play ball with my companions or fly my kite, Frau Eberlein used to put
something to eat in my pocket. Lipp soon spied it out, and he knew how
to get a part, or even the whole of my luncheon for himself. He would
pick up a pebble off the ground, slip it from one hand to the other
several times, then place one fist above the other, saying:
"This hand, or that?
Burned is the tail of the cat.
Which do you choose?
Upper or under will lose!"
If I said "upper," the stone was always in the lower hand, and vice
versa. And Lipp would take my apple from me with a smile, and devour it
as if he were half-famished.
Why did I allow it? In the first place because Lipp was beyond me in
years and in strength, and in the second place, because he was the son
of a very important personage. His father was nothing less than the
doorkeeper of the theatre; a splendid man with a shining red nose and
coal-black beard reaching to his waist. The wise reader now knows how
young Lipp came by a light-blue coat and red vest.
My new friend from his earliest years had been constantly on the stage.
He played the gamin in folk-scenes and the monster in burlesques.
Besides, he was an adept at thunder and lightning; by means of cracking
a whip and the close imitation of the neighing of horses, he announced
the approaching stage-coach; he lighted the moon in "Der Freischutz;"
and with a kettle and pair of tongs gave forewarning of the witches'
hour. When I opened my heart to Lipp and confided to him that I wanted
to go on the stage, he reached out his broad hand to me with emotion
and said, "And so do I." Hereupon we swore eternal friendship, and Lipp
promised as soon as possible to procure me an opportunity for putting
my dramatic qualifications to the test. From that hour his manner
changed towards me. Before, he had treated me with some condescension,
but now his behavior towards me was more like that of a colleague.
Moreover, the game of chance for my lunch came to an end, for from that
time forth I shared it with him like a brother.
The fine fellow kept his promise to make a way for me to go on the
stage. A few evenings later ("Der Freischutz" was being played), I
stood with a beating heart behind the scenes, and friend Lipp stood by
my side. In my hand I held a string, with which I set the wings of the
owl in the wolf's glen in rhythmic motion. My companion performed the
wild chase. By turns he whistled through his fingers, cracked a whip,
and imitated the yelping of the hounds. It was awfully fine.
"You did your part splendidly," said Lipp to me at the end of the
scene; "next time you must go out on the stage."
I swam in a sea of delight. A short time after, "Preciosa" was given,
and Lipp told me that I could play the gypsy boy. They put a white
frock on me and wound red bands crosswise about my legs. Then a
chorister took me by the hand and led me up and down the back of the
stage two or three times. That was my first appearance.
It was also my last. The affair became known. In school I received a
severe reprimand, and in addition, as a consequence of the airy gypsy
costume, a cold with a cough, which kept me in bed for a day or two.
"It serves you right," said Frau Eberlein. "He who will not hear must
feel. This comes from playing in the theatre. If your blessed
grandmother knew that you had been with play-actors she would turn in
her grave."
Crushed and humiliated, I swallowed the various teas which my nurse
steeped for me one after another. But with each cup I had to listen to
an instructive story about the depravity of actors. In order to lead me
back from the way of the transgressors to the path of virtue, Frau
Eberlein painted with glowing colors; one story in particular, in which
occurred three bottles of punch-essence never paid for, made a deep
impression on me. But Frau Eberlein's anecdotes failed to make me
change my resolves.
Soon after, something very serious happened. Lipp's father, the
doorkeeper of the theatre, after drinking heavily, fell down lifeless
by the card-table in the White Horse; and my friend, in consequence of
this misfortune, came under the control of a cold-hearted guardian, who
had as little comprehension of the dramatic art as Frau Eberlein. Lipp
was given over to a house-painter, who, invested with extended
authority, took the unfortunate fellow as an apprentice.
Lipp was inconsolable at the change in his lot. The smile disappeared
from his face, and I too felt melancholy when I saw him going along the
street in his paint-bespattered clothes, the picture of despair.
One day I met the poor fellow outside the city gate, where the last
houses stand, painting a garden fence with an arsenic-green color. "My
good friend," he said, with a melancholy smile, "I cannot give you my
hand, for there is paint on it; but we are just the same as ever." Then
he spoke of his disappointed hopes. "But," he continued, "because they
are deferred, they are not put off for ever, and these clouds" (by this
he referred to his present apprenticeship as painter) "will pass away.
The time will come--I say no more about it; but the time will come."
Here Lipp stopped speaking and dipped his brush in the paint-pot, for
his master was coming around the corner of the house.
One day Lipp disappeared. The authorities did everything in their power
to find him, but in vain; and since, at that time, the river, on which
the city stood, had overflowed its banks, it was decided that Lipp had
perished. The only person who did not share in this opinion was myself.
I had a firm conviction that he had gone out into the wide world to
seek his fortune, and that some day he would turn up again as a
celebrated artist and a successful man. But year after year passed by
and nothing was heard of Lipp.
I had entered upon my fifteenth year, was reading Virgil and Xenophon,
and could enumerate the causes which brought the Roman empire to ruin.
But in the midst of my classical studies I did not lose sight of the
real aim of my life, the dramatic art; and as the stage had been closed
to me since my first appearance, I studied in my own room the roles in
which I hoped to shine later. Then I had already tried my skill as a
dramatic author, and in my writing-desk lay concealed a finished
tragedy. It was entitled "Pharaoh." In it occurred the seven plagues of
Egypt and the miracles of Moses; but Pharaoh's destruction in the Red
Sea formed the finale from which I promised myself the most brilliant
success.
Therefore I went about dressed as a regular artist. My schoolmates
imitated the University students,--wore gay-colored caps, dark
golden-red bands, and carried canes adorned with tassels; but I wore
over my wild hair a pointed Calabrian hat, around my neck a loose silk
handkerchief fastened together in an artistic knot, and in unpleasant
weather a cloak, the red-lined corner of which I threw picturesquely
over my left shoulder.
In this attire I went about in my native town, where I was accustomed
to spend my summer vacations. The boys on the street made sport of me
by their words and actions, but I thought, "What does the moon care
when the dog bays at her!" and holding my head high, I walked past the
scoffers.
Every year, in the month of August, a fair was held in the little town.
On the common, tents and arbors were put up, where beer and sausages
were furnished. Further entertainment was provided in the way of
rope-dancers, jugglers, a Punch-and-Judy show, fortune-tellers,
monstrosities, wax figures, and tragedies.
As a spoiled city youth, I considered it decidedly beneath my dignity
to take part in the people's merry-making; but I couldn't get out of
it, and so I went with my parents and brothers and sisters to the
opening of the festival out in the park, and walked more proudly than
ever under my Calabrian hat.
The sights were inspected one after another, and in the evening we all
sat together in the front row of a booth, the proprietor of which
promised to exhibit the most extraordinary thing that had ever been
seen. The spectacle was divided into three parts. In the first a little
horse with a large head was brought out, which answered any questions
asked him by nodding, shaking, and beating his hoofs. In the second
part two trained hares performed their tricks. With their forelegs they
beat the drum, fired off pistols, and in the "Battle with the Hounds"
they put to flight a whining terrier.
The proprietor had kept the best of all--that is, the Egyptian
fire-eater, called "Phosphorus"--for the last part. The curtain went up
for the third time, and on the stage, in fantastic scarlet dress, with
a burning torch in his left hand, there stood a tall--ah! a form only
too well known to me. It was Lipp, who had been looked upon as dead.
I saw how the unfortunate fellow with a smile put a lump of burning
pitch in his mouth, and then everything began to swim around me. I
pulled my hat down over my eyes, made my way through the crowd howling
their applause, and staggered home exhausted.
During the rest of the festival I kept myself in strict seclusion. I
announced that I was not well, and this was really no untruth, for I
was very miserable. "That is because he is growing," said my anxious
mother; and I assented, and swallowed submissively the family remedies
which she brought to me.
At last the fair was over, and the Egyptian fire-eater had left the
town. But the poor fellow did not go far. In the city where he
exhibited his skill he was recognized and arrested, because he had
avoided service in the army. To be sure, he was set free again after a
few weeks as unqualified; but in the meantime his employer with the
performing hares had gone nobody knew where, and Lipp was left solely
dependent on his art, which he practised for some time in the
neighboring towns and villages.
The end of his artistic career is sad and melancholy. He fell a victim
to his calling. As an ambitious man he enlarged his artistic
capabilities; he ate not only pitch but also pieces of broken glass,
and an indigestible lamp-chimney was the cause of his destruction.
When I returned to the city I burned my tragedy of "Pharaoh," and sold
my cloak and Calabrian hat to an old-clothes dealer. I was thoroughly
disgusted with the career of an artist, and whenever afterwards I was
inclined to relapse, Frau Eberlein would call out to me, "Do you, too,
want to die from a lamp-chimney?" Then I would bend my head and bury my
nose in my Greek grammar.
THE CREMONA VIOLIN
BY
E.T.A. HOFFMANN
From "Weird Tales," translated by J.T. Beally. Published by Charles
Scribner's Sons.
Councillor Krespel was one of the strangest, oddest men I ever met with
in my life. When I went to live in H---for a time the whole town was
full of talk about him, as he happened to be just then in the midst of
one of the very craziest of his schemes. Krespel had the reputation of
being both a clever, learned lawyer and a skilful diplomatist. One of
the reigning princes of Germany--not, however, one of the most
powerful--had appealed to him for assistance in drawing up a memorial,
which he was desirous of presenting at the Imperial Court with the view
of furthering his legitimate claims upon a certain strip of territory.
The project was crowned with the happiest success; and as Krespel had
once complained that he could never find a dwelling sufficiently
comfortable to suit him, the prince, to reward him for the memorial,
undertook to defray the cost of building a house which Krespel might
erect just as he pleased. Moreover, the prince was willing to purchase
any site that he should fancy. This offer, however, the Councillor
would not accept; he insisted that the house should be built in his
garden, situated in a very beautiful neighborhood outside the
town-walls. So he bought all kinds of materials and had them carted
out. Then he might have been seen day after day, attired in his curious
garments (which he had made himself according to certain fixed rules of
his own), slacking the lime, riddling the sand, packing up the bricks
and stones in regular heaps, and so on. All this he did without once
consulting an architect or thinking about a plan. One fine day,
however, he went to an experienced builder of the town and requested
him to be in his garden at daybreak the next morning, with all his
journeymen and apprentices, and a large body of laborers, etc., to
build him his house. Naturally the builder asked for the architect's
plan, and was not a little astonished when Krespel replied that none
was needed, and that things would turn out all right in the end, just
as he wanted them. Next morning, when the builder and his men came to
the place, they found a trench drawn out in the shape of an exact
square; and Krespel said, "Here's where you must lay the foundations;
then carry up the walls until I say they are high enough." "Without
windows and doors, and without partition walls?" broke in the builder,
as if alarmed at Krespel's mad folly. "Do what I tell you, my dear
sir," replied the Councillor quite calmly; "leave the rest to me; it
will be all right." It was only the promise of high pay that could
induce the builder to proceed with the ridiculous building; but none
has ever been erected under merrier circumstances. As there was an
abundant supply of food and drink, the workmen never left their work;
and amidst their continuous laughter the four walls were run up with
incredible quickness, until one day Krespel cried, "Stop!" Then the
workmen, laying down trowel and hammer, came down from the scaffoldings
and gathered round Krespel in a circle, whilst every laughing face was
asking, "Well, and what now?" "Make way!" cried Krespel; and then
running to one end of the garden, he strode slowly towards the square
of brickwork. When he came close to the wall he shook his head in a
dissatisfied manner, ran to the other end of the garden, again strode
slowly towards the brickwork square, and proceeded to act as before.
These tactics he pursued several times, until at length, running his
sharp nose hard against the wall, he cried, "Come here, come here, men!
break me a door in here! Here's where I want a door made!" He gave the
exact dimensions in feet and inches, and they did as he bid them. Then
he stepped inside the structure, and smiled with satisfaction as the
builder remarked that the walls were just the height of a good
two-storeyed house. Krespel walked thoughtfully backwards and forwards
across the space within, the bricklayers behind him with hammers and
picks, and wherever he cried, "Make a window here, six feet high by
four feet broad!" "There a little window, three feet by two!" a hole
was made in a trice.
It was at this stage of the proceedings that I came to H---; and it was
highly amusing to see how hundreds of people stood round about the
garden and raised a loud shout whenever the stones flew out and a new
window appeared where nobody had for a moment expected it. And in the
same manner Krespel proceeded with the buildings and fittings of the
rest of the house, and with all the work necessary to that end;
everything had to be done on the spot in accordance with the
instructions which the Councillor gave from time to time. However, the
absurdity of the whole business, the growing conviction that things
would in the end turn out better than might have been expected, but
above all, Krespel's generosity--which indeed cost him nothing--kept
them all in good-humor. Thus were the difficulties overcome which
necessarily arose out of this eccentric way of building, and in a short
time there was a completely finished house, its outside, indeed,
presenting a most extraordinary appearance, no two windows, etc., being
alike, but on the other hand the interior arrangements suggested a
peculiar feeling of comfort. All who entered the house bore witness to
the truth of this; and I too experienced it myself when I was taken in
by Krespel after I had become more intimate with him. For hitherto I
had not exchanged a word with this eccentric man; his building had
occupied him so much that he had not even once been to Professor
M----'s to dinner, as he was in the habit of doing on Tuesdays. Indeed,
in reply to a special invitation, he sent word that he should not set
foot over the threshold before the house-warming of his new building
took place. All his friends and acquaintances, therefore, confidently
looked forward to a great banquet; but Krespel invited nobody except
the masters, journeymen, apprentices, and laborers who had built the
house. He entertained them with the choicest viands; bricklayers'
apprentices devoured partridge pies regardless of consequences; young
joiners polished off roast pheasants with the greatest success; whilst
hungry laborers helped themselves for once to the choicest morsels of
truffes fricassees. In the evening their wives and daughters came, and
there was a great ball. After waltzing a short while with the wives of
the masters, Krespel sat down amongst the town musicians, took a violin
in his hand, and directed the orchestra until daylight.
On the Tuesday after this festival, which exhibited Councillor Krespel
in the character of a friend of the people, I at length saw him appear,
to my no little joy, at Professor M---'s. Anything more strange and
fantastic than Krespel's behavior it would be impossible to find. He
was so stiff and awkward in his movements, that he looked every moment
as if he would run up against something or do some damage. But he did
not; and the lady of the house seemed to be well aware that he would
not, for she did not grow a shade paler when he rushed with heavy steps
round a table crowded with beautiful cups, or when he manoeuvred near a
large mirror that reached down to the floor, or even when he seized a
flower-pot of beautifully painted porcelain and swung it round in the
air as if desirous of making its colors play. Moreover, before dinner
he subjected everything in the Professor's room to a most minute
examination; he also took down a picture from the wall and hung it up
again, standing on one of the cushioned chairs to do so. At the same
time he talked a good deal and vehemently; at one time his thoughts
kept leaping, as it were, from one subject to another (this was most
conspicuous during dinner); at another, he was unable to have done with
an idea; seizing upon it again and again, he gave it all sorts of
wonderful twists and turns, and couldn't get back into the ordinary
track until something else took hold of his fancy. Sometimes his voice
was rough and harsh and screeching, and sometimes it was low and
drawling and singing; but at no time did it harmonize with what he was
about. Music was the subject of conversation; the praises of a new
composer were being sung, when Krespel, smiling, said in his low,
singing tones, "I wish the devil with his pitchfork would hurl that
atrocious garbler of music millions of fathoms down to the bottomless
pit of hell!" Then he burst out passionately and wildly, "She is an
angel of heaven, nothing but pure God-given music!--the paragon and
queen of song!"--and tears stood in his eyes. To understand this, we
had to go back to a celebrated artiste, who had been the subject of
conversation an hour before.
Just at this time a roast hare was on the table; I noticed that Krespel
carefully removed every particle of meat from the bones on his plate,
and was most particular in his inquiries after the hare's feet; these
the Professor's little five-year-old daughter now brought to him with a
very pretty smile. Besides, the children had cast many friendly glances
towards Krespel during dinner; now they rose and drew nearer to him,
but not without signs of timorous awe. What's the meaning of that?
thought I to myself. Dessert was brought in; then the Councillor took a
little box from his pocket, in which he had a miniature lathe of steel.
This he immediately screwed fast to the table, and turning the bones
with incredible skill and rapidity, he made all sorts of little fancy
boxes and balls, which the children received with cries of delight.
Just as we were rising from table, the Professor's niece asked, "And
what is our Antonia doing?" Krespel's face was like that of one who has
bitten of a sour orange and wants to look as if it were a sweet one;
but this expression soon changed into the likeness of a hideous mask,
whilst he laughed behind it with downright, bitter, fierce, and, as it
seemed to me, satanic scorn. "Our Antonia? our dear Antonia?" he asked
in his drawling, disagreeable singing way. The Professor hastened to
intervene; in the reproving glance which he gave his niece I read that
she had touched a point likely to stir up unpleasant memories in
Krespel's heart. "How are you getting on with your violins?" interposed
the Professor in a jovial manner, taking the Councillor by both hands.
Then Krespel's countenance cleared up, and with a firm voice he
replied, "Capitally, Professor; you recollect my telling you of the
lucky chance which threw that splendid Amati [Footnote: The Amati were
a celebrated family of violin-makers of the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries, belonging to Cremona in Italy. They form the connecting-link
between the Brescian school of makers and the greatest of all makers,
Straduarius and Guarnerius.] into my hands. Well, I've only cut it open
to-day--not before to-day. I hope Antonia has carefully taken the rest
of it to pieces." "Antonia is a good child," remarked the Professor.
"Yes, indeed, that she is," cried the Councillor, whisking himself
round; then, seizing his hat and stick, he hastily rushed out of the
room. I saw in the mirror how that tears were standing in his eyes.