Transcribed from the 1861 Robert Hardwicke edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
PETER SCHLEMIHL:
FROM THE GERMAN
OF
ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO:
TRANSLATED
BY SIR JOHN BOWRING, LL.D., &c.
WITH PLATES BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."--SHAKSPEAKE.
THIRD EDITION.
LONDON:
ROBERT HARDWICKE, 192, PICCADILLY.
1861.
{Schlemihl giving his shadow away: p0.jpg}
LONDON:
ROBERT HARDWICKE, PRINTER, 192, PICCADILLY.
NOTICE.
Adelung said to me one day at Petersburg--"Have you read Peter
Schlemihl?"--"No."--"If you read it, you will translate it."--I have
translated it.
The story is a moral one. I leave its development to my readers. It
would be little flattering to them to suspect they required my
assistance, in order to discover the obvious lessons it conveys.
I have not scrupled to introduce a few verbal alterations; but the
deviations from the original are very trifling.
THE TRANSLATOR.
To my Friend Wangner
Come to the land of shadows for awhile,
And seek for truth and wisdom! Here below,
In the dark misty paths of fear and woe,
We weary out our souls and waste our toil;
But if we harvest in the richer soil
Of towering thoughts--where holy breezes blow,
And everlasting flowers in beauty smile--
No disappointment shall the labourer know.
Methought I saw a fair and sparkling gem
In this rude casket--but thy shrewder eye,
WANGNER! a jewell'd coronet could descry.
Take, then, the bright, unreal diadem!
Worldlings may doubt and smile insultingly,
The hidden stores of truth are not for _them_.
J. B.
To the Same, from Fouque
We must, dear Edward, protect the history of poor Schlemihl--and so
protect it that it may be concealed from the eyes that are not to look
into it. This is a disagreeable business; for of such eyes there is a
multitude, and what mortal can decide what shall be the fate of a MS.
which is more hard to guard than even an uttered word. In truth, I feel
as if my head were turning round, and in my anguish jump into the
abyss--let the whole affair be printed!
But, Edward! there are really stronger and better grounds for this
decision. Unless I am wholly deceived, there beat in our beloved Germany
many hearts which are able and worthy to understand poor Schlemihl, and a
tranquil smile will light upon the countenance of many an honest
countryman of ours at the bitter sport in which life with him--and the
simple sport in which he with himself is engaged. And you, Edward, you,
looking into this so sincerely-grounded book, and thinking how many
unknown hearts this may learn with us to love it--you will let a drop of
balsam fall into the deep wound, which death hath inflicted upon you and
all that love you.
And to conclude: there is--I know there is, from manifold experience--a
genius that takes charge of every printed book and delivers it into the
appropriate hands, and if not always, yet very often keeps at home the
undeserving: that genius holds the key to every true production of heart
and soul, and opens and closes it with never-failing dexterity.
To this genius, my much beloved Schlemihl! I confide thy smiles and thy
tears, and thus to God commend them.
FOUQUE.
_Neunhausen_, _May_ 31, 1814.
To Fouque, from Hitzig
We have done, then, the desperate deed: there is Schlemihl's story which
we were to preserve to ourselves as our own secret, and lo! not only
Frenchmen and Englishmen, Dutchmen and Spaniards have translated it, and
Americans have reprinted it from the English text, as I announced to my
own erudite Berlin, but now in our beloved Germany a new edition appears
with the English etchings, which the illustrious Cruikshank sketched from
the life, and wider still will the story be told. Not a word didst thou
mutter to me in 1814, of the publication of the MS., and did I not deem
thy reckless enterprise suitably punished by the complaints of our
Chamisso, in his Voyage round the World from 1815 to 1818--complaints
urged in Chili and Kamtschatka, and uttered even to his departed friend
Tameramaia of Owahee, I should even now demand of you crowning
retribution.
However--this by the by--bygones are bygones--and you are right in
this--that many, many friendly ones have looked upon the little book with
affection during the thirteen eventful years since it saw the world's
light. I shall never forget the hour when I first read it to Hoffmann.
He was beside himself with delight and eagerness, and hung upon my lips
till I got to the end. He could not wait, not he, to make the personal
acquaintance of the poet;--but though he hates all imitation, he could
not withstand the temptation to copy--though not very felicitously--the
idea of the lost shadow in the lost mirror picture of Crasinus Spekhn, in
his tale of the "Last Night of the Year." Yes, even among children has
our marvellous history found its way, for on a bright winter evening, as
I was going up the Borough-street with its narrator, a boy busied with
his sledge laughed at him, upon which he tucked the boy under his bear-
skin mantle--you know it well--and while he carried him he remained
perfectly quiet until he was set down on the footway--and then--having
made off to a distance, where he felt safe as if nothing had happened, he
shouted aloud to his captor--"Nay, stop, Peter Schlemihl!"
Methinks, the honourable scarecrow, clad now in trist and fashionable
attire, may be welcome to those who never saw him in his modest kurtka of
1814. These and those will be surprised in the botanizing,
circumnavigating--the once well-appointed Royal Prussian officer, in the
historiographer of the illustrious Peter Schlemihl, to discover a lyric
whose poetical heart is rightly fixed, whether he sing in Malayan or
Lithuanian.
Thanks, then, dear Fouque, heartfelt thanks, for the launching of the
first edition, and with our friends, receive my wishes for the prosperity
of the second.
EDWARD HITZIG.
_Berlin_, _January_, 1827.
* * * * *
With the second edition of Schlemihl, appeared Chamisso's Songs and
Ballads. His Travels round the World, have also been published. Among
his poetry are translations from various languages.
PREFACE TO THIRD EDITION.
More than twenty years ago I translated "Peter Schlemihl." I had the
advantage of the pen and genius of George Cruikshank, to make the work
popular, and two editions were rapidly sold.
At that time the real author was unknown. Everybody attributed it to
Lamotte Fouque, on whose literary shoulders, indeed, Adelbert von
Chamisso placed the burden of its responsibilities.
The appearance of the English edition, I have reason to know--thanks to
the merit of Cruikshank's original and felicitous sketches--excited the
greatest delight in the mind of Chamisso. In his autobiography he says
that "Peter" had been kindly received in Germany, but in England had been
renowned (_volksthumlich_).
Several English translations have since occupied the field. Mine, as the
first-born, naturally claims its own heritage, though it has been long
out of print, and in the shape of a third edition, commends itself anew
to public patronage.
JOHN BOWRING.
_January_, 1861.
To my old Friend, Peter Schlemihl.
Well! years and years have pass'd,--and lo! thy writing
Comes to my hands again,--and, strange to say,
I think of times when the world's school, inviting
Our early friendship, new before us lay;--
Now I can laugh at foolish shame--delighting
In thee, for I am old--my hair is grey,--
And I will call thee friend, as then--not coldly,
But proudly to the world--and claim thee boldly.
My dear, dear Friend! the cunning air hath led me
Through paths less dark and less perplexed than thine,
Struggling for blue, bright dawnings, have I sped me,
But little, little glory has been mine.
Yet can the Grey Man boast not that he had me
Fast by _my_ shadow! Nay! he must resign
His claims on me,--my shadow's mine. I boast it,--
I had it from the first, and never lost it.
On me--though guiltless as a child--the throng
Flung all their mockery of thy naked being,--
And is the likeness then so very strong?
They shouted for _my_ shadow--which, though seeing,
They swore they saw not--and, still bent on wrong,
Said they were blind; and then put forth their glee in
Peals upon peals of laughter! Well--we bear
With patience--aye, with joy--the conscience clear.
And what--what is the Shadow? may I ask ye,
Who am myself so wearyingly asked.
Is it too high a problem, then, to task ye?
And shall not the malignant world be tasked?
The flights of nineteen thousand days unmask ye,
They have brought wisdom--in whose trains I basked,
And while I gave to shadows, being--saw
Being, as shadows, from life's scene withdraw.
Give me thy hand, Schlemihl--take mine, my friend:
On, on,--we leave the future to the Grey Man,
Careless about the world,--our hearts shall blend
In firmer, stronger union--come away, man!
We shall glide fast and faster towards life's end.
Aye! let them smile or scorn, for all they say, man,
The tempests will be still'd that shake the deep,
And we in part sleep our untroubled sleep.
ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO.
_Berlin_, _August_, 1834.
To Julius Edward Hitzig, from Adelbert von Chamisso.
You forget nobody, and surely you must remember one Peter Schlemihl, whom
you now and then met at my house in former days; a long-shanked fellow,
who had the credit of awkwardness because he was unpolished, and whose
negligence gave him an air of habitual laziness. I loved him--you cannot
have forgotten, Edward, how often, in the spring-time of our youth, he
was the subject of our rhymes. Once I recollect introducing him to a
poetical tea-party, where he fell asleep while I was writing, even
without waiting to hear anything read. And that brings to my mind a
witty thing you said about him; you had often seen him, heaven knows
where and when, in an old black _kurtka_, {20} which in fact he always
wore, and you declared "he would be a lucky fellow if his soul were half
as immortal as his kurtka!" So little did you value him. I loved him, I
repeat; and to this Schlemihl, whom I had not seen for many a year, we
owe the following sheets. To you, Edward, to you only, my nearest,
dearest friend--my better self, from whom I can hide no secret,--to you I
commit them; to you only, and of course to Fouque, who, like yourself, is
rooted in my soul--but to him as a friend alone, and not as a poet. You
can easily imagine, how unpleasant it would be to me, if the secret
reposed by an honourable man, confiding in my esteem and sincerity,
should be exposed in the pillory of an _epopee_, or in any way distorted,
as if some miserable witling had engendered unnatural and impossible
things. Indeed, I must frankly own it is a very shame that a history,
which another and cleverer hand might have exhibited in all its comic
force, has been reduced to mere insipidity by our good man's pen. What
would not John Paul Richter have made of it! In a word, my dear friend,
many who are yet alive may be named, but--
One word more on the way in which these leaves came into my hands.
Yesterday morning early--as soon as I was up--they were presented to me.
A strange man with a long grey beard, wearing a black, worn-out kurtka,
with a botanical case suspended at his side, and slippers over his boots,
on account of the damp rainy weather, inquired after me, and left these
papers behind him. He pretended he came from Berlin.
ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO.
_Kunersdorf_, 27 _Sept._, 1813.
CHAPTER I.
At last, after a fortunate, but to me most tedious passage, we reached
our destined haven. As soon as the boat had landed me on the shore, I
loaded myself with my little possessions, and forcing my way through the
swarming crowd, entered the first and meanest house distinguished by a
sign-board. I ordered a chamber; the waiter measured me with a glance,
and sent me up to the garret.
I ordered fresh water, and inquired for the abode of Mr. Thomas Jones.
"Near the North gate, the first country house on the right-hand side; a
large new house of red and white marble, supported by many pillars."
Well; it was yet early; I opened my bundle, laid out my newly-turned
black coat, clad myself in my sprucest garments, put my letter of
introduction into my pocket, and bent my way to the man, who, I modestly
hoped, was destined to befriend me.
After I had gone through the long North-street, and reached the gate, I
saw the columns glimmering through the green trees. "It is here, then,"
I thought. I wiped the dust from my feet with my pocket-handkerchief,
arranged my cravat, and rung the bell. The door flew open, the servants
narrowly examined me in the hall, but the porter at last announced me,
and I had the honour to be summoned into the park, where Mr. Jones was
walking with a small company. I knew him instantly by his portly self-
complacency. He received me tolerably well--as a rich man is wont to
receive a poor dependent devil; looked towards me, but without turning
from the rest of the company, and took from me the letter I held in my
hand. "Aye, aye! from my brother; I have not heard from him a long time.
Is he well? There"--he continued, addressing the company without waiting
for an answer, and pointed with the letter to a hill, "There I have
ordered a new building to be erected." He broke the seal, but not the
conversation, of which wealth became the subject. "He who is not the
master of at least a million," he interposed, "forgive the expression, is
a ragamuffin."--"That is true, indeed," exclaimed I, with full,
overflowing feeling. He must have been pleased with the expression of my
concurrence, for he smiled on me and said, "Remain here, young friend: I
shall perhaps have time to tell you, by and by, what I think of it." He
pointed to the letter, put it into his pocket, and turned again to the
company. He then offered his arm to a young lady; other gentlemen were
busied with other fair ones; every one found some one to whom he attached
himself, and they walked towards the rose-encircled hill.
I lingered idly behind, for not a soul deemed me worthy of notice. The
company was extremely cheerful, jocular, and witty; they spoke seriously
of trifles, and triflingly of serious matters; and I observed they
unconcernedly directed their satires against the persons and the
circumstances of absent friends. I was too great a stranger to
understand much of these discussions; too much distressed and
self-retired to enter into the full merit of these enigmas.
We reached the rose-grove. The lovely Fanny, the queen, as it seemed, of
the day, was capricious enough to wish to gather for herself a blooming
branch; a thorn pricked her, and a stream, as bright as if from damask
roses, flowed over her delicate hand. This accident put the whole
company in motion. English court-plaister was instantly inquired after.
A silent, meagre, pale, tall, elderly man, who stood next to me, and whom
I had not before observed, instantly put his hand into the close-fitting
breast-pocket of his old-fashioned, grey taffetan coat, took out a small
pocket-book, opened it, and with a lowly bow gave the lady what she had
wished for; she took it without any attention to the giver, and without a
word of thanks. The wound was bound up, and they ascended the hill, from
whose brow they admired the wide prospect over the park's green
labyrinth, extending even to the immeasurable ocean.
It was indeed a grand and noble sight. A light speck appeared on the
horizon between the dark waters and the azure heaven. "A telescope,
here!" cried the merchant; and before any one from the crowds of servants
appeared to answer his call, the grey man, as if he had been applied to,
had already put his hand into his coat-pocket: he had taken from it a
beautiful Dollond, and handed it over to Mr. Jones; who, as soon as he
had raised it to his eye, informed the company that it was the ship which
had sailed yesterday, driven back by contrary winds. The telescope
passed from hand to hand, but never again reached that of its owner. I,
however, looked on the old man with astonishment, not conceiving how the
large machine had come out of the tiny pocket. Nobody else seemed
surprised, and they appeared to care no more about the grey man than
about me.
Refreshments were produced; the rarest fruits of every climate, served in
the richest dishes. Mr. Jones did the honours with easy, dignified
politeness, and for the second time directed a word to me: "Eat then, you
did not get this on your voyage." I bowed, but he did not observe me: he
was talking to somebody else.
They would willingly have remained longer on the sod of the sloping hill,
and have stretched themselves over the outspread turf, had they not
feared its dampness. "Now it would be enchanting," said somebody of the
company, "if we had Turkey carpets to spread here." The wish was hardly
expressed ere the man in the grey coat had put his hand into his pocket,
and with modest, even humble demeanour, began to draw out a rich
embroidered Turkey carpet. It was received by the attendants as a matter
of course, and laid down on the appointed spot. Without further ceremony
the company took their stand upon it. I looked with new surprise on the
man, the pocket, and the carpet, which was about twenty paces long, and
ten broad. I rubbed my eyes, not knowing what to think, and especially
as nobody else seemed moved by what had passed.
I longed to learn something about the man, and to inquire who he was; but
I knew not to whom to apply, for I really was more afraid of the
gentlemen-servants than of the gentlemen served. I mustered up my
spirits at last, and addressed myself to a young man who seemed less
pretending than the rest, and who had oftener been left to himself. I
gently asked him, who that courteous gentleman was in grey clothes.--"Who?
he that looks like an end of thread blown away from a tailor's
needle?"--"Yes, he that stands alone."--"I do not know him," he answered;
and, determined, as it seemed, to break off the discussion with me,
turned away, and entered on a trifling conversation with somebody else.
The sun now began to shine more intensely, and to annoy the ladies. The
lovely Fanny carelessly addressed the grey man, whom, as far as I know,
nobody had addressed before, with the frivolous question: "had he a
marquee?" He answered with a low reverence, as if feeling an undeserved
honour had been done him; his hand was already in his pocket, from which
I perceived canvas, bars, ropes, iron-work--everything, in a word,
belonging to the most sumptuous tent, issuing forth. The young men
helped to erect it; it covered the whole extent of the carpet, and no one
appeared to consider all this as at all extraordinary.
If my mind was confused, nay terrified, with these proceedings, how was I
overpowered when the next-breathed wish brought from his pocket three
riding horses. I tell you, three great and noble steeds, with saddles
and appurtenances! Imagine for a moment, I pray you, three saddled
horses from the same pocket which had before produced a pocket-book, a
telescope, an ornamented carpet twenty paces long and ten broad, a
pleasure-tent of the same size, with bars and iron-work! If I did not
solemnly assure you that I had seen it, with my own eyes, you would
certainly doubt the narrative.
Though there was so much of embarrassment and humility in the man, and he
excited so little attention, yet his appearance to me had in it something
so appalling, that I was not able to turn away my eyes from him. At last
I could bear it no longer.
I determined to steal away from the company; and this was easy for one
who had acted a part so little conspicuous. I wished to hasten back to
the city, and to return in pursuit of my fortune the following morning to
Mr. J., and if I could muster up courage enough, to inquire something
about the extraordinary grey man. Oh, had I been thus privileged to
escape!
I had hastily glided through the rose-grove, descended the hill, and
found myself on a wide grassplot, when, alarmed with the apprehension of
being discovered wandering from the beaten path, I looked around me with
enquiring apprehension. How was I startled when I saw the old man in the
grey coat behind, and advancing towards me! He immediately took off his
hat, and bowed to me more profoundly than any one had ever done before.
It was clear he wished to address me, and without extreme rudeness I
could not avoid him. I, in my turn, uncovered myself, made my obeisance,
and stood still with a bare head, in the sunshine, as if rooted there. I
shook with terror while I saw him approach; I felt like a bird fascinated
by a rattlesnake. He appeared sadly perplexed, kept his eyes on the
ground, made several bows, approached nearer, and with a low and
trembling voice, as if he were asking alms, thus accosted me:--
"Will the gentleman forgive the intrusion of one who has stopt him in
this unusual way? I have a request to make, but pray pardon . . ."--"In
the name of heaven, Sir!" I cried out in my anguish, "what can I do for
one who--" We both started back, and methought both blushed deeply.
After a momentary silence he again began: "During the short time when I
enjoyed the happiness of being near you, I observed, Sir,--will you allow
me to say so--I observed, with unutterable admiration, the beautiful,
beautiful shadow in the sun, which with a certain noble contempt, and
perhaps without being aware of it, you threw off from your feet; forgive
me this, I confess, too daring intrusion, but should you be inclined to
transfer it to me?"
He was silent, and my head turned round like a water-wheel. What could I
make of this singular proposal for disposing of my shadow? He is crazy!
thought I; and with an altered tone, yet more forcible, as contrasted
with the humility of his own, I replied:
"How is this, good friend? Is not your own shadow enough for you? This
seems to me a whimsical sort of bargain indeed." He began again, "I have
in my pocket many matters which might not be quite unacceptable to the
gentleman; for this invaluable shadow I deem any price too little."
A chill came over me: I remembered what I had seen, and knew not how to
address him who I had just ventured to call my good friend. I spoke
again, and assumed an extraordinary courtesy to set matters in order.
"Pardon, Sir, pardon your most humble servant, I do not quite understand
your meaning; how can my shadow--" He interrupted me: "I only beg your
permission to be allowed to lift up your noble shadow, and put it in my
pocket: how to do it is my own affair. As a proof of my gratitude for
the gentleman, I leave him the choice of all the jewels which my pocket
affords; the genuine divining rods, mandrake roots, change pennies, money
extractors, the napkins of Rolando's Squire, and divers other miracle-
workers,--a choice assortment; but all this is not fit for you--better
that you should have Fortunatus's wishing-cap, restored spick and span
new; and also a fortune-bag which belonged to him." "Fortunatus's
fortune-bag!" I exclaimed; and, great as had been my terror, all my
senses were now enraptured by the sound. I became dizzy,--and nothing
but double ducats seemed sparkling before my eyes.
"Condescend, Sir, to inspect and make a trial of this bag." He put his
hand into his pocket, and drew from it a moderately sized,
firmly-stitched purse of thick cordovan, with two convenient leather
cords hanging to it, which he presented to me. I instantly dipped into
it, drew from it ten pieces of gold, and ten more, and ten more, and yet
ten more;--I stretched out my hand. "Done! the bargain is made; I give
you my shadow for your purse." He grasped my hand, and knelt down behind
me, and with wonderful dexterity I perceived him loosening my shadow from
the ground from head to foot;--he lifted it up;--he rolled it together
and folded it, and at last put it into his pocket. He then stood erect,
bowed to me again, and returned back to the rose grove. I thought I
heard him laughing softly to himself. I held, however, the purse tight
by its strings--the earth was sun-bright all around me--and my senses
were still wholly confused.