went at the appointed hour to the professor’s, where the coaches were
already rolling, and the lights were shining in the decorated saloons.
The company was numerous and brilliant. Olympia appeared dressed with
great richness and taste. Her beautifully turned face, her figure
called for admiration. The somewhat strange bend of her back inwards,
the wasp-like thinness of her waist, seemed to be produced by too tight
lacing. In her step and deportment there was something measured and
stiff, which struck many as unpleasant, but it was ascribed to the
constraint produced by the company. The concert began, Olympia played
the piano with great dexterity, and executed a bravura, with a voice,
like the sound of a glass bell, clear, and almost cutting. Nathaniel
was quite enraptured; he stood in the hindermost row, and could not
perfectly recognise Olympia’s features in the dazzling light. He,
therefore, quite unperceived, took out Coppola’s glass, and looked
towards the fair Olympia. Ah! then he saw, with what a longing glance
she looked towards him, how every tone first resolved itself plainly in
the glance of love, which penetrated, in its glowing career, his inmost
soul. The artistical _roulades_ seemed to Nathaniel the exultation of
a mind illuminated with love, and when, at last, after the cadence, the
long trill sounded shrilly through the saloon, he felt as if grasped by
glowing arms; he could no longer restrain himself, but with mingled
pain and rapture shouted out, “Olympia!” All looked at him, and many
laughed. The organist of the cathedral made a more gloomy face than
usual, and simply said: “Well, well.” The concert had finished, the
ball began. “To dance with her--with her!” That was the aim of all
Nathaniel’s wishes, of all his efforts; but how to gain courage to ask
her, the queen of the festival? Nevertheless--he himself did not know
how it happened--no sooner had the dancing begun, than he was standing
close to Olympia, who had not yet been asked to dance, and, scarcely
able to stammer out a few words, had seized her hand. The hand of
Olympia was as cold as ice; he felt a horrible deadly frost thrilling
through him. He looked into her eye--that was beaming full of love and
desire, and at the same time it seemed as though the pulse began to
beat, and the stream of life to glow in the cold hand. And in the soul
of Nathaniel the joy of love rose still higher; he clasped the
beautiful Olympia, and with her flew through the dance. He thought
that his dancing was usually correct as to time, but the peculiar
rhythmical steadiness with which Olympia moved, and which often put him
completely out, soon showed him, that his time was very defective.
However, he would dance with no other lady, and would have liked to
murder any one who approached Olympia for the purpose of asking her.
But this only happened twice, and to his astonishment Olympia remained
seated after every dance, when he lost no time in making her rise
again. Had he been able to see any other object besides the fair
Olympia, all sorts of unfortunate quarrels would have been inevitable,
for the half-soft, scarcely-suppressed laughter, which arose among the
young people in every corner, was manifestly directed to Olympia, whom
they pursued with very curious glances--one could not tell why. Heated
by the dance, and by the wine, of which he had freely partaken,
Nathaniel had laid aside all his ordinary reserve. He sat by Olympia,
with her hand in his, and, highly inflamed and inspired, told his
passion, in words which no one understood--neither himself nor Olympia.
Yet, perhaps, _she_ did; for she looked immoveably in his face, and
sighed several times, “Ah, ah!” Upon this, Nathaniel said, “Oh, thou
splendid, heavenly lady! Thou ray from the promised land of love--thou
deep soul, in winch all my being is reflected!” with much more stuff of
the like kind; but Olympia merely went on sighing, “Ah--ah!” Professor
Spalanzani occasionally passed the happy pair, and smiled on them, with
a look of singular satisfaction. To Nathaniel, although he felt in
quite another region, it seemed all at once as though Professor
Spalanzani was growing considerably darker; he looked around, and, to
his no small horror, perceived that the two last candles in the empty
saloon had burned down to their sockets, and were just going out.
Music and dancing had ceased long ago. “Separation--separation!” he
cried, wildly, and in despair; he kissed Olympia’s hand, he bent
towards her mouth, when his glowing lips were met by lips cold as ice!
Just as when he touched Olympia’s cold hand, he felt himself overcome
by horror; the legend of the dead bride darted suddenly through his
mind, but Olympia pressed him fast, and her lips seemed to recover to
life at his kiss. Professor Spalanzani strode through the empty hall,
his steps caused a hollow echo, and his figure, round which a
flickering shadow played, had a fearful, spectral appearance. “Dost
thou love me, dost thou love me, Olympia? Only this word!--Dost thou
love me?” So whispered Nathaniel; but Olympia, as she rose, only
sighed, “Ah--ah!” “Yes, my gracious, my beautiful star of love,” said
Nathaniel, “thou hast risen upon me, and thou wilt shine, ever
illuminating my inmost soul.” “Ah--ah!” replied Olympia, going.
Nathaniel followed her; they both stood before the professor.
“You have had a very animated conversation with my daughter,” said he,
smiling; “so, dear Herr Nathaniel, if you have any taste for talking
with a silly girl, your visits shall be welcome.”
Nathaniel departed, with a whole heaven beaming in his bosom. The next
day Spalanzani’s festival was the subject of conversation.
Notwithstanding the professor had done every thing to appear splendid,
the wags had all sorts of incongruities and oddities to talk about, and
were particularly hard upon the dumb, stiff Olympia, to whom, in spite
of her beautiful exterior, they ascribed absolute stupidity, and were
pleased to find therein the cause why Spalanzani kept her so long
concealed. Nathaniel did not hear this without increased rage; but,
nevertheless, he held his peace, for, thought he, “Is it worth while to
convince these fellows that it is their own stupidity that prevents
them from recognising Olympia’s deep, noble mind?”
One day Sigismund said to him: “Be kind enough, brother, to tell me how
it was possible for a sensible fellow like you to fall in love with
that wax face, that wooden doll up there?”
Nathaniel was about to fly out in a passion, but he quickly recollected
himself, and retorted: “Tell me, Sigismund, how it is that Olympia’s
heavenly charms could escape your glance, which generally perceives
every thing so clearly--your active senses? But, for that very reason,
Heaven be thanked, I have not you for my rival; otherwise, one of us
must have fallen a bleeding corpse!”
Sigismund plainly perceived his friend’s condition, so he skilfully
gave the conversation a turn, and added, after observing that in
love-affairs there was no disputing about the object: “Nevertheless it
is strange, that many of us think much the same about Olympia. To
us--pray do not take it ill, brother,--she appears singularly stiff and
soulless. Her shape is symmetrical--so is her face--that is true! She
might pass for beautiful, if her glance were not so utterly without a
ray of life--without the power of seeing. Her pace is strangely
measured, every movement seems to depend on some wound-up clockwork.
Her playing--her singing has the unpleasantly correct and spiritless
measure of a singing machine, and the same may be said of her dancing.
To us, this Olympia has been quite unpleasant; we wished to have
nothing to do with her; it seems as if she acts like a living being,
and yet has some strange peculiarity of her own.” Nathaniel did not
completely yield to the bitter feeling, which was coming over him at
these words of Sigismund; he mastered his indignation, and merely said,
with great earnestness, “Well may Olympia appear awful to you, cold
prosaic man. Only to the poetical mind does the similarly organised
develop itself. To me alone was her glance of love revealed, beaming
through mind and thought; only in the love of Olympia do I find myself
again. It may not suit you, that she does not indulge in idle
chit-chat like other shallow minds. She utters few words, it is true,
but these few words appear as genuine hieroglyphics of the inner world,
full of love and deep knowledge of the spiritual life in contemplation
of the eternal _yonder_. But you have no sense for all this, and my
words are wasted on you.” “God preserve you, brother,” said Sigismund
very mildly, almost sorrowfully; “but it seems to me, that you are in
an evil way. You may depend upon me, if all--no, no, I will not say
any thing further.” All of a sudden it seemed to Nathaniel as if the
cold prosaic Sigismund meant very well towards him, and, therefore, he
shook the proffered hand very heartily.
Nathaniel had totally forgotten, that there was in the world a Clara,
whom he had once loved;--his mother--Lothaire--all had vanished from
his memory; he lived only for Olympia, with whom he sat for hours every
day, uttering strange fantastical stuff about his love, about the
sympathy that glowed to life, about the affinity of souls, to all of
which Olympia listened with great devotion. From the very bottom of
his desk, he drew out all that he had ever written. Poems, fantasies,
visions, romances, tales--this stock was daily increased with all sorts
of extravagant sonnets, stanzas, and canzone, and he read all to
Olympia for hours in succession without fatigue. Never had he known
such an admirable listener. She neither embroidered nor knitted, she
never looked out of window, she fed no favourite bird, she played
neither with lap-dog nor pet cat, she did not twist a slip of paper nor
any thing else in her hand, she was not obliged to suppress a yawn by a
gentle forced cough. In short, she sat for hours, looking straight
into her lover’s eyes, without stirring, and her glance became more and
more lively and animated. Only when Nathaniel rose at last, and kissed
her hand and also her lips, she said “Ah, ah!” adding “good night,
dearest!” “Oh deep, noble mind!” cried Nathaniel in his own room, “by
thee, by thee, dear one, am I fully comprehended.” He trembled with
inward transport, when he considered the wonderful accordance that was
revealed more and more every day in his own mind, and that of Olympia,
for it seemed to him as if Olympia had spoken concerning him and his
poetical talent out of the depths of his own mind;--as if the voice had
actually sounded from within himself. That must indeed have been the
case, for Olympia never uttered any words whatever beyond those which
have been already mentioned. Even when Nathaniel, in clear and sober
moments, as for instance, when he had just woke in the morning,
remembered Olympia’s utter passivity, and her paucity and scarcity of
words, he said: “Words, words! The glance of her heavenly eye speaks
more than any language here below. Can a child of heaven adapt herself
to the narrow circle which a miserable earthly necessity has drawn?”
Professor Spalanzani appeared highly delighted at the intimacy of his
daughter with Nathaniel. To the latter he gave the most unequivocal
signs of approbation, and when Nathaniel ventured at last to hint at an
union with Olympia, he smiled with his white face, and thought “he
would leave his daughter a free choice in the matter.” Encouraged by
these words, and with burning passion in his heart, Nathaniel resolved
to implore Olympia on the very next day, that she would say directly,
in plain words, that which her kind glance had told him long ago;
namely, that she loved him. He sought the ring which his mother had
given him at parting, that he might give it to Olympia as a symbol of
his devotion, of his life which budded forth and bloomed with her
alone. Clara’s letters and Lothaire’s came into his hands during the
search; but he flung them aside indifferently, found the ring, put it
up and hastened over to Olympia. Already on the steps, in the hall he
heard a strange noise, which seemed to proceed from Spalanzani’s room.
There was a stamping, a clattering, a pushing, a hurling against the
door, intermingled with curses and imprecations. “Let go, let go,
rascal!--scoundrel! Body and soul ventured in it? Ha, ha, ha! that I
never will consent to--I, I made the eyes, I the clockwork--stupid
blockhead with your clockwork--accursed dog of a bungling
watch-maker--off with you--Satan--stop, pipe-maker--infernal
beast--hold--begone--let go!” These words were uttered by the voices
of Spalanzani, and the hideous Coppelius, who was thus raging and
clamoring. Nathaniel rushed in, overcome by the most inexpressible
anguish. The professor held a female figure fast by the shoulders, the
Italian Coppola grasped it by the feet, and thus they were tugging and
pulling, this way and that, contending for the possession of it, with
the utmost fury. Nathaniel started back with horror, when in the
figure he recognised Olympia. Boiling with the wildest indignation, he
was about to rescue his beloved from these infuriated men, but at that
moment, Coppola, turning himself with the force of a giant, wrenched
the figure from the professor’s hand, and then with the figure itself
gave him a tremendous blow, which made him reel and fall backwards over
the table, where vials, retorts, bottles, and glass cylinders were
standing. All these were dashed to a thousand shivers. Now Coppola
flung the figure across his shoulders, and, with frightful, yelling
laughter, dashed down the stairs, so that the feet of the figure, which
dangled in the ugliest manner, rattled with a wooden sound on every
step. Nathaniel stood paralysed; he had seen but too plainly that
Olympia’s waxen, deadly pale countenance had no eyes, but black holes
instead--she was, indeed, a lifeless doll. Spalanzani was writhing on
the floor; the pieces of glass had cut his head, heart, and arms, and
the blood was spirting up, as from so many fountains. But he soon
collected all his strength. “After him--after him--why do you pause?
Coppelius, Coppelius, has robbed me of my best automaton--a work of
twenty years--body and soul set upon it--the clock-work--the
speech--the walk, mine; the eyes stolen from you. The infernal
rascal--after him; fetch Olympia--there you have the eyes!”
And now Nathaniel saw how a pair of eyes, which lay upon the ground,
were staring at him; these Spalanzani caught up, with the unwounded
hand, and flung against his heart. At this, madness seized him with
its burning claws, and clutched into his soul, tearing to pieces all
his thoughts and senses. “Ho--ho--ho--a circle of fire! of fire!--turn
thyself round, circle! merrily, merrily, ho, thou wooden doll--turn
thyself, pretty doll!” With these words he flew at the professor and
pressed in his throat. He would have strangled him, had not the noise
attracted many people, who rushed in, forced open Nathaniel’s grasp,
and thus saved the professor, whose wounds were bound immediately.
Sigismund, strong as he was, was not able to master the mad Nathaniel,
who with frightful voice kept crying out: “Turn thyself, wooden doll!”
and struck around him with clenched fists. At last the combined force
of many succeeded in overcoming him, in flinging him to the ground, and
binding him. His words were merged into a hideous roar, like that of a
brute, and raging in this insane condition he was taken to the
mad-house.
Before, gentle reader, I proceed to tell thee what more befel the
unfortunate Nathaniel, I can tell thee, in case thou takest an interest
in the skilful optician and automaton-maker, Spalanzani, that he was
completely healed of his wounds. He was, however, obliged to leave the
university, because Nathaniel’s story had created a sensation, and it
was universally deemed an unpardonable imposition to smuggle wooden
dolls instead of living persons into respectable tea-parties--for such
Olympia had visited with success. The lawyers called it a most subtle
deception, and the more culpable, inasmuch as he had planned it so
artfully against the public, that not a single soul--a few cunning
students excepted--had detected it, although all now wished to play the
acute, and referred to various facts, which appeared to them
suspicious. Nothing very clever was revealed in this way. For
instance, could it strike any one as so very suspicious, that Olympia,
according to the expression of an elegant tea-ite, had, contrary to all
usage, sneezed oftener than she had yawned? “The _former_,” remarked
this elegant person, “was the self-winding-up of the concealed
clockwork, which had, moreover, creaked audibly”--and so on. The
professor of poetry and eloquence took a pinch of snuff, clapped first
the lid of his box, cleared his throat, and said, solemnly, “Ladies and
gentlemen, do you not perceive how the whole affair lies? It is all an
allegory--a continued metaphor--you understand me--_Sapienti sat_.”
But many were not satisfied with this; the story of the automaton had
struck deep root into their souls, and, in fact, an abominable mistrust
against human figures in general, began to creep in. Many lovers, to
be quite convinced that they were not enamoured of wooden dolls, would
request their mistress to sing and dance a little out of time, to
embroider and knit, and play with their lap-dogs, while listening to
reading, &c.; and, above all, not to listen merely, but also sometimes
to talk, in such a manner as presupposed actual thought and feeling.
With many did the bond of love become firmer, and more chaining, while
others, on the contrary, slipped gently out of the noose. “One cannot
really answer for this,” said some. At tea-parties, yawning prevailed
to an incredible extent, and there was no sneezing at all, that all
suspicion might be avoided. Spalanzani, as already stated, was obliged
to decamp, to escape the criminal prosecution for fraudulently
introducing an automaton into human society. Coppola had vanished also.
Nathaniel awakened as from a heavy, frightful dream; he opened his
eyes, and felt an indescribable sensation of pleasure streaming through
him, with soft heavenly warmth. He was in bed in his own room, in his
father’s house, Clara was stooping over him, and Lothaire and his
mother were standing near. “At last, at last, oh beloved Nathaniel,
hast thou recovered from thy serious illness--now thou art again mine!”
So spoke Clara, from the very depth of her soul, and clasped Nathaniel
in her arms. But with mingled sorrow and delight did the brightly
glowing tears fall from his eyes, and he deeply groaned forth: “My
own--my own Clara!” Sigismund, who had faithfully remained with his
friend in the hour of trouble, now entered. Nathaniel stretched out
his hand to him. “And thou, faithful brother, hast not deserted me?”
Every trace of Nathaniel’s madness had vanished, and he soon gained
strength amid the care of his mother, his beloved, and his friends.
Good fortune also had visited the house, for an old penurious uncle, of
whom nothing had been expected, had died, and had left the mother,
besides considerable property, an estate in a pleasant spot near the
town. Thither Nathaniel, with his Clara, whom he now thought of
marrying, his mother, and Lothaire, desired to go. Nathaniel had now
grown milder and more docile than he had ever been, and he now
understood, for the first time, the heavenly purity and the greatness
of Clara’s mind. No one, by the slightest hint, reminded him of the
past. Only, when Sigismund took leave of him, Nathaniel said:
“Heavens, brother, I was in an evil way, but a good angel led me
betimes to the path of light! Ah, that was Clara!” Sigismund did not
let him carry the discourse further for fear that deeply wounding
recollections might burst forth bright and flaming. It was about this
time that the four happy persons thought of going to the estate. They
were crossing, at noon, the streets of the city, where they had made
several purchases, and the high steeple of the town-house already cast
its gigantic shadow over the market-place. “Oh,” said Clara, “let us
ascend it once more, and look at the distant mountains!” No sooner
said than done. Nathaniel and Clara both ascended the steps, the
mother returned home with the servant, and Lothaire, not inclined to
clamber up so many steps, chose to remain below. The two lovers stood
arm in arm in the highest gallery of the tower, and looked down upon
the misty forests, behind which the blue mountains were rising like a
gigantic city.
“Look there at that curious little gray bush, which actually seems as
if it were striding towards us,” said Clara. Nathaniel mechanically
put his hand into his breast pocket--he found Coppola’s telescope, and
he looked on one side. Clara was before the glass. There was a
convulsive movement in his pulse and veins,--pale as death, he stared
at Clara, but soon streams of fire flashed and glared from his rolling
eyes, and he roared frightfully, like a hunted beast. Then he sprang
high into the air, and, in the intervals of a horrible laughter,
shrieked out, in a piercing tone, “Wooden doll--turn thyself!” Seizing
Clara with immense force he wished to hurl her down, but with the
energy of a desperate death-struggle she clutched the railings.
Lothaire heard the raging of the madman--he heard Clara’s shriek of
agony--fearful forebodings darted through his mind, he ran up, the door
of the second flight was fastened, and the shrieks of Clara became
louder and louder. Frantic with rage and anxiety, he dashed against
the door, which, at last, burst open. Clara’s voice became fainter and
fainter. “Help--help--save me!”--with these words the voice seemed to
die in the air. “She is gone--murdered by the madman!” cried Lothaire.
The door of the gallery was also closed, but despair gave him a giant’s
strength, and he burst it from the hinges. Heavens--Clara, grasped by
the mad Nathaniel, was hanging in the air over the gallery,--only with
one hand she still held one of the iron railings. Quick as lightning
Lothaire caught his sister, drew her in, and, at the same moment,
struck the madman in the face with his clenched fist, so that he reeled
and let go his prey.
Lothaire ran down with his fainting sister in his arms. She was saved.
Nathaniel went raging about the gallery and bounded high in the air,
crying, “Fire circle turn thyself--turn thyself!” The people collected
at the sound of the wild shriek, and among them, prominent by his
gigantic stature, was the advocate Coppelius, who had just come to the
town, and was proceeding straight to the market-place. Some wished to
ascend and secure the madman, but Coppelius laughed, saying, “Ha,
ha,--only wait--he will soon come down of his own accord,” and looked
up like the rest. Nathaniel suddenly stood still as if petrified; he
stooped down, perceived Coppelius, and yelling out, “Ah, pretty
eyes--pretty eyes!”--he sprang over the railing.
When Nathaniel lay on the stone pavement, with his head shattered,
Coppelius had disappeared in the crowd.
Many years afterwards it is said that Clara was seen in a remote spot,
sitting hand in hand with a kind-looking man before the door of a
country house, while two lively boys played before her. From this it
may be inferred that she at last found that quiet domestic happiness
which suited her serene and cheerful mind, and which the morbid
Nathaniel would never have given her.
J. O.
[1] Two characters in Schiller’s play of “Die Räuber.”
MICHAEL KOHLHAAS,[1]
BY HEINRICH VON KLEIST.
On the banks of the Hafel, about the middle of the sixteenth century,
lived a horse-dealer, named Michael Kohlhaas. He was the son of a
schoolmaster, and was one of the most honest, while at the same time he
was one of the most terrible persons of his period. Till his thirtieth
year this extraordinary man might have passed as a pattern of a good
citizen. In a village, which still bears his name, he held a farm, on
which, by means of his business, he was enabled to live quietly. The
children whom his wife bore him, he brought up in the fear of God to
honesty and industry; and there was not one among his neighbours who
had not felt the benefit of his kindness or his sense of justice. In
short, the world might have blessed his memory had he not carried one
virtue to too great an extreme. The feeling of justice made him a
robber and a murderer.
He was once riding abroad, with a string of young horses, all sleek and
well-fed, and was calculating how he should expend the profit which he
hoped to make in the markets--apportioning part, like a good manager,
to gain further profit, and part to present enjoyment--when he came to
the Elbe, and found, by a stately castle in the Saxon dominion, a
toll-bar, which he had never seen on this road. He at once stopped
with his horses, while the rain was pouring down, and called to the
toll-taker, who soon, with a very cross face, peeped out of window.
The horse-dealer asked him to open the road. “What new fashion is
this?” said he, when, after a considerable time, the collector came out
of his house. “A sovereign privilege,” was his reply, as he unlocked
the bar, “granted to the Squire[2] Wenzel von Tronka.” “So,” said
Kohlhaas, “Wenzel’s the squire’s name, is it?”--and he looked at the
castle, which, with its glittering battlements, peered over the field.
“Is the old master dead?” “Of an apoplexy,” answered the collector, as
he lifted up the bar. “That’s a pity!” said Kohlhaas. “He was a
worthy old gentleman, who took delight in the intercourse of men, and
helped business when he could. Aye, once he had a dam built of stone,
because a mare of mine broke her leg yonder, where the way leads to the
village. Now, how much?” he asked, and with difficulty drew out from
his mantle, which fluttered in the wind, the _groschen_ required by the
collector. “Aye, old man,” said he, as the other muttered, “make
haste,” and cursed the weather.--“If the tree from which this bar was
fashioned had remained in the wood, it would have been better for both
of us.” Having paid the money, he would have pursued his journey, but
scarcely had he passed the bar than he heard behind him a new voice
calling from the tower:
“Ho, there, horse-dealer!” and saw the castellan shut the window, and
hasten down to him. “Now, something else new!” said Kohlhaas to
himself, stopping with his horses. The castellan, buttoning a
waistcoat over his spacious stomach, came, and standing aslant against
the rain, asked for his passport. “Passport!” cried Kohlhaas; adding,
a little puzzled, that he had not one about him, to his knowledge; but
that he should like to be told what sort of a thing it was as he might
perchance be provided with one, notwithstanding. The castellan, eyeing
him askance, remarked, that without a written permission no
horse-dealer, with horses, would be allowed to pass the border. The
horse-dealer asserted that he had crossed the border seventeen times in
the course of his life without any such paper; that he knew perfectly
all the seignorial privileges which belonged to his business; that this
would only prove a mistake, and that he, therefore, hoped he might be
allowed to think it over; and, as his journey was long, not be detained
thus uselessly any further. The castellan answered that he would not
escape the eighteenth time; that the regulation had but lately
appeared, and that he must either take a passport here or return whence
he had come. The horse-dealer, who began to be nettled at these
illegal exactions, dismounted from his horse, after reflecting for a
while, and said he would speak to the Squire von Tronka himself. He
accordingly went up to the castle, followed by the castellan, who
muttered something about stingy money-scrapers, and the utility of
bleeding them, and both, measuring each other with their looks, entered
the hall.