“Not at Assaye?”
“No, sir.”
“Not at the Douro?”
“No, sir.”
“Not at Torres Vedras?”
“I tell you again, no, sir!”
Whether I uttered this last with any uncommon degree of vehemence or not, I so frightened Vaterchen that he cut a somersault clean over the chair, and stood grinning at me through the rails at the back of it I motioned to him to be reseated, while, passing my hand across my brow, I waved away the bright illusions that beset me, and, with a heavy sigh, re-entered the dull world of reality.
“You are a clown,” said I, meditatively. “What is a clown?”
He did not answer me in words, but, placing his hands on his knees, stared at me steadfastly, and then, having fixed my attention, his face performed a series of the most fearful contortions I ever beheld. With one horrible spasm he made his mouth appear to stretch from ear to ear; with another, his nose wagged from side to side; with a third, his eyebrows went up and down alternately, giving the different sides of his face two directly antagonistic expressions. I was shocked and horrified, and called to him to desist.
“And yet,” thought I, “there are natures who can delight in these, and see in them matter for mirth and laughter!”