CHAPTER II.
Meeting with Geister.
NINE out of ten men of education believe themselves to be geniuses. They are, however, too discreet to communicate this belief to others, even their intimates; for the dearest friend could not resist such an opportunity for sarcasm at his equally dear friend’s assumption and self-conceit. By all but oneself is required the argument of production. Oneself, however, is considerably less exacting. The chance conception of a musical strain (to which, almost always, the parallel—the suggesting air —might be found in music previously heard) opens up a prospect that at some future time an entire opera may be composed,—why not? Nor, in Literature, is even so much as this necessary. ‘Shakespeare has expressed the profoundest thought in the happiest language; but what I can fully appreciate and understand, why should I not also have produced, if only I were placed under the same favouring circumstances as was Shakespeare. To understand a profound idea requires exactly the same stretch of mind that it did to conceive it. Shakespeare, therefore, is not really superior to me.’ So reasons the individual, with infinite complacency, and mentally holds himself inferior to none. Truly, circumstance makes men what they are, in more ways than one, or ten, or twenty. It has not, however, developed in me any latent genius—of that I am convinced. Time was when I made one of the nine, but now, really, I am that modest individual, the tenth man. The pride of natural mental superiority is not for me: I am but as thousands.
I had made up my mind as to this long before the time of which I am now writing. Bat being, nevertheless, ambitious of attaining eminence, I resolved to effect my purpose by the acquisition of a vast amount of knowledge. I determined to be a learned man, more particularly as the acquirement of knowledge was to me a real and lasting pleasure. Thus it was that the Monk’s Legend interested me. A new principle in nature was asserted : I copied and preserved the record.
It was shortly after this antiquarian discovery that, being specially bent upon obtaining a thorough acquaintance with the German language, I resolved upon a course of study in the land itself, at the University of Gottingen. Completely my own master, having no ties (for I was estranged from all my kindred), with me to will was to execute. So I went to Gottingen, to catch the rarest idioms of the German tongue, and become better, more practically acquainted with the dreamy, speculative intellect of the deepest thinkers of this people.
It is not my intention to describe the course of my life at this well-known seat of learning. It may be interesting to me to look back on this, as well as every other period of my existence. But it is possible that the reader would only be wearied were I to open up the retrospect to his view also; and it would, moreover, be quite irrelevant to the purpose of this work. Let me, then, without delay pass to the second point in my narrative.
It was at this University of Gottingen I formed that acquaintanceship which ultimately issued in the extraordinary adventure that forms the subject of the first half of this book. Here it was I first met my friend, Carl Geister. A chance conversation betrayed in him a peculiar cast of intellect, the novelty of which attracted me in a manner that I had never before been drawn to any one. This being followed by the discovery in him of an admirable moral character, caused me to seek his friendship,. after having, all my life previously, repelled the advances of others to myself, and sought the companionship of none. Thorough appreciation, evident admiration, and conciliatory manners, formed the magnet that I presented in turn to attract him. This was done without any too great sacrifice of personal dignity, and succeeded. For, an unaffected admirer and complaisant companion is really a boon to a man of a leading spirit, who has found no one before willing to be led!
In Carl Geister I immediately recognised a man of a leading spirit, but one also whose advanced opinions, and unique manner of thought and observation, had rather than not surprised and repelled men of ordinary stamp. I, however, who liked the new at least as much as the true, was, as I have said, much attracted, and my fellow-student’s vanity being touched, perhaps, he appeared equally pleased with my society, and we soon became intimate acquaintances, a state of things not a little facilitated by the fact that he spoke the English language with an accuracy and a knowledge of its idioms and phrases that argued a residence while young in the land itself— a surmise on my part that turned out to be correct.
Herr Geister was a man of about thirty years, and was, I found, possessed of sufficient funded property to render him independent of any profession as a means of support. He appeared, like myself, to have no other object in life than to acquire knowledge, and—to be happy. It is generally assumed that this last is the universal object of the human race, as it most certainly is of all the rest of the animal creation. But my friend once surprised me by throwing doubt upon this, in certain instances; and, indeed, many, I think, in reading “Paradise Lost,” would prefer the position of Satan—that of a mighty leader, perturbed but powerful, sad yet self-reliant—to that of a happy but insignificant cherub. To excel, to be chief, though necessarily accompanied by cankering care and endless effort, is by some preferred to an obscure and ignoble happiness. But I am digressing. Let me address myself to the work of narration, without further let or hindrance.
After a few months at college, I returned to Spain, and to Madrid, accompanied by my new acquaintance as a visitor.
Here, as was natural to both, we were exclusive, rather rebutting than not any social overtures on the part of others. and spending much of our time in my library, the two Gothic and partially stained-glass windows of which were suggestive of metaphysics and a continual protest against frivolity.
Thus some weeks passed very pleasantly, the progress of time only exhibiting a still greater coincidence of tastes, so that, both appearing equally pleased the one with the other, I could not refrain speaking of life-long friendships, kindred spirits, mental reciprocity, and other cognate themes. But to these advances the least possible response was made. Any chagrin or disappointment that I might have felt on this account was soon, however, set at rest by the event I am about to record.
Returning one evening from vespers (for I was a very Pharisee as regards the observance of appointed times for devotion), I found Geister in the library, reading what, at the first glance, I saw to be my copy of the letter of the monk Joaquin,—a curiosity that, although I had many times intended, I had as regularly forgotten to show to him, but which I now saw he had found for himself, in company with some other old and curious MSS. that, enclosed in a case, occupied a place on the book-shelves. He knew several languages, amongst which was Spanish; and as my calligraphy is peculiarly legible, I was not surprised to see that he was evidently reading with ease. But I was surprised at his being so profoundly absorbed in this legend as not to observe my entering the room. I sat quietly down, not caring to interrupt him, having first noticed that he was reading at that part where the rising of the rampart is mentioned. I continued silent till he had read to the end, and was turning over the manuscript, as if with the intention of re-reading it: then I spoke.
“I should like yon to explain away that miracle,” I said, “as you have explained away others, or else show reason why the statement should be regarded as a fable.”
He started at the sound of my voice; but, having heard me, at once proceeded to make answer.
“This is neither a miracle nor a fable. Good Catholic that you are, I do not suppose you ever thought it a miracle, especially as the monk himself did not think so. Of course you have considered this merely an extravagant fiction; but esteemed it sufficiently curious to be worth the trouble of copying, for I see, from the handwriting, that this is a copy you have made— perhaps from the original?”
“Yes,” said I, and proceeded to recount where I had discovered it. and all connected therewith. He was markedly attentive, taking considerably more interest in the matter than I had expected. This, aud his first remark, to the effect that it was not only not a miracle, but also not a fable, surprised me.
“I expected,” I said, “that you would have regarded this legend of the monk as entitled to precisely as much credence as any ghost story that might be told in your hearing. But you believe!—remove my unbelief!”
“Yon asked me at the first,” returned Geister, “to show reason why this statement should be regarded as a fable. That, in a case involved in so much obscurity, it might not be difficult to do, if one could but think of a motive for the monk’s inventing, and propounding to his superiors, so strange a story. But this required motive I am unable even to imagine; for the tale could have answered no purpose, but instead only brought him to grief. It is partly this, but still more something else, that induces me to think the statement true; and—extraordinary as it may appear to you— I am already prepared to build up a theory based upon it. You have lately spoken much of friendship,” he continued, earnestly. / will furnish1 the first proof of friendship—my confidence; for, were I not in earnest myself, as well as convinced of the truth of your professions, I should scarcely care to hazard the communication of such an apparently wild project as I have this night resolved I will attempt.”
He paused for a moment, assured himself of my attention, which was profound, and proceeded.