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it。 I don't know。 What is dreaming？ What is life？ Why shouldn't
I sleep on the ceiling？and am I sitting on it now； or on the
floor？ I am puzzled。 But enough。 If the fashion for sensation
novels goes on； I tell you I will write one in fifty volumes。 For
the present； DIXI。 But between ourselves； this Pinto； who fought
at the Colosseum； who was nearly being roasted by the Inquisition；
and sang duets at Holyrood； I am rather sorry to lose him after
three little bits of Roundabout Papers。 Et vous？
Bourgonef
I
AT A TABLE D'HOTE
At the close of February； 1848； I was in Nuremberg。 My original
intention had been to pass a couple of days there on my way to
Munich； that being； I thought； as much time as could reasonably be
spared for so small a city； beckoned as my footsteps were to the
Bavarian Athens； of whose glories of ancient art and German
Renaissance I had formed expectations the most exaggerated
expectations fatal to any perfect enjoyment； and certain to be
disappointed； however great the actual merit of Munich might be。
But after two days at Nuremberg I was so deeply interested in its
antique sequestered life； the charms of which had not been deadened
by previous anticipations； that I resolved to remain there until I
had mastered every detail and knew the place by heart。
I have a story to tell which will move amidst tragic circumstances
of too engrossing a nature to be disturbed by archaeological
interests； and shall not； therefore； minutely describe here what I
observed in Nuremberg； although no adequate description of that
wonderful city has yet fallen in my way。 To readers unacquainted
with this antique place； it will be enough to say that in it the
old German life seems still to a great extent rescued from the all…
devouring； all…equalizing tendencies of European civilization。 The
houses are either of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries； or are
constructed after those ancient models。 The citizens have
preserved much of the simple manners and customs of their
ancestors。 The hurrying feet of commerce and curiosity pass
rapidly by； leaving it sequestered from the agitations and the
turmoils of metropolitan existence。 It is as quiet as a village。
During my stay there rose in its quiet streets the startled echoes
of horror at a crime unparalleled in its annals； which； gathering
increased horror from the very peacefulness and serenity of the
scene； arrested the attention and the sympathy in a degree seldom
experienced。 Before narrating that； it will be necessary to go
back a little； that my own connection with it may be intelligible；
especially in the fanciful weaving together of remote conjectures
which strangely involved me in the story。
The table d'hote at the Bayerischer Hof had about thirty visitors
all； with one exception； of that local commonplace which escapes
remark。 Indeed this may almost always be said of tables d'hote；
though there is a current belief； which I cannot share； of a table
d'hote being very delightfulof one being certain to meet pleasant
people there。〃 It may be so。 For many years I believed it was so。
The general verdict received my assent。 I had never met those
delightful people； but was always expecting to meet them。 Hitherto
they had been conspicuous by their absence。 According to my
experience in Spain； France； and Germany； such dinners had been
dreary or noisy and vapid。 If the guests were English； they were
chillingly silent； or surlily monosyllabic： to their neighbors they
were frigid； amongst each other they spoke in low undertones。 And
if the guests were foreigners； they were noisy； clattering； and
chattering； foolish for the most part； and vivaciously commonplace。
I don't know which made me feel most dreary。 The predominance of
my countrymen gave the dinner the gayety of a funeral； the
predominance of the Mossoo gave it the fatigue of got…up
enthusiasm； of trivial expansiveness。 To hear strangers imparting
the scraps of erudition and connoisseurship which they had that
morning gathered from their valets de place and guide…books； or
describing the sights they had just seen； to you； who either saw
them yesterday； or would see them to…morrow； could not be
permanently attractive。 My mind refuses to pasture on such food
with gusto。 I cannot be made to care what the Herr Baron's
sentiments about Albert Durer or Lucas Cranach may be。 I can
digest my rindfleisch without the aid of the commis voyageur's
criticisms on Gothic architecture。 This may be my misfortune。 In
spite of the Italian blood which I inherit； I am a shy manshy as
the purest Briton。 But； like other shy men； I make up in obstinacy
what may be deficient in expansiveness。 I can be frightened into
silence； but I won't be dictated to。 You might as well attempt the
persuasive effect of your eloquence upon a snail who has withdrawn
into his shell at your approach； and will not emerge till his
confidence is restored。 To be told that I MUST see this； and ought
to go there； because my casual neighbor was charme； has never
presented itself to me as an adequate motive。
From this you readily gather that I am severely taciturn at a table
d'hote。 I refrain from joining in the 〃delightful conversation〃
which flies across the table； and know that my reticence is
attributed to 〃insular pride。〃 It is really and truly nothing but
impatience of commonplace。 I thoroughly enjoy good talk； but； ask
yourself； what are the probabilities of hearing that rare thing in
the casual assemblage of forty or fifty people； not brought
together by any natural affinities or interests； but thrown
together by the accident of being in the same district； and in the
same hotel？ They are not 〃forty feeding like one；〃 but like forty。
They have no community； except the community of commonplace。 No；
tables d'hote are not delightful； and do not gather interesting
people together。
Such has been my extensive experience。 But this at Nuremberg is a
conspicuous exception。 At that table there was one guest who； on
various grounds； personal and incidental； remains the most
memorable man I ever met。 From the first he riveted my attention
in an unusual degree。 He had not； as yet； induced me to emerge
from my habitual reserve； for in truth； although he riveted my
attention； he inspired me with a strange feeling of repulsion。 I
could scarcely keep my eyes from him； yet； except the formal bow on
sitting down and rising from the table； I had interchanged no sign
of fellowship with him。 He was a young Russian； named Bourgonef；
as I at once learned； rather handsome； and peculiarly arresting to
the eye； partly from an air of settled melancholy； especially in
his smile； the amiability of which seemed breaking from under
clouds of grief； and still more so from the mute appeal to sympathy
in the empty sleeve of his right arm； which was looped to the
breast…button of his coat。 His eyes were large and soft。 He had
no beard or whisker； and only delicate moustaches。 The sorrow；
quiet but profound； the amiable smile and the lost arm； were
appealing details which at once arrested attention and excited
sympathy。 But to me this