Sartor Resartus: The Life and Opinions of Herr Teufelsdröckh

by Thomas Carlyle

  CHAPTER IV. CHARACTERISTICS.

  It were a piece of vain flattery to pretend that this Work on Clothesentirely contents us; that it is not, like all works of genius, likethe very Sun, which, though the highest published creation, or work ofgenius, has nevertheless black spots and troubled nebulosities amidits effulgence,--a mixture of insight, inspiration, with dulness,double-vision, and even utter blindness.

  Without committing ourselves to those enthusiastic praises andprophesyings of the _Weissnichtwo'sche Anzeiger_, we admitted that theBook had in a high degree excited us to self-activity, which is thebest effect of any book; that it had even operated changes in our wayof thought; nay, that it promised to prove, as it were, the opening of anew mine-shaft, wherein the whole world of Speculation might henceforthdig to unknown depths. More specially may it now be declared thatProfessor Teufelsdrockh's acquirements, patience of research,philosophic and even poetic vigor, are here made indisputably manifest;and unhappily no less his prolixity and tortuosity and manifoldineptitude; that, on the whole, as in opening new mine-shafts isnot unreasonable, there is much rubbish in his Book, though likewisespecimens of almost invaluable ore. A paramount popularity in Englandwe cannot promise him. Apart from the choice of such a topic as Clothes,too often the manner of treating it betokens in the Author a rusticityand academic seclusion, unblamable, indeed inevitable in a German, butfatal to his success with our public.

  Of good society Teufelsdrockh appears to have seen little, or has mostlyforgotten what he saw. He speaks out with a strange plainness; callsmany things by their mere dictionary names. To him the Upholsterer is noPontiff, neither is any Drawing-room a Temple, were it never so begiltand overhung: "a whole immensity of Brussels carpets, and pier-glasses,and ormolu," as he himself expresses it, "cannot hide from me thatsuch Drawing-room is simply a section of Infinite Space, where so manyGod-created Souls do for the time meet together." To Teufelsdrockh thehighest Duchess is respectable, is venerable; but nowise for her pearlbracelets and Malines laces: in his eyes, the star of a Lord is littleless and little more than the broad button of Birmingham spelter in aClown's smock; "each is an implement," he says, "in its kind; a tagfor _hooking-together_; and, for the rest, was dug from the earth, andhammered on a stithy before smith's fingers." Thus does the Professorlook in men's faces with a strange impartiality, a strange scientificfreedom; like a man unversed in the higher circles, like a man droppedthither from the Moon. Rightly considered, it is in this peculiarity,running through his whole system of thought, that all theseshortcomings, over-shootings, and multiform perversities, take rise:if indeed they have not a second source, also natural enough, in hisTranscendental Philosophies, and humor of looking at all Matter andMaterial things as Spirit; whereby truly his case were but the morehopeless, the more lamentable.

  To the Thinkers of this nation, however, of which class it is firmlybelieved there are individuals yet extant, we can safely recommend theWork: nay, who knows but among the fashionable ranks too, if it be true,as Teufelsdrockh maintains, that "within the most starched cravat therepasses a windpipe and weasand, and under the thickliest embroideredwaistcoat beats a heart,"--the force of that rapt earnestness may befelt, and here and there an arrow of the soul pierce through? In ourwild Seer, shaggy, unkempt, like a Baptist living on locusts and wildhoney, there is an untutored energy, a silent, as it were unconscious,strength, which, except in the higher walks of Literature, must be rare.Many a deep glance, and often with unspeakable precision, has he castinto mysterious Nature, and the still more mysterious Life of Man.Wonderful it is with what cutting words, now and then, he severs asunderthe confusion; sheers down, were it furlongs deep; into the true centreof the matter; and there not only hits the nail on the head, but withcrushing force smites it home, and buries it.--On the other hand, let usbe free to admit, he is the most unequal writer breathing. Often aftersome such feat, he will play truant for long pages, and go dawdling anddreaming, and mumbling and maundering the merest commonplaces, as if hewere asleep with eyes open, which indeed he is.

  Of his boundless Learning, and how all reading and literature in mostknown tongues, from _Sanchoniathon_ to _Dr. Lingard_, from your Oriental_Shasters_, and _Talmuds_, and _Korans_, with Cassini's _Siamesefables_, and Laplace's _Mecanique Celeste_, down to _Robinson Crusoe_and the _Belfast Town and Country Almanack_, are familiar to him,--weshall say nothing: for unexampled as it is with us, to the Germans suchuniversality of study passes without wonder, as a thing commendable,indeed, but natural, indispensable, and there of course. A man thatdevotes his life to learning, shall he not be learned?

  In respect of style our Author manifests the same genial capability,marred too often by the same rudeness, inequality, and apparent want ofintercourse with the higher classes. Occasionally, as above hinted, wefind consummate vigor, a true inspiration; his burning thoughts stepforth in fit burning words, like so many full-formed Minervas, issuingamid flame and splendor from Jove's head; a rich, idiomatic diction,picturesque allusions, fiery poetic emphasis, or quaint tricksy turns;all the graces and terrors of a wild Imagination, wedded to the clearestIntellect, alternate in beautiful vicissitude. Were it not that sheersleeping and soporific passages; circumlocutions, repetitions, toucheseven of pure doting jargon, so often intervene! On the whole, ProfessorTeufelsdrockh, is not a cultivated writer. Of his sentences perhaps notmore than nine-tenths stand straight on their legs; the remainder arein quite angular attitudes, buttressed up by props (of parentheses anddashes), and ever with this or the other tagrag hanging from them; afew even sprawl out helplessly on all sides, quite broken-backed anddismembered. Nevertheless, in almost his very worst moods, there lies inhim a singular attraction. A wild tone pervades the whole utterance ofthe man, like its keynote and regulator; now screwing itself aloft asinto the Song of Spirits, or else the shrill mockery of Fiends; nowsinking in cadences, not without melodious heartiness, though sometimesabrupt enough, into the common pitch, when we hear it only as amonotonous hum; of which hum the true character is extremely difficultto fix. Up to this hour we have never fully satisfied ourselves whetherit is a tone and hum of real Humor, which we reckon among the veryhighest qualities of genius, or some echo of mere Insanity and Inanity,which doubtless ranks below the very lowest.

  Under a like difficulty, in spite even of our personal intercourse, dowe still lie with regard to the Professor's moral feeling. Gleams of anethereal love burst forth from him, soft wailings of infinite pity;he could clasp the whole Universe into his bosom, and keep it warm; itseems as if under that rude exterior there dwelt a very seraph. Thenagain he is so sly and still, so imperturbably saturnine; shows suchindifference, malign coolness towards all that men strive after; andever with some half-visible wrinkle of a bitter sardonic humor, ifindeed it be not mere stolid callousness,--that you look on him almostwith a shudder, as on some incarnate Mephistopheles, to whom this greatterrestrial and celestial Round, after all, were but some huge foolishWhirligig, where kings and beggars, and angels and demons, and stars andstreet-sweepings, were chaotically whirled, in which only children couldtake interest. His look, as we mentioned, is probably the gravest everseen: yet it is not of that cast-iron gravity frequent enough amongour own Chancery suitors; but rather the gravity as of some silent,high-encircled mountain-pool, perhaps the crater of an extinct volcano;into whose black deeps you fear to gaze: those eyes, those lights thatsparkle in it, may indeed be reflexes of the heavenly Stars, but perhapsalso glances from the region of Nether Fire.

  Certainly a most involved, self-secluded, altogether enigmatic nature,this of Teufelsdrockh! Here, however, we gladly recall to mind that oncewe saw him _laugh_; once only, perhaps it was the first and last time inhis life; but then such a peal of laughter, enough to have awakened theSeven Sleepers! It was of Jean Paul's doing: some single billow in thatvast World-Mahlstrom of Humor, with its heaven-kissing coruscations,which is now, alas, all congealed in the frost of death! Thelarge-bodied Poet and the small, both large enough in soul, sat talkingmiscellan
eously together, the present Editor being privileged to listen;and now Paul, in his serious way, was giving one of those inimitable"Extra-Harangues;" and, as it chanced, On the Proposal for a _Cast-metalKing_: gradually a light kindled in our Professor's eyes and face, abeaming, mantling, loveliest light; through those murky features, aradiant ever-young Apollo looked; and he burst forth like the neighingof all Tattersall's,--tears streaming down his cheeks, pipe held aloft,foot clutched into the air,--loud, long-continuing, uncontrollable; alaugh not of the face and diaphragm only, but of the whole man from headto heel. The present Editor, who laughed indeed, yet with measure, beganto fear all was not right: however, Teufelsdrockh, composed himself, andsank into his old stillness; on his inscrutable countenance there was,if anything, a slight look of shame; and Richter himself could not rousehim again. Readers who have any tincture of Psychology know how muchis to be inferred from this; and that no man who has once heartily andwholly laughed can be altogether irreclaimably bad. How much lies inLaughter: the cipher-key, wherewith we decipher the whole man! Some menwear an everlasting barren simper; in the smile of others lies a coldglitter as of ice: the fewest are able to laugh, what can be calledlaughing, but only sniff and titter and snigger from the throatoutwards; or at best, produce some whiffling husky cachinnation, as ifthey were laughing through wool: of none such comes good. The man whocannot laugh is not only fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; buthis whole life is already a treason and a stratagem.

  Considered as an Author, Herr Teufelsdrockh has one scarcely pardonablefault, doubtless his worst: an almost total want of arrangement. In thisremarkable Volume, it is true, his adherence to the mere course of Timeproduces, through the Narrative portions, a certain show of outwardmethod; but of true logical method and sequence there is too little.Apart from its multifarious sections and subdivisions, the Worknaturally falls into two Parts; a Historical-Descriptive, and aPhilosophical-Speculative: but falls, unhappily, by no firm line ofdemarcation; in that labyrinthic combination, each Part overlaps, andindents, and indeed runs quite through the other. Many sections are ofa debatable rubric, or even quite nondescript and unnamable; whereby theBook not only loses in accessibility, but too often distresses us likesome mad banquet, wherein all courses had been confounded, and fish andflesh, soup and solid, oyster-sauce, lettuces, Rhine-wine and Frenchmustard, were hurled into one huge tureen or trough, and the hungryPublic invited to help itself. To bring what order we can out of thisChaos shall be part of our endeavor.