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Narrative And Miscellaneous Papers, Vol. II.

T >> Thomas De Quincey >> Narrative And Miscellaneous Papers, Vol. II.




Here I must mention a little circumstance which does honor to Kant's
benevolence. In his last will, on the assumption that Lampe would
continue with him to his death, he had made a very liberal provision
for him; but upon this new arrangement of the pension, which was to
take effect immediately, it became necessary to revoke that part of his
will, which he did in a separate codicil, that began thus:--'In
consequence of the ill behavior of my servant Lampe, I think fit,' &c.
But soon after, considering that such a record of Lampe's misconduct
might be seriously injurious to his interests, he cancelled the
passage, and expressed it in such a way, that no trace remained behind
of his just displeasure. And his benign nature was gratified with
knowing, that, this one sentence blotted out, there remained no other
in all his numerous writings, published or confidential, which spoke
the language of anger, or could leave any ground for doubting that he
died in charity with all the world. Upon Lampe's calling to demand a
written character, he was, however, a good deal embarrassed; his stern
reverence for truth being, in this instance, armed against the first
impulses of his kindness. Long and anxiously he sat, with the
certificate lying before him, debating how he should fill up the
blanks. I was present, but in such a matter I did not take the liberty
of suggesting any advice. At last, he took his pen, and filled up the
blank as follows:--'--has served me long and faithfully,'--(for Kant
was not aware that he had robbed him,)--'but did not display those
particular qualifications which fitted him for waiting on an old and
infirm man like myself.'

This scene of disturbance over, which to Kant, a lover of peace and
tranquillity, caused a shock that he would gladly have been spared; it
was fortunate that no other of that nature occurred during the rest of
his life. Kaufmann, the successor of Lampe, turned out to be a
respectable and upright man, and soon conceived a great attachment to
his master's person. Things now put on a new face in Kant's family: by
the removal of one of the belligerents, peace was once more restored
amongst his servants; for hitherto there had been eternal wars between
Lampe and the cook. Sometimes it was Lampe that carried a war of
aggression into the cook's territory of the kitchen; sometimes it was
the cook that revenged these insults, by sallying out upon Lampe in the
neutral ground of the hall, or invaded him even in his own sanctuary of
the butler's pantry. The uproars were everlasting; and thus far it was
fortunate for the peace of the philosopher, that his hearing had begun
to fail; by which means he was spared many an exhibition of hateful
passions and ruffian violence, which annoyed his guests and friends.
But now all things had changed: deep silence reigned in the pantry; the
kitchen rang no more with martial alarums; and the hall was unvexed
with skirmish or pursuit. Yet it may be readily supposed that to Kant,
at the age of seventy-eight, changes, even for the better, were not
welcome: so intense had been the uniformity of his life and habits,
that the least innovation in the arrangement of articles as trifling as
a penknife, or a pair of scissors, disturbed him; and not merely if
they were pushed two or three inches out of their customary position,
but even if they were laid a little awry; and as to larger objects,
such as chairs, &c., any dislocation of their usual arrangement, any
trans position, or addition to their number, perfectly confounded him;
and his eye appeared restlessly to haunt the seat of the mal-
arrangement, until the ancient order was restored. With such habits the
reader may conceive how distressing it must have been to him, at this
period of decaying powers, to adapt himself to a new servant, a new
voice, a new step, &c.

Aware of this, I had on the day before he entered upon his duties,
written down for the new servant upon a sheet of paper the entire
routine of Kant's daily life, down to the minutest and most trivial
circumstances; all which he mastered with the greatest rapidity. To
make sure, however, we went through a rehearsal of the whole ritual; he
performing the manoeuvres, I looking on and giving the word. Still I
felt uneasy at the idea of his being left entirely to his own
discretion on his first _debut_ in good earnest, and therefore I
made a point of attending on this important day; and in the few
instances where the new recruit missed the accurate manoeuvre, a glance
or a nod from me easily made him comprehend his failure.

One part only there was of the daily ceremonial, where all of us were
at a loss, as it was a part which no mortal eyes had ever witnessed but
those of Lampe: this was breakfast. However, that we might do all in
our power, I myself attended at four o'clock in the morning. The day
happened, as I remember, to be the 1st of February, 1802. Precisely at
five, Kant made his appearance; and nothing could equal his
astonishment on finding me in the room. Fresh from the confusion of
dreaming, and bewildered alike by the sight of his new servant, by
Lampe's absence, and by my presence, he could with difficulty be made
to comprehend the purpose of my visit. A friend in need is a friend
indeed; and we would now have given any money to that learned person
who could have instructed us in the arrangement of the breakfast table.
But this was a mystery revealed to none but Lampe. At length Kant took
this task upon himself; and apparently all was now settled to his
satisfaction. Yet still it struck me that he was under some
embarrassment or constraint. Upon this I said--that, with his
permission, I would take a cup of tea, and afterwards smoke a pipe with
him. He accepted my offer with his usual courteous demeanor; but seemed
unable to familiarize himself with the novelty of his situation. I was
at this time sitting directly opposite to him; and at last he frankly
told me, but with the kindest and most apologetic air, that he was
really under the necessity of begging that I would sit out of his
sight; for that, having sat alone at the breakfast table for
considerably more than half a century, he could not abruptly adapt his
mind to a change in this respect; and he found his thoughts very
sensibly disturbed. I did as he desired; the servant retired into an
antiroom, where he waited within call; and Kant recovered his wonted
composure. Just the same scene passed over again, when I called at the
same hour on a fine summer morning some months after.

Henceforth all went right: or, if occasionally some little mistake
occurred, Kant showed himself very considerate and indulgent, and would
remark of his own accord, that a new servant could not be expected to
know all his peculiar ways and humors. In one respect, indeed, this man
adapted himself to Kant's scholarlike taste, in a way which Lampe was
incapable of doing. Kant was somewhat fastidious in matters of
pronunciation; and this man had a great facility in catching the true
sound of Latin words, the titles of books, and the names or
designations of Kant's friends: not one of which accomplishments could
Lampe, the most insufferable of blockheads, ever attain to. In
particular, I have been told by Kant's old friends, that for the space
of more than thirty years, during which he had been in the habit of
reading the newspaper published by Hartung, Lampe delivered it with the
same identical blunder on every day of publication.--'Mr. Professor,
here is Hart_mann's_ journal.' Upon which Kant would reply--'Eh!
what?--What's that you say? Hartmann's journal? I tell you, it is not
Hartmann, but Hartung: now, repeat it after me--not Hartmann, but
Hartung.' Then Lampe, looking sulky, and drawing himself up with the
stiff air of a soldier on guard, and in the very same monotonous tone
with which he had been used to sing out his challenge of--_Who goes
there?_ would roar--'not Hartmann, but Hartung.' 'Now again!' Kant
would say: on which again Lampe roared--'not Hartmann, but Hartung.'
'Now a third time,' cried Kant: on which for a third time the unhappy
Lampe would howl out--'not Hartmann, but Hartung.' And this whimsical
scene of parade duty was continually repeated: duly as the day of
publication came, the irreclaimable old dunce was put through the same
manoeuvres, which were as invariably followed by the same blunder on
the next. In spite, however, of this advantage, in the new servant, and
his general superiority to his predecessor, Kant's nature was too kind
and good, and too indulgent to all people's infirmities but his own,
not to miss the voice and the 'old familiar face' that he had been
accustomed to for forty years. And I met with what struck me as an
affecting instance of Kant's yearning after his old good-for-nothing
servant in his memorandum-book: other people record what they wish to
remember; but Kant had here recorded what he was to forget. 'Mem.:
February, 1802, the name of Lampe must now be remembered no more.'

In the spring of this year, 1802, I advised Kant to take the air. It
was very long since he had been out of doors, [Footnote: Wasianski here
returns thanks to some unknown person, who, having observed that Kant
in his latter walks took pleasure in leaning against a particular wall
to view the prospect, had caused a seat to be fixed at that point for
his use.] and walking was now out of the question. But I thought the
motion of a carriage and the air would be likely to revive him. On the
power of vernal sights and sounds I did not much rely; for these had
long ceased to affect him. Of all the changes that spring brings with
it, there was one only that now interested Kant; and he longed for it
with an eagerness and intensity of expectation, that it was almost
painful to witness: this was the return of a hedge sparrow that sang in
his garden, and before his window. This bird, either the same, or one
of the next generation, had sung for years in the same situation; and
Kant grew uneasy when the cold weather, lasting longer than usual,
retarded its return. Like Lord Bacon, indeed, he had a childlike love
for birds in general, and in particular, took pains to encourage the
sparrows to build above the windows of his study; and when this
happened, (as it often did, from the silence which prevailed in his
study,) he watched their proceedings with the delight and the
tenderness which others give to a human interest. To return to the
point I was speaking of, Kant was at first very unwilling to accede to
my proposal of going abroad. 'I shall sink down in the carriage,' said
he, 'and fall together like a heap of old rags.' But I persisted with a
gentle importunity in urging him to the attempt, assuring him that we
would return immediately if he found the effort too much for him.
Accordingly, upon a tolerably warm day of early [Footnote: Mr.
Wasianski says--_late_ in summer: but, as he elsewhere describes
by the same expression of 'late in summer,' a day which was confessedly
_before_ the longest day, and as the multitude of birds which
continued to sing will not allow us to suppose that the summer could be
very far advanced, I have translated accordingly.] summer, I, and an
old friend of Kant's, accompanied him to a little place which I rented
in the country. As we drove through the streets, Kant was delighted to
find that he could sit upright, and bear the motion of the carriage,
and seemed to draw youthful pleasure from the sight of the towers and
other public buildings, which he had not seen for years. We reached the
place of our destination in high spirits. Kant drank a cup of coffee,
and attempted to smoke a little. After this, he sat and sunned himself,
listening with delight to the warbling of birds, which congregated in
great numbers about this spot. He distinguished every bird by its song,
and called it by its right name. After staying about half an hour, we
set off on our homeward journey, Kant still cheerful, but apparently
satiated with his day's enjoyment.

I had on this occasion purposely avoided taking him to any public
gardens, that I might not disturb his pleasure by exposing him to the
distressing gaze of public curiosity. However, it was known in
Königsberg that Kant had gone out; and accordingly, as the carriage
moved through the streets which led to his residence, there was a
general rush from all quarters in that direction, and, when we turned
into the street where the house stood, we found it already choked up
with people. As we slowly drew up to the door, a lane was formed in the
crowd, through which Kant was led, I and my friend supporting him on
our arms. Looking at the crowd, I observed the faces of many persons of
rank, and distinguished strangers, some of whom now saw Kant for the
first time, and many of them for the last.

As the winter of 1802-3 approached, he complained more than ever of an
affection of the stomach, which no medical man had been able to
mitigate, or even to explain. The winter passed over in a complaining
way; he was weary of life, and longed for the hour of dismission. 'I
can be of service to the world no more,' said he, 'and am a burden to
myself.' Often I endeavored to cheer him by the anticipation of
excursions that we would make together when summer came again. On these
he calculated with so much earnestness, that he had made a regular
scale or classification of them--l. Airings; 2. Journeys; 3. Travels.
And nothing could equal the yearning impatience expressed for the
coming of spring and summer, not so much for their own peculiar
attractions, as because they were the seasons for travelling. In his
memorandum-book, he made this note:--'The three summer months are June,
July, and August'--meaning that they were the three months for
travelling. And in conversation he expressed the feverish strength of
his wishes so plaintively and affectingly, that everybody was drawn
into powerful sympathy with him, and wished for some magical means of
ante-dating the course of the seasons.

In this winter his bed-room was often warmed. This was the room in
which he kept his little collection of books, of about four hundred and
fifty volumes, chiefly presentation-copies from the authors. It may
seem singular that Kant, who read so extensively, should have no larger
library; but he had less need of one than most scholars, having in his
earlier years been librarian at the Royal Library of the Castle; and
since then having enjoyed from the liberality of Hartknoch, his
publisher, (who, in his turn, had profited by the liberal terms on
which Kant had made over to him the copyright of his own works,) the
first sight of every new book that appeared.

At the close of this winter, that is in 1803, Kant first began to
complain of unpleasant dreams, sometimes of very terrific ones, which
awakened him in great agitation. Oftentimes melodies, which he had
heard in earliest youth sung in the streets of Königsberg, resounded
painfully in his ears, and dwelt upon them in a way from which no
efforts of abstraction could release him. These kept him awake to
unseasonable hours; and often when, after long watching, he had fallen
asleep, however deep his sleep might be, it was suddenly broken up by
terrific dreams, which alarmed him beyond description. Almost every
night, the bell-rope, which communicated with a bell in the room above
his own, where his servant slept, was pulled violently, and with the
utmost agitation. No matter how fast the servant might hurry down, he
was almost always too late, and was pretty sure to find his master out
of bed, and often making his way in terror to some other part of the
house. The weakness of his feet exposed him to such dreadful falls on
these occasions, that at length (but with much difficulty) I persuaded
him to let his servant sleep in the same room with himself.

The morbid affection of the stomach began now to be more and more
distressing; and he tried various applications, which he had formerly
been loud in condemning, such as a few drops of rum upon a piece of
sugar, naphtha, [Footnote: For Kant's particular complaint, as
described by other biographers, a quarter of a grain of opium, every
twelve hours, would have been the best remedy, perhaps a perfect
remedy.] &c. But all these were only palliatives; for his advanced age
precluded the hope of a radical cure. His dreadful dreams became
continually more appalling: single scenes, or passages in these dreams,
were sufficient to compose the whole course of mighty tragedies, the
impression from which was so profound as to stretch far into his waking
hours. Amongst other phantasmata more shocking and indescribable, his
dreams constantly represented to him the forms of murderers advancing
to his bedside; and so agitated was he by the awful trains of phantoms
that swept past him nightly, that in the first confusion of awaking he
generally mistook his servant, who was hastening to his assistance, for
a murderer. In the day-time we often conversed upon these shadowy
illusions; and Kant, with his usual spirit of stoical contempt for
nervous weakness of every sort, laughed at them; and, to fortify his
own resolution to contend against them, he wrote down in his
memorandum-book, 'There must be no yielding to panics of darkness.' At
my suggestion, however, he now burned a light in his chamber, so placed
as that the rays might be shaded from his face. At first he was very
averse to this, though gradually he became reconciled to it. But that
he could bear it at all, was to me an expression of the great
revolution accomplished by the terrific agency of his dreams.
Heretofore, darkness and utter silence were the two pillars on which
his sleep rested: no step must approach his room; and as to light, if
he saw but a moonbeam penetrating a crevice of the shutters, it made
him unhappy; and, in fact, the windows of his bed-chamber were
barricadoed night and day. But now darkness was a terror to him, and
silence an oppression. In addition to his lamp, therefore, he had now a
repeater in his room; the sound was at first too loud, but, after
muffling the hammer with cloth, both the ticking and the striking
became companionable sounds to him.

At this time (spring of 1803) his appetite began to fail, which I
thought no good sign. Many persons insist that Kant was in the habit of
eating too much for health. [Footnote: Who these worthy people were
that criticised Kant's eating, is not mentioned. They could have had no
opportunity of exercising their abilities on this question, except as
hosts, guests, or fellow-guests; and in any of those characters, a
gentleman, one would suppose, must feel himself degraded by directing
his attention to a point of that nature. However, the merits of the
case stand thus between the parlies: Kant, it is agreed by all his
biographers, ate only once a day; for as to his breakfast, it was
nothing more than a very weak infusion of tea, (vide Jachmann's
Letters, p. 163,) with no bread, or eatable of any kind. Now, his
critics, by general confession, ate their way, from 'morn to dewy eve,'
through the following course of meals: 1. Breakfast early in the
morning; 2. Breakfast _à la fourchette_ about ten, A.M.; 3. Dinner
at one or two; 4. Vesper Brod; 5. Abend Brod; all which does really
seem a very fair allowance for a man who means to lecture upon
abstinence at night. But I shall cut this matter short by stating one
plain fact; there were two things, and no more, for which Kant had an
inordinate craving during his whole life; these were tobacco and
coffee; and from both these he abstained almost altogether, merely
under a sense of duty, resting probably upon erroneous grounds. Of the
first he allowed himself a very small quantity, (and everybody knows
that temperance is a more difficult virtue than abstinence;) of the
other none at all, until the labors of his life were accomplished.] I,
however, cannot assent to this opinion; for he ate but once a day, and
drank no beer. Of this liquor, (I mean the strong black beer,) he was,
indeed, the most determined enemy. If ever a man died prematurely, Kant
would say--'He has been drinking beer, I presume.' Or, if another were
indisposed, you might be sure he would ask, 'But does he drink beer?'
And, according to the answer on this point, he regulated his
anticipations for the patient. Strong beer, in short, he uniformly
maintained to be a slow poison. Voltaire, by the way, had said to a
young physician who denounced coffee under the same bad name of a 'slow
poison,' 'You're right there, my friend, however; slow it is, and
horribly slow; for I have been drinking it these seventy years, and it
has not killed me yet;' but this was an answer which, in the case of
beer, Kant would not allow of.

On the 22d of April, 1803, his birth-day, the last which he lived to
see, was celebrated in a full assembly of his friends. This festival he
had long looked forward to with great expectation, and delighted even
to hear the progress made in the preparations for it. But when the day
came, the over-excitement and tension of expectation seemed to have
defeated itself. He tried to appear happy; but the bustle of a numerous
company confounded and distressed him; and his spirits were manifestly
forced. He seemed first to revive to any real sense of pleasure at
night, when the company had departed, and he was undressing in his
study. He then talked with much pleasure about the presents which, as
usual, would be made to his servants on this occasion; for Kant was
never happy himself, unless he saw all around him happy. He was a great
maker of presents; but at the same time he had no toleration for the
studied theatrical effect, the accompaniment of formal congratulations,
and the sentimental pathos with which birth-day presents are made in
Germany. [Footnote: In this, as in many other things, the taste of Kant
was entirely English and Roman; as, on the other hand, some eminent
Englishmen, I am sorry to say, have, on this very point, shown the
effeminacy and _falsetto_ taste of the Germans. In particular, Mr.
Coleridge, describing, in The Friend, the custom amongst German
children of making presents to their parents on Christmas Eve, (a
custom which he unaccountably supposes to be peculiar to Ratzeburg,)
represents the mother as 'weeping aloud for joy'--the old idiot of a
father with 'tears running down his face,' &c. &c., and all for what?
For a snuff-box, a pencil-case, or some article of jewellery. Now, we
English agree with Kant on such maudlin display of stage
sentimentality, and are prone to suspect that papa's tears are the
product of rum-punch. Tenderness let us have by all means, and the
deepest you can imagine, but upon proportionate occasions, and with
causes fitted to justify it and sustain its dignity.] In all this, his
masculine taste gave him a sense of something fade and ludicrous.

The summer of 1803 was now come, and, visiting Kant one day, I was
thunderstruck to hear him direct me, in the most serious tone, to
provide the funds necessary for an extensive foreign tour. I made no
opposition, but asked his reasons for such a plan; he alleged the
miserable sensations he had in his stomach, which were no longer
endurable. Knowing what power over Kant a quotation from a Roman poet
had always had, I simply replied--'Post equitem sedet atra cura,' and
for the present he said no more. But the touching and pathetic
earnestness with which he was continually ejaculating prayers for
warmer weather, made it doubtful to me whether his wishes on this point
ought not, partially at least, to be gratified; and I therefore
proposed to him a little excursion to the cottage we had visited the
year before. 'Anywhere,' said he, 'no matter whither, provided it be
far enough.' Towards the latter end of June, therefore, we executed
this scheme; on getting into the carriage, the order of the day with
Kant was, 'Distance, distance. Only let us go far enough,' said he: but
scarcely had we reached the city-gates before the journey seemed
already to have lasted too long. On reaching the cottage we found
coffee waiting for us; but he would scarcely allow himself time for
drinking it, before he ordered the carriage to the door; and the
journey back seemed insupportably long to him, though it was performed
in something less than twenty minutes. 'Is this never to have an end?'
was his continual exclamation; and great was his joy when he found
himself once more in his study, undressed, and in bed. And for this
night he slept in peace, and once again was liberated from the
persecution of dreams.

Soon after he began again to talk of journeys, of travels in remote
countries, &c., and, in consequence, we repeated our former excursion
several times; and though the circumstances were pretty nearly the same
on every occasion, and always terminating in disappointment as to the
immediate pleasure anticipated, yet, undoubtedly, they were, on the
whole, salutary to his spirits. In particular, the cottage itself,
standing under the shelter of tall alders, with a valley stretched
beneath it, through which a little brook meandered, broken by a water-
fall, whose pealing sound dwelt pleasantly on the ear, sometimes, on a
quiet sunny day, gave a lively delight to Kant: and once, under
accidental circumstances of summer clouds and sun-lights, the little
pastoral landscape suddenly awakened a lively remembrance which had
been long laid asleep, of a heavenly summer morning in youth, which he
had passed in a bower upon the banks of a rivulet that ran through the
grounds of a dear and early friend, Gen. Von Lossow. The strength of
the impression was such, that he seemed actually to be living over that
morning again, thinking as he then thought, and conversing with those
that were no more.

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