment you have just rendered to our author; and if you only knew the history of this manuscript," . . . after a moment's silence, he added, "you would see that I ought to excuse the terrible temptation which you have just been enabled to overcome."

Unfortunately, the confidence of the councillor stopped there.

The two friends passed the remainder of the day in a learned analysis of the judgments of Casaubon, of Koenig, and Ruperti, on their favorite poet. They discovered in him hidden beauties which had escaped all the editors.

Létorière, by a happy chance of memory, raised the admiration of Sphex almost to ecstasy, by calling his attention to the fact that this passage in the third satire, "The lessons of the portico in which is depicted the overthrow of the Medes," relates to Zeno, the chief of the Stoics. In one word, in this long and learned conversation, Létorière, admirably assisted by his memory, by the profound study which he had recently devoted to Persius, at Dominique's recommendation, and by the surprising flexibility of his intelligence, completely captivated Sphex.

Yet not one word of the lawsuit had been spoken on either side. The Marquis was silent from prudence, the councillor from embarrassment; for, however well-disposed he might be towards Létorière, he reflected regretfully that his voice alone could not win the cause for his young _protégé._

"What a pity!" cried the councillor, "that you will leave Vienna so soon. We would have passed long and delightful days in ever-fresh admiration of our god, and we would have said, like him:

"'Unum opus et requiem pariter disponimus ambo, Atque verecunda laxamus seria mensa.'"[13]

"I feel this privation as much as you do, sir. Unhappily we must sacrifice our pleasures to our duties." And Létorière arose.

Struck by the reserve of the Marquis on the subject of his lawsuit, the councillor said, casting on his guest a penetrating look:

"But this lawsuit, we forget that." . . .

"The idea of thinking, sir, of sad material interests, when we are speaking of the object of our worship to one who shares our admiration!"

"Hum! hum!" said the doctor, shaking his head; and smiling with a caustic air, he recited these verses:

"'Mens bona, fama, fides! hæc clare, et ut audiat hospes; Illa sibi introrsum, et sub lingua immurmurat: Oh! si Ebullit patrui præclarum funus!'"[14]

"Yes . . . yes . . . 'one says, aloud, I forget my lawsuit; . . . and, in a low tone, devote to the infernal gods the wicked councillor who will not give me a word of hope.' . . . Isn't that it?"

"What do you mean, sir?" said the Marquis, smiling, and answering by a quotation from the same book:

"'Messe tenus propria vive!'"[15]

"And you believe you have reaped indifference, young man?" said the _savant_, laughing at this _apropos_ quotation. "Well, I will undeceive you. . . . It shall not be said that the voice of old Sphex will not, at least, protest against the judgment of an old tun-belly like Flachsinfingen, or an old he-goat of a centurion, a brutal gladiator like Henferester. In my opinion, your rights and those of the German princes are so perfectly balanced, that a breath only would turn the scale."

"'Scis etenim justum gemina suspendere lance Ancipitis libræ,'"[16]

said the Marquis. "Not doubting the integrity of my judge, I have never doubted the success of my cause before him."

Enchanted with this new quotation, the councillor cried:

"And you have done well, young man; my voice will be solitary; but thus it will protest more forcibly against a judgment that I shall regard as unjust, if it goes against you, as I fear it will. Adieu, then. . . . Day after to-morrow we pronounce on your cause . . . and may the gods be favorable to you! As for me, by Castor! I know what I have to do"--and the doctor brought this conversation to a close by another quotation:

"'Ast vocat officium; trabe rupta, Bruttia saxa Prendit amicus inops; remque omnem surdaque vota Condidit Ionio! . . .'"[17]

[Footnote 2: Who is not ashamed to live like a Natta.]

[Footnote 3: With what cares is man occupied! Oh, what vanity in life!. . .]

[Footnote 4: Mark this day, Macrinus, with a propitious stone.]

[Footnote 5: Do not doubt, the gods have wished to unite us by certain affinities, and that we should be guided by the same constellation.]

[Footnote 6: Oh that I could bring to the temple this offering, even barley will suffice to make my prayer heard.]

[Footnote 7: Each one his own taste; no one resembles the other; one prefers to grow fat by the pleasures of the table and of sleep; another prefers the hardships of the chase.]

[Footnote 8: What is the sovereign good for you? To junket every day?]

[Footnote 9: But I hear an old he-goat of a centurion reply: "I have as much learning as is needful for me! I do not care to become an Arcesilas or a morose Solon!"]

[Footnote 10: But for me, it is my delight to grow pale over books at night.]

[Footnote 11: To my duties in the morning, to my pleasures in the evening.]

[Footnote 12: The table is spread with a dish of raw vegetables, with bread of coarse barley-flour.]

[Footnote 13: Together would we work and rest, and refresh ourselves after toil with pleasant festivity.]

[Footnote 14: Wisdom, honor, virtue. This said aloud, so that the guest may hear. To himself, and in a low whisper, he murmurs: "Oh, for a magnificent funeral for the father-in-law!"]

[Footnote 15: One must live on what he reaps.]

[Footnote 16: You know, indeed, how to hold the balance of justice with an impartial hand.]

[Footnote 17: But duty calls; a friend has been shipwrecked; he is cast helpless on the Brutian rocks; all his property and his empty vows have gone to the bottom of the sea.]