which being well lighted with lanterns, looked tolerably cheerful,
while a camp table, set out with flasks and cake, invited the weary and
hungry magister, who sat down a camp-stool near to it. Axel
affectionately took the Fräulein to the window; and whilst they were
conversing confidentially, the magister, who was enjoying the repast,
made his reflections on the decent preparations which Axel had made for
the rendezvous, and which were not in unison with the plain jacket of a
Swedish dragoon that he wore. But his ideas became more and more
confused; soon he had hardly a clear conception of what passed through
his mind; and when, at length, the effect of the long walk, his age,
the night, and the generous wine closed his eyelids, the creatures of
his imagination assumed the shape of substantial and significant
dreams, from which the old seer had already received many prophetic
warnings. The village clock now struck one, and Axel gently disengaged
himself from Tugendreich, in whose tears the rays of the setting moon
were shining.
“I must go, dearest,” said he. “Only this one blissful hour could I
withdraw myself from my duty. I would ask you to accompany me; but my
journey will not be without danger, to which I will not expose you, and
your father’s house will still be your fittest residence. To escape
the hated betrothal to-morrow, you must feign illness. Every thing may
be gained by time, in the unhappy period in which we live. If God
preserves my life, you shall soon hear good tidings of me; and if I
die, let the thought that I fell in his holy cause be your
consolation.” Dissolved in tears, she clung to his neck, and thus they
quitted the mill, on the outside of which a powerful roan-colour horse
was pawing the ground. “Farewell, and pray for me,” cried Axel, with a
trembling voice, and he cut off with his sword one of her golden locks
from her head as a remembrance, clasped her once more in his arms,
leaped on to his charger, and galloped out of the valley.
Tugendreich returned to the room in which Talander still sat dreaming,
his venerable wrinkled countenance being gloomily illumined by the
lights which burned low in their sockets. His sleep became more and
more troubled, his breathing heavy, and his half-open eyes stared as if
glancing into a gloomy futurity. He now commenced talking in his
dreams. “Courage, my countrymen,” he muttered, “though the number of
the enemy threaten to crush you; you fight for God’s word, and liberty
of conscience. Behold on your banners the white messenger of heaven,
spreading his shining wings; behold he hovers over your ranks; he
announces victory. Now the cannon is thundering. Ah! blood, much
blood! What! my Saxons, fleeing? Yet no, their whole force is still
standing firm, a proud bulwark, bidding defiance to the waving masses
of the enemy. Brave Swedes, fight fiercely, and the aged monster[4]
slowly yields, grinding his teeth. Heavily the arm of requital lies on
him; the bleeding infant menaces him from amid the ruins of Magdeburg.
He yields, he flies, the day is won--triumph, triumph, the good cause
prevails.” At these words the dreamer started up from his slumber, and
recovered slowly, while the pale Fräulein contemplated him, trembling.
“This was a heavy sleep, child,” said he, as he fetched a deep breath.
“It is fortunate that I awoke; it was too much for this old body of
mine. I may say that I know much, but the dark realm of spirits makes
one pay dear for the knowledge acquired there.”
“What have you learnt by this frightful dream,” asked Tugendreich, with
anxious curiosity.
“Nothing of that now, Fräulein,” said the old man, gravely. “But tell
me what has become of Herr Axel,” he asked, looking cautiously around.
“I saw him also in my dream, but not in the jacket of a dragoon.”
“Ah!” said she, sobbing, “he has just gone. He could no longer delay,
for a great battle is impending.”
“Indeed it is, but be of good cheer, the bold Swede will survive it.
You will yet--” here the magister broke off, vexed with himself, as
though he had already said too much, and prepared for departure.
“But to-morrow, dear magister?” sighed she.
“The _morrow_ has already become _to-day_,” said Talander, in a
comforting tone, “and your hostile constellation has lost its
influence. Go boldly back to the castle with me. My awful vision has
shown me many things, and you will find great changes. From poor Baron
Grotta you have nothing more to fear in this life. But come, that the
daylight may not surprise us. My dream was a long one.” He now led
her out of the mill where the four attendants were in readiness. Under
their escort they arrived in safety at the castle, at the gates of
which, to their astonishment, they missed the sentinel of Tienfenbach’s
corps, and were surprised to see the baronial hall brightly lighted up.
“God be praised that you have come, you have been absent a long time,”
said her maid, who was waiting for her. “Two hours ago a hasty order
arrived for the soldiers to start immediately, and the colonel will
also depart at break of day. Your betrothal was to take place this
very night, but as neither you nor the magister were to be found, the
baron began to suspect and your father showed great displeasure.
Suddenly some horsemen galloped into the courtyard. They were Saxons,
and proved to be Colonel Von Starschedel and his son, the major, with
six carbineers. Now the tables were turned. The baron had to
congratulate himself that these gentlemen, respecting the right of
hospitality, did not take him prisoner, for his men were gone and your
father was too much afraid of these relations to say any more on the
subject of your betrothal. Now they are all sitting together and
hardly know what to say to each other. Only come and see. The
handsome major has already asked for his lovely cousin twice.” The
Fräulein now went with a light heart into the hall, where she found
them sitting at their wine, the colonel and the Saxons quickly rose on
her entrance, and the major hastened towards her, not a little
astonished to see that the cheerfulness that was formerly expressed in
her countenance had fled, and that she endeavoured to avoid his
embrace. But this did not deter him from offering his usual courtesies
to his lovely cousin, whilst Colonel Starschedel, in a deep voice, told
her attentive father of the perfect union between the elector and the
king of Sweden, and the generous refusal of any security which the
Saxons had offered.
The imperial colonel could no longer listen in quiet to their
conversation. He rose and took his leave of the company with a few
cold expressions of politeness. No one attempted to detain him, and
the last angry look with which he turned from the Fräulein fell upon
Talander, who was just entering, and who gave a singular look of
compassion at the departing colonel. He then posted himself behind the
chair of the Fräulein, who felt uneasy at the attentions of her cousin,
whom she nevertheless loved as a brother. With deep melancholy the
seer’s eyes rested now upon the venerable countenance of the colonel,
and now upon the youthful manly figure of his son. At this moment
there resounded in the court-yard the tramp of a horse, and the
magister said: “There goes the imperial colonel. We shall never see
him again, like many another who is in the prime of life.”
“What are you thinking of?” asked the baron, suddenly interrupting him,
as the expression of his old inmate’s countenance told him that his
words were prophetic. A general and mysterious awe seized the company,
their conversation, which before had been so animated, stopped, and the
chirping of a lark which hailed the morning dawn, gave them a welcome
pretext for retiring, as the Saxons had to join the army of their
elector on that day. The _Carbineers_ were already mounted in the
court-yard, the colonel took a parting cup with the baron, and the
grief at parting inspired the major in the very doorway to try to
extort from Tugendreich a confession of her inclination and a promise
of her hand. But Talander stepped between them and said with paternal
warning, “Young hero, you are riding forth towards on a great day.
This is not an hour to form a worldly alliance. As a Christian you
ought first to think of your end. You are perhaps nearer to it than
you think. Is the Fräulein, if you fall, to weep as a widow for you?
This would be mere selfishness and not love. Do not stretch out your
hand so hastily after the myrtle crown; its green will turn to blood
and silver; an angel will perhaps soon entwine from it a martyr’s crown
for you.” Much struck, the major looked upon the seer, whose face
beamed with a supernatural light, then offered him silently his hand,
pressed a brotherly kiss on Tugendreich’s forehead, and soon the old
castle stood mourning in silence, all the guests having quitted it.
* * * * *
The baron sat silently and gloomily before the blazing fire, and
Tugendreich was reading to him from Luther’s Bible.
He had experienced much to depress his spirits. The neighbourhood was
indeed now free from troops, but all his stores were either consumed by
the war or destroyed, his tenants expected support from him, and in
Madgeburg, where his capital was invested, he had lost fifty thousand
thalers. Frightful reports were moreover circulated about a battle in
which the Saxons had been defeated. In this state of anguish he had
had recourse to the word of God, and his daughter was reading to him in
a mild and harmonious voice this passage from Sirach:
“Who is ever daunted that abideth in the fear of God, or who that hath
called him, is despised of him.”
The old baron shaking his head looked up to heaven, and Tugendreich
read on:
“For the Lord is gracious and merciful, forgiving sins and helping in
the time of need.”
“Indeed the Lord helpeth in trouble,” cried Talander, who rushed into
the room with youthful impetuosity, holding an open letter in his hand.
“The Swedes and Saxons have fought with the formidable Tilly near
Leipsic, and have defeated him, and the word of God is again free in
our dear Saxony. Here is the confirmation of it which an old friend
has sent me from Halle.” He read with a joyful trembling voice, “On
the 7th September _anni currentis_, there stood on the great plain of
Leipsic more than 75,000 men opposed to each other as enemies, and it
was to be looked upon as a happy omen, that shortly before the
engagement a snow white dove perched upon a Saxon standard and
afterward hovered over the whole line of battle of the protestants. At
noon the cannonading commenced, the Swedes attacked and were at first
victorious, but now Tilly threw himself with all his forces upon the
Saxons, drove them back, and directed the guns taken from them against
the Swedes. Some Saxon regiments, however, held out bravely until the
Swedes came to their assistance. Then old Tilly was compelled at
length to retreat, and had nearly been struck dead in his flight with
the butt end of a pistol by a captain of the Rhinegrave regiment. He
arrived here in a sad plight, and upon the side of the imperial army
7600 have been left dead on the field of battle. The body of the
allied army consisted in twenty-six pieces of artillery, one hundred
colours and standards, and many articles of value. This glorious
victory was followed by the capture of Leipsic, and was purchased
dearly by both armies. On the side of the imperialists the Duke of
Holstein died of his wounds as a prisoner, and there were killed
besides the Generals Schönburg and Erwitte, the Colonels Plankhart and
Baumgartner and Lieutenant Colonel Grotta.”
The Baron Starschedel clasped his hands with a pious ejaculation, and
Tugendreich honoured the memory of the fallen enemy and friend with a
tear. “The Saxons,” continued Talander, to read with great emotion,
“lost General Bindhof, Colonel Löser and two Starschedels.” “Merciful
God, our cousins!” sobbed the Fräulein, and the old baron rose
trembling from his chair, took a pen, beckoned to his daughter to
follow him with the ink, and strode to the baronial hall, where he
marked the appropriate crosses on the escutcheons of the beloved
relatives in the pedigree, whilst some tears involuntarily rolled from
his eyes to the ground. Tugendreich broke off some twigs from a
laurel-tree standing near the window to adorn the pictures of the
fallen heroes with deserved wreaths, and the magister, who had followed
them with the letter in his hand, continued to read with mingled
feelings of joy and sorrow, “Colonel Starschedel fell at the head of
his _carbineers_ while resisting an assault of Tilly. On this occasion
the Saxon standard, on which the white dove had perched before the
engagement, fell into the enemy’s hands. To leave this symbol of
victory in their hands appeared fatal to Major Starschedel, and a young
officer of an ancient family in the Swedish staff; they therefore took
an oath to rescue it from the enemy’s hands. Whilst the Saxon died the
death of a hero, the Swede succeeded. The name of the latter was Count
Güldenlöwe, and he was on the field of battle promoted by the king to
the rank of colonel for his extraordinary bravery, and for having led
the regiment of Courville, after its colonel was made prisoner, three
times against the enemy; also receiving permission to add the above
standard with the white dove to his coat of arms.” “What was that?”
cried the baron, running to the window to listen.
“That is military music, and if I am not mistaken Swedish,” said
Talander.
“The Swedes are entering the village,” shouted the servants, and
Tugendreich flew to the turret with a palpitating heart to view the
passing heroes. The march came nearer and nearer, and behind the
trumpeters of a regiment of dragoons rode its colonel, a young noble
hero, in splendid armour, while his standard-bearer, whose uniform was
adorned by the golden lion on blue ground, carried before him the
rescued Saxon standard, which now received the laurel crown as it
dropped down from Tugendreich’s hands.
“That must be Colonel Güldenlöwe,” cried Talander, who came panting
behind the baron to the turret.
“Heavens! it is Axel,” cried the Fräulein, as the colonel looked up,
and she fell senseless into her tutor’s arms. When she recovered she
found herself in Axel’s arms, and on looking up her eye met his
penetrating glance.
“Well have you stood this trial, lovely girl,” cried Axel in raptures.
“I had vowed to wed only that girl who could love in me the man and not
the count, whose love should be more powerful than any other
consideration of her tender sex. You have stood your trial, and mine
now begins, to show through my life that I am worthy of such a heart.”
The beautiful Fräulein sank blushing on her lover’s breast. With tears
of joy in his eyes the old baron embraced his faithful Talander, and
the trumpeters below sounded a slow and solemn “Now God be praised.”
C. A. F.
[1] _Du_ in German would here imply more familiarity from a long
acquaintance; _Ihr_ would be more distant and cold.
[2] The name Tugendreich means “rich in virtue.”
[3] From a long poem, printed at Leipzig in the seventeenth century,
and called “The learned nobility.” (Der gelehrte Adel.)
[4] Referring to General Tilly.
THE SANDMAN.
BY E. T. W. HOFFMANN.
NATHANIEL TO LOTHAIRE.
Certainly you must all be uneasy that I have not written for so
long--so very long. My mother, I am sure, is angry, and Clara will
believe that I am passing my time in dissipation, entirely forgetful of
the fair angel-image that is so deeply imprinted in my heart and mind.
Such, however, is not the case. Daily and hourly I think of you all,
and in my sweet dreams the kindly form of my lovely Clara passes before
me, and smiles upon me with her bright eyes as she was wont when I
appeared among you. Alas, how could I write to you in the distracted
mood which has hitherto disturbed my every thought! Something horrible
has crossed my path of life. Dark forebodings of a cruel, threatening,
fate spread themselves over me like dark clouds, which no friendly
sunbeam can penetrate. Now will I tell you what has befallen me. I
must do so, that I plainly see--but if I only think of it, it will
laugh out of me like mad. Ah, my dear Lothaire, how shall I begin it?
How shall I make you in any way sensible that that which occurred to me
a few days ago could really have such a fatal effect on my life? If
you were here you could see for yourself, but now you will certainly
take me for a crazy ghost-seer. In a word, the horrible thing which
happened to me, and the painful impression of which I in vain endeavour
to escape, is nothing more than this; that some days ago, namely on the
30th of October, at twelve o’clock at noon, a barometer-dealer came
into my room and offered me his wares. I bought nothing, and
threatened to throw him down stairs, upon which he took himself off of
his own accord.
You suspect that only relations of the most peculiar kind, and exerting
the greatest influence over my life can give any import to this
occurrence, nay, that the person of that unlucky dealer must have a
hostile effect upon me. So it is, indeed. I collect myself with all
my might, that patiently and quietly I may tell you so much of my early
youth as will bring all plainly and clearly in bright images before
your active mind. As I am about to begin I fancy that I hear you
laughing and Clara saying: “Childish stories indeed!” Laugh at me I
beseech you, laugh with all your heart. But, heavens, my hair stands
on end, and it seems as if I am asking you to laugh at me, in mad
despair, as Franz Moor asked Daniel.[1] But to my story.
Excepting at dinner time I and my brothers and sisters saw my father
very little during the day. He was, perhaps, busily engaged at his
ordinary occupation. After supper, which, according to the old custom
was served up at seven o’clock, we all went with my mother into my
father’s work-room, and seated ourselves at the round table. My father
smoked tobacco and drank a large glass of beer. Often he told us a
number of wonderful stories, and grew so warm over them that his pipe
continually went out. I had to light it again, with burning paper,
which I thought great sport. Often, too, he would give us
picture-books, and sit in his arm-chair silent and thoughtful, puffing
out such thick clouds of smoke that we all seemed to be swimming in the
clouds. On such evenings as these my mother was very melancholy, and
immediately the clock struck nine, she would say: “Now children, to
bed--to bed! The Sandman is coming, I can see.” And certainly on all
these occasions I heard something with a heavy, slow step go bouncing
up the stairs. That I thought must be the Sandman. Once that dull
noise and footstep were particularly fearful, and I asked my mother,
while she took us away: “Eh, mamma, who is this naughty Sandman, who
always drives us away from papa? What does he look like?” “There is
no Sandman, dear child,” replied my mother. “When I say the Sandman
comes, I only mean that you are sleepy and cannot keep your eyes
open,--just as if sand had been sprinkled into them.” This answer of
my mother’s did not satisfy me--nay, in my childish mind the thought
soon matured itself that she only denied the existence of the Sandman
to hinder us from being terrified at him. Certainly I always heard him
coming up the stairs. Full of curiosity to hear more of this Sandman,
and his particular connection with children, I at last asked the old
woman who tended my youngest sister what sort of man he was. “Eh,
Natty,” said she, “do you not know that yet? He is a wicked man, who
comes to children when they will not go to bed, and throws a handful of
sand into their eyes, so that they start out bleeding from their heads.
These eyes he puts in a bag and carries them to the half-moon to feed
his own children, who sit in the nest up yonder, and have crooked beaks
like owls with which they may pick up the eyes of the naughty human
children.”
A most frightful image of the cruel Sandman was horribly depicted in my
mind, and when in the evening I heard the noise on the stairs, I
trembled with agony and alarm. My mother could get nothing out of me,
but the cry of “The Sandman, the Sandman!” which was stuttered forth
through my tears. I then ran into the bed-room, where the frightful
apparition of the Sandman terrified me during the whole night. I had
already grown old enough to perceive that the nurse’s tale about the
Sandman and the nest of children in the half-moon could not be quite
true, but, nevertheless, this Sandman remained a fearful spectre, and I
was seized with the utmost horror, when I heard him not only come up
the stairs, but violently force open my father’s room-door and enter.
Sometimes he staid away for a long period, but oftener his visits were
in close succession. This lasted for years, and I could not accustom
myself to the terrible goblin; the image of the dreadful Sandman did
not become more faint. His intercourse with my father began more and
more to occupy my fancy. An unconquerable fear prevented me from
asking my father about it, but if I--I myself could penetrate the
mystery, and behold the wondrous Sandman--that was the wish which grew
upon me with years. The Sandman had brought me into the path of the
marvellous and wonderful, which so readily finds a domicile in the mind
of a child. Nothing was to me more delightful than to read or hear
horrible stories of goblins, witches, pigmies, &c.; but above them all
stood the Sandman, whom, in the oddest and most frightful shapes, I was
always drawing with chalk or charcoal on the tables, cupboards, and
walls. When I was ten years old, my mother removed me from the
children’s room into a little chamber, situated in a corridor near my
father’s room. Still, as before, we were obliged speedily to take our
departure as soon as, on the stroke of nine, the unknown was heard in
the house. I could hear in my little chamber how he entered my
father’s room, and then it soon appeared to me that a thin vapor of a
singular odor diffused itself about the house. Stronger and stronger
with my curiosity grew my resolution to form in some manner the
Sandman’s acquaintance. Often I sneaked from my room to the corridor,
when my mother had passed, but never could I discover any thing, for
the Sandman had always gone in at the door when I reached the place
where I might have seen him. At last, urged by an irresistible
impulse, I resolved to hide myself in my father’s room and await the
appearance of the Sandman.
By the silence of my father, and the melancholy of my mother, I
perceived one evening that the Sandman was coming. I, therefore,
feigned great weariness, left the room before nine o’clock, and hid
myself in a corner close to the door. The house-door creaked, and the
heavy, slow, groaning step went through the passage and towards the
stairs. My mother passed me with the rest of the children.
Softly--very softly, I opened the door of my father’s room. He sat as
usually, stiff and silent, with his back turned to the door. He did
not perceive me, and I swiftly darted into the room and behind the
curtain, drawn before an open press, which stood close to the door, and
in which my father’s clothes were hanging. The steps sounded nearer
and nearer--there was a strange coughing and scraping and murmuring
without. My heart trembled with anxiety and expectation. A sharp step
close--very close to the door,--a smart stroke on the latch, and the
door was open with a rattling noise. Screwing up my courage with all
my might, I cautiously peeped out. The Sandman was standing before my
father in the middle of the room, the light of the candles shone full
upon his face. The Sandman, the fearful Sandman, was the old advocate
Coppelius, who had often dined with us.