Transcriber's notes:
Source of scans: Google Books:
"http://books.google.com/books?pg=PA2&dq=editions:UCALB4287293&id=ZYQFAQ
AAIAAJ&as_brr=1#v=onepage&q=&f=false"
THE SERAPION BRETHREN.
VOLUME II.
THE SERAPION BRETHREN.
BY
ERNST THEODOR WILHELM HOFFMANN
Translated from the German
BY
LIEUT.-COLONEL ALEX. EWING,
A.P.D.,
TRANSLATOR OF J. P. RICHTER'S "FLOWER, FRUIT, AND THORN PIECES,"
ETC.
VOLUME II.
LONDON:
GEORGE BELL & SONS, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN,
AND NEW YORK.
1892.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
CONTENTS.
SECTION V.
PAGE
THE LIFE OF A WELL-KNOWN CHARACTER
ALBERTINE'S WOOERS
THE UNCANNY GUEST
SECTION VI.
MADEMOISELLE SCUDERI
GAMBLERS' FORTUNE
SECTION VII.
SIGNOR FORMICA
PHENOMENA
SECTION VIII.
THE MUTUAL INTERDEPENDENCE OF THINGS
THE KING'S BETHROTHED
THE SERAPION BRETHREN.
SECTION V.
The ever-fluctuating vicissitudes of human life had once more scattered
our little group of friends asunder. Sylvester had gone back to his
country home; Ottmar had travelled away on business, and so had
Cyprian; Vincent was still in the town, but (after his accustomed
fashion) he had disappeared in the turmoil, and was nowhere to be seen;
Lothair was nursing Theodore, who had been laid on a bed of sickness by
a malady long struggled against, which was destined to keep him there
for a considerable time.
Indeed, several months had gone by, when Ottmar (whose sudden and
unlooked-for departure had been the chief cause of the breaking up of
the "Club") came back, to find, in place of the full-fledged "Serapion
Brotherhood," one friend, barely convalescent, and bearing the traces
of a severe illness in his pale face, abandoned by the Brethren, with
the exception of one, who was tasking him severely by constant
outbreaks of a grim and capricious "humour."
For Lothair was once more finding himself in one of those strange and
peculiar moods of mind in which all life seemed to him to have become
weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, by reason of the everlasting
mockery ("chaff" might be the modern expression of this idea) of the
inimical daemonic power which, like a pedantic tutor, ignores and
contemns the _nature_ of men; giving man (as a tutor of the sort would
do) bitter drugs and nauseous medicines, instead of sweet and delicious
macaroons, to the end that his said pupil, man, may take a distaste at
his own nature, enjoy it no more, and thus keep his digestion in good
order.
"What an unfortunate idea it was," Lothair cried out, in the gloomiest
ill-humour, when Ottmar came in and found him sitting with
Theodore--"what an unfortunate idea it was of ours to insist on binding
ourselves together again so closely, jumping over all the clefts which
time had split between us! It is Cyprian whom we have to thank for
laying the foundation-stone of Saint Serapion, on which we built an
edifice which seemed destined to last a lifetime, and tumbled down into
ruin in a few moons. One ought not to hang one's heart on to anything,
or give one's mind over to the impressions of excitements from without;
and I was a fool to do so, for I must confess to you that the way in
which we came together on those Serapion evenings took such a hold on
my whole being that, when the brethren so suddenly dispersed themselves
over the world, my life felt to me as weary, stale, flat and
unprofitable as the melancholy Prince Hamlet's did to him."
"Forasmuch as no spirit has arisen from the grave, revisiting the
glimpses of the moon, to incite you to revenge," said Ottmar, with a
laugh, "and as you are not called upon to send your sweetheart
to a nunnery, or to thrust a poisoned rapier into the heart of a
murderer-king, I think you ought not to give way to Prince Hamlet's
melancholy, and should consider that it would be the grossest
selfishness to renounce every league of alliance into which
congenially-minded people enter because the storms of life possess the
power of interfering with it. Human beings ought not to draw in their
antennas at every ungentle touch, like supersensitive insects. Is the
remembrance of hours passed in gladsome kindly intercourse nothing to
you? All through my journeyings I have thought of you continually. On
the evenings of the meetings of the Serapion Club (which, of course, I
supposed to be still in full swing) I always took my place amongst you,
in spirit; assimilated all the delightful and entertaining things going
on amongst you (entertaining you, at the same time, with whatever the
spirit moved me to contribute to you). But it is absurd to continue in
this vein. Is there, in Lothair's mind, really the slightest trace of
that which his momentary 'out-of-tuneness' has made him say? Does he
not himself admit that the cause of his being out of tune is merely the
fact of our having been dispersed?"
"Theodore's illness," said Lothair, "which nearly sent him to his
grave, was not a matter, either, calculated to put me into a happy
state of mind."
"No," said Ottmar, "but Theodore is well again; and as to the Serapion
Club, I cannot see why it should not be considered to be in full
working order, now that three of the Brethren are met together."
"Ottmar is perfectly right," said Theodore; "it is a matter of
indisputable necessity that we should have a meeting, in true
Serapiontic fashion, as early as possible. The germ which we form will
sprout into a tree full of fresh life and vigour, bearing flowers and
fruit--I mean that that bird of passage, Cyprian, will come back:
Sylvester will soon be unhappy, there where he is, away; and when the
nightingales cease singing, he will long for music of another kind; and
Vincent will emerge from the billows again, no doubt, and chirp his
little song."
"Have it your own way," said Lothair, rather more gently than before;
"only don't expect _me_ to have anything to do with it. However, I
promise that I will be present when you assemble Serapiontically; and,
as Theodore ought to be in the open air as much as possible, I suggest
that we hold our meeting out of doors."
So they fixed upon the last day of May--which was only a few days
off--for the time; and on a pretty public-garden in the neighbourhood,
not too much frequented, for the place, of their next Serapiontic
meeting.
A thunderstorm, passing quickly over, and merely sprinkling the trees
and bushes with a few drops of Heaven's balsam, had relieved the sultry
oppressiveness of the day. The beautiful garden was lying all still, in
the most exquisite brightness. The delicious perfume of leaves and
flowers streamed through it, while the birds, twittering and trilling
in happiness, went rustling amongst the branches, and bathed themselves
in the bedewed leafage.
"How refreshed I feel, through and through!" Theodore cried, when the
friends had sate themselves down in the shade of some thickly-foliaged
lime-trees; "every trace of illness, down to the most infinitesimal,
has left me. I feel as if a redoubled life had dawned on me, in my
active consciousness of reciprocity of action between me and the
external. A man must have been as ill as I have been to be capable of
this sensation, which, strengthening mind and body, must surely be (as
I feel it to be) the true life-elixir which the Eternal Power, the
ruling World-spirit, administers to us, directly and without
intermediation. The vivifying breath of Nature is breathing out of my
own breast. I seem to be floating in that glorious blue Heaven which is
vaulted over us, with every burden lifted away from me!"
"This," said Ottmar, "shows that you are quite well again, beloved
friend; and all glory to the Eternal Power which fitted you out with an
organisation strong enough to survive an illness like that which you
have gone through. It is a marvel that you recovered at all, and still
a greater that you recovered so quickly."
"For my part," said Lothair, "I am not surprised that he got well so
soon, because I never had a moment's doubt that he would. You may
believe me, Ottmar, when I tell you that, wretched as the state in
which his physical condition appeared to be, he was never really ill,
mentally; and so long as the spirit keeps sound--well! it was really
enough to vex one to death that Theodore, ill as he was, was always in
better spirits than I was, although I was a perfectly well and sound
man; and that, so soon as his bodily sufferings gave him an interval of
rest, he delighted in the wildest fun and jests. At the same time, he
has the rare power of remembering his feverish illusions. The doctor
had forbidden him to talk; but when _I_ wished to tell him this, that
and the other in quiet moments, he would motion me to be silent and not
disturb his thoughts, which were busy over some important composition,
or other matter of the kind."
"Yes," said Theodore, laughing, "I can assure you that Lothair's
communications were of a very peculiar kidney at that time. Directly
after the dispersion of the Serapion Brethren he became possessed by a
foul fiend of evil humours. This you probably have gathered; but you
cannot, by any possibility, divine the extraordinary ideas which he got
into his head at this period of gloom and dejection. One day he came
to my bedside (for I had taken to my bed by that time) stating
that the old Chronicle Books were the grandest and richest mines and
treasure-houses of tales, legends, novels and dramas. Cyprian said the
same long ago, and it is true. Next day I noticed, although my malady
was besetting me sorely, that Lothair was sitting immersed in an old
folio. Moreover, he went every day to the public library and got
together all the old Chronicles he could lay his hands upon. _That_ was
all very well; but, besides, he got his head filled with the strange
old legends which are contained in those venerable books; and when, in
my hours of comparative quiet, he bestirred himself to talk to me on
'entertaining' subjects, what I heard of was war and pestilence,
monstrous abortions, hurricanes, comets, fires and floods, witches,
auto-da-fé's, enchantments, miracles, and, above all other subjects,
his talk was of the manifold works and devices of the Devil--who, as we
know, plays such an important part in all those old stories that one
can hardly imagine what has become of him _now_, when he seems to keep
so quietly in the background, unless he may perhaps have put on some
new dress which renders him unrecognizable. Now tell me, Ottmar, don't
you think such subjects of conversation well suited for a man in my
then state of health?"
"Don't condemn me unheard," cried Lothair. "It is true, and I will
maintain it fearlessly, that, for writers of tales, there is an immense
amount of splendid material in those ancient Chronicles. But you know
that _I_ have never taken much interest in them, and least of all in
their _diablerie_. However, the evening before Cyprian went away I had
a great argument with him as to his having far too much to do with the
Devil and his family; and I told him candidly that my present opinion
of his tale, 'The Singers' Contest,' is that it is a thoroughly faulty
and bungling piece of work, although when he read it to us I approved
of it, for many specious reasons. Upon this he attacked me in the
character of a real _advocatum diaboli_, and told me such a quantity of
things, out of old Chronicles and from other sources, that my head
fairly reeled. And then, when Theodore fell ill, I was seized upon and
overmastered by real, bitter gloom and misery. Somehow, I scarce know
how or why, Cyprian's 'Singers' Contest' came back to my mind again.
Nay, the Devil himself appeared to me in person one night when I
couldn't sleep; and although I was a good deal frightened by the evil
fellow, still I could not help respecting him, and paying him my duty
as an ever helpful aide-de-camp of tale-writers in lack of help; and,
by way of spiting you all, I determined to set to work and surpass even
Cyprian himself in the line of the fearsome and the terrible."
"_You_, Lothair, undertake the fearful and terrible!" said Ottmar,
laughing--"you, whose bright and fanciful genius would seem expressly
adapted to wave the wand of comedy!"
"Even so," said Lothair; "such was my idea. And as a first step towards
carrying it out, I set to work to rummage in those old Chronicles which
Cyprian had told me were the very treasure-houses of the diabolical;
but I admit that it all turned out quite differently from what I had
expected."
"I can fully confirm that," said Theodore. "I can assure you it is
astonishing, and most delicious, the way in which the Devil and the
gruesomest witch-trials adapt themselves to the mental bent and style
of the author of 'Nutcracker and the King of Mice.' Just let me tell
you, dear Ottmar, how I chanced to lay my hands upon an experimental
essay on this subject of our doughty Lothair's. He had just left me one
day when I was getting to be strong enough to creep about the room a
little, and I found, upon the table where he had been writing, the
truly remarkable book entitled 'Haftitii Michrochronicon Berlinense,'
open at the page where, _inter alia_, occurs what follows:--
"'Ye Divell, in this year of Grace, appeared bodily in ye streets of
Berlin, and attended funerals, conducting himself thereat
sorrowfullie,' &c., &c., &c.
"You will see, my dear Ottmar, that this entertaining piece of
intelligence was of a nature to delight me immensely; but some pages in
Lothair's handwriting delighted me still more. In those he had welded
up the accounts of this curious conduct of the Devil with a horrible
case of misbirth, and a gruesome trial for witchcraft, into an
_ensemble_ of the most delightful and entertaining description. I have
got those pages here; I brought them in my pocket to amuse you with
them."
He took them out of his pocket and handed them to Ottmar.
"What!" cried Lothair, "the affair which I styled 'Some Account of the
Life of a Well-known Character,' which I thought was torn up and
destroyed long ago--the abortive product of a fit of capricious fancy;
can it be that you have captured _that_ from me and kept it, to bring
me into discredit with persons of taste and culture? Here with the
wretched piece of scribbling, that I may tear it up and scatter it to
the winds of heaven."
"No, no," cried Theodore; "you must read it to Ottmar, as a penance for
what you inflicted on me in my illness with your horrible weird
Chronicle matter."
"Well," said Lothair, "I suppose I can't refuse, though I shall cut a
strange figure before this very grave and carefully-behaved gentleman.
However, here goes." So Lothair took the papers, and read as follows:--
THE LIFE OF A WELL-KNOWN CHARACTER.
In the year one thousand five hundred and fifty-one there was to be
seen in the streets of Berlin, particularly in the evening twilight, a
gentleman of fine and distinguished appearance. He wore a rich and
beautiful doublet, trimmed with sable, white galligaskins, and slashed
shoes; on his head was a satin barret cap with a red feather. His
manners were charming, and highly polished. He bowed politely to
everybody, particularly to ladies, both married and single; and to
_them_ he was wont to address civil and complimentary speeches. He
would say: "Donna! if you have any wish or desire in the depths of your
heart, pray command your most humble servant, who will devote his
humble powers to the utmost to be entirely at your disposal and
service." This was what he said to married ladies of position. To the
unmarried he said: "Heaven grant you a nice husband, worthy of your
loveliness and virtues." To the men he behaved just as charmingly, and
it was no wonder that everybody was fond of this stranger, and came to
his assistance when he would stand hesitating, in doubt and difficulty,
at some crossing, apparently not knowing how to get over it; for though
a well-grown and handsomely-proportioned person in most respects, he
had one lame foot, and was obliged to go about with a crutch. But as
soon as anybody gave him a hand to help him at a crossing, he would
instantly jump up with him some six ells or so into the air, and not
come to the ground again within a distance of some twelve paces on the
other side of the crossing. This rather astonished people, it need not
be said, and one or two sprained their legs slightly in the process.
But the stranger excused himself by saying that, before his leg was
lame, he had been principal dancer at the Court of the King of Hungary;
so that, when he felt himself called upon to take a jump, the old habit
came back upon him, and, willy-nilly, he could not help springing up
into the air as he used to do in the exercise of his profession. The
people were satisfied with this explanation, and even took much delight
in seeing some privy councillor, clergyman, or other person of position
and respectability, taking a great jump of this sort hand-in-hand with
the stranger.
But, merry and cheerful as he seemed to be, his behaviour changed at
times in a most extraordinary manner; for he would often go about the
streets at night and knock at people's doors; and when they opened to
him, he would be standing there in white grave clothes, raising a
terrible crying and howling, at which they were fearfully frightened;
but he would apologize the following day, saying that he was compelled
to do this to remind the citizens and himself of the perishableness of
the body, and the imperishableness of the soul, to which their minds
ought always to be carefully directed. He would weep a little as he
said this, which touched the folks very much. He went to all the
funerals, following the coffin with reverent step, and conducting
himself like one overwhelmed with sorrow, so that he could not join in
the hymns for sobbing and lamenting. But, overcome with grief as he was
on those occasions, he was just as delighted and happy at marriages,
which in those days were celebrated in a very splendid style at the
town-hall. There he would sing all sorts of songs in a loud and
delightful voice, and dance for hours on end with the bride and the
young ladies (on his sound leg, adroitly drawing the lame one out of
the way), behaving and evincing himself on those occasions as a man of
the most delightful manners and bearing. But the best of it was that he
always gave the marrying couples delightful presents, so that of course
he was always a most welcome guest. He gave them gold chains,
bracelets, and other valuable things; so that the goodness, the
liberality, and the superior morality of this stranger became bruited
abroad throughout the city of Berlin, and even reached the ears of the
Elector himself. The Elector thought that a person of this sort would
be a great ornament at his own Court, and caused him to be sounded as
to his willingness to accept an appointment there. The stranger,
however, wrote back an answer (in vermilion letters, on a piece of
parchment a yard and a half in length, and the same in breadth) to the
effect that he was most submissively grateful for the honour offered to
him, but implored his Serene Highness to permit him to remain in the
enjoyment of the citizenesque life which was so wholly conformed to all
his sentiments, in peace; adding that he had selected Berlin, in
preference to many other cities, as his residence, because he had
nowhere else met with such charming people, persons of such
truthfulness and uprightness, of so much "feeling," of such a sense for
fine and delightful "manners" so exquisitely after his own heart in
every respect. The Elector, and his whole Court along with him, much
admired and wondered at the beautiful style in which this reply of the
stranger was conceived, and the matter was allowed to rest there.
It happened that just then the lady of Councillor Walter Lütkens was,
for the first time, "as ladies wish to be who love their lords"; and
the old _accoucheuse_, Mistress Barbara Roloffin, predicted that this
fine, grand lady, overflowing with health and strength, would
undoubtedly bring into the world a grand and vigorous son, so that Herr
Walter Lütkens was all hope and gladness. Our "stranger," who had been
a guest at Lütkens's wedding, was in the habit of calling at his house
now and then; and it chanced that he made one of those calls of his on
an evening when Barbara Roloffin was there.
As soon as old Barbara set eyes on the stranger she gave a marvellous
loud ejaculation of delight, and it appeared as though all the deep
wrinkles of her face smoothed themselves out in an instant. Her pale
lips and cheeks grew red, and the youth and beauty to which she had
long said "good-bye" came back to her again. She cried out, "Ah, ah,
Herr Junker! Is this you that I see here really and truly? Is this you,
yourself? Oh, I welcome you! I am so delighted to see you!" and she was
nearly falling down at his feet.
But he answered this demonstration in words of anger, whilst his eyes
flashed fire. Nobody could understand what it was that he said to her.
But the old woman shrunk into a corner, as pale and wrinkled as she had
been at first, and whimpering faintly and unintelligibly.
"My dear Mr. Lütkens," the stranger said to the master of the house, "I
hope you will take great care lest something annoying may happen in
your house here. I really hope, with all my heart, that everything will
go well on this auspicious occasion. But this old creature, Barbara
Roloffin, is by no means so well up to her business as perhaps you
suppose. She is an old acquaintance of mine, and I am sorry to say that
she has on many occasions not paid proper attention to her patients."
Both Lütkens and his wife had been very anxious, and had felt most eery
and uncanny about this whole business, and full of suspicion as to old
Barbara Roloffin, particularly when they remembered the extraordinary
transfiguration which took place in her when she saw the stranger. They
had very great suspicions that she was in the practice of black and
unholy arts, so that they forbade her to cross the threshold of their
house any more, and they made arrangements with another _accoucheuse_.
On this, old Barbara was very angry, and said that Lütkens and his wife
would pay very dearly for what they had done to her.
Lütkens's hope and gladness were turned into bitter heart-sorrow and
deep grief, when his wife brought into the world a horrible changeling
in place of the beautiful boy predicted by Barbara Roloffin. It was a
creature all chestnut brown, with two horns on its head, great fat
eyes, no nose whatever, a big wide mouth with a white tongue sticking
out of it upside down, and no neck. Its head was down between its
shoulders; its body was wrinkled and swollen; its arms came out just
above its hips, and it had long, thin shanks.
Mr. Lütkens wept and lamented terribly. "Oh, just heavens!" he cried;
"what in the name of goodness is going to be the outcome of this? Can
this little one ever be expected to tread in his father's steps? Was
there ever such a thing known as a Member of Council with a couple of
horns on his head, and chestnut brown all over?"
The stranger consoled Lütkens as much as ever he could. He pointed out
to him that a good education does a great deal; that though, as
concerned form and appearance, the new-born thing was really to be
characterized as a most arrant schismatic, still he ventured to say
that it looked about it very understandingly with its fat eyes, and
that there was room for a deal of wisdom between the two horns on its
forehead. Also that though it might, perhaps, never be fit to be a
Member of Council, it was perfectly capable of becoming a distinguished
_savant_, inasmuch as excessive ugliness is often a characteristic of
_savants_, and even causes them to be highly respected and much looked
up to.
However, Lütkens could not but ascribe his misfortune in the depths of
his heart to old Barbara Roloffin, particularly when he learned that
she had been sitting at the door of the room during his wife's
_accouchement_; and Frau Lütkens had declared, with many tears, that
the old woman's face had been before her eyes all the time of it, and
that she had not been able to get rid of the sight of her.
Now Mr. Lütkens's suspicions were not, it is true, enough to base any
legal proceedings upon in the matter; but Heaven so ordered things that
in a very short time all the infamous deeds which old Barbara had
committed were brought into the clear light of day.
For it happened that shortly after those events there came on one day,
about twelve at noon, a terrible storm, and a most violent wind, and
the people in the streets saw Barbara Roloffin (who was on her way to
attend a lady in need of her professional services) borne, rushing away
on the wings of a blast, high up through the air, over the housetops
and the church steeples, and set down, none the worse for the trip, in
a meadow close to Berlin.
After this, of course, there could be no more doubt about the "black
art" of Barbara Roloffin. Lütkens lodged his plaint before the proper
tribunal, and the woman was taken into custody. She denied everything
obstinately, till she was put to the rack. Upon that, unable to endure
the agony, she confessed that she had been in league with the Devil,
and had practised magical arts for a very long time. She admitted that
she had bewitched poor Frau Lütkens, and foisted off the vile abortion
upon her; and that, over and above that, she had in company with two
other witches belonging to Blumber killed and boiled several children
of Christian parents, with the object of causing a famine in the land.
Accordingly she was sentenced to be burnt alive in the market-place. So
when the appointed day arrived old Barbara was conducted there in
presence of a great concourse of people, and made to ascend the
scaffold which was there erected. When ordered to take off a fur cloak
which she was wearing, she would by no means obey, insisting that they
should tie her to the stake just as she was. This was done. The pile of
wood was already alight, and burning at all four corners, when suddenly
the stranger appeared, seemingly grown to gigantic dimensions, and
glaring over the heads of the populace at Barbara Roloffin with eyes of
flame.
The clouds of black smoke were rolling on high, the crackling flames
were catching the woman's dress, she cried out, in a terrible screaming
voice, "Satan! Satan! is this how thou holdest the pact thou hast made
with me? Help, Satan! Help! my time is not out yet!" and the stranger,
it was found, had suddenly vanished. But from the spot where he had
been standing an enormous bat went fluttering up, darted into the thick
of the flames, and thence rose screaming into the air with the old
woman's fur cloak; and the burning pyre went crashing down into
extinction.
Horror seized upon all the spectators; every one now saw clearly that
the distinguished stranger had been none other than the very Devil in
person. He must have had some special grudge against the folks of
Berlin, to whom he had so long behaved so smoothly and in such friendly
fashion, and with hellish deceit betrayed Councillor Lütkens and many
other sapient men and women.
Such is the power of the Evil One; from whom and from all his snares
may Heaven in its mercy defend us all.
When Lothair had finished, he looked into Ottmar's face, in utter
self-irony, with the peculiar expression of bitter sweetness which he
had at his command on such occasions.
"Well," said Theodore, "what think you of Lothair's pretty little
specimen of _diablerie_? One of the best points about it, I think, is
that there is not too much of it."
Whilst Lothair had been reading, Ottmar had laughed a great deal, but
towards the close he had become grave and silent. "I must admit," he
said, "that in this little tale or 'prank'--for I don't know what else
to call it--of Lothair's there predominates an attempt, often more or
less successful, at a certain sort of amusing _naïveté_, very
appropriate to the character of the German Devil. Also, that when he
talks about the Devil's jumping over the streets hand in hand with
respectable townfolk and of the 'chestnut brown schismatic,' who might
turn out a quaint and ugly _savant_, though never a nice, natty,
spick-and-span Member of Council, we see the curvets and the caprioles
of the same little Pegasus which was bestridden by the author of
'Nutcracker.' Still, I think that he ought to have got on the back of a
horse of a different colour; and, indeed, I cannot say what the reason
exactly is why the pleasantly comic impression which the earlier part
of the story produces vanishes away into nothingness; whilst, out of
this nothingness, there ultimately develops a certain something which
becomes most uncanny and unpleasant; and the concluding words, which
are intended to do away with this feeling, do not succeed in doing away
with it."
"Oh, thou most sapient of all critics," Lothair cried, "who dost such
high honour to this most insignificant thing of all the insignificant
things which I have ever written down as to dissect it carefully with
magnifying glasses on nose, let me tell you that it served me as an
anatomical study long ago. Did I not style it a mere product of a mood
of caprice? Have I not anathematized it myself? However, I am glad that
I read it to you, because it gives me an opportunity of speaking my
mind concerning tales of this kind. And I am sure that my Serapion
Brethren will agree with me. In the first place, Ottmar, I should
like to trace out for you the germ of that unpleasant--or, better,
'uncanny'--feeling which you were conscious of when you were at first
beginning to see what you have called the 'amusing _naïveté_' of it.
Whatever grounds the good old Hafftitz may have had for telling us that
the Devil passed a certain time leading the life of a townsman of
Berlin, this remains for us a wholly 'fanciful' or 'fantastic'
incident. And the quality of the 'supernatural'--the 'spookishness' (to
use an expression now not unfamiliar)--which is a leading
characteristic of that tremendous 'principle of negation'--that 'spirit
which eternally denies and destroys'--is, by reason of the (in a
manner) comic contrastedness in which it is presented, calculated to
cause in us the strange sensation, compounded of terror and irony,
which fetters our attention in a manner the reverse of unpleasant. But
the case is quite different as to the terrible witch stories. In them
actual life is brought on to the stage with all its reality of horror.
When I read about Barbara Roloffin's execution, I felt as though I saw
the funeral pyre smoking in the market-place. All the horror of the
terrible witchcraft-trials rose to my memory. A pair of sparkling red
eyes, and an attenuated weazened body, were enough to cause a poor old
creature to be assumed to be a witch, guilty of every description of
wicked and unholy arts and practices; to have legal process instituted
against her, and to be led to the scaffold. The application of the
rack, or other form of torture, confirmed the accusations against her,
and decided the case."
"Still," said Theodore, "it is very remarkable that so many of those
supposititious witches of their own accord confessed their pact, and
other relations, with the Evil One, without any coercion whatever. Two
or three years ago it happened that a number of legal documents fell
into my hands relating to trials for witchcraft; and I could scarce
believe my eyes when I read in them confessions of things which made my
flesh creep. They told of ointments, the use of which turned human
beings into various animals; they spoke of riding on broomsticks, and,
in fact, of all the devilish practices which we read of in old legends.
Bat, first and foremost, and invariably, those supposititious witches
always openly and shamelessly avowed, and boasted--usually of their own
accord--as to their unchaste relations with the unclean and diabolical
'gallant' (as their term for him was). Now, how could such things be
possible?"
"Because," Lothair said, "belief in a diabolical compact actually
brought such a compact about."
"How do you mean? What do you say?" the two others cried together.
"Understand me properly, that is all I ask," said Lothair, "It is
matter of certainty that, in the times when nobody doubted of the
direct and immediate influence of the Devil, or that he constantly
appeared visibly, those miserable creatures, who were hunted down and
put so mercilessly to fire and sword, actually and firmly believed in
all that they were accused of; and that many, in the wickedness of
their hearts, tried their utmost, by means of every description of
supposed arts of witchcraft, to enter into compact with the Devil, for
the sake of gain, or for the doing of evil deeds; and _then_, in
conditions of brain-excitement, produced by beverages affecting their
senses, and by terrible oaths and ceremonies of conjuration, _saw_ the
Evil One, and entered into those compacts which were to confer upon
them supernatural powers. The wildest of the fabrications of the brain
which those confessions contain--based upon inward conviction--do not
seem too wild when one considers what strange fancies--nay, what
terrible infatuations--even hysteria itself is capable of producing in
women. Thus the wickedness of the hearts of those putative witches was
often paid for by a fearful death. We cannot reasonably reject the
testimony of those old witch-trials, for they are supported by the
evidence of witnesses, or other clearly recorded facts; and there are
many instances of people who have committed crimes deserving of death.
Remember Tieck's magnificent tale, 'The Love-Spell.' There is a deed
mentioned in the papers I have been speaking of very analogous to the
crime of the horrible woman in Tieck's tale. So that a death on the
funeral pyre was often really the proper punishment for those fearful
misdoings."
"There occurs to my remembrance," Theodore said, "an occasion when an
accursed crime of that description chanced to be brought vividly before
my own eyes, filling me with the profoundest pain and sorrow. When I
was living in W---- I went to see a certain charming country seat,
L----, which you know. It has been justly said of it that it seems to
float like some stately swan mirrored on the beautiful lake which lies
at its feet. I had heard, before, that there were dark rumours to the
effect that the unfortunate possessor of it, who had died but a short
time before, had carried on magical practices, with the help of an old
woman; and that the aged keeper of the chateau could tell a good deal
about this business, could one gain his confidence. As soon as I saw
this man he struck me as a very remarkable person. Imagine to
yourselves a hoary-headed old man with imprints of the profoundest
terror in his face, dressed poorly, like a peasant, but indicating,
by his manner, unusual cultivation. Remark that this man, whom you
would have taken for an ordinary labourer at the first glance, would
talk to you--if you did not happen to understand the patois of the
district--in the purest French, or in equally good Italian, just as you
chose. I managed to interest and to animate him by touching, as we
wandered through the great halls, on the troubles which his late master
had had to go through, and by showing that I was, to some extent,
acquainted with the subject, and with what had happened in those bygone
days. He explained the deeper meaning of many of the paintings and
adornments (which, to the uninitiated, seemed mere unmeaning
prettinesses), and grew more and more frank and confidential. At last
he opened a small closet, floored with slabs of white marble, in which
the only piece of furniture was a cauldron of brass. The walls seemed
to have been stripped of their former adornments. I knew, I felt, that
I was in the place where the former master of the house, blinded and
befooled by his lust for sensuous enjoyment, had descended to
diabolical practices. When I dropped a word or two hinting at this
subject, the old man raised his eyes to heaven with an expression of
the bitterest melancholy, and said, with a deep sigh, 'Ah! Holy Virgin!
hast thou forgiven him?' He then silently pointed to a large marble
slab embedded in the middle of the flooring. I looked at this slab with
much closeness of observation, and became aware that there were reddish
veins meandering about through the stone. And, as I fixed my attention
upon them more and more closely, heaven aid me! the features of a human
face grew more and more distinctly traceable and visible, just as when,
on looking at a distorted picture through a lens specially constructed,
all its lines and effects then, and not till then, grow clear and
sharp.
"It was the face of a child that was looking at me out of that stone,
marked with the heartrending anguish of the agony of death. I could see
drops of blood welling from the breast; but the rest of the form of the
body seemed to flow vaguely into indistinctness, as if a stream of
water were carrying it away. It was with a hard struggle that I
overcame the horror which well-nigh overmastered me. I could not bring
myself to utter a word. We left that terrible, mysterious place in
silence. Not till I had walked about in the park and the lawns for some
time could I overcome the inexplicable feeling which had so annulled my
enjoyment of that little earthly paradise. From many things which I
gathered from the detached utterances of the old man, I was led to
conclude that the crazy being who had thrust herself into such intimate
relations with the last proprietor of the place (in other respects a
large-hearted and cultivated man) had worked upon him by promising him,
through the exercise of her accursed arts, the fulfilment of his
dearest wishes--unfailing and everlasting happiness in love--and so led
him on to unutterable crime."
"This is an affair for Cyprian," Ottmar said. "He would be as delighted
over the bleeding baby in the marble, and in the old Castellan, as we."
"Well," Theodore went on to say, "although all this affair may be
traceable to foolish fancies--although it may be nothing but a fable
kept up by the people--still, if that strangely-veined slab of marble
is capable, even under the influence of a lively imagination, of
showing the lineaments of a bleeding baby when looked at closely and
carefully, something uncanny must have happened, or the faithful old
servant could not have felt his master's guilt so deeply in his heart,
nor would that strange stone give such a terrible evidence of it."
Ottmar said, replying, "We will take an early opportunity of laying
this matter before Saint Serapion, that we may ascertain exactly how it
stands; but for the time, I think we ought to let witches alone, and go
back to our subject of the 'German Devil,' as to which I would fain say
a word or two. What I am driving at is--that the characteristic German
manner of treating this subject is seen in its truest colour when it is
a question of the Devil's manner of conducting himself in ordinary
everyday life. Whenever he takes part in that, he is thoroughly 'up' in
every description of evil and mischief--in everything that is terrible
and alarming. He is always on the alert to set traps for the good, so
as to lead as many of them as possible over to his own kingdom; but yet
he is a thoroughly fair and honourably-dealing personage, abiding by
his compacts and contracts in the most accurate and punctilious manner.
From this it results that he is often outwitted, so that he appears in
the character of a 'stupid' Devil (and this is not improbably the
origin of the common expression 'stupid devil'); but, besides all this,
the character of the German Satan has a strong tincture of the
burlesque mixed up with the more predominant quality of mind-disturbing
terror--that horror which oppresses the mind and disorganizes it. Now,
the art of portraying the Devil in this distinctively German fashion
seems to be very much lost. For this aforesaid amalgamation of his
characteristics does not seem to occur in any of the more recent
attempts at representing him. He is either shown as a mere buffoon, or
as a being so terrible that the mind is revolted by him."
"I think," said Lothair, "you are forgetting one recent story in which
this said mingling of the brightly Intellectual (verging sometimes on
the comic) with the Terrific is very finely managed, and in which the
full effectiveness of the old-world sort of devil-spook-story is
carried out in a masterly manner. I mean Fouqué's splendid tale, the
'Galgenmännlein.'[1] The terribly vivacious little creature in the
phial--who comes out of it at night, and lays himself down on the
breast of that master of his, who has such awful dreams--the fearsome
man in the mountain glen, with his great coal-black steed which crawls
up the perpendicular cliffs like a fly on a wall--in short, all the
uncanny and supernatural elements which are present in the story in
such plentiful measure--together rivet and strain the attention to an
extent absolutely frightening; it affects one like some powerful drink,
which immensely excites the senses and at the same time sheds a
beneficent warmth through the heart. It is owing to the tone which
pervades it all through, and to the vividness of the separate pictures,
that, although at the end one is thoroughly delighted that the poor
wretch does get out of the Devil's clutches, still, the element of the
Intellectuality of the evil beings, and the scenes which touch upon the
realm of comedy (such as the part about the 'Half Heller') stand out
with the principal high-lights upon them. I scarcely can think of any
tale of _diablerie_ which has produced such an impression upon me."
[Footnote 1: Known in English as "The Bottle Imp."]
"There can't be much doubt," said Theodore, "that Fouqué got the
materials for that story out of some old chronicle."
"Even if he did," Lothair said, "I should hope you wouldn't detract
from the author's merit on that score, like the more common class of
critics, whose peculiar system obliges them always to try and find out
the fundamental materials from which a writer has 'taken' his work.
They make immense capital out of pointing out said source, and look
down with great contempt on the wretched author who merely kneads his
characters together out of a pre-existent dough. As if it mattered that
the author absorbed into himself germs from without him! The shaping of
the material is the important part of the business. We ought to think
of our Patron Saint Serapion. His stories were told out of his soul as
he had seen them with his eyes, not as he had read about them."
"You do me much injustice, Lothair," said Theodore, "if you suppose I
am of any other opinion. And there is nobody who has shown more
admirably how a subject may be vividly represented than Heinrich Kleist
in his tale of Kohlhaas, the horse dealer."
"However," said Lothair, "as we have been talking of Hafftitz's book, I
should like to read to you a story of which I took most of the leading
ideas from the Michrochronicon. I wrote it during an attack of a very
queer mood of mind, which beset me for a very considerable time. And I
hope, Ottmar, my dear friend, it will lead you to admit that the
'spleen,' which Theodore says I am suffering from, is not so very
serious as he would make it out to be."
He took out a manuscript, and read:
ALBERTINE'S WOOERS.
(A story in which many utterly improbable adventures happen.)
CHAPTER I.
WHICH TREATS OF SWEETHEARTS, WEDDINGS, CLERKS OF THE PRIVY CHANCERY,
PERTURBATIONS, WITCHCRAFT TRIALS, AND OTHER DELECTABLE MATTERS.
On the night of the autumnal equinox, Mr. Tussmann, a clerk in the
Privy Chancery, was making his way from the café, where he was in the
habit of passing an hour or two regularly every evening, towards his
lodgings in Spandau Street. The Clerk of the Privy Chancery was
excessively regular and punctilious in every action of his life. He
always had just done taking off his coat and his boots at the exact
moment when the clocks of St. Mary's and St. Nicholas's churches struck
eleven; so that, as the reverberating echo of the last stroke died
away, he always drew his nightcap over his ears, and placed his feet in
his roomy slippers.
On the night we are speaking of he, in order not to be late in going
through those ceremonies (for the clocks were just going to strike
eleven), was just going to turn out of King Street, round the corner
of Spandau Street, with a rapid sweep--almost to be denominated a
jump--when the sound of a strange sort of knocking somewhere in his
immediate proximity rivetted him to the spot.
And he became aware that, down at the bottom of the Town-house
Tower--rendered visible by the light of the neighbouring lamp--there
was a tall, meagre figure standing, wrapped in a dark cloak, knocking
louder and louder on the closed shutters of Mr. Warnatz, the
ironmonger's shop (which, as everybody knows, is therein situated);
knocking louder and louder, and then going back a few paces and sighing
profoundly, gazing up as he did so at the windows of the Tower, which
were shut.
"My dear sir," said the Clerk of the Privy Chancery, addressing this
personage in a civil and courteous manner, "you are evidently under
some misapprehension. There is not a single human creature up in that
Tower; and indeed--if we except a certain number of rats and mice, and
a few little owls--not a living thing. If you wish to provide yourself
with something superior in the hardware line from Warnatz's celebrated
emporium here, you will have to take the trouble to come back in the
forenoon."
"Respected Herr Tussmann----" the stranger began.
And Tussmann chimed in with "Clerk of the Privy Chancery, of many
years seniority." He was a little annoyed, too--astonished, at all
events--that the stranger seemed to know him. But the latter did not
seem to mind that in the least, but recommenced:
"Respected Herr Tussmann, you are kind enough to be making a complete
mistake as to the nature of my proceedings here. I do not want
ironmongery or hardware of any description; neither have I anything to
do with Mr. Warnatz. This is the night of the autumnal equinox, and I
want to see my future wife! She has heard my ardent and longing
summons, and my sighs of affection, and she will come and show herself
up at that window directly."
The hollow tones in which the man spoke these words had about them
something so solemn--nay, so spectral and supernatural--that the Clerk
of the Privy Chancery felt an icy shudder run through his veins. The
first stroke of eleven rung down from the tower of St. Mary's, and as
it did so, there came a clattering and a clinking up at the broken old
window of the Tower, and a female form became visible at it. As the
bright light of the street lamps fell upon the face of this figure,
Tussmann whimpered out in lamentable tones, "Oh, ye just powers!--Oh,
ye heavenly hosts!--what--_what_ is this?"
At the last stroke of eleven--that is, at the moment when Tussmann
generally put on his nightcap--the female figure vanished.
This extraordinary apparition seemed to drive the Clerk of the Privy
Chancery completely out of his senses. He sighed, groaned, gazed up at
the window, and whispered "Tussmann! Tussmann! Clerk of the Privy
Chancery--bethink yourself, sir! Consider what you're about. Don't let
your heart be troubled. Be not deceived by Satan, good soul."
"You seem to be put out by what you have seen, Mr. Tussmann," the
stranger said. "I only wanted to see my sweetheart--my wife, that is to
be. You must have seen something else, apparently."
"Please, please," Tussmann said in a whimper, "I should be so much
obliged to you if you would be good enough to address me by my little
title. I am Clerk of the Privy Chancery, and truly, at this moment, a
greatly perturbed Clerk of the Privy Chancery--in fact, one almost out
of his senses. I beg you, with all due respect, my very dear sir
(though I regret that I am unable to style you by your proper title, as
I have not the honour to be in the least acquainted with you, having
never met you before--however, I shall address you as 'Herr Geheimer
Rath'--'Mr. Privy Councillor'--there are such an extraordinary number
of gentlemen here in Berlin bearing that title that one can scarcely be
in error in applying it)--I beg you, therefore, Herr Geheimer Rath, to
be so very kind as not to keep me longer in ignorance as to whom the
lady, your future wife, may be, whom you expected to see here at this
hour of the night."
"You're a curious fellow, you and your 'titles,'" the stranger said,
raising his voice. "If a man who knows a number of secrets and
mysteries, and can give good counsel too, is one of your 'privy' or
'secret' councillors, I think _I_ may so style myself. I am surprised
that a gentleman who is so well versed in ancient writings and curious
manuscripts as you are, dear Mr. Tussmann, Clerk of the Privy Chancery,
should not know that when an expert--an _expert_, observe!--knocks at
the door of this Tower here--or even on the wall of it, on the night of
the autumnal equinox, there will appear to him, up at yonder window,
the girl who is to be the happiest and luckiest sweetheart in Berlin
till the spring equinox comes round."
"Mr. Privy Councillor," Tussmann cried, as if in a sudden inspiration,
and with joyful rapture--"Most respected Mr. Privy Councillor! is that
really the case?"
"It is," said the stranger. "But what's the good of our standing in the
street here any longer? It is past your bed time. Let us go to the
new wine-shop in Alexander Street; just that you may hear a little
more about this young lady, and recover your peace of mind, which
something--I have no idea what--has disturbed so tremendously."
Tussmann was a most abstemious person. His sole recreation (for
"dissipation" we cannot term it) consisted in his spending an hour or
two every evening in a café; where, whilst he read assiduously
political and other articles in newspapers, as well as books which he
brought with him, he sipped a glass of good beer. Wine he seldom
touched, except that after service on Sundays he allowed himself a
small glass of Malaga with a biscuit, in a certain restaurant. To go
about dissipating at nights was an abomination in his eyes. So that it
seemed incomprehensible how, on this particular occasion, he allowed
the stranger, who hurried away towards Alexander Street with long
strides, resounding in the darkness, to carry him away with him without
a word of objection.
When they came into the wine-shop there was nobody there but one single
customer, sitting by himself at a table, with a big glass of Rhine wine
before him. The depth of the wrinkled lines on his face indicated
extreme age. His eyes were sharp and piercing, and his grand beard
marked him as a Hebrew, faithful to the ancient laws and customs of his
people. Also his costume was very much in the old Frankish style, as
people dressed about the year 1720; and perhaps that was why he had the
effect of having come back to life out of a period of remote antiquity.
But the stranger whom Tussmann had come across was still more
remarkable of aspect.
A tall, meagre man, powerfully formed as to his limbs and muscles,
seemingly about fifty years of age. His face might once have passed for
handsome, and the great eyes still flashed out from under the black
bushy eyebrows with youthful fire and vigour. The brow was broad and
open; the nose strongly aquiline. All this would not have distinguished
him from a thousand others. But, whilst his coat and trousers were of
the fashion of the present day, his collar, his cloak, and his barret
cap belonged to the latter part of the sixteenth century. But it was
more especially the wonderful eyes of the man, and the blaze of them
(which seemed to come streaming out of deep mysterious night), and the
hollow tones of his voice, and his whole bearing--all in the most
absolute contrast with things of the present day--it was, we say, all
these things taken together which made everybody experience a strong
sense of eeriness in his proximity.
He nodded to the man who was sitting at the table as if to an old
acquaintance.
"Ha!" he cried, "here _you_ are again, after all this time. How do you
feel? Are you all alive and kicking?"
"Just as you see," the old man growled. "Sound as a roach. All ready on
my legs at the proper time. All _there_--when there's anything up."
"I'm not quite so sure about that," the stranger said, laughing loudly;
"we shall see!" And he ordered the waiter to bring a bottle of the
oldest claret in the cellar.
"My good Mr. Privy Councillor," Tussmann began, deprecatingly. But the
stranger interrupted him hastily, saying:
"Let us drop the 'titles,' Tussmann, for once and all! I am neither a
Privy Councillor nor a Clerk of the Privy Council. What I am is an
artist, a worker in the noble metals and the precious jewels; and my
name is Leonhard."
"Oh, indeed!" Tussmann murmured to himself--"a goldsmith! a jeweller!"
And he bethought himself that he might have seen at the first glance
that the stranger could not possibly be an ordinary Privy Councillor,
seeing that he had on an antique mantle, collar, and barret cap, such
as Privy Councillors never went about in nowadays. Leonhard and
Tussmann sat down at the same table with the old Jew, who received them
with a grinning kind of smile.
When Tussmann, at Leonhard's instigation, had taken two or three
glasses of the full-bodied wine, his pale cheeks began to glow, and as
he swallowed the liquor, he glanced about him with smirks and smiles,
as if the most delightful ideas were rising in his brain.
"And now," Leonhard said, "tell me openly and candidly, Mr. Tussmann,
why you went on in such an extraordinary manner when the lady showed
herself at the Tower-window; and what it is that your head is so very
full of at the present moment. You and I are very old acquaintances,
whether you believe it or not; and as to this old gentleman here, you
need be on no ceremony with him."
"Oh, heavens!" answered the Privy Chancery Clerk--"Oh, good heavens!
most respected Herr Professor--(I do beg you to allow me to address you
by that title; I am sure you are a most celebrated artist, and quite in
a position to be a professor in the Academy of Arts)--and so, most
respected Herr Professor, how can I hide from you that I am, as the
proverb puts it, 'walking on wooer's feet.' I am expecting to bring the
happiest of brides home about the vernal equinox. Could it be otherwise
than a rather startling thing, when you, most respected Herr Professor,
were so very kind as to let me see a fortunate bride that is to be?"
"What!" the old Jew broke in, in a screaming voice--"What! are you
thinking of marrying? Why, you're as old as the hills, and as ugly as a
baboon into the bargain."
"Never mind him," Leonbard said; for Tussmann was so startled by what
the old man said that he could not utter a syllable. "He means no harm,
dear Mr. Tussmann, though you may think he seems to do so. I must say,
candidly, that it seems to me, too, that it is a little too late in
life for you to be thinking about such a thing. You must be well on to
your fiftieth birthday; aren't you?"
"I shall be forty-eight," said Tussman, with a certain amount of
irritability, "on the 9th of next October--St. Dionysius's day."
"Very well," said Leonhard. "But it isn't only your age that's against
you--you have always been leading a simple, solitary, virginal
existence. You have no knowledge or experience of women. I can't see
what is to become of you in their hands!"
"Knowledge of them--experience of them! Dear Herr Professor, you must
really take me for a most foolish and inconsiderate person if you think
I am going to plunge into matrimony without any counsel or reflection
or advice. I weigh, consider, and reflect upon every step most
maturely; and, having perceived myself to be pierced to the heart by
the dart of the wanton deity yclept 'Cupid' by the ancients, could I do
otherwise than bend all my thoughts upon the preparation of myself for
the matrimonial life? Would any one who was preparing for a difficult
examination not be careful to study all the subjects on which he is to
be interrogated? Very well, most respected Herr Professor, my marriage
is an examination, for which I have prepared myself, and I feel pretty
certain that I shall pass it admirably--with honours! Look here, at
this little book, which I have always carried about in my pocket,
studying it constantly, since the time when I made up my mind to fall
in love and get married. Look at it, my dear sir; and you will be
convinced that I am setting about this business in the most thorough
and fundamental manner possible, and that I shall certainly not be
found an ignoramus in it; although, as you say (and as I must admit),
the feminine sex is--so far, and up to the present date--to me a
complete _terra incognita_."
With these words Tussmann produced from his pocket a little book in
parchment binding, and turned up its title-page, which ran as
follows:--
"Brief Tractate on Diplomatic Acumen. Embracing methods of Self-Counsel
for guidance in all Societies of our fellow-creatures, conducing to the
attainment of a proper system of Conduct. Of the utmost importance to
all Persons who deem themselves Wise, or wish to become Wiser.
Translated from the Latin of Herr Thomasius. With a complete Index.
Frankfurt and Leipzig. Johann Grossen's Successors. 1710."
"Now just let me show you," said Tussmann, with a sweet smile, "what
this worthy author (in his seventh chapter, which deals with the
subjects 'Wedlock, and the Duties of the Father of a Family and Master
of a Household') says, in the seventh section of that chapter. You see,
what he says is this:
"'Above all things, let there be no hurry about it. He who does not
marry till of mature age is so much the wiser, and the better able to
cope with the exigencies of the situation. Over-early marriages produce
shameless, subtle, and disingenuous people, and sacrifice the vigour of
both body and mind. Although the age of manhood is not the commencement
of youth, the one should not terminate before the other.'"
"And then, with regard to the choice of the object of the
affections--her whom one is to love and to marry--this grand Thomasius
says, in his nineteenth section:
"'The middle course is the safest. We should not select one too
beautiful or too ill-favoured, too rich nor too poor, too high-born or
too low-born, but of like social standing with one's self. And,
similarly, as regards the other qualities, the middle course will be
found always the safest to follow.'"
"Very well, you see, this is what I have always guided myself by. And
(as directed by Thomasius--section seventeen), not only have I had
occasional conversations with the lady of my choice, but (inasmuch as,
in occasional interviews, misapprehensions may arise with respect to
peculiarities of character and modes of looking at matters, &c.) I have
taken opportunities to have very _frequent_ interviews and
conversations with her; because those frequent interviews necessarily
make it very difficult for people to conceal themselves from one
another, don't you see?"
"My dear Mr. Tussmann," the goldsmith said, "it appears to me that all
this sort of intercourse, 'conversation,' or whatever you please to
call it, with women requires one to have a good deal of experience,
extending over a very considerable period of time, if one is to avoid
being befooled and made an ass of by it."
"Even in this," said Tussmann, "our grand Thomasius comes to our aid,
giving us completely adequate instruction as to how we are to
'converse' with ladies, in the most rational and delightful style; even
telling us exactly how and when to introduce the due amount of
playfulness and wit, suitable to the occasion. My author says, in his
fifth chapter, that one ought to be careful to introduce such jocular
sayings sparingly--as a cook uses salt; and that pointed speeches
should never be employed as weapons against others, but altogether in
our own defence--just as a hedgehog uses his spines. And also, that it
is wise to rely more upon the actions than upon the words; because it
is often the case that what is hidden by words is made evident by
actions, and that words very often do not do so much to awaken liking
or disliking as actions do."
"I see," the goldsmith said, "there is no getting anything like a rise
out of you. You are closed up in armour of proof. So I am prepared to
bet, heavily, that you have gained the affections of the lady of your
choice by means of those wonderfully deep diplomatic dodges of yours."
Tussmann answered, "I study to direct all my endeavours (following
Thomasius's advice) to attain a deferential, though kindly,
agreeableness of demeanour, that being the most natural and usual
indication of affection, and what is most adapted to awaken liking in
reciprocation: just as if you yawn, you will set an entire company
gaping too, from sympathy. But, reverentially as I follow his
instructions, I don't go too far; I always recollect that (as Thomasius
says) women are neither good angels nor bad angels, but mere human
beings; and, in fact, as regards strength of mind and body, weaker than
we are, which, of course, is fully accounted for by the diversity which
exists between the sexes."
"A black year come over you!" the old Jew cried wrathfully, "sitting
there chattering your cursed stuff and nonsense without a stop;
spoiling for me the good hour in which I hoped to enjoy myself a little
after all the hard work I've been going through."
"Hold your tongue, old man," the goldsmith said. "You ought to be very
thankful that we put up with you here. I can tell you your company is
anything but pleasant; your manners are so abominable. You ought to be
kicked out of decent society, if you had your deserts. Don't let the
old man disturb you, dear Mr. Tussmann. You believe in the old times;
you're fond of old Thomasius. I go a good deal further back. What I
care about is the time to which, as you see, my dress partly belongs.
Aye! my good friend, those were the days! It is to them that that
little spell belongs which you saw me putting into practice to-night at
the Town-house Tower."
"I don't quite understand you, Herr Professor,'' Tussmann said.
"Well," said the goldsmith, "there used to be splendid weddings in
those old days in the Town-hall--very different affairs from the
weddings nowadays. Plenty of happy brides used to look out of those
Tower-windows in those days, so that it's a piece of pleasant glamour
when an aerial form comes and tells us what is going to happen now,
from knowledge of olden times. Let me tell you, this Berlin was a very
different place in those old days; nowadays everything is marked with
the same stamp of tediousness and _ennui_, and people _ennuyer_ one
another just because they are so _ennuyées_ and weary in themselves. In
those days there were entertainments, feastings, rejoicings worthy the
name, very different from the affairs that are so called now. I shall
only speak of what was done at Oculi, in the year 1581, when the
Elector Augustus of Saxony, with his Consort, and Don Christian, his
son, were escorted to Cologne by all the nobles and gentry. There were
over a hundred horse, and the citizens of both the cities--Berlin and
Cologne--and those of Spandau lined both sides of the road from the
gate to the palace in complete armour. Next day there was a splendid
running at the ring, at which the Elector of Saxony and Count Jost of
Barby appeared, with many nobles--in fine suits of gold embroidery, and
tall golden helms, golden lions' heads on their shoulders, knees, and
elbows, with flesh-coloured silk on the other parts of their arms and
legs, just as if they had been naked---exactly as you see the heathen
warriors painted in pictures. There were singers and musicians hidden
inside a gilt Noah's Ark, and on the top of it sat a little boy in
flesh-coloured silk tights, with his eyes bandaged, as Cupid is
represented. Two other boys, dressed as doves, with white ostrich
feathers, golden eyes and beaks, drew ±he ark along; and when the
prince had run at the ring and been successful, the music in the ark
played, and a number of pigeons were let fly from it. One of them
flapped its wings and sang a most delightful Italian _aria_, and did it
much better than our Court singer Bernard Pasquino Grosso from Mantua
did seventy years afterwards (but not so charmingly as our _prime
donne_ sing nowadays). Then there was a foot tournay, to which the
Elector and the Count went in a ship, which was all dressed over with
black and yellow cloth, and had a sail of gold taffeta; and behind His
Highness sate the little boy who had been Cupid the day before, in a
long coat of many colours, a peaked black and yellow hat, and a
long grey beard. The singers and musicians were dressed in the same
way; and nil round about the ship a number of gentlemen danced and
jumped--gentlemen of good family, mind you!--with heads and tails of
salmon, herrings, and fishes of other sorts: most delightful to behold.
In the evening, about ten, there was a grand display of fireworks, with
thousands of detonations; and the master-gunners played all sorts of
pranks--had combats; and there were explosions of fiery stars; and
fiery men and horses, strange birds and other creatures, went up into
the air with a terrible rushing and banging. They went on for more than
two hours, those fireworks."
Whilst the goldsmith was narrating all this, the Clerk of the
Privy Chancery gave every sign of the liveliest interest and the
utmost enjoyment, crying, in a sympathizing and interested manner,
"Ey!--oh!--ah!"--smiling, rubbing his hands, moving backwards and
forwards on his chair, and gulping down glass after glass of the wine
the while.
"Dearest Professor," he cried at last, in falsetto (always a mark in
him of intense enjoyment)--"My dearest, most respected Herr Professor!
what delightful things you have been having the kindness to tell me
about!--really _quite_ as though you had been there and seen them
yourself."
"Well!" the goldsmith said, "and wasn't I there?"
Tussmann, who didn't in the least understand this extraordinary
query, was going to try to get some further light thrown upon it, when
the old Jew came in with a growl, to the following effect: "Don't
forget those delightful entertainments when the pyres burned in the
market-place--the Berlin folks were much delighted with them, you know;
and the streets ran red with the blood of the wretched victims, slain
in the most terrific manner, after confessing whatever was imputed to
them by the wildest infatuation and the most idiotic superstition.
Don't, I merely say, forget to tell your friend about them!"
"Yes, yes," Tussmann said; "of course you mean those terrible
witchcraft trials which took place in those old days. Ah! they were
atrocious businesses; fortunately the enlightenment of the present age
has altered all those things."
The goldsmith cast strange looks at the old Jew and at Tussmann; and
presently asked the latter, with a mysterious smile, if he had ever
heard about the Jew-coiner, Lippold, and what had happened to him in
the year 1512.
Ere Tussmann could answer, the goldsmith went on to say: "This
Jew-coiner, Lippold, was accused of an important imposture, and a
serious roguery. He had at one time been much in the confidence of the
Elector, and was at the head of all the affairs of the mints and the
coinage in the country; always ready to produce large sums of money, no
matter how large, when required. Whether because he was clever at
shifts, or that he had powers at his command which enabled him to clear
himself from all blame in the Elector's eyes, or that he was able to
'shoot with a silver bullet' (to use an expression of those times)
those who had influence over the Elector's proceedings, he was on the
very point of getting off scot free from the accusations brought
against him. But he was still kept under guard, by the town-watch, in
his little house in Stralau Street. And it so chanced that he had a
quarrel with his wife, in the course of which she said to him, in the
hearing of the guard, 'If our gracious lord the Elector only knew what
a villain you are, and what atrocities you manage to commit by the help
of that magic book of yours, you'd be in your coffin long ago.' This
was reported to the Elector, who had careful search made in Lippold's
house. The magic book was found, and, when it was examined by those who
understood it, Lippold's guilt was clearly established. He had
practised magical arts to give him power over the Elector, and to
enable him to rule the whole country; and it was only the piety and
Godfearingness of the Elector which had enabled him to withstand those
spells. Lippold was burned in the market-place. But when the fire was
taking effect on his body and upon the magic book, a great mouse came
out from under the scaffold, and leaped into the fire. Many supposed
that this was Lippold's familiar demon."
Whilst the goldsmith had been relating this, the old Jew had sate
leaning his arms on the table, with his hands before his eyes, groaning
and sighing like one suffering unendurable tortures. On the other hand,
the Clerk of the Privy Chancery did not seem to be paying much
attention to what the goldsmith was saying. He was in high good-humour,
and his mind was full of quite other ideas and images; and, when the
goldsmith had ended, he asked, with many smiles, and in a lisping
manner: "Tell me, dear Herr Professor, if you will be so kind, was it
really Miss Albertine Bosswinkel who came and looked out of the window
of the Tower?"
"What?" cried the goldsmith, furiously--"what business have _you_ with
Miss Albertine Bosswinkel?"
"My dear sir!" said Tussmann, timidly--"good gracious! My dear friend,
she is the very lady whom I have made up my mind to marry!"
"Good God, sir!" the goldsmith cried, with a face as red as a furnace,
and eyes glaring with anger; "you must be out of your reason
altogether. _You_, an old, worn-out pedant, to think of marrying that
beautiful young creature! _You_, who, with all your erudition, and your
'diplomatic acumen,' taken from the idiotic treatise of that old goose
Thomasius, can't see a quarter of an inch before that nose of yours! I
advise you to drive every idea of the kind out of your head as quickly
as you can, or you will probably find that you stand a good chance of
having that weazened neck of yours drawn, on this autumn equinoctial
night!"
The Clerk of the Privy Chancery was a quiet, peaceable, nay, timorous
man, incapable of saying a hard word to anybody, even when attacked;
but what the goldsmith had said was just a trifle too infernally
insulting; and then, Tussmann had taken more strong wine than he was
accustomed to. Accordingly, there was no wonder that he did what he had
never done before in his life---that is, he burst into a fury, and
yelled out, right into the goldsmith's teeth: "Eh! What the devil
business have you with me, Mr. Goldsmith (whose acquaintance I haven't
the honour of); and how dare you talk to me in this sort of way? You
seem to me to be trying to make an ass of me, by all sorts of childish
delusions. I presume you have the effrontery to be paying your
addresses to Miss Bosswinkel yourself; you've got hold of a portrait of
her on glass, and shown it at the Town-hall in a magic-lantern held
under your cloak. My good sir, _I_ know something about these matters,
as well as _you_ do; you're going the wrong way to work if you think
you're going to frighten and bully _me_ in this sort of way."
"Be careful what you're about," the goldsmith said, very quietly, and
with a strange smile. "Be very careful what you're about; you've got
strange sort of people to do with here."
And as he so spake, lo! instead of the goldsmith's face, there was a
horrid-looking fox's face snarling and showing its teeth at Tussmann
from under the goldsmith's bonnet.
The Clerk of the Privy Chancery fell back in his chair in the
profoundest terror.
The old Jew did not seem to be in the least degree surprised by this
transformation; rather, he had suddenly lost his mood of ill-temper
altogether. He laughed, and cried, "Aha! capital sport! But there's
nothing to be _made_ by those arts. I know better ones. I can do things
which were always beyond _you_, Leonhard."
"Let us see," said the goldsmith, who had assumed his human countenance
again--"let us see what you can do."
The old man took from his pocket a large black radish, trimmed it and
scraped it with a little knife, which also came from his pocket,
shredded it into thin strips, and laid them in order on the table. Then
he struck each of them a blow with his clenched fist; when they sprung
up, one by one, ringing, in the shape of gold coins, which he took up
and threw across to the goldsmith. But as soon as the goldsmith took
hold of one of those coins, it fell to dust, in a little shower of
crackling sparks of fire. This infuriated the old man. He went on
striking the radish-shavings into gold pieces faster and faster,
hitting them harder and harder, and they crackled away in the
goldsmith's hand with fierier and fierier sparks.
Tussmann was nearly out of his senses with fear and agitation. At last
he pulled himself together out of the swoon into which he was nearly
falling, and said, in trembling accents: "Really, I must beg, with all
due courtesy and respect, to say that I feel that I should much prefer
to bid 'Good-evening' on this occasion." And grasping his hat and
stick, he bolted out of the room as quickly as he could. When he
reached the street, he heard those two uncanny people setting up a
shout of screaming laughter after him, which made the blood run cold in
his veins.