"Mit Freude habe ich kürzlich in den Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe die Kurzgeschichte "Lionizing" entdeckt. Wie es scheint, hat unsere Disziplin einen illustren Vorgänger, von dem wir bislang nur in anderem Zusammenhang Notiz genommen zu haben scheinen."
I AM - that is to say, I was
- a great man; but I am neither the author of Junius nor the man
in the mask; for my name, I believe, is Robert Jones, and I was
born somewhere in the city of Fum-Fudge.
The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with
both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius - my father
wept for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I
mastered before I was breeched.
I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to
understandthat, provided a man had a nose sufficiently
conspicuous, he might, by merely following it, arrive at a
Lionship. But my attention was not confined to theories alone.
Every morning I gave my proboscis a couple of pulls and swallowed
a half dozen of drams.
When I came of age my father asked me, one day, if I would step
with him into his study.
"My son," said he, when we were seated, "what is
the chief end of your existence?"
"My father," I answered, "it is the study of
Nosology."
"And what, Robert," he inquired, "is
Nosology?"
"Sir," I said, "it is the science of Noses."
"And can you tell me," he demanded, "what is the
meaning of a nose?"
"A nose, my father," I replied, greatly softened,
"has been variously defined by about a thousand different
authors." [Here I pulled out my watch.] "It is now
noon, or thereabouts - we shall have time enough to get through
with them all before midnight. To commence then: - The nose,
according to Bartholinus, is that protuberance - that bump - that
excrescence - that -"
"Will do, Robert," interrupted the good old gentleman.
"I am thunderstruck at the extent of your information - I am
positively - upon my soul." [Here he closed his eyes and
placed his hand upon his heart.] "Come here!" [Here he
took me by the arm.] "Your education may now be considered
as finished - it is high time you should scuffle for yourself -
and you cannot do a better thing than merely follow your nose -
so -so - so -" [Here he kicked me down stairs and out of the
door.] - "So get out of my house, and God bless you!"
As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I
considered
this accident rather fortunate than otherwise. I resolved to be
guided by the paternal advice. I determined to follow my nose. I
gave it a pull or two upon the spot, and wrote a pamphlet on
Nosology forthwith. All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.
"Wonderful genius!" said the Quarterly.
"Superb physiologist!" said the Westminster.
"Clever fellow!" said the Foreign.
"Fine writer!" said the Edinburgh.
"Profound thinker!" said the Dublin.
"Great man!" said Bentley.
"Divine soul!" said Fraser.
"One of us!" said Blackwood.
"Who can he be?" said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.
"What can he be?" said big Miss Bas-Bleu.
"Where can he be?" said little Miss Bas-Bleu. - But I
paid these people no attention whatever - I just stepped into the
shop of an artist.
The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her portrait; the
Marquis of So-and-So was holding the Duchess' poodle; the Earl of
This-and-That was flirting with her salts; and his Royal Highness
of Touch-me-Not was leaning upon the back of her chair.
I approached the artist and turned up my nose.
"Oh, beautiful!" sighed her Grace.
"Oh my!" lisped the Marquis.
"Oh, shocking!" groaned the Earl.
"Oh, abominable!" growled his Royal Highness.
"What will you take for it?" asked the artist.
"For his nose!" shouted her Grace.
"A thousand pounds," said I, sitting down.
"A thousand pounds?" inquired the artist, musingly.
"A thousand pounds," said I.
"Beautiful!" said he, entranced.
"A thousand pounds," said I.
"Do you warrant it?" he asked, turning the nose to the
light.
"I do," said I, blowing it well.
"Is it quite original?" he inquired, touching
it with reverence.
"Humph!" said I, twisting it to one side.
"Has no copy been taken?" he demanded,
surveying it through a microscope.
"None," said I, turning it up.
"Admirable!" he ejaculated, thrown quite off
his guard by the beauty of the manoeuvre.
"A thousand pounds," said I.
"A thousand pounds?" said he.
"Precisely," said I.
"A thousand pounds?" said he.
"Just so," said I.
"You shall have them," said he. "What a piece of virtu!"
So he drew me a check upon the spot, and took a sketch of my
nose. I engaged rooms in Jermyn street, and sent her Majesty the
ninety-ninth edition of the "Nosology," with a portrait
of the proboscis. - That sad little rake, the Prince of Wales,
invited me to dinner.
We were all lions and recherchés.
There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblichus,
Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and Syrianus.
There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgot, Price,
Priestley, Condorcet, De Stael, and the "Ambitious Student
in Ill-Health."
There was Sir Positive Paradox. He observed that all fools were
philosophers, and that all philosophers were fools.
There was AEstheticus Ethix. He spoke of fire, unity, and atoms;
bipart and pre-existent soul; affinity and discord; primitive
intelligence and homoömeria.
There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and Arianus;
heresy and the Council of Nice; Puseyism and consubstantialism;
Homousios and Homouioisios.
There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned
Muriton of red tongue; cauliflowers with velouté
sauce;
veal à la St. Menehoult; marinade a la
St. Florentin;
and orange jellies en mosaïques.
There was Bibulus O'Bumper. He touched upon Latour and
Markbrünnen; upon Mosseux and Chambertin; upon Richbourg and
St.
George; upon Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon Barac and
Preignac; upon Grave, upon Sauterne, upon Lafitte, and upon St.
Peray. He shook his head at Clos de Vougeot, and told, with his
eyes shut, the difference between Sherry and Amontillado.
There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He discoursed of
Cimabue, Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino - of the gloom of
Caravaggio, of the amenity of Albano, of the colors of Titian, of
the frows of Rubens, and of the waggeries of Jan Steen.
There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He was of
opinion that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in
Egypt, Dian in Rome, and Artemis in Greece.
There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He could not help thinking
that the angels were horses, cocks, and bulls; that somebody in
the sixth heaven had seventy thousand heads; and that the earth
was supported by a sky-blue cow with an incalculable number of
green horns.
There was Delphinus Polyglott. He told us what had become of the
eighty-three lost tragedies of AEschylus; of the fifty-four
orations of Isaeus; of the three hundred and ninety-one speeches
of Lysias; of the hundred and eighty treatises of Theophrastus;
of the eighth book of the conic sections of Apollonius; of
Pindar's hymns and dithyrambics; and of the five and forty
tragedies of Homer Junior.
There was Ferdinand Fitz Fossillus Feltspar. He informed us all
about internal fires and tertiary formations; about aeriforms,
fluidiforms, and solidiforms; about quartz and marl; about schist
and schorl; about gypsum and trap, about talc and calc; about
blende and horn-blende; about mica-slate and pudding-stone; about
cyanite and lepidolite; about haematite and tremolite; about
antimony and calcedony, about manganese and whatever you please.
There was myself. I spoke of myself; - of myself, of myself, of
myself; - of Nosology, of my pamphlet, and of myself. I turned up
my nose, and I spoke of myself.
"Marvellous clever man!" said the Prince.
"Superb!" said his guests: - and next morning her Grace
of Bless-my-Soul paid me a visit.
"Will you go to Almack's, pretty creature?" she said,
tapping me under the chin.
"Upon honor," said I.
"Nose and all?" she asked.
"As I live," I replied.
"Here then is a card, my life. Shall I say you will
be there?"
"Dear Duchess, with all my heart."
"Pshaw, no! - but with all your nose?"
"Every bit of it, my love," said I: - so I gave it a
twist or two, and found myself at Almack's.
The rooms were crowded to suffocation.
"He is coming!" said somebody on the staircase.
"He is coming!" said somebody farther up.
"He is coming!" said somebody farther still.
"He is come!" exclaimed the Duchess. "He is come,
the little love!" - and, seizing me firmly by both hands,
she kissed me thrice upon the nose.
A marked sensation immediately ensued.
"Diavolo" cried Count Capricornutti.
"Dios guarda!" muttered Don Stiletto.
"Mille tonnerres!" ejaculated the Prince de
Grenouille.
"Tousand Teufel!" growled the Elector of
Bluddennuff.
It was not to be borne. I grew angry. I turned short upon
Bluddennuff. "Sir!" said I to him, "you are a
baboon."
"Sir," he replied, after a pause, "Donner und
Blitzen!"
This was all that could be desired. We exchanged cards. At
Chalk-Farm, the next morning, I shot off his nose - and then
called upon my friends.
"Bête!" said the first.
"Fool!" said the second.
"Dolt!" said the third.
"Ass!" said the fourth.
"Ninny!" said the fifth.
"Noodle!" said the sixth.
"Be off!" said the seventh.
At all this I felt mortifted, and so called upon my father.
"Father," I asked, "what is the chief end of my
existence?"
"My son," he replied, "it is still the study of
Nosology. but in hitting the Elector upon the nose you have
overshot your mark. You have a fine nose, it is true; but then
Bluddennuff has none. You are damned, and he has become the hero
of the day. I grant you that in Fum-Fudge the greatness of a lion
is in proportion to the size of his proboscis - but, good
heavens! there is no competing with a lion who has no proboscis
at all."
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