A Virtuosos Collection | Page 8

Nathaniel Hawthorne
could bestow for the
adequate perception of their merits. I shall therefore leave them
undescribed and uncriticised, nor attempt to settle the question of
superiority between ancient and modern art.
For the same reason I shall pass lightly over the specimens of antique
sculpture which this indefatigable and fortunate virtuoso had dug out of
the dust of fallen empires. Here was AEtion's cedar statue of
AEsculapius, much decayed, and Alcon's iron statue of Hercules,
lamentably rusted. Here was the statue of Victory, six feet high, which
the Jupiter Olympus of Phidias had held in his hand. Here was a
forefinger of the Colossus of Rhodes, seven feet in length. Here was the
Venus Urania of Phidias, and other images of male and female beauty
or grandeur, wrought by sculptors who appeared never to have debased
their souls by the sight of any meaner forms than those of gods or
godlike mortals. But the deep simplicity of these great works was not to
be comprehended by a mind excited and disturbed, as mine was, by the
various objects that had recently been presented to it. I therefore turned
away with merely a passing glance, resolving on some future occasion
to brood over each individual statue and picture until my inmost spirit
should feel their excellence. In this department, again, I noticed the
tendency to whimsical combinations and ludicrous analogies which
seemed to influence many of the arrangements of the museum. The
wooden statue so well known as the Palladium of Troy was placed in
close apposition with the wooden head of General Jackson, which was
stolen a few years since from the bows of the frigate Constitution.
We had now completed the circuit of the spacious hall, and found
ourselves again near the door. Feeling somewhat wearied with the
survey of so many novelties and antiquities, I sat down upon Cowper's
sofa, while the virtuoso threw himself carelessly into Rabelais's
easychair. Casting my eyes upon the opposite wall, I was surprised to

perceive the shadow of a man flickering unsteadily across the wainscot,
and looking as if it were stirred by some breath of air that found its way
through the door or windows. No substantial figure was visible from
which this shadow might be thrown; nor, had there been such, was
there any sunshine that would have caused it to darken upon the wall.
"It is Peter Schlemihl's shadow," observed the virtuoso, "and one of the
most valuable articles in my collection."
"Methinks a shadow would have made a fitting doorkeeper to such a
museum," said I; "although, indeed, yonder figure has something
strange and fantastic about him, which suits well enough with many of
the impressions which I have received here. Pray, who is he?"
While speaking, I gazed more scrutinizingly than before at the
antiquated presence of the person who had admitted me, and who still
sat on his bench with the same restless aspect, and dim, confused,
questioning anxiety that I had noticed on my first entrance. At this
moment he looked eagerly towards us, and, half starting from his seat,
addressed me.
"I beseech you, kind sir," said he, in a cracked, melancholy tone, "have
pity on the most unfortunate man in the world. For Heaven's sake,
answer me a single question! Is this the town of Boston?"
"You have recognized him now," said the virtuoso. "It is Peter Rugg,
the missing man. I chanced to meet him the other day still in search of
Boston, and conducted him hither; and, as he could not succeed in
finding his friends, I have taken him into my service as doorkeeper. He
is somewhat too apt to ramble, but otherwise a man of trust and
integrity."
"And might I venture to ask," continued I, "to whom am I indebted for
this afternoon's gratification?"
The virtuoso, before replying, laid his hand upon an antique dart, or
javelin, the rusty steel head of winch seemed to have been blunted, as if
it had encountered the resistance of a tempered shield, or breastplate.
"My name has not been without its distinction in the world for a longer
period than that of any other man alive," answered he. "Yet many doubt
of my existence; perhaps you will do so to-morrow. This dart which I
hold in my hand was once grim Death's own weapon. It served him
well for the space of four thousand years; but it fell blunted, as you see,
when he directed it against my breast."

These words were spoken with the calm and cold courtesy of manner
that had characterized this singular personage throughout our interview.
I fancied, it is true, that there was a bitterness indefinably mingled with
his tone, as of one cut off from natural sympathies and blasted with a
doom that had been inflicted on no
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