The friends laughed; but Cyprian and Theodore remained silent and

grave. Before the latter could begin to speak, Ottmar said: "It is

impossible, in this connection, that I should forget the extraordinary,

nay, almost preposterously absurd, meeting of two men who were--at all

events as concerned their opinions upon Art and their views about

it--absolutely heterogeneous in their natures. Indisputable as it may

be that Werner carried the idea of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' about with

him for a long time, to the best of my knowledge the first impulse to

his writing it came to him from Iffland, who was anxious that he should

write a tragedy for the Berlin stage. The 'Soehne des Thales' was then

attracting much attention, and perhaps that dramatic writer may have

been interested in this newly-developed talent, or he may have thought

he saw that this young _débutant_ was capable of being trained to the

performance of the systematic round of theatre tricks, and would

acquire a skilled 'stage-hand.' However this may be, think of Iffland

with the manuscript of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' in his hands.

Iffland--to whom the tragedies of Schiller (which then, in spite of all

opposition, had made their way, chiefly through the great Fleck) were

really disgustful, in the depths of his soul; Iffland, who although he

did not dare, for dread of that sharp lash which he had felt already,

to speak out his real opinion, had put _this_ in print: 'Tragedies

which contain grand historical incidents, and a crowd of characters,

are the ruin of the stage;' adding, 'on account of the tremendous

expenses,' but thinking, in his heart, '_dixi et salvavi_.'--Iffland,

who would have been too pleased to put upon his privy-councillors,

secretaries, and so forth, tragic _cothurni_ made after his own

pattern--read the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' in the light of its being a

tragedy expressly written for the Berlin stage, which he himself should

set out into scenes, and in which he should play nothing less than the

Ghost of Bishop Adalbert, murdered by the Pagan Prussians, very

frequently appearing on the stage as a terror-inspiring character not

sparing of partly edifying, partly mystic speeches, while at every

mention of the name of Christ a flame breaks out of his forehead, to

instantaneously disappear again. It was impossible to throw this piece

overboard (as would have been done in a moment in the case of the _dii

minores_), notwithstanding that it was one which was full of

improbabilities, and bristling with difficulties (much more real

difficulties from the stage-manager's point of view, than many

Shakesperian plays, in which those difficulties are more apparent than

real). What had to be done was to express great admiration of it; to

laud it up to the skies, and then to declare, with deep regret, that

the capabilities of the stage were not practically sufficient for the

production of a thing so great. It was this which had to be done; and

the letter in which Iffland stated all this to the author (the

construction of which was on the lines of the well-known form of

refusal of the Italians, '_ben parlato-ma_'), was, of course, a

classical master-piece of theatrical diplomacy. It was not from the

nature of the piece itself that the manager deduced the impossibility

of representing it on the stage; he merely, in a courteous manner,

complained of the stage-manager, the property-men, and the carpenters,

to whose magic there were such narrow limits that they were not even

capable of making a Saint's glory shine in the air. But, no more on the

subject. It is for Theodore to make such excuses as he can for the

errors of his friend."

"To defend and excuse this friend of mine," said Theodore, "I fear

would be a very unsatisfactory thing to try to do. I should much prefer

to set you a psychical problem to solve, which ought, really, to lead

you to consider how peculiar influences may work upon the psychical

organism; or, indeed (to return to Cyprian's simile, the worm

engendered along with the most beautiful flower), on the worm which is

to poison and kill. We are told Hysterism in the mother is not

transmitted, by heredity, to the son, but that it does produce in him a

peculiarly lively imagination, even to the extent of eccentricity; and

I believe that there is one of ourselves in whose case the correctness

of this theory is confirmed. Now, how might it be with the effect of

actual _insanity_ of the mother upon the son, although he does not, as

a rule, inherit that either? I am not speaking of that weak, childish

sort of mental aberration in women, which is often the result of an

enfeebled nervous system; what I have in view is that abnormal mental

state in which the psychic principle, volatilized into a sublimate by

the operation of the furnace of imagination, has been converted into a

poison, which has attacked the vital spirits, so that they have become

sick unto death, and the human creature, in the delirium of this

malady, believes the dream of another life-condition to be actual

waking reality. Now, a woman highly gifted mentally, and largely

endowed with imagination and fancy, may in those circumstances be much

more like to a heavenly prophet than to an insane creature, and in the

excitement of her paroxysms may say things, which to many persons would

appear much more like the direct inspiration of higher intelligences

than the mere utterances of insanity. Suppose that the fixed idea of

such a woman consisted in her believing herself to be the Virgin Mary,

and her son Christ, and let this be repeated daily to the boy, who is

not taken away from her, whilst his powers of comprehension gradually

develop themselves. He is over-bountifully endowed with talent and

intelligence, and specially with a glowing imagination. Friends and

teachers whom he respects and believes all tell him that his poor

mother is out of her mind, and he himself sees the craziness of the

idea, which is not so much as new to him, since it exists in nearly

every lunatic asylum. But his mother's words sink deeply into his

heart; he thinks he is hearing announcements from another world, and

feels vividly the belief taking root within him upon which he bases his

system of thinking. Above all, he is very much struck and imbued with

what the maternal prophetess tells him regarding the trials of this

world; the scoffing and despite which the consecrated one must endure.

He finds this all realized, and in his boyish melancholy looks upon

himself as a Divine victim, when his schoolfellows make fun of him for

his quaint-looking clothes and his timid awkward manners. What follows?

Must there not arise in the breast of such a youth the belief that the

so-called insanity of his mother, which seems to _him_ lofty and

sublime beyond the comprehension of the common herd, is really neither

more nor less than a prophetic announcement, in metaphorical language,

of the high destiny in store for him, chosen by the powers of heaven!

Saint--prophet!--could there be stronger impulses to mysticism for a

youth fired with a glowing power of imagination? Let it be further

supposed that he is physically and psychically excitable to the most

destructive extent, and apt to fall a prey to and be carried away by

the most irresistible tendency to vice, and the wicked lusts of the

world.... I desire to pass in haste, and with averted face, by the

fearful abysses of human nature whence the germs of those tendencies

spring, which might take root and flourish in the heart of the

unfortunate youth without his being further to blame than in that

he had a hot blood, only too congenial a soil for the luxuriant

poison-plant.... I dare not go further; you feel the terrible nature of

the strife which tears the heart of the unhappy youth. Heaven and hell

are drawn up in battle array; and it is this mortal combat imprisoned

within him which gives rise to phenomena on the surface in utter

discord with everything else conditioned by mortal nature, and capable

of no interpretation whatever. How, then, if the glowing power of

imagination of this man (who in youth imbibed the germ of those

eccentricities from his mother's mental state) should subsequently, at

a time when Sin, bereft of all her adornments, accuses herself, in all

her repulsive nakedness, for the hellish deceptions of the past, lead

him, driven by the pain and remorse of his repentance, to take refuge

in the mysticism of some religious _cultus_, coming to meet him with

hymns of victory and perfume of incense? How when then, out of the most

hidden depths, the voice of some dark spirit within should become

audible, saying: 'It was but mortal blindness which led you to believe

that there was dissension in your heart. The veil has fallen, and you

perceive that sin is the stigma of your heavenly nature, of your

supernatural calling, wherewith the Eternal has marked the chosen one.

It was only when you set yourself to offer resistance to sinful

impulse, to contend with the Eternal Power, that you were abandoned in

your blindness and degeneracy. The purified fires of hell shine in the

glories of the Saints.' And thus does this terrible hypermysticism

impart to the lost one a consolation which completes the ruin of the

rotten walls of the edifice of his existence; just as it is when the

madman derives comfort and enjoyment from his madness, that his

recovery is known to be hopeless."

"Oh, please go no further," cried Sylvester. "You hurried, with averted

face, past an abyss which you avoided looking into; but to me it seems

as if you were leading us along upon narrow, slippery paths, where

terrible and threatening gulfs yawn at us on either side. What you last

said reminded me of the horrible mysticism of Pater Molinos, the

dreadful doctrine of Quietism. I shuddered when I read the leading

theorem of that doctrine. 'Il ne faut avoir nul égard aux tentations,

ni leur opposer aucune résistance. Si la nature se meut, il faut la

laisser agir; ce n'est que la nature!'[1] This, of course, would

carry----"

[Footnote 1: "Toute opération active est absolument interdite par

Molinos. C'est même offenser Dieu, que de ne pas tellement s'abandonner

à lui, que l'on soit comme un corps inanimé. De-là vient, suivant cette

hérésiarque, que le vœu de faire quelque bonne œuvre est un

obstacle à la perfection, parce que l'activité naturelle est ennemie de

la grâce; c'est un obstacle aux opérations de Dieu et à la vraie

perfection, parce que Dieu veut agir en nous sans nous. Il ne faut

connoître ni lumière, ni amour, ni résignation. Pour être parfait, il

ne faut pas même connoître Dieu; il ne faut penser, ni au paradis, ni à

l'enfer, ni à la mort, ni à l'éternité. On ne doit point désirer de

sçavoir si on marche dans la volonté de Dieu, si on est assez résigné

ou non. En un mot, il ne faut point que l'âme connoisse ni son état ni

son néant; il faut qu'elle soit comme un corps inanimé. Toute réflexion

est nuisible, même celles qu'on fait sur ses propres actions, et sur

ses défauts. Ainsi on ne doit point s'embarrasser du scandale que l'on

peut causer, pourvu que l'on n'ait pas intention de scandaliser. Quand

une fois on a donné son libre arbitre à Dieu, on ne doit plus avoir

aucun désir de sa propre perfection, ni des vertus, ni de sa

sanctification, ni de son salut; il faut même se défaire de

l'espérance, parce qu'il faut abandonner à Dieu tout le soin de ce que

nous regarde, même celui de faire en nous et sans nous sa divine

volonté. Ainsi c'est une imperfection que de demander; c'est avoir une

volonté et vouloir que celle de Dieu s'y conforme. Par la même raison

il ne faut lui rendre grâce d'aucune chose; c'est le remercier d'avoir

fait notre volonté; et nous n'en devons point avoir." ('Causes

célèbres,' par Richer. Tom. ii.: 'Histoire du Procès de la Cadière.')]

"It would carry us a good deal too far," interrupted Lothair, "into the

realm of the most horrible dreams, and--to speak generally--of that

amount of crack-brainedness of which there can never be any question

amongst us Serapion Brethren. So let us abandon the subject of all that

sublimity of mental unhingedness which is the foster-mother of

religious mania."

Ottmar and Vincenz agreed in this, and added that Theodore had

committed a breach of Serapiontic rule by speaking so fully on a

subject to some extent strange to the other brethren, in this manner

giving himself up to impulses of the moment, and damming up the flow of

other communications.

Cyprian, however, look Theodore's part, maintaining that the subject on

which, for the most part, he had been speaking, might be thought to

possess such an amount of interest (though, as far as he himself was

concerned, he must say it was of an uncanny character) that even those

to whom the person to whom it had referred had never been known, could

not but feel themselves very much attracted and affected by it.

Ottmar thought that he could have felt a certain amount of interest

about it if it had been written in a book. Cyprian said that the

_sapienti sat_, was enough as regarded it.

In the meantime, Theodore had gone into the next room, and now came

back with a veiled picture, which he placed on a table against the

wall, setting two candles in front of it. All eyes were bent upon it,

and when Theodore quickly removed the cloth from before it an "Ah!"

came from all their lips.

It was the author of the 'Soehne des Thales,' a life-size half-length,

a most speaking likeness, as if it had been stolen out of a

looking-glass.

"Is it possible!" cried Ottmar, enthusiastically. "Yes, from under

those bushy eyebrows there gleams from the dark eyes the strange fire

of that unlucky mysticism which dragged the poet to his destruction.

But the goodness, the kindliness, the lovableness and the talents which

beam out of the rest of his features, and this charmingly 'roguish'

smile of real humour which plays about the lips, and seems to try

unsuccessfully to hide itself in the long, projecting chin, which the

hand is stroking so quietly. Of a truth I feel myself more and more

drawn to this mystic, who grows the more human the longer one looks at

him."

"We all feel the same," cried Lothair and Vincenz.

"Yes, yes," cried the latter, "those sorrowful, gloomy eyes get

brighter. You are right, Ottmar, he grows human--_homo factus est_.

See, he looks with his eyes--he smiles; presently he will say something

that will delight us; some heavenly jest; some fulminating sally of wit

is playing about his lips. Out with it, out with it, good Zacharias!

Stand on no ceremony! We are your friends, master of reserved irony!

Ha! Serapion Brethren! let us elect him, glasses in hand, an honorary

member of our Society; we will drink to our brotherhood, and I will

pour a libation before his picture, and bedew with a few glittering

drops my own varnished Parisian boots into the bargain."

The friends took their filled glasses in hand to carry out Vincenz's

suggestion.

"Stop!" cried Theodore. "Let me say a word or two first. To begin with,

I hope you will by no means apply that psychical problem of mine (which

I perhaps stated somewhat too forcibly) directly to our author here.

Rather take it that my object was to show you very vividly and

convincingly how dangerous it is to form conclusions about phenomena in

a man of which we know nothing as to their deep psychic origin; nay,

how heartless, as well as senseless, it is to persecute, with silly

scorn and childish derision, one who has been the victim of a

depressing influence, such as we ourselves would probably have resisted

less successfully. Who shall cast the first stone at one who has grown

defenceless because his strength has ebbed away with the heart's-blood

flowing from wounds inflicted by his own self-deception? My end is

gained now. Even you--Lothair, Ottmar, Vincenz, severe inflexible

critics and judges, have quite altered your opinions now that you have

seen my poet face to face. His face speaks truth. I must testify that,

in the happy days when he and I were friends, he was the most

delightful and charming of men in every relation of life. All the

oddities, and strange eccentricities of his exterior, and of his whole

being (which he himself, with delicate irony, tried to bring to light,

rather than to conceal) only produced the effect of rendering him, in

the most various surroundings and most diverse circumstances, always in

the most attractive manner, utterly delightful. Moreover, he was full

of a subtle humour which rendered him the worthy _confrère_ of Hamann,

Heppel, and Scheffner. It is impossible that all that blossom of

promise can be withered and dead, blighted by the poison breath of a

miserable infatuation. No! If that picture could come to life--if the

poet were to walk in and sit down actually amongst us here, life and

genius would coruscate out of his discourse as of yore. I fain would

hope that I see the dawn of a new and brilliant day! May the rays of

true wisdom break out more and more brightly; may recovered strength

and renewed power of labour produce work which shall show us the poet

in the pure glory of the verily inspired singer, even if it does not

happen before the late autumn of his days! And to this, ye Serapion

Brethren, let us drink in happy expectation."

The friends, forming a semicircle round the picture, clinked their

glasses together. "And then," said Vincenz, "it won't matter whether he

is Private Secretary, Abbé, or Privy Councillor, Cardinal, or the very

Pope; or even a Bishop _in partibus infidelium_, that's to say, of

Paphos!"

As was usually the case with Vincenz, he had without intending it, or

even being aware of it, stuck a comic tail on to a serious subject. But

the friends felt too strangely moved to pay particular attention to

this. They sat down again in silence at the table, while Theodore

carried the poet's picture back into the next room.

"I had meant," said Sylvester, "to read you this evening a story, for

the idea of which I am indebted to a strange chance, or rather, to a

strange remembrance. But it is so late that Serapiontic hours would be

long over before I had finished it."

"That is very much my case too," said Vincenz, "with my long-promised

tale, which I have got pressed against my heart here in the

breast-pocket of my coat (that usual _boudoir_ of literary productions)

like a pet child. It has sucked itself fat and lusty at the mother's

milk of my imagination, and has thereby got so forward and so talkative

that if I were to let it begin, it would go on till daybreak. So that

it must wait till the next meeting. To talk, I mean to converse,

appears dangerous to-night; for, before one knows where one is, some

heathen king, or Pater Molinos (or some _mauvais sujet_ or another of

the sort), suddenly sits in the midst of us, talking all kinds of

unintelligible nonsense. So that if either of us can out with a

manuscript with something amusing in it, I hope he will let us hear

it."

"If anything which any one of us may be able to produce to-night," said

Cyprian, "must seem to be nothing more than a stop-gap, or an

intermezzo between other melodies, I may pluck up courage to read

to you a trifle which I wrote down many years ago, when I had been

passing through a period of much mystery and some danger. I had

completely forgotten the existence of the pages in question, until they

accidentally came into my hands a short time ago, vividly recalling

the times to which they relate. My belief is that what led to the

production of this rather chimerical story is much more interesting

than the thing itself; and I shall have more to say on that subject

when I have finished it."

Cyprian read:

PHENOMENA.

When any allusion was made to the last siege of Dresden, Anselmus

turned even paler than he ordinarily was. He would fold his hands in

his lap--he would gaze before him, lost in melancholy memories--he

would murmur to himself,

"God of Heaven, were I to put my legs into my new riding-boots at the

proper time, and run across the bridge towards Neustadt, paying no

attention to burning straw, and the bursting shells, I have no doubt

that this great personage and the other would, put his head out of his

carriage window and say, with a polite bow, 'Come along, my good sir,

without any ceremony. I have room for you.' But there was I shut up and

hemmed in in the middle of the accursed Marmot's-burrow, all ramparts,

embankments, trenches, star-batteries, covered ways, &c., suffering

hunger and misery as much as the best of them. Didn't it come to this,

that if one happened to turn over the pages of a Roux's dictionary by

way of passing the time, and came upon the word 'Eat,' one's exhausted

stomach cried out in utter amazement, 'Eat? Now what does that mean?'

People who had once on a time been fat buttoned their skin over them,

like a double-breasted coat, a natural Spencer! Oh, heavens, if only

that Master of the Rolls--that Lindhorst--hadn't been there! Popowicz

of course wanted to kill me, but the Dolphin sprinkled marvellous

life-balsam out of its silver-blue nostrils. And Agafia!" When he spoke

this name, Anselmus was wont to get up from his seat, jump just a little,

once, twice, three times; and then sit down again. It was always quite

useless to ask him what he really meant, on the whole, by those

extraordinary sayings and grimaces. He merely answered, "Can I possibly

describe what happened with Popowicz and Agafia without being supposed

to be out of my mind?" And every one would laugh gently, as much as to

say, "Well, my good fellow, we suppose that whether or not."

One drear, cloudy October evening, Anselmus, who was understood to be

somewhere a long way off--came in at the door of a friend of his. He

seemed to be moved to the depths of his being, he was kindlier and

tenderer than at other times--almost pathetic. His humour (often

perhaps too wildly discursive, too universally antagonistic) was bowing

itself, tamed and bridled, before the mighty Spirit which had

possession of his inner soul. It had grown quite dark, the friend

wanted to send for lights. But Anselmus, taking hold of both his arms,

said: "If you would, for once, do me a real favour, don't have lights

brought. Let's be content with the dim shining of that Astral lamp

which is sending its glimmer from the closet there. You can do what you

please--drink tea, smoke tobacco, but don't smash any cups, or throw

lighted matches on to my new trousers. Either of those things would not

only pain me, but would make an unnecessary noise and disturbance in

the enchanted garden into which I have at last managed to get to-day,

and in which I am enjoying myself to my soul's content. I shall go and

lie on that sofa."

He did so. After a considerable pause, he began:

"To-morrow morning at eight o'clock it will be exactly two years since

Count von der Lobau marched out from Dresden with twelve thousand men

and four-and-twenty guns, to fight his way to the Meissner Hills."

"Well," said his friend, "I have been sitting here on the stretch of an

expectation, almost of a devout description, thinking I was going to

hear of some celestial manifestation, coming hovering out of your

enchanted garden--and this is all? What interest do I take in Count von

der Lobau and his expedition? And fancy you remembering that there were

just twelve thousand men and four-and-twenty guns. When did military

details of the sort begin to effect a lodgment in that head of yours?"

"Are those days of mystery and fatality," said Anselmus, "which we

passed through so short a time ago so completely forgotten by you that

you no longer recollect the manner in which the armed monster grasped

us and drove us? The _noli turbare_ no longer held in check our own

exertions of force, and we would not _be_ held in check or protected,

for in every heart the demon made deep wounds, and, driven by wild

torture, every hand grasped the unfamiliar sword, not for defence,

no--for attack, that the hateful ignominy might be atoned for, and

revenged, by Death! Even at this hour there comes upon me, in bodily

form of flesh and blood, that power which was active in those days

of darkness, and drove me forth from art and science into that

blood-stained tumult. Was it possible, do you think, for me to go on

sitting at my desk? I hurried up and down the streets, I followed the

troops when they marched out, as far as I dared, merely to see with my

own eyes as much as I could, and from what I Baw to gather some hope,

paying no heed to the miserable, deceptive, proclamations and news

'from the seat of war.' Very good. When at length that battle of all

battles was fought, when all round us every voice was shouting for joy

at new-won freedom, whilst we were still lying in chains of slavery, I

felt as if my heart would break. I felt as though I must gain air and

freedom, for myself and all who were chained to the stake along with

me, by means of some terrible deed. It may seem to you now, and with

the knowledge of me which you think you possess, incredible and

ludicrous; but I can assure you that I went about with the idea in my

mind, the insane idea, that I would set a match to some fort which I

knew the enemy had got well-stocked with powder, and blow it into the

air."

The friend could not help smiling a little at the wild heroism of the

unwarlike Anselmus. The latter, however, could not see this, as it was

dark; and after a few moments' silence he proceeded as follows. "You

have all of you often said that a peculiar planet which presides over

me has a manner of bringing marvellous matters about my path on

occasions of importance, matters in which people do not believe and

which often seem to myself as if they proceeded out of my own inner

being, although there they are, outside of me also, taking form as

mystic symbols of that element of the marvellous which we find all

about us everywhere in life. It was so with me this day two years ago

in Dresden. That long day had dragged itself out in dull, mysterious

silence; everything was quiet outside the gate--not a shot to be heard.

Late in the evening--it might have been about ten o'clock, I slunk into

a coffee house in the old market, where, in an out-of-the-way back room

into which none of the hated foreigners were allowed to penetrate,

friends of like minds and opinions gave each other reassurance of

comfort and hope. It was there where, notwithstanding all the lies

which were current, the true news of the engagements at the Katzbach,

Culm, &c., were first received, where our R. told us of the victory at

Leipzig two days after it happened, though God knows how he obtained

his knowledge of it. My way had led me past the Brühl Palace, where the

Field Marshal was quartered, and I had been struck by the unusual

lighting-up of the salons, as well as the stir going on all over the

house. I was just mentioning this to my friends, with the remark that

the enemy must have something in hand, when R. came hurrying in,

breathless, and in great excitement. 'Hear the latest thing,' he began

at once. 'There has been a Council of War at the Field Marshal's.

General Mouton (Count von der Lobau) is going to fight his way to

Meissen with twelve thousand men and four-and-twenty guns. He marches

out this morning.' After a good deal of discussion we at last adopted

R.'s opinion that this attack, which, from the unceasing watchfulness

of our friends outside, might very probably be disastrous to the enemy,

would very likely force the Field Marshal to capitulate, and so put a

period to our miseries. "How," thought I, as I was going home about

midnight, "can R. have found out what the decision come to was almost

at the very moment it was arrived at?" However, I was presently aware

of a hollow, rumbling sound making itself audible through the deathly

stillness of the night. Guns and ammunition waggons, well loaded up

with forage, began passing slowly by me in the direction of the Elbe

bridge. "R. was right then," I had to say to myself. I followed the

line of their march and got as far as the centre of the bridge, where

there was at that time a broken arch, temporarily repaired with wooden

beams and scaffolding. At each side of this construction was a species

of fortification, constructed of high palisading and earth-works. Here,

close to this fortification, I took up my position, pressing myself

close to the balustrade of the bridge so as not to be seen. It now

seemed to me that the tall palisades began moving backwards and

forwards, and bending over towards me, murmuring hollow, unintelligible

words. The deep darkness of the cloudy night prevented my seeing

anything clearly; but when the troops had crossed, and all was as still

as death on the bridge, I could make out that there was a deep,

oppressed breathing near me, and a faint, mysterious whimpering or

whining--one of the dark, scarcely distinguishable baulks of the timber

was rising into a higher position. An icy horror fell upon me, and,

like a man tortured in a nightmare dream, firmly fettered by leaded

clamps, I could not move a muscle. The night-breeze rose, wafting mists

about the hills: the moon sent feeble rays through rents in the clouds.

And I saw, not far from me, the figure of a tall old man with silvery

hair and a long beard. The mantle which fell over his haunches he had

cast across his breast in numerous heavy folds. With his long, white

naked arm he was stretching a staff far out over the river. It was from

him that the murmuring and whimpering proceeded. At that moment I heard

the sound of marching coming from the town, and I saw the sheen of

arms. The old man cowered down, and began to whimper and lament, in a

pitiful voice, holding out a cap to those who were coming over the

bridge, as if asking for alms. An officer, laughing, cried, "_Voilà

St. Pierre, qui veut pêcher!_" The one who came next stopped, and said

very gravely, "_Eh bien! Moi, pêcheur, je lui aiderai à pêcher._"

Several officers and soldiers, quitting the ranks, threw the old man

money, sometimes silently, sometimes with gentle sighs, like men in

expectation of death; and he, then, always nodded from side to side

with his head in a curious way, uttering a sort of hollow cry of a

singular description. At length an officer (in whom I recognized

General Mouton) came so very close to the old man that I thought his

foaming charger would tramp upon him; and, turning quickly to his

aide-de-camp, as he thrust his hat more firmly down on to his head, he

asked him, in a loud excited voice, "_Qui est cet homme?_" "The escort

which was in attendance on him stood motionless; but an old, bearded

sapper, who was passing with his axe on his shoulder, said, calmly and

gravely, "_C'est un pauvre maniaque bien connû ici. On l'appelle St.

Pierre Pêcheur._" On that the force passed on across the bridge, not as

at other times, full of foolish jesting, but in dispirited ill-temper

and gloom. As the last sound of them died away, and the last gleam of

their arms disappeared, the old man slowly reared himself up, and stood

with uplifted head and staff outstretched, like some miraculous saint

ruling the stormy water. The waves of the river rose into mightier and

mightier billows, as if stirred from their depths. And I seemed to hear

a hollow voice, coming up from amidst those rushing waters, and saying

in the Russian language.

"Michael Popowicz! Michael Popowicz! Do you not see the fireman?"

The old man murmured to himself. He seemed to be praying. But suddenly

he cried out, "Agafia!" And at that moment his face glowed in blood-red

fire which seemed to be shooting up at him out of the Elbe. On the

Meissner Hills great fluttering flames blazed up into the sky; their

reflection shone into the river, and upon the old man's face. And now,

close beside me upon the bridge, there began to be audible a sort of

plashing and splashing, and I saw a dim form climbing up arduously, and

presently swing itself over the balustrade with marvellous dexterity.

"Agafia?" the old man cried.

"Girl! Dorothea! In the name of heaven," I was beginning, but in an

instant I felt myself clasped hold of, and forcibly drawn away. "Oh,

for Christ's sake keep silence, dearest Anselmus, or you are a dead

man," whispered the creature who was standing close to me, trembling

and shivering with cold. Her long black hair hung down dripping, her

sodden garments were clinging to her slender body. She sank down

exhausted, saying, in tones of gentle complaining, "Oh, it is so cold

down there! Do not say another word, Anselmus dearest, or we must

certainly die."

The light of the flames was glowing upon her face, and I saw that she

was Dorothea, the pretty country girl who had taken asylum with my

landlord when her native village was plundered, and her father killed.

He employed her as a servant, and used to say that her troubles had

quite stupefied her, or otherwise she would have been a nice enough

little thing. And he was right there. She scarcely spoke, except to

utter a few words which sounded like incoherent nonsense, whilst her

face, which would otherwise have been beautiful, was marred by a

strange unmeaning smile. She used to bring my coffee into my room every

morning, and I remarked that her figure, complexion, &c., were not at

all those of a peasant girl. "Ah," my landlord used to say, "you see

she's a farmer's daughter, and a Saxon."

As this girl was thus lying, rather than kneeling before me, half dead,

dripping, I quickly pulled off my cloak and wrapped her in it,

whispering to her, "Warm yourself, dear, oh, warm yourself, darling

Dorothea, or you will die! What were you doing in the cold river?"

"Oh, keep silent!" she said, throwing back the hood of her mantle, and

combing her dripping hair back with her fingers. "What I implore you to

do is to keep silent. Come to that stone seat yonder. Father is

speaking with Saint Andrew, and can't hear us."

We crept cautiously to the stone seat. Utterly carried away by the most

extraordinary sensations, overmastered by fear and rapture, I clasped

the creature in my arms. She sat down in my lap without hesitation, and

threw her arms about my neck. I felt the icy water from her hair

running down my neck; but as drops sprinkled on fire only increase its

flaming, love and longing only seethed up within me the more

vehemently.

"Anselmus," she whispered, "I believe you are good and true. When you

sing it goes right through my heart, and you have charming ways. You

won't betray me. Who would get you your coffee if you did? And, listen,

when you are all starving (and you soon will be), I'll come to you at

night, all alone, when nobody can know, and bake you nice cakes. I have

flour, fine flour, hidden away in my little room. And we'll have

bridecake, white and lovely!" At this she began to laugh, but

immediately sobbed and wept. "Ah me! like those in Moskow. Oh! my

Alexei! my Alexei! Beautiful dolphin, swim! Swim through the waves! Am

I not waiting for you, your faithful love?" She drooped her little

head, her sobs grew fainter, and she seemed to sink into a slumber, her

bosom heaving and falling in sighs of longing. I looked at the old man.

He was standing with outstretched arms, and saying, in hollow tones,

"He gives the signal! See how he shakes his fiery locks of flame; how

eagerly he treads into the ground those fiery pillars on which he

traverses the land! Hear ye not his step of thunder? Feel ye not the

vivifying breath which wreathes before him like a gleaming incense

cloud? Hither! hither! mighty brethren!"

The sound of the old man's words was like the hollow roar of the

approaching whirlwind, and while he spoke, the fire upon the Meissner

Hills blazed brighter and brighter. "Help, Saint Andrew!" the girl

cried in her sleep. And suddenly she sprung up as if possessed by some

terrible idea, and throwing her left arm more closely round me,

whispered into my ear, "Anselmus! it would be better that I killed

you," and I saw a knife gleaming in her right hand. I repulsed her in

terror, with a loud cry of, "Mad creature! What would you do?" Then she

screamed out, "Ah, I cannot do it! But all is over with you now!" At

that moment the old man cried, "Agafia, with whom are you speaking?"

And ere I could bethink me, he was close to me, aiming a stroke with

his swung staff at me which would have cleft my skull in two had not

Agafia seized me from behind and drawn me quickly away. The staff

splintered into a thousand pieces on the stone bench. The old man fell

on his knees. "Allons! allons!" resounded from all sides. I had to

collect my thoughts, and spring quickly to one side to avoid being

crushed by the guns and ammunition waggons which were again coming

across.

Next morning the Russians drove this expeditionary force down from the

hills, and back into the fortifications, notwithstanding the

superiority of its numbers. "'Tis a strange thing," people said, "that

our friends outside were informed of the enemy's plans, for that signal

fire on the Meissner Hills had the effect of assembling the troops, so

that they might make a resistance in force, just at the very time and

place where he intended to concentrate his attacking bodies."

For several days Dorothea did not come in the morning with my coffee;

and my landlord, pale with terror, told me had seen her, along with the

mad beggar of the Elbe bridge, marched off from the marshal's quarters

to Neustadt under a strong escort.

"Oh, good heavens!" said Anselmus's friend, "they were discovered and

executed."

But Anselmus gave a strange smile and said, "Agafia got away; and,

alter the Peace was signed, I received, from her own hands, a beautiful

white wedding-cake of her own making."

The reticence of Anselmus was proof against every effort to induce him

to say anything more concerning this astonishing affair.

When Cyprian had finished, Lothair said, "You told us that the events

which suggested this sketch would be more interesting than it is

itself; so that I consider those suggesting circumstances are an

essential part of it, without which it is not complete. Therefore, I

think you ought at once to give us your why and wherefore, as a sort of

explanatory note."

"Does it not seem to you to be as unusual as remarkable," said Cyprian,

"that all that I have read to you is literally true, and that even the

little 'wind up,' has its kernel of actuality?"

"Let us hear!" the friends cried.

"To begin with," said Cyprian, "I must tell you that the fate which

befell Anselmus in my sketch was actually my own, as well. My being ten

minutes late decided my destiny, so that I was shut up in Dresden just

as it was surrounded on all sides. It is a fact that after the battle

of Leipzig, when our condition became more painful and trying day by

day, certain friends, or mere acquaintances, whom a similar lot and a

like way of thinking had drawn together, used to assemble in the back

room of a coffee-house, much as the disciples did at Emmaus. The

landlord, one Eichelkraut, was a reliable, trustworthy man, who made no

secret of his hostility to the French, and always obliged them to treat

him with proper respect and keep their due distance from him when they

came in as customers. No Frenchman was allowed to make his way into

that backroom on any pretext, and if one did succeed in showing his

nose there, he could never get a morsel to eat, or a drop to drink, let

him implore, or swear, as much as he liked. Moreover, the room was

always as silent as the grave, and we all blew such stifling clouds out

of our pipes that the place soon became so full of the exhalation that

a Frenchman would be very soon smoked out, like a wasp, and usually

went growling and swearing out of the door like one. As soon as he did,

the window would be opened to let the reek out, and we would be

restored to our peace and comfort again. The life and soul of those

meetings was a well-known talented and charming writer: and I remember

with great pleasure how he and I used to get upstairs to the upper

story of the house, look out of the little garret window into the

night, and see the enemy's bivouac fires shining in the sky. We used to

say to each other all sorts of wonderful things which the shimmer of

those fires, combined with the moonlight, used to put into our heads,

and then go down and tell our friends what we imagined we had seen. It

is a fact that one night one of our number (an advocate) who was always

the first to hear any news, and whose reports were always reliable

(heaven knows whence he derived his information), came in and told us

the decision which had just been come to by the council of war

concerning the expedition of Count von der Lobau, exactly as I have

repeated it to you. It is likewise true that as I was going home about

midnight, while the French battalions were falling-in in profound

silence (no _generale_ being beaten) and beginning their march over the

bridge, I met ammunition waggons, so that I could have no doubt of the

accuracy of his information. And lastly, it is the fact that, on the

bridge, there was a grey old beggar lying, begging from the French

troops as they crossed, whom I could not remember having seen in

Dresden before. Last of all it is the fact, and the most wonderful of

all, that when, much interested and excited, I reached my own quarters,

on climbing up to the top story I _did_ see a fire on the Meissner

Hills, which was neither a watch fire nor a burning building. The

sequel showed that the Russians must have known that night all about

the attack intended to be made on the following morning, inasmuch as

they concentrated troops which had been at a considerable distance upon

the Meissner Hills, and it was principally Russian Landwehr which drove

the French back as a storm sweeps a field of stubble. When the remnant

of them fell back into the fortifications, the Russians quietly marched

off to their previous positions. So that at the very time when the

council of war was held at Gouvion de St. Cyr's, the decision which it

arrived at was communicated to, or, more probably, overheard by persons

who were not supposed to have this in their power. Strangely enough,

the advocate knew every detail of the deliberation; for instance, that

Gouvion was opposed to the expedition, and only yielded lest he might

be thought wanting in courage, in a case where rapidity of decision was

a desideratum. Count von der Lobau was determined to march out and

endeavour to cut his way to the emperor's army. But how did the

surrounding force know so soon of what was projected? For they knew of

it in the course of an hour. Not only was it apparently impossible to

get across the strongly fortified bridge; and if not, the river would

have had to be swum, and the various trenches and walls got over.

Moreover, the whole of Dresden was palisaded, and carefully guarded by

sentries, to a considerable distance round. Where was the possibility

of any human being surmounting all those obstacles in such a short

space of time! One might think of telegraphic signals, made by means of

lights from some tall tower or loftily situated house. But consider the

difficulty of carrying that out, and the risk of detection, for such

signals would have been easily seen. At all events it remains an

incomprehensible thing how what actually happened came to pass; and

that is enough to suggest to a lively imagination all sorts of

mysterious and sufficiently extraordinary hypotheses to account for

it."

"I bow my knee in deep reverence before Saint Serapion," said Lothair;

"and before the most worthy of his disciples, and I am quite sure that

a Serapiontic account of the important incidents of the war, as seen by

him, if given in his characteristic style, would be exceedingly

interesting, as well as very instructive, to imaginative members of the

profession of arms. At the same time I have little doubt that the

incidents in question came about quite naturally, and in the ordinary

course of events. But you had to get your landlord's servant-girl, the

pleasing Dorothea, into the water, as a sort of deluding Nixie; and

she----"

"Don't jest about that," Cyprian said, very solemnly. "Don't make jokes

on that subject, Lothair. At this moment I see that beautiful creature

before my eyes, that lovely terrible mystery (I do not know what other

name to call her by). It was I who had that bridecake sent to me;

glittering in diamonds, flashing like lightning, wrapped in priceless

sables----"

"Listen," cried Vincenz. "We are getting at it now. The Saxon

maid-servant--the Russian Princess--Moskow--Dresden-- Has not Cyprian

always spoken in the most mysterious language, and with the most

recondite allusions, of a certain period of his life just after the

first French war? It is coming out now! Speak! Let all your heart

stream forth, my Cyprianic Serapion and Serpiontic Cyprian."

"And how if I keep silence?" answered Cyprian, suddenly drawing in his

horns, and growing grave and gloomy. "And how if I am obliged to keep

silence? And I _shall_ keep silence!"

He spoke those words in a strangely solemn and exalted tone, leaning

back in his chair, and fixing his eyes on the ceiling, as was his wont

when deeply moved.

The friends looked at one another with questioning glances.

"Well," said Lothair at last, "it seems that somehow our meeting of

to-night has fallen into a strange groove of ill-fortune, and it appears

to be hopeless to expect any comfort or enjoyment out of it. Suppose we

have a little music, and sing some absurd stuff or other as vilely as

we can."

"Yes," said Theodore, "that is the thing." And he opened the piano. "If

we don't manage a canon--which, according to Junker Tobias is a thing

which can reel three souls out of a weaver's body--we will make it

awful enough to be worthy of Signor Capuzzi and his friends. Suppose we

sing an Italian _Terzetto buffo_ out of our own heads. I'll be the

prima donna, and begin. Ottmar will be the lover, and Lothair had

better be the comic old man, and come in, raging and swearing in rapid

notes."

"But the words, the words," said Ottmar.

"Sing whatever you please," said Theodore; "Oh Dio! Addio! Lasciami mia

Vita."

"No, no," cried Vincenz. "If you won't let me take part in your

singing--although I feel that I possess a wonderful talent for it,

which only wants the voice of a Catalani to produce itself in the

work-a-day world with drastic effect, allow me at least to be your

librettist--your poet-laureate. And here I hand you your libretto at

once."

He had found on Theodore's writing-table the 'Indice de Teatrali

Spettacoli' for 1791, and this he handed to Theodore. This indice, like

all which appear yearly in Italy, merely contained a list of the titles

of the operas performed, with the names of their composers, and of the

singers, scene-painters, &c., concerned in their production. They

opened the page which related to the opera in Milan, and it was decided

that the prima donna should sing the names of the lover-tenors (with a

due interspersing of Ah Dio's and Oh Cielo's), that the lover-tenor

should sing the names of the prima donnas in like manner, and that the

comic old man should come in, in his furious wrath, with the titles of

the operas which had been given and an occasional burst of invective,

appropriate to his character.

Theodore played a _ritornello_ of the cut and pattern which occurs by

the hundred in the opera buffas of the Italians, and then began to sing

in sweet, tender strains "Lorenzo Coleoni! Gaspare Rossari! Oh Dio!

Giuseppo Marelli! Francesco Sedini!" &c. Ottmar followed with "Giuditta

Paracca! Teresa Ravini! Giovanna Velata--Oh Dio!" &c. And Lothair burst

duly in with rapid, angry quavers: "Le Gare Generose, del Maestro

Paesiello--Che vedo? La Donna di Spirito, del Maestro Mariella.

Briconaccio! Piro, Re di Epiro! Maledetti!--del Maestro Zingarelli,"

&c.

This singing, which Lothair and Ottmar accompanied with appropriate

gesticulations (Vincenz illustrating Theodore's impersonations with the

most preposterous grimaces imaginable), warmed up the friends more and

more. In a comic description of enthusiastic inspiration each seized

the drift of the other's ideas. All the passages, imitations, &c. (to

use musical expressions), usually employed in compositions of this

description, were reproduced with the utmost accuracy--so that any one

who had come in by accident would never have dreamt that this

performance was improvised on the spur of the moment, even if the

strange hotch-potch of names had struck him as curious.

Louder and more unrestrainedly raged this outbreak of Italian _rabbia_,

until (as may be supposed), it culminated in a wild, universal burst of

laughter, in which even Cyprian joined.

At their parting, on this evening, the friends were in a condition of

wild enjoyment, rather than (as was the case on other occasions), lull

of rational delight.

SECTION EIGHT.

The Serapion Brethren had assembled for another meeting.

"I must be greatly mistaken," said Lothair, "and be anything but the

possessor of a native genius (supplemented by assiduous practice) for

physiognomy--such as I believe that I do possess, if I do not read very

distinctly in the face of every one of us (not excepting my own, which

I see magically gleaming at me in yonder mirror), that our minds are

all fully charged with matter of importance, and only waiting for the

word of command to fire it off. I am rather afraid that more than one

of us may have got shut up in one or other of his productions one of

those eccentric little firework devils which may come fizzling out,

dart backwards and forwards about the room, banging and jumping, and

not manage to pop out of the window until it has managed to give us all

a good singeing. I even dread a continuation of our last conversation,

and may Saint Serapion avert that from us! But lest we should fall

immediately into those wild, seething waters, and that we may commence

our meeting in a duly calm and rational frame of mind, I move that

Sylvester begins by reading to us that story which we could not hear on

the last occasion because there was no time left."

This proposal was unanimously agreed to.

"The woof which I have spun," said Sylvester, producing a manuscript,

"is composed of many threads, of the most various shades, and the

question in my mind is whether--on the whole--you will think it has

proper colour and keeping. It was my idea that I should, perhaps, put

some flesh and blood into what I must admit, is a rather feeble body,

by contributing to it something out of a great, mysterious period--to

which it really does but serve as a sort of framework."

Sylvester read:--

THE MUTUAL INTERDEPENDENCE OF THINGS.

A tumble over a root as a portion of the system of the universe--Mignon

and the gypsy from Lorca, in connection with General Palafox--A

Paradise opened at Countess Walther Puck's.

"No!" said Ludwig to his friend Euchar, "no! There is no such lubberly,

uncouth attendant on the goddess of Fortune as Herr Tieck has been

pleased to introduce in the prologue to his second part of 'Fortunat,'

who, in the course of his gyrations, upsets tables, smashes ink-bottles,

and goes blundering into the President's carriage, hurting his head and

his arm. No! For there is no such thing as chance. I hold to the opinion

that the entire universe, and all that it contains, and all that comes

to pass in it--the complete macrocosm--is like some large, very ingeniously

constructed piece of clockwork-mechanism, which would necessarily come

to a stop in a moment if any hostile principle, operating wholly

involuntarily, were permitted to come in contact--in an opposing

sense--with the very smallest of its wheels."

"I don't know, friend Ludwig," said Euchar, laughing, "how it

is that you have come, all of a sudden, to adopt this wretched,

mechanical theory--which is as old as the hills, and out of date long

ago--disfiguring and distorting Goethe's beautiful notion of the red

thread which runs all through our lives--in which, when we think about

it in our more lucid moments, we recognize that higher Power which

works above, and in us."

"I have the greatest objection to that simile," said Ludwig. "It is

taken from the British navy. All through the smallest rope in their

ships (I know this, of course, from the Wahlverwandschaften), runs a

small red thread, which shows that the rope is Government property. No,

my dear friend! Whatever happens is pre-ordained, from the beginning,

as an essential necessity, just because it does happen. And this is the

Mutual Interdependence of Things, upon which rests the principle of all

being, of all existence. Because, as soon as you----"

However, it is necessary, at this point, to explain to the courteous

reader that as Ludwig and Euchar were thus talking together, they were

walking in an alley of the beautiful park at W----. It was a Sunday.

Twilight was beginning to fall, the evening breeze was whispering in

the branches which, reviving after the heat of the day, were exhaling

gentle sighs. Among the woods were sounding the happy voices of

townsfolk in their Sunday clothes, out for the afternoon, some of them

lying in the sweet grass enjoying their simple supper, and others

refreshing themselves in the various restaurants, in accordance with

the winnings of their week.

Just as Ludwig was going on to explain more fully the profound theory

of the mutual interdependence of things, he stumbled over the thick

root of a tree, which (as he always wore spectacles) he had not seen;

and he measured his length on the ground.

"_That_ was comprehended in the mutual interdependence of things," said

Euchar gravely and quietly, lifting up his friend's hat and stick, and

giving him his hand to help him on to his legs again. "If you had not

pitched over in that absurd manner the world would have come to a stop

at once."

But Ludwig felt his right knee so stiff that he was obliged to limp,

and his nose was bleeding freely. This induced him to take his

friend's advice and go into the nearest restaurant, though he

generally avoided these places, particularly on Sundays. For the

jubilations of the Sunday townsfolk were exceptionally displeasing to

him, giving him a sensation of being in places which were not by any

means _convenable_--at all events for people of his position.

In the front of this restaurant the people had formed a deep,

many-tinted ring, from the interior of which there Bounded the tones

of a guitar and a tambourine. Ludwig, assisted by his friend, went

limping into the house, holding his handkerchief to his face. And he

begged so pitifully for water, and a little drop of wine-vinegar,

that the landlady, much alarmed, thought he must be at the point of

death. Whilst he was being served with what he required, Euchar (on

whom the sounds of the guitar and tambourine exercised an irresistible

fascination) crept forth, and endeavoured to penetrate into the closed

circle. He belonged to that restricted class of Nature's favourites

whose exterior and whole being ensure a kindly reception everywhere,

and in all circumstances. So that on this occasion some journeymen

mechanics (people who are not usually much given to politeness of a

Sunday) at once made room for him when he asked what was going forward,

so that he as well as themselves might have a look at the strange

little creature who was dancing and playing so prettily and cleverly.

And a curious and delightful scene displayed itself to Euchar, which

fettered all his mind and attention.

In the middle of the ring a girl with her eyes blindfolded was dancing

the fandango amongst nine eggs, arranged three by three behind each

other on the ground, and playing a tambourine as she danced. At one

side stood a little deformed man, with an ill-looking gypsy face,

playing the guitar. The girl who was dancing seemed to be about

fifteen. She was oddly dressed in a red bodice, gold-embroidered, and a

short white skirt trimmed with ribbons of various colours. Her figure

and all her motions were the very ideal of elegance and grace. She

brought the most marvellous variety of sounds out of her tambourine.

Sometimes she would raise it above her head, and then hold it out in

front of her or behind her, with her arms stretched out, in the most

picturesque attitudes. Now it would sound like a far-off drum; now like

the melancholy cooing of the turtle-dove, and presently like the

distant roar of the approaching storm. All this was accompanied in the

most delightful manner by the tinkling of the clear, harmonious bells.

And the little guitar-player by no means fell short of her in

virtuosity; for he, too, had quite a style of his own of treating his

instrument--making the dance melody (which was a most characteristic

one, wholly out of the common run of such things) predominate at times,

loud and clear, and hushing it down at other times into a mysterious

piano, striking the strings with the palms of his hand (as the

Spaniards do in producing that peculiar effect), and presently dashing

out bright-sounding, full harmonies. The tambourine went on

_crescendo_, as the guitar-strings clanged louder and louder, and the

girl's boundings increased in their scope in a similar ratio. She would

set down her foot within a hair's-breadth of the eggs with the most

complete certainty and confidence, so that the spectators could not

help crying out, thinking that one of those fragile things must

infallibly be broken. Her black hair had fallen down, and it flew about

her head, giving her much the effect of a Mænad. The little fellow

cried out to her in Spanish, "Stop!" And on this, while still going on

with her dance, she lightly touched each of the eggs, so that they

rolled together into a heap; upon which, with a loud beat on her

tambourine and a forcible chord on the guitar, she came to a sudden

standstill, as if banned there by some spell. The dance was done.

The little fellow went up to her and undid the cloth which bound her

eyes. She rolled up her hair, took the tambourine, and went round

amongst the spectators, with downcast looks, to collect their

contributions. Not one had slunk off out of the way. Every one, with a

face of pleasure, put a piece of money into that tambourine. When she

came to Euchar, and as he was going to put something into it, she made

a sign of refusal.

"May not I give you anything?" he said.

She looked up at him, and the glowing fire of her loveliest of eyes

flashed through the night of her black silken lashes.

"The old man," she said gravely--almost solemnly--in her deep voice,

and with her foreign accent, "told me that you, sir, did not come till

the best part of my dance was done; and so I ought not to take anything

from you." Thus speaking she made Euchar a pretty courtesy, and went to

the little man, taking the guitar from his hands, and going with him to

a table at some distance.

When Euchar looked round him, he perceived Ludwig sitting not far off,

between two respectable townsfolk, with a great glass of beer before

him, making the most earnest signs. Euchar went to him, saying, with a

laugh, "Why, Ludwig, when did you take to drinking beer?" Ludwig,

however, made signals to him, and said, in meaning accents, "What do

you say? Beer is one of the most delicious of drinks, and I delight in

it above all things--when it is so magnificent as it is here."

The citizens rose, and Ludwig shook hands with them most politely,

putting on a look which was half-pleased, half-annoyed, when they

expressed at parting their regret for his mishap.

"You are always getting me into hot water with your want of tact," he

said. "If I hadn't allowed myself to be treated to a glass of beer, if

I hadn't managed to gulp the abominable trash down--those sturdy

counter-jumpers would probably have been offended, and would have

looked upon me as one of the profane. Then you must needs come and

bring me into discredit, when I had been playing my part so very

nicely."

"Well," said Euchar, "if you had been bowed out of their company, or

even come in for a little touch of cudgelling, wouldn't it all have

been a part of the mutual interdependence of things? But just listen as

I tell you what a charming little drama your trip over the tree-root

(predestined, according to the conditions of the Macrocosmus, to occur)

gave me an opportunity of seeing."

And he told him about the charming egg dance by the Spanish girl.

"Mignon!" cried Ludwig enthusiastically. "Heavenly, divine Mignon!"

The guitarist was sitting not far off, at a table, counting the

receipts, and the girl was standing beside him, squeezing an orange

into a glass of water. Presently the old man put the money together,

and nodded to the girl with eyes sparkling with gladness, whilst she

handed him the orange-water, and stroked his wrinkled cheeks. He gave a

disagreeable, cackling laugh, and gulped down the liquid with every

indication of thirst. The girl sat down and began tinkling on the

guitar. "Oh Mignon!" cried Ludwig again. "Heavenly, divine Mignon! Ah,

I shall rescue her, like another Wilhelm Meister, from the thraldom of

this accursed miscreant who holds her in bondage!" "How do you know,"

asked Euchar, "that this little hunchback is an accursed miscreant?"

"Cold creature!" answered Ludwig. "Cold, passionless creature, you

understand nothing, you have no sympathy with anything, no sense of the

genial, the imaginative. Don't you see--don't you comprehend how every

description of the most insulting contempt, envious feeling,

wickedness, ill-temper, and avarice of the vilest kind gleam out of the

green, cat's-eyes of that little gypsy abortion--are legible in every

wrinkle of his diabolical-looking face? Yes! I am going to rescue that

beautiful child out of the clutches--the Satanic clutches--of that

brown monster! If I could only have a talk with her, the little

charmer!" "Nothing is easier than that," said Euchar, and he signed to

her to come near.

The girl put the instrument down, came near, and made a reverence,

casting her eyes modestly on the ground. "Mignon!" cried Ludwig.

"Mignon! Sweet, beautiful creature!"

"I am called Emanuela," she said.

"And that horrible ruffian there," Ludwig went on, "where did he steal

you from? How did you get into his clutches, poor thing?"

The girl lifted her eyes, and sending a beaming, serious glance through

and through Ludwig, replied. "I don't understand you, sir. I don't know

what you mean--why you ask me this?"

"You are a Spaniard, my child," Euchar began.

"I am," she answered, her voice trembling. "I am, indeed. You see

me--you hear me. Why should I deny it?"

"Then, of course, you can play the guitar and sing a song?"

She covered her eyes with her hand, and said, in a scarce audible

whisper, "Ah! I should like to play and sing _you_ one. But my songs

are burning hot; and here it is so cold--so cold!

"Do you know," said Euchar, speaking in Spanish, and in a heightened

tone, "the song _Laurel immortal_?"

She clapped her hands, raised her glance to Heaven, tears filled her

eyes; she flew to the table, seized the guitar, sprang, rather than

walked back to the two friends, placed herself before Euchar, and began

"Laurel immortal al gran Palafox,

Gloria da España, de Francia terror!"

The expression which she put into this song was indescribable.

From the deepest pain of death there flamed forth the most fiery

enthusiasm--each note seemed to be a lightning flash which must shiver

every ice-covering of the chilled breast. As for Ludwig he was--to use

a familiar expression--ready to jump out of his skin with sheer

rapture. He interrupted her singing with boisterous "Bravas!"

"Bravissimas!" and a hundred other such expressions of approbation.

"Do be so kind, my dear fellow, as to make a little less noise!" Euchar

said. "Oh, of course," he answered, "you unimpressionable people are

never in the least affected by music!" However he did what Euchar had

asked him to do.

When she had finished, she went and leant on a tree, as if wearied. And

as she let the chords go on sounding more and more softly till they

died away in a _pianissimo_, great tears were falling upon the

instrument.

"You are in some need, my poor, pretty child," said Euchar, in the tone

which comes only from a deeply moved heart. "Although I did not see the

beginning of your dance, you have more than made up for that by your

song, and you must not refuse to accept something from me."

He had taken out a little purse in which bright ducats were shining,

and was handing it to her as she came closer to him. She fixed her gaze

upon his hand, seized it in both her own, and falling on her knees with

a loud cry of "_Oh, Dios!_" covered it with the warmest kisses. "Ah!"

cried Ludwig, "nothing but gold is worthy to touch that beautiful

little hand." And he asked Euchar if he could give him change for a

thaler, as he had no smaller money about him.

Meanwhile the hunchback had come limping up, and he lifted the guitar,

which Emanuela had dropped on the ground, making many smiling

reverences to Euchar, supposing that he had been exceedingly generous

to the girl, from the motion with which she had thanked him.

"Scoundrel--miscreant!" growled Ludwig.

The man started in alarm, and said, in a lamentable tone, "Ah, sir, why

are you so angry? Don't condemn poor Biagio Cubas--a good, respectable,

honest man. Don't judge me by the colour of my skin, or by the ugliness

of my face. I know I _have_ an ugly face. I was born in Lorca, and am

every bit as good a Christian as you are yourself."

The girl jumped up hastily, crying out to the old man in Spanish, "Come

away, little father, as quickly as you can." And they both hurried off,

Cubas continuing to make various odd reverences, and Emanuela fixing

upon Euchar the most soul-full gaze of which her beautiful eyes were

capable.

When the strange couple were lost among the trees, Euchar said, "You

must see, do you not, that you were in much too great a hurry to

condemn that little cobold in your own mind? He _has_ a touch or so of

the gypsy about him. As he says himself, he comes from Lorca. And Lorca

is an old Moorish town, and the Lorcanese (good enough folks, all the

same) bear undeniable traces of their ancestry. So there is nothing

which they take in worse part than to have this imputed to them, which

is why they keep perpetually declaring that they are Christians of ever

so old standing. This was the case with this little fellow, in whose

face his Moorish origin is certainly reflected to the extent of

positive caricature."

"No matter!" cried Ludwig. "I stick to my opinion; the man is a

tremendous scoundrel, and I will leave no stone unturned till I deliver

my charming, beautiful Mignon from his clutches."

"If you insist on thinking the little fellow a scoundrel," said Euchar,

"I can't say that I have very much confidence, for my part, in the

charming beautiful Mignon."

"What!" cried Ludwig. "Not have confidence in that divine little

creature, whose eyes beam with the purest, most innocent truth and

tenderness? However, there we see the icy, prosaic nature wholly devoid

of feeling for all such matters, distrustful of everything which

doesn't fit all in a moment into the compartments, the grooves of his

everyday business."

"Well, don't get so excited about it, my dear, enthusiastic friend,"

said Euchar quietly. "You will probably say that I have no tangible

reason for distrusting the beautiful Mignon. But my reason is that I

have this instant discovered that as she was kissing my hand she took

away that little ring with the curious stone (which you know I always

wear) from my finger. And I am greatly distressed to lose it, because

it is a souvenir of a period of my life which was full of intense

interest and importance."

"In heaven's name," said Ludwig, in an awestruck whisper, "it is not

possible, surely! No, no!" he cried, loudly and excitedly, "it cannot

be possible! That lovely face could not deceive: that eye--that

glance--You must have dropped the ring--let it fall."

"Well--" said Euchar, "we shall see. But it is getting dark: let us get

back to the town."

All the way home, Ludwig did not cease talking of Emanuela, calling her

by the sweetest names, and declaring that he was quite certain--from a

peculiar glance which she had cast on him at parting--that he had made

a deep impression on her--a sort of event which generally happened to

him in similar cases--_i.e._ when the romantic element entered amongst

the circumstances of everyday life. Euchar did not interrupt him by so

much as a syllable; but he worked himself up more and more--till, just

at the town gate (where the drummer of the guard was beginning to beat

the tattoo), he screamed into his friend's ear (a process necessitated

by the row made by the military virtuoso on his instrument), as he cast

himself upon his bosom, that he was most deeply in love with the sweet

Mignon, and that the sole object of his life from thenceforth was to

find her again, and free her from the bondage of the atrocious old

monster.

There was a servant in a handsome livery standing at Ludwig's door,

who handed him a card of invitation. As soon as he had read it, and

sent the servant away, he embraced his friend as frantically as he

had done at the town gate, and cried, "Oh, Euchar! call me the most

fortunate--the most enviable--of mortals. Open your heart! Form some

slight idea of my happiness! Mingle your tears of joy with mine!"

"What can there be of such a marvellously fortunate description

announced to you on a card?" inquired Euchar.

"Don't be startled," murmured Ludwig, "when I open to you the gates of

the magically brilliant Paradise of a thousand delights, which will

unfold itself to me by the virtue of this card here."

"Well," said Euchar, "I am sure I shall be very glad indeed, to hear

what the piece of good fortune is which is coming to you."

"Hear it," cried Ludwig; "learn it--understand it! Be amazed at

it--doubt of it--cry out--shriek--shout! I have got an invitation to

the supper and ball to-morrow evening at Countess Walther Puck's!

Victorine! Victorine! Sweet, lovely Victorine!"

"And how about sweet, lovely Mignon?" asked Euchar. But Ludwig groaned

forth, in the most pathetic tones, "Victorine! My life!" and bolted

into his quarters.

THE FRIENDS, LUDWIG AND EUCHAR. EVIL DREAM OF THE LOSS, AT PIQUET, OF

A PAIR OF HANDSOME LEGS. WOES OF AN ENTHUSIASTIC DANCER. COMFORT,

HOPE, AND MONSIEUR COCHENILLE.

It may be expedient to tell the courteous reader a little more

concerning this pair of friends, so that he may form, at all events, to

some extent, a well-grounded opinion as to each of them.

Both had the title of Baron. Educated together, and having grown up in

the most intimate friendship, they could not part even when the lapse

of years brought to light most striking dissimilarities in their mental

characteristics, which became more and more developed as time went on.

In his childhood, Euchar belonged to the class of "good, well-behaved

children," so-called, because in "society" they will sit for hours in

the same spot, ask no questions, never want anything, and so forth, and

then in due course, develop into wooden blockheads. With Euchar the

case was different. If when, in his capacity of a "good, well-behaved"

boy he chanced to be sitting with bent head and downcast eyes, some one

spoke to him, he would start in alarm, stammer, and falter in his

speech, often even shed tears, and seem to have been awakened from a

deep dream. When alone, he appeared to be a totally different being. If

watched without his being aware of it, he would be talking loudly and

eagerly, as if with several people about him, and he would "act" whole

stories--which he had heard or read--as if they were dramas, so that

tables, cupboards, chairs, whatever happened to be in the room with

him, had to represent towns, forests, villages, and dramatis personæ.

But when he had an opportunity of being alone in the open air, a

special ecstasy seemed to inspire him. Then he would jump, dance, and

shout through the woods, putting his arms about the trees, throwing

himself down into the grass--and so forth. In any sort of game played

by boys of his own standing, he was most unwilling to take part, and

was consequently looked upon as being "funky," and a creature who had

no "pluck," for he would never take his share in anything where there

was any chance of risk--such as a big jump, or a difficult piece of

climbing. But here, also, it was curious that, when at the end nobody

had had the pluck to do the thing, Euchar would wait till they were all

gone, and then, when he was by himself, would do with the utmost ease,

what they had all only _wanted_ to do. For instance, if the idea was to

get up a high, slender tree, and nobody had managed to do it, as soon

as all their backs were turned, and Euchar was alone, he would be at

the top of it in a few seconds. Seeming outwardly to be cold and

apathetic, he really threw himself into everything with all his soul,

and a persevering steadfastness such as only belongs to strong

characters. And when--as was often the case--that which he felt keenly

came to the surface, it did so with such irresistible force, that

everyone who had any knowledge of such matters was amazed at the depth

of feeling which lay hidden in the boy's nature. Many schoolmasters,

and tutors, who had to do with him, could make neither head nor tail of

him as a pupil, and there was only one of them--the last--who said the

boy was a poet: at which his papa was very much distressed, thinking

that the boy had inherited his mother's temperament, and she had always

had the most terrible headaches whenever she went to a party or

any social function. However, the papa's most intimate friend, a

smooth-spoken young chamberlain, assured him that the schoolmaster in

question was an ass to say what he did, and utterly mistaken, seeing

that the blood in the veins of young Euchar was noble, so that, being

by birth an aristocrat, he never could be in any danger of being

capable of poetry. And this was very consoling to the old gentleman.

How the lad developed with those dispositions may be readily inferred.

Nature had imprinted on his face the unmistakable signet with which she

stamps her prime favourites. But Mother Nature's favourites are those

who have the power of completely realising the illimitable love of

their kind mother, and of understanding the depths of her being: and

they are only understood by those who are favourites themselves.

Consequently Euchar was not understood by the general crowd--was

considered unimpressionable, cold, incapable of the due degree of

ecstasy on the subject of the newest tragedy at the theatre--and was

stigmatized as a prosaic creature. Above all, a whole coterie of ladies

of the most refined intellectual development and culture, who might

well be credited with the power of insight on this particular subject,

could by no means understand how it was possible that that Apollo's

brow, those sharply curving, masterful eyebrows, those eyes which

darted such a darksome fire, those softly pouting lips, should belong

to a mere lifeless image. And yet all this seemed to be the case. For

Euchar did not know in the least degree how to say nothing, about

nothing, in words which meant nothing, to pretty ladies, and look,

whilst so-doing, like a Rinaldo in bonds.

Matters were quite different with Ludwig. He belonged to the race of

those wild, uncontrollable boys of whom people are in the habit of

predicting that the world will not be wide enough for them. It was he

who always invented the maddest and most adventurous features of all

games. It was naturally to be expected that he would be the one of all

others to "come to grief" on those occasions: but he was always the one

who came out of them safe and sound, because he had the knack of

keeping himself in a safe spot during the carrying out of the

adventure--if he did not manage to slip out of it altogether. He took

up every subject rapidly, with the utmost enthusiasm--and dropped it

again as quickly. So that he learned a great many things, but did not

learn much. When he came to young man's estate, he wrote very pretty

verses, played passably on several instruments, drew very nice

pictures, spoke with a certain degree of correctness and fluency

several languages, and was, consequently, a paragon of up-bringing. He

could get into the most surprising ecstasies about everything, and give

utterance to the same in the most magniloquent words. But it was with

him as with the drum--which gives forth a sound which is loud in

proportion to its emptiness. The impression made upon him by everything

grand, beautiful, sublime, resembled the outside tickling which excites

the skin without affecting the inner fibres. Ludwig belonged to that

class of people who say, "I want to do" so-and-so; but who never get

beyond this principle of "wanting to do" into action. But, as in this

world, those who announce, with the proper amount of loudness and

emphasis, what they "intend," or are "going" to do, are held in far

greater consideration than those who quietly go and "do" the things in

question, it of course happened that Ludwig was considered "capable" of

performing the grandest deeds, and was admired accordingly, people not

troubling themselves to ascertain whether he had "done" the deeds which

he had talked about so loudly. There were, it must be said, people who

"saw through" Ludwig, and, starting from what he said, took some pains

to find out what he had done, or if he had done anything at all. And

this grieved him all the more that, in solitary hours, he was sometimes

obliged to admit to himself that this everlasting "meaning" and

"intending" to do things, without ever doing them, was, in reality, a

miserable sort of business. Then he came upon a book--forgotten and out

of date--in which was set forth that mechanical theory of the mutual

interdependence of things. He eagerly adopted this theory, which

justified and accounted for his doings, or rather his "intentions"

of doing, in his own eyes, and in those of others. According with

this theory, if he did not carry out anything which he had intended

to do--what he had said he was going to do--it was not he who

was to blame: its not happening was simply a part of the mutual

interdependence of things.

The courteous reader will, at all events, see the great convenience of

this theory.

Moreover, as Ludwig was a very good-looking young fellow, with blooming

red cheeks, he would, by virtue of his qualities, have been the idol of

all elegant circles, had not his short-sight led to his committing

numerous "quid-pro-quos," which had often most annoying consequences.

However, he consoled himself with the thought of the "impression,"

which was indescribable, which he believed himself to make upon all

female hearts: and, besides, there was a good deal in the habit he had,

just because he was so short-sighted, of placing himself in a closer

proximity to ladies with whom he was conversing, than might have been

considered altogether _convenable_, a species of innocent pushingness,

belonging to the "genial" character, so as to be sure not to make any

mistakes with reference to the person he was addressing; a matter which

had more than once been productive of annoyance.

The morning after the ball at Count Walther Puck's, Euchar received a

note from Ludwig, running as follows:

"Dearest and most beloved friend,--I am utterly miserable. I am

stricken by destiny. It is all over with me! I am dashed down from

the flowery summit of the fairest hope into the blackest and most

fathomless abyss of the deepest despair. That which was to have been

the source of my indescribable bliss constitutes my misery. Come to me

as speedily as you can, and give me some comfort, if such a thing be

possible."

Euchar found him stretched on his sofa, with his head bound up, pale

and worn from sleeplessness.

"Is it you?" he cried, in a feeble voice, stretching an arm towards

him: "is it you, my noble friend? Ah! _you_ have some sympathy for my

sufferings. At all events, let me tell you what I have gone through,

and then say whether you think all is over with me, or not."

"Things did not turn out quite as you expected at the ball, I suppose,"

said Euchar.

Ludwig heaved a deep sigh.

"Was the lovely Victorine a little unkind?" inquired Euchar. "Didn't

she behave to you quite as you expected?"

"I offended her," answered Ludwig, in the most funereal tones, "to an

extent, and in a manner, which she can never forgive."

"Good heavens!" cried Euchar; "this is very distressing. How did it

happen? Please to let me hear."

Ludwig, after heaving a profound sigh, and quoting some verses of

appropriate poetry, went on, in a voice of profound melancholy:

"Yes, Euchar. As the mysterious whirring of the wheels of a clock tells

me that it is going to strike the hour, warnings go before coming

misfortunes. On the very night before the ball I had an awful, a

horrible dream. I thought I was at the ball, and when I was going to

begin dancing, I suddenly found that I could not move my feet from the

floor. And I saw in the mirror, to my horror, that instead of the

well-looking nether extremities which nature has provided me with,

I was dragging about under my body, the gouty old legs of the

Consistorial President, with all their wrappings and bandages. And

while I had to stick to the floor in this terrible manner, lo and

behold! the Consistorial President, with Victorine in his arms,

whirling along in a Laendler, lightly and gracefully as any bird. But

the point of the thing was, that he sniggered at me, with the most

insulting style of sneering laughter, and said he had won my legs from

me at picquet.

"I awoke, as you may imagine, bathed in a perspiration of anguish.

Still sunk in thought over this horrible vision of the night, I must

needs set the cup of almost boiling chocolate to my lips, and burn them

to that extent, that you may see the mark still, although I have rubbed

on as much pomade as I could. Now I know that you don't take much

interest in other people's troubles, so I shall say nothing about the

numerous fateful events which destiny dogged my steps with all day

yesterday, and merely tell you that when it came to be time to dress in

the evening, two stitches burst out of one of my silk stockings--two of

my waistcoat buttons came off--as I was getting into the carriage to go

to the ball, I let my Wellington get into the mud, and at last, in the

carriage itself, when I wanted to tighten the patent buckles of my

pumps, I found, to my intense annoyance, that my idiot of a servant had

put on two which we're not a pair! I was obliged to go home again, and

lost a good half hour. However, Victorine came to me in all the glory

of her beauty and delightsomeness. I asked her for the next dance. It

was a Laendler, we started off together. I was in heaven. But in a

moment I felt the spite of adverse fortune."

"The mutual interdependence of things," said Euchar, interrupting.

"Call it whatever you please," said Ludwig, "it doesn't matter to me

to-day. All I know is, that it was fate which made me fall over that

tree-stump yesterday. As I was dancing I felt the pain come on again in

my knee, and it grew more and more unendurable. Just at that moment

Victorine said, loud enough to be heard by the other people who were

dancing, "We seem all to be going to sleep." Signs were made to the

band, people clapped their hands to them, and the pace grew faster

and faster. With all my might I struggled with the diabolical pain,

and conquered it. I danced along daintily, and put on a delighted

expression of countenance; but for all I could do, Victorine kept

saying: 'What is the matter, Herr Baron? You are not one bit the

partner that you generally are.' Burning dagger thrusts into my heart!"

"Poor, dear friend," said Euchar, laughing; "I see the full extent of

your sufferings!"

"And yet," continued Ludwig, "all this was only the prelude to the most

terrible of all events. You know that I have been for a long time

applying my mind to arranging the figures of a '_seize_:' and you know

of your own experience, how little I have made of the very considerable

amount of china, glass, and stoneware that I have knocked off the

tables in my lodgings here, in my practice of the intricacies of those

'tours, or figures,' that I might attain to the perfection of

performance which was my dream. One of them is the most utterly

glorious that the mind of man has ever hit upon, of its kind. Four

couples stand, picturesquely grouped, the gentleman, balancing on his

right tip-toe, places his right-arm about his partner, raising, at the

same time, his left-arm in a graceful curve above his head--whilst the

other couples make the 'ronde.' Such an idea never entered the heads of

Vestris or Gardel. Very well. I had based my hopes of highest happiness

upon this particular '_seize_.' I had been destining it for Count

Walther Puck's birthday: I intended to whisper into Victorine's ear

during this more than earthly 'tour'--'Most divine countess, I love you

unutterably--I adore you! Be mine, angel of light!' that was the

reason, dear Euchar, why I was so overwhelmed with joy when I got the

invitation to the ball there, for I had had great doubts about it.

Count Walther Puck had appeared to be a good deal annoyed with me a

little while ago, one day when I was explaining to him the theory

of the mutual interdependence of things--the mechanism of the

macrocosm--when he took it into his head that I was making out that he

was a pendulum. He said it was a piece of chaff in very bad taste; but

that he would take no notice of it in consideration of my youth, and he

turned his back. Very well! The unfortunate Laendler came to an end. I

did not dance any more, I went into the ante-room, and who should

follow me but the good Cochenille, who at once opened a bottle of

champagne for me. The wine sent fresh life into my veins. I didn't feel

the pain any longer. The '_seize_' was just going to begin--I flew back

to the dancing-room, darted up to Victorine, kissed her hand fiercely,

and took my position in the 'ronde.' The 'tour,' which I have told you

of, came on; I outdid myself! I hovered--I balanced--the God of the

dance in person; I threw my arm round my partner. I whispered, 'Divine,

heavenly Countess,' just as I had arranged with myself that I should

do. My declaration of love went forth from my lips, I gazed ardently

into my partner's eyes. Ruler of heaven! It was not Victorine I had

been dancing with! It was somebody else altogether, some lady whom I

didn't know in the least, though she was the same sort of person as

Victorine in style and feature, and dressed exactly as she was. You may

imagine that I felt as if smitten by a flash of lightning. Everything

about me was swimming in a chaos. I didn't hear the music any longer; I

dashed wildly through amongst the rows of people, hearing cries of pain

here and there, till I found myself arrested and held tight by a pair

of powerful arms, whilst a voice of fury droned into my ear, 'Death and

damnation, Herr Baron, are you out of your senses? Have you nine devils

in you, or what?' 'Twas the very Consistorial President whom I had seen

in my dream. He was holding me tight in a remote corner of the room,

and he went on as follows: 'I was just getting up from the card-table,

when you came bursting like a hurricane out of the middle of the

dancing room, and jumped about like a creature possessed upon my

unfortunate feet, till I could have roared like a bull with the pain of

it, if I hadn't been a person of proper conduct. Don't you see what a

disturbance you've been making here?' And, in fact, the whole of the

'_seize_' was in confusion, the music had stopped, and I saw that some

of the dancers were going about limping, ladies were being led to their

seats, and people were holding smelling-bottles to their noses. I had

been dancing the 'tour' of despair upon the poor people's feet, till

the President, strong as a tree, had put a period to my fell career.

Victorine approached me with eyes sparkling with scorn: 'Verily, Herr

Baron, a charming performance!' she said. 'You ask me to dance with

you--you dance with another lady, and throw the whole room into

confusion.' You may picture to yourself my apologies and excuses.

'These practical jokes are a speciality of yours, Herr Baron,'

Victorine went on, scarcely containing her anger. 'I know you--but I

beg that you will not select _me_ as the object of that cutting irony

of yours in the future.' With that she left me standing. The lady I had

been dancing with then came up amiability--nay, I may say, even

affectionateness--personified. The poor child had taken fire. I cannot

wonder at it; but is it any fault of mine? Oh, Victorine! Victorine!

Oh, ill-starred '_seize_'--dance of the furies, which has consigned me

to the depths of Orcus!"

Ludwig closed his eyes, groaned and sighed. His friend had the grace

not to break out into irrepressible laughter.

When Ludwig had taken a cup or two of chocolate--without this time

burning his lips--he seemed to recover himself to some extent, and bear

his terrible fate with somewhat greater equanimity. Presently he said

to Euchar, who had been interesting himself in a book which he had

taken up. "You had an invitation to that accursed ball yourself, had

you not?"

"I had," said Euchar, scarcely looking up from the page.

"And you never came--and you never told me that you had one, at all."

"I had another engagement," said Euchar, "as it happened, which

prevented me from going to the ball--an engagement of far greater

importance to me than any ball in the world, even had the Emperor of

Japan himself been the giver of it."

"Countess Victorine," Ludwig continued, "made the most particular

inquiries as to why you didn't come. She was all anxiety, and kept

looking towards the door. I should have been really very jealous. I

should quite have thought that, for the first time in your career, you

had touched a lady's heart, if the matter had not been explained. The

fact is, I scarcely dare to tell you in what an unsparing manner the

lovely Victorine spoke of you. She even went the length of saying that

you were a cold-hearted piece of eccentricity, whose presence often

marred all enjoyment: so that she had been dreading that you would act

as her kill-joy on that evening as you so often had done before, and

was quite delighted when she found that you were not coming. To speak

candidly, my dear Euchar, I can't make out how it is that you, gifted

by the heavens with so many bodily and mental excellences, should

always be so unlucky with the other sex--why I should always cut the

ground from under your feet. Cold creature! I feel certain that you

have no conception of the heavenly bliss of love, and that is why you

are not beloved. Whereas I, on the other hand----Believe me when I tell

you that Victorine's fiery indignation itself was engendered by the

flames of love which blazed in her heart for me--the fortunate, the

blessed one."

The door opened, and there came into the room a quaint little fellow,

in a red coat with big steel buttons, black silk breeches, heavily

powdered _frisure_, and a little round pigtail.

"Good Cochenille!" Ludwig called out to him. "Dearest Monsieur

Cochenille, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Euchar, declaring that important engagements called him away, left his

friend alone with the confidential servant of Count Walther Puck.

Cochenille, sweetly smiling, with downcast eyes, stated that their

Countly Excellencies were quite convinced that the most honoured Herr

Baron had been attacked, during the '_seize_,' by a malady which bore a

Latin name something like Raptus, and that he, Monsieur Cochenille, was

come to make inquiries as to his present state of welfare.

"Raptus! Raptus! Nothing of the kind." And he related, and detailed at

length, how the whole matter had come about, ending by begging the

talented Kammerdiener to put affairs in order as far as he possibly

could.

Ludwig learned that his partner was a cousin of Countess Victorine,

just arrived from the country for the occasion of the Count's

birthday--that she and the Countess Victorine were one heart and one

soul, and--inasmuch as the sympathies of young ladies often display

themselves in the form of silks and crapes--were often in the habit of

dressing exactly alike. Cochenille was further of opinion that the

vexation of Countess Victorine was not very genuine. He had handed her

an ice at the end of the ball, when she was standing talking to her

cousin, and had noticed that they were laughing tremendously, and had

heard them several times mention the honoured Baron's name. The truth

was, according to what he had been able to observe, that this cousin

was of a temperament exceedingly disposed to the tender passion, and

would only be too delighted if the Baron would carry further what he

had begun, namely, at once set to work to pay assiduous attentions to

her, and in due course put on _glacé_ gloves, and lead her to the

altar: but that he, for his part, would do everything he could to

prevent such a course of events. The first thing in the morning, as he

would be having the honour to _friser_ his Countly Highness, he would

take an opportunity of laying the whole matter before him, and would

also take the liberty of begging him, as an uncle regardful of his

niece's best interests, to represent to her that the Herr Baron's

declaration of love was merely a species of "flourish" belonging to the

"tour" which he happened to be executing at the time--just as

declarations of the kind generally were. That, he thought, would be of

some service. Cochenille finally advised the Baron to go and see

Countess Victorine as soon as possible, and told him there would be an

opportunity of doing so that very day. Madame Bechs, the Consistorial

President's lady, was giving an aesthetic tea that afternoon, with tea

which (he had been told by the Russian Ambassador's valet) had come

direct overland from China through the Russian Embassy, and had an

extraordinarily delicious flavour and scent. There he would find

Victorine, and be enabled to put everything straight again.

Ludwig saw that it was nothing but unworthy doubt which had had the

power of disturbing his love-happiness: and he resolved to make himself

so marvellously charming at the "thé" of Madame Bech, the Consistorial

President's lady, that Victorine should never so much as dream of being

at all "grumpy."

THE ÆSTHETIC TEA. CHOKING COUGH OF A TRAGIC POET. THE STORY TAKES A

SERIOUS TURN, AND TELLS OF BLOODY BATTLE, SUICIDE, AND SIMILAR

MATTERS.

The courteous reader must be good enough to accompany Ludwig and

Euchar to this æsthetic tea, which is now going forward at Madame

Bech's, the Consistorial President's lady. About a dozen of the fair

sex, appropriately attired, are seated in a semi-circle. One is

thoughtlessly laughing; another is immersed in a contemplation of the

tips of her shoes, with which she is managing to practise the "pas" of

a "Française," silently and unobserved; a third appears to be sweetly

sleeping (and dreaming more sweetly still); a fourth darts the fiery

beams from her eyes athwart the room in all directions, with the

intention that they shall impinge upon not one but all the men who are

present. A fifth lisps forth "Heavenly! Glorious! Sublime!" and those

utterances are for the behoof of a young poet, who is reading out with

all possible pathos a new tragedy of destiny, tedious and silly enough

even to be read aloud on such an occasion. A delightful feature of the

affair was, that one heard a species of _obbligato_ accompaniment going

on in the next room, a species of growling, like the rumble of distant

thunder. This was the voice of the Consistorial President, who was

playing piquet with Count Walther Puck, and making himself audible in

this manner.

The poet read out, in the most dulcet accents at his command--

"Ah! but once more! once more only

Let me hear thee, voice of beauty,

Voice of rapture, voice of sweetness,

Voice from out the deep abysses,

Voice from out the heights of Heaven!

Hark! oh, listen----"

Here the thunder which had been rumbling so long broke out into a peal:

"Hell and damnation!" roared the Consistorial President's voice,

re-echoing through the room, so that the people jumped up from their

chairs, alarmed. But it was pretty that the poet, not suffering himself

to be disturbed in the slightest, went on reading--

"Yea! it is the breath beloved,

Music of those lips of nectar."

But a destiny higher than that which ruled in the poet's tragedy did

not permit him to finish his reading. Just as he was going to raise his

voice to the highest pitch of tragic power, to enunciate a terrible

execration which his hero was going to utter, something, heaven knows

what, got into his throat, so that he broke out into a frightful fit of

coughing, by no means to be assuaged, and had to be assisted out of the

room, more dead than alive.

This sudden interruption appeared to be the reverse of disagreeable to

the lady of the house, who had for some time been giving indications of

weariness and annoyance. As soon as the tranquillity of the company was

restored, she pointed out that it was time that a vivid narrative of

something should take the place of reading, and thought Euchar ought

really to make it his duty to undertake this, seeing that, in general,

he was so obstinately silent, as to contribute little to the

entertainment of the company.

Euchar said, modestly, that he was anything but a good story-teller,

and that the tale which he thought of telling was of a very serious,

perhaps even terrible description, and might be anything but enjoyable

by the company. But four very young ladies immediately cried out, with

one voice "Oh! something terrible, please! I do so love to be

terrified!"

Euchar took his place in the chair of the narrator, and began as

follows:--

"We have been passing through a period in which events have swept

athwart the stage of the world like a series of raging hurricanes.

Humanity, shaken to its depths, has given birth to things portentous,

even as the storm-tossed ocean casts up to the surface of its seething

surges the terrible marvels of its abysses. Whatever could be

accomplished by lion-like courage, unconquerable valour, hatred,

revenge, fury, and despair, was achieved during the Spanish war of

independence. I should like to tell you of the adventures of a friend

of mine, whom I shall call Edgar, who served in that war, under the

banners of Wellington. He had left his native place in deep, bitter

irritation, at the shame of his Fatherland, and gone to Hamburg, where

he lived in a little room which he had taken, in a retired quarter. He

had a neighbour, who lived in the next room to him, with only a wall

between them, but he knew nothing more of him than that he was an old

man, in infirm health, who never went out. He often heard him groan,

and break out into gentle pathetic lamentations; but he did not

understand the words he spoke. After a time, this neighbour begun to

walk assiduously up and down in his room, and it appeared to indicate

returning health when he tuned a guitar one day, and began to sing in a

soft voice, songs which Edgar recognized to be Spanish romances.

On being closely questioned, the landlady confided to Edgar, that his

neighbour was a French officer who had been invalided from the Romana

corps, that he was under secret espionage, and very seldom ventured to

go out.

In the middle of the night Edgar heard this Spaniard play on his guitar

more loudly than before, and begin, in powerful strangely changing

melody, the 'Profecia del Pirineo of Don Juan Baptista de Arriaja.'

There came the stanzas commencing--

"Y oye que el gran rugido,

En ya trueno en los campos de Castilla," &c.

The glowing enthusiasm with which the old gentleman's singing was

instinct, set Edgar's blood ablaze. A new world dawned on him. He knew,

now, how to arouse himself from out his sickly mood, and under an

impulse to deeds of valour, fight out the contest which was eating up

his heart. He could not resist an eager desire to make the acquaintance

of the man who had thus inspired him with new life. The door gave way

at the pressure of his hand, but the moment he entered the room, the

old man sprung from his bed with a cry of "Träidor" (traitor), and made

straight at Edgar with a drawn dagger. Edgar succeeded in evading the

well-aimed thrust by a skilful movement, and in grasping the old man,

and holding him down on his bed.

While he thus held him, for he had but little strength at the time, he

implored him in the most touching language, to forgive the stormy

fashion of his entrance: he assured him that he was no traitor; but

that on the contrary, what he had heard him sing had lighted up all the

rage, the inconsolable pain, which had been tearing his breast asunder

into an unslakeable desire for combat. He longed to hurry to Spain,

there to fight for the freedom of the country. The old man gazed

fixedly at him, and said, "Can it be possible?" and embraced Edgar,

who, naturally, continued his assurances that nothing could induce him

to forego his resolve, at the same time throwing his dagger down on the

ground.

Edgar now learned that the old gentleman's name was Baldassare de Luna,

and that he belonged to one of the most noble families of Spain. He was

helpless and friendless, and had the prospect, unalleviated, of

dragging out a miserable existence, far from home, without a friend or

pecuniary resource. It was some time ere Edgar could succeed in

infusing any hope or comfort into his heart: but when, at length, he

most solemnly undertook to arrange for their escape to England

together, new life appeared to circulate in the Spaniard's veins. He

was no longer the old invalid, but an enthusiastic youth, breathing out

defiance to his oppressors. Edgar kept his word. He succeeded in

evading the vigilance of the spies, and in escaping with Baldassare de

Luna to England. But it was not the will of fate that this brave and

luckless man should see his native land again. He was prostrated by

another attack of illness, and died in London, in Edgar's arms. A

spirit of prophecy gave him to see the coming glory of his rescued

country. Amid the latest prayerful whisperings which issued with

difficulty from his lips stiffening in death, Edgar distinguished the

word "Vittoria," and an expression of heavenly beatitude glowed on de

Luna's countenance.

At the time when Souchet's victorious force was threatening to bear

down all opposition and rivet the shameful foreign yoke more firmly

than ever, to all eternity, Edgar arrived before Tarragona with Colonel

Sterret's English brigade. It is matter of history that Colonel Sterret

considered the position so insecure, that he would not disembark his

troops. This our eager young soldier could not endure. He left the

English force, and betook himself to the Spanish general Contreras, who

was occupying the fortress with 8,000 Spanish soldiers. We are aware

that Souchet's force took Tarragona by storm, notwithstanding the most

heroic defence, and that Contreras himself, with a bayonet wound, fell

into the hands of the enemy.

The scenes which passed before Edgar's eyes, displayed all the

terribleness of hell itself. Whether it was on account of shameful

treachery, or from incomprehensible carelessness on the part of those

whose duty it was to attend to the matter, the troops who had to defend

the principal _enceinte_ of the fort, soon ran short of ammunition.

They for a long time resisted with the bayonet the incoming of the

enemy through the gateway which had been forced: but when, ultimately,

they had to retire before the urgency of his fire, they rushed across

to the further gateway in wild disarray, and in confused masses:

and as this gate was too narrow to admit of their passage, they

had, therefore, to submit to a terrific massacre. Yet some 4,000

Spaniards--Almeira's regiment, with which Edgar happened to be at the

time--managed to force their way through. With the courage of despair

they broke their passage through the enemy's battalions which were

there posted, and continued their flight towards Barcelona. They were

fancying that they were in safety, when they were assailed by a

terrible fire from some field-pieces, which the enemy had placed in

position behind a trench cut across the road, bringing inevitable

destruction into their ranks. Edgar was hit, and fell to the ground.

A violent pain in the head was what he felt when he recovered

consciousness. It was dark night, and all the terrors of death

permeated him as he heard the hollow groans and the heart-piercing

cries which surrounded him. He managed to get upon his legs and creep

along. When at length the morning began to break he found himself close

to a deep ravine; but as he was about to go down into it a troop of the

enemy's cavalry came slowly up. It seemed an impossibility to avoid

being taken prisoner; but suddenly shots came dropping out of the

thickest part of the wood, emptying several saddles, and presently a

party of Guerillas made an attack on the remainder of the troop. He

shouted out to his deliverers in Spanish, and they welcomed him gladly.

He had only been struck by a spent ball, and soon recovered, so as to

be able to join Don Joachim Blake's force, and enter Valenzia with it,

after several engagements.

Who does not know that the plain watered by the Guadalquivir, where

stands the beautiful Valenzia with her stately towers, is an earthly

paradise? All the heavenly delightsomeness of a sky for ever fair

penetrates and pervades the hearts and souls of the dwellers there, for

whom life is an unbroken festa. And this Valenzia was now the theatre

of a most bitter and bloody war. Instead of the dulcet tones of the

lute, stealing like the cooing of doves up in the nights to the

trellised windows, the place resounded with the hollow rolling of guns

and ammunition waggons, the wild challenge of sentries, and the weird,

mysterious murmur of soldiery marching through the streets. All joy was

driven into dumbness. All the white faces, drawn by grief and horror,

had written upon them the dread anticipation of terrible things

imminent. The most furious execrations, offspring of inward fury, were

showered upon the enemy. The Alameda--at other times the haunt of the

gay world--was now a parade ground for the troops. Here Edgar one day,

as he was standing alone, leaning against a tree, reflecting on the

dark, adverse destiny which seemed to weigh upon Spain, observed that a

man, far advanced in years, tall, and of haughty demeanour, who was

walking up and down near him with long steps, stopped and scrutinized

him keenly each time that he passed him. At last Edgar accosted him,

enquiring courteously what in him had attracted such a share of his

attention. "I see that I was not mistaken," he answered, whilst a

gloomy fire flashed from beneath his black, bushy eyebrows. "You are

not a Spaniard--and yet, if your coat does not belie you, I am bound to

look upon you as one who fights on our side. And that strikes me as

rather remarkable." Edgar, though nettled at the brusquerie of this

gentleman's address, told him, temperately enough, what had brought him

to Spain.

But scarcely had he mentioned the name of Baldassare di Luna than the

old man cried out in much excitement, "Baldassare di Luna do you say?

My beloved cousin! the dearest and most intimate friend I have left in

the world." Edgar repeated all that had happened, not failing to

mention the heavenly hopes with which Baldassare had taken leave of

life.

The old man clasped his hands, raised his eyes to heaven--his lips

moved--he seemed to be communing with his departed friend. "Forgive

me," he said, "if a gloomy mistrust, which is foreign to my character,

influenced me against you. Some time ago it was believed that the

accursed knavery of the enemy had gone so far as to introduce foreign

officers amongst our forces to act as spies. The incidents at Tarragona

but too much encouraged suspicions of this kind, and the Junta has now

determined to expel all foreigners. Don Joachim Blake, however, has

insisted that foreign engineers, at all events, are indispensable to

him, solemnly engaging, at the same time, to shoot down every foreigner

at once who is subject to the slightest ground of suspicion. If you are

a friend of my Baldassare you are undoubtedly a man of valour and

honour. At all events, I have told you everything, and you can act

accordingly." With this he took his departure.

The fortune of arms appeared to have completely abandoned the

Spaniards, and the very courage of despair itself could avail nothing

against the rapidly-advancing foe. Valenzia was hemmed in more and more

closely on all sides, so that Blake, pushed to extremity, determined to

force his way out with twelve thousand chosen troops. It is known that

few succeeded in getting through, that the remainder were in part

killed, in part driven back into the town. It was here that Edgar, at

the head of the brave Ovihuela Rifle Regiment, managed to give a

momentary check to the enemy, thus rendering the wild confusion

of the flight less disastrous. But, as at Tarragona, a musket bullet

struck him down at the crisis of the engagement. He described his

condition from that moment till he regained clear consciousness as one

inexplicably strange. It often seemed to him that he was in the thick

of fighting. He would seem to hear the thunder of the cannon, the wild

cries of the combatants--the Spaniards would seem to be advancing

victorious, but as he was seized on by the joy of battle and starting

off to lead his battalion under fire, he would seem to become suddenly

paralysed, and sink down in unconscious insensibility. Then he would

become clearly aware that he was lying on some soft bed, that people

were giving him cool drink--he heard gentle voices speaking softly, and

yet could not arouse himself from his dreams. Once, when he thought he

was back in the thick of the battle, it seemed to him that he was

grasped firmly by the shoulder, whilst a rifleman of the enemy's

fired at him, striking him on the breast, where the bullet in an

incomprehensible manner went slowly boring its way into the flesh with

the most unspeakable torments till all sense of feeling sunk away into

a deep, deathlike sleep.

Out of this death sleep Edgar awoke suddenly into full and clear

consciousness, but in such strange surroundings that he could not form

an idea as to where he might be. The soft luxurious bed with its silken

curtains, was quite out of keeping with the small, low-roofed,

dungeon-like vault of undressed stones in which it stood. A dim lamp

shed a feeble light around--neither door nor window was discernible.

Edgar raised himself with difficulty, and saw that there was a

Franciscan friar sitting in a corner, seemingly asleep. "Where am I?"

Edgar cried, with all the energy which he could concentrate.

The monk started from his sleep, trimmed the lamp, took it up, looked

at Edgar's face by the light, felt his pulse, and murmured something

which Edgar could not understand. He was going to interrogate the monk

as to what had happened to him, when the wall opened noislessly, and a

man came in whom Edgar immediately recognized as the person who had

spoken to him on the Alameda. The monk called out to this person that

the crisis was over and all would now go well. "Praise be to God," said

the old gentleman, and approached nearer to Edgar's bed.

Edgar wished to speak, but the old gentleman prevented him, assuring

him that the slightest exertion would be dangerous to him still. It was

natural that he should be surprised at finding himself in such

surroundings, but a few words would be sufficient, not only to put him

at his ease, but to explain why it had been necessary to place him in

this dreary prison.

Edgar now learnt all. When he fell wounded in the breast the intrepid

"battle-brethren," in spite of the hotness of the fire, had taken him

up and transported him into the town. It happened that in the thick of

the confusion Don Rafaele Marchez (this was the old man's name) saw the

wounded Edgar, and instead of his being sent to the hospital he was

carried to Don Rafaele's own house at once, so that the friend of his

Baldassare might have every possible care. His wound was serious enough

in itself, but the peculiar danger of his condition was the violent

nervous fever, traces of which had previously displayed themselves,

which now broke out in all its fury. It is matter of notoriety that a

tremendous fire had been kept up on Valenzia for three days and nights

with the most terrible effect, that all the terror and horror of this

bombardment spread abroad in this city thronged to excess with

people--that the self-same populace, excited to fury by the Junta,

after insisting that Blake should keep up the defence to the very

utmost, turned round and demanded an immediate surrender under the most

violent threats--that Blake, with heroic self-command, drove the crowds

asunder by Walloon Guards, and then made an honourable capitulation to

Souchet. Don Rafaele Marchez would not allow Edgar, sick unto death, to

fall into the enemy's hands. As soon as the capitulation was arranged

and the enemy within the walls of Valenzia, Edgar was removed to the

vault, where he was safe against discovery. "Friend of my sainted

Baldassare," (thus he finished his narrative) "be _my_ friend too. Your

blood has flowed for my country--every drop of it has fallen seething

into my breast, and washed away every vestige of the mistrust which

cannot but arise in this fateful time. The same fire which enflames the

Spaniard to the most bitter hatred flashes up in his friendship too,

making him capable of every deed, every sacrifice, for his ally. My

house is occupied by the enemy, but you are in safety, for I swear to

you that whatever happens I will rather let myself be buried under the

ruins of Valenzia than betray you. Believe me in this."