Then the old man coughed, got up from his chair, asked what o’clock it was, wished me good night, and opening the door saw me out (thereby depriving me of a good one), and saw me no more till that night week, on New Year’s Eve.
My readers will remember that I had promised to come on that evening, because I had to make a brief report to my client concerning my “Flower-pieces”—this very book.
I assure the gentle reader that I shall report the events of the evening exactly as they occurred.
I appeared again, then, on the last evening of the year 1794, on the red waves of which so many bodies, bled to death, were borne away to the Ocean of Eternity. My client received me with a coldness which I attributed partly to that of the temperature outside (for both men and wolves are most ferocious in hard frost), partly to the Vienna letters which I had—NOT with me; and on the whole, I had but little to say to the fellow on this occasion. As, besides, I was going to leave Scheerau on the New Year’s Day by the Thursday coach, and was very anxious to lay before my dear Pauline some more Paulina, namely these sketches, because I knew that whatever other wares she might find upon her counter, these wouldn’t be among them—I consider that no editor who has any principles whatever can possibly get into a passion at my having duly appeared. Let any hot-headed person of the sort just listen to the plan I had. I wanted first to give to this silent soul-flower the Flower-pieces, two dreams made of flowers put together mosaic-fashion—next the Thorn-pieces,[[6]] from which I had to break away the thorns, that is, the satires, so that nothing remained but a mere curious story and lastly, the Fruit-piece was to be served up last, as it is in the book itself, by way of dessert; and in this ripe fruit (from which I had previously orally expressed all the chilling ice-apple juice of philosophy, which the press has, however, left in) I meant to appear at the end of the day, myself as Appleworm. This would have led by easy steps to my departure or farewell; for I did not know whether I should ever again see or hear of Pauline, this flower-polypus, stretching out eyeless, palpitating, tentacula, from mere INSTINCT towards the LIGHT. With the old decayed wood on which the polyp was blooming I, of course, having no Vienna letters, had little to do.
But near as it was to the time for wishing new year’s wishes, the old year was doomed to end with wishes unfulfilled.
Yet I have little to blame myself about; for, as soon as ever I came in, I did my best to tire out the live East India House and put him to sleep, and I continued to do so while he sat there. The only agreeable remarks I made to him were, that when he had said some insulting things about my successor, his present legal adviser, I extended them so as to apply them to the legal profession in general, thus elevating the mere pasquinade into the nobler satire: “I always picture lawyers and clients as two strings of people with buckets or purses near a kind of engine for quenching money thirst—the one row, the clients, always passing away with their buckets, or purses, empty, and the other row standing and handing each other buckets or purses full,” said I.
I think it was not otherwise than on purpose, that I painted to him the great Buying-public with lineaments much like his own—for he is a small Buying-public, only a few feet long and broad. In fact, I made on him an experiment to ascertain what the Buying-public itself would say to the following ideas.
“The public of the present day, Captain, is gradually getting to be a flourishing North India Company, and, it seems to me, it will soon rival the Dutch, amongst whom butter and books are articles of export trade only; the attic salt they have a taste for, is that which Benkelszoon used for pickling fish with. Though they have provided Erasmus, in consideration of his salt (of a better quality), with a statue (he never ate salt, by the way), yet I think this was excusable in them, when we remember that they first had one erected to the fish-curer in question. Even Campe, who by no means classes the inventors of the spinning-wheel and of Brunswick beer beneath the constructors and brewers of epic poems, will coincide with me when I say that the German is really being made something of at the present day; that he is positively becoming a serious, solid, well-grounded fellow—a tradesman, a man of business; a man getting past his youthful follies, who knows edible from cogitable matter (when he sees it), and can winnow out the latter from the former; who can distinguish the printer from the publisher, and the bookseller (as the more important) from both; he is becoming a speculative individual who, like the hens who run from a harp string with fox-gut, can’t bear the noise of any poet’s harp whatever, were it strung with the harper’s own heart-strings—and who will soon come to suffer no pictorial art to exist, except upon bales of merchandise,[[7]] nor any printing except calico-printing.”
Here I saw, to my amazement, that the merchant was asleep already, and had shut the window-shutters of his senses. I was a good deal annoyed that I had been standing in awe of him, as well as talking to him, all this time unnecessarily; I had been playing the part of the Devil, and he that of King Solomon, supposed by the evil one to be alive when he was dead.[[8]]
Meantime, with the view of not waking him up by means of a sudden change of key, I went on talking to him as if nothing had happened, speaking to him all the time I was slipping away from him further and further towards the window with an exceedingly gradual diminuendo of my tone, as follows:—“And of such a public as this, I quite expect that a time will come when it will value shoe leather much above altar-pieces,[[9]] and that, when the moral and philosophical credit of any philosopher chances to be in question, its first inquiry of all will be, ‘is the fellow solvent?’ And further, my beloved listener (I continued in the same tone, so as not to run the risk of waking the sleeper by any change in the kind of sound), it is to be hoped and expected that I shall now have an opportunity of going through, for your entertainment, my Flower-pieces, which have not even been committed to paper as yet, and which I can quite easily finish this evening, if he (father Jacobus) will have the goodness to sleep long enough.”