intent upon the enjoyment of life, than upon the serious study of his
art, as his portfolio sufficiently testified. Groups of dancing
peasant-girls, processions, rural festivals--all this class of subjects
he could transfer to paper with a sure, ready hand, whenever he chanced
to meet with them. Every drawing, even though it were a mere sketch,
had life and motion. At the same time his mind was by no means closed
to the higher in art; on the contrary, he penetrated more than any
modern painter into the strange import of the paintings by all masters.
In his sketch-book he had copied in outline the frescoes of an old
convent-church in Rome, before the walls were pulled down. They
represented the martyrdom of St. Catharine, and one could not see any
thing more beautiful, more happily conceived than those outlines, which
made a very peculiar impression upon Berthold. He saw flashes through
the gloomy desert that surrounded him, and the result was, that he
became capable of appreciating the cheerful mind of Florentin, and
that, as the latter when representing the charms, especially brought
forward the human principle, he also took this principle as the ground
on which he must stand, not to float away into boundless space. While
Florentin was hastily sketching some group that he met, Berthold took
the opportunity of looking into his book, and tried to imitate the
lovely figure of Catharine, in which he was tolerably successful,
although, as at Rome, he failed in giving his figures the animation of
the original. He complained of this to Florentin, whom he looked upon
as far his superior in true artistical genius, and at the same time
told him all that the Maltese had spoken about art. ‘The Maltese is
right, dear brother Berthold,’ said Florentin, ‘and I rank the genuine
landscape quite as high as the deeply significant sacred histories, as
depicted by the old masters. Nay, I maintain that one ought first to
strengthen oneself by the representation of that organic nature which
is nearest to us, that we may be able to find light for her darker
regions. I advise you, Berthold, to practise yourself in sketching
figures, and in arranging your thoughts in them. Perhaps by this means
you will gain additional light.’ Berthold acted according to the
suggestion of his friend, and it seemed to him, as if the dark clouds
which spread over his life, were passing away.
“‘I endeavoured to represent that, which seemed no more than a mere
obscure feeling in my innermost soul, by hieroglyphic characters, as I
had done in my dream; but the hieroglyphics became human figures, which
moved about a focus of light in strange combinations. This focus was
to be the noblest form that ever was evoked by a painter’s fancy, but I
vainly endeavoured, when this form appeared to me in a dream,
surrounded by the rays of heaven, to catch the features. Every attempt
to represent it proved an utter failure, and I seemed to fade away in a
state of the most ardent desire.’ Florentin perceived the situation of
his friend, who was excited to a morbid degree, and gave him all the
consolation in his power. Often did he tell him that this was the very
time when illumination would break upon him; but Berthold merely slunk
about like a dreamer, and all his attempts were but the feeble efforts
of a puny child.
“In the vicinity of Naples was a duke’s villa from which there was the
finest view of Vesuvius and the sea, and which, on this account was
hospitably kept open for foreign artists, especially landscape
painters. Berthold had often worked here, but still oftener in a
grotto in the park had he given himself up to his fantastic dreams.
One day he was sitting in this grotto tortured by the sense of longing,
that tore his bosom, and was shedding briny tears, hoping that the star
would shine upon his obscure path, when a rustling was heard in the
hedges, and the form of an exquisitely beautiful woman was before him.
“‘The sunbeams fell upon her angelic countenance: she cast upon me an
indescribable glance. It was Saint Catharine. No, more than she, it
was my ideal. Mad with transport I threw myself on the ground, and the
form vanished with a benignant smile! My most ardent prayer was
realised.’
“Florentin entered the grotto, and was surprised at Berthold, who, with
beaming countenance, pressed him to his heart, while the tears streamed
from his eyes. ‘My friend! my friend!’ he stammered forth; ‘I am
happy--I am blessed--she is found--found!’ He hurried to his
_atelier_, and stretching the canvass began to paint as if inspired by
divine power, he charmed before him the superterrestrial woman--for so
he thought her--with the full glow of life. From this moment his
inmost soul was entirely changed. Far from feeling that melancholy
which preyed upon his heart, he was serene and cheerful. He
industriously studied the _chefs-d’oeuvre_ of the old painters. Many
of his copies were perfectly successful, and now, for the first time,
he began to produce paintings which caused astonishment among all the
connoisseurs. As for landscapes, they were no more to be thought of,
and Hackert himself confessed that the youth had not till now
discovered his proper vocation. He had to paint many large works, such
as altar-pieces for churches, and generally selected the more cheerful
subjects of Christian tradition. From all of these, however, the noble
form of his ideal beamed forth. It was discovered that the face and
figure of the Princess Angiola T---- were represented to the life; nay,
this fact was communicated to the young painter himself, and knowing
folks waggishly insinuated that the German was smitten to the heart by
the brilliant eyes of the lovely dame. Berthold was highly indignant
at this silly gossip of people who wished to lower the heavenly into
the mere earthy. ‘Do you believe,’ he said, ‘that such a being could
wander here upon earth? No; the highest was revealed in a wondrous
vision; it was the moment when the artist receives consecration.’
Berthold lived happy, until the French army, after Bonaparte’s
conquests in Italy, approached the kingdom of Naples, and the
revolution, which so fearfully destroyed all the peaceful relations of
the place, broke out. The king and queen had left Naples, and the
_Citta_ was appointed. The vicar-general concluded a disgraceful truce
with the French commander, and the French commissaries soon came to
receive the sums that were to be paid them. The vicar-general fled to
escape the rage of the people, who believed themselves deserted by him,
by the _Citta_, and, in short, by all who could defend them against the
approaching enemy. Then were all the bands of society loosened. The
people, in a state of wild anarchy, set law and order at defiance, and
with the cry, ‘Viva la Santa Fede!’ wild hordes ran through the streets
plundering and burning the houses of the nobles, who they thought had
sold them to the enemy. Vain were the endeavours of Moliterno and
Rocca Romana, who were the favourites of the people, and had been
elected for leaders: vain were their endeavours to restore order. The
dukes Delia Torre and Clement Filomarino were murdered, but the thirst
for blood among the raging people was not yet satisfied. Berthold had
just been able to escape, half-dressed, from a burning house, when he
met a mob, that with kindled torches and glittering knives, was
hurrying to the palace of the Duke of T----. These madmen, taking him
for one of their own class, carried him along with them, shouting,
‘Viva la Santa Fede!’ and in a few minutes the duke, the servants,
every one who resisted, were murdered, and the palace, into which
Berthold was more and more forced by the throng, was in flames. Thick
clouds of smoke rolled through the long passages. Berthold, in danger
of being burned to death, darted through the now open doors in hopes of
finding an outlet, but all in vain; a piercing shriek of agony struck
his ear, and he rushed into the hall. A woman was struggling with a
lazzarone, who held her fast, and was about to plunge a knife in her
heart. It was the princess--it was Berthold’s ideal! Losing all
consciousness with horror, he sprang towards them, and it was but the
work of a moment to seize the lazzarone, to fling him to the ground, to
plunge his own knife in his throat, to catch the princess in his arms,
to fly with her through the flaming ruins, to dash down the steps, and
to go on--on--through the dense crowd of people. None attempted to
stop him in his flight. With the bloody knife in his hand, with his
face begrimed by smoke, with his clothes torn, he was taken for a
plunderer and murderer by the people, who willingly conceded him his
prey. In a deserted corner of the city, beneath an old wall, to which,
as if by instinct he had run to escape danger, he fell exhausted. On
recovering, he found the princess kneeling at his side, and washing his
forehead with cold water. ‘Oh thanks!--thanks!’ said she, in the
softest and most lovely voice; ‘thanks to the saints that thou hast
recovered, my preserver, my all!’ Berthold raised himself,--he fancied
he was dreaming, he looked with fixed eyes upon the princess--yes, it
was herself--the celestial form which had kindled the divine spark in
his breast. ‘Is it possible?--Is it true?--Do I live?’ he exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ replied the princess, ‘thou livest for me. That which thou
didst not venture even to hope, has happened through a miracle. Oh! I
know thee well,--thou art the German painter, Berthold, who loved me,
and ennobled me in his beautiful works. Was it then possible for me to
be thine? But now I am thine for ever--let us fly!’ A strange
feeling, as when a sudden pain disturbs sweet dreams, darted through
Berthold as the princess spoke. But when the lovely woman clasped him
with her full, snow-white arms, when he pressed her passionately to his
bosom, then did a delicious trembling, hitherto unknown, take
possession of him, and in the mad delight of possessing the greatest
earthly felicity, he cried: ‘Oh, it was no delirious dream! No! it is
my wife whom I embrace, and whom I will never leave!’
“Escape from the city was at first impossible, for at the gate stood
the French army, whose entrance the people, although badly armed and
without leaders, were able to dispute for two days. Berthold, however,
succeeded in flying with Angiola from one hiding-place to another, and
at last out of the city. Angiola, deeply enamoured of him, could not
think of remaining in Italy; she wished her family to consider her
dead, that Berthold’s possession of her might be secure. A diamond
necklace, and some valuable rings which she wore, were sufficient to
provide them with all necessaries at Rome--whither they had proceeded
by slow degrees--and they arrived happily at M----, in Southern
Germany, where Berthold intended to settle, and to support himself by
his art. Was it not a state of felicity, not even to be dreamed, that
Angiola, that creature of celestial loveliness, that ideal of his most
delightful visions, now became his own,--when all social laws had
seemed to raise an insurmountable barrier between him and his beloved?
Berthold could hardly comprehend his happiness, he was abandoned to
inexpressible delight, until the inner voice became louder and louder,
urging him to think of his art. He determined to found his fame at
M---- by a large picture which he designed for the Maria church there.
The whole subject was to be the very simple one of Mary and Elizabeth
sitting on the grass in a beautiful garden, with the infant Christ and
John playing before them; but all his efforts to obtain a pure
spiritual view of his picture proved fruitless. As in that unhappy
period of the crisis the forms floated away from him, and it was not
the heavenly Mary--no, it was an earthly woman, his Angiola herself,
fearfully distorted, that stood before the eyes of his mind. He
fancied that he could defy the gloomy power that seemed to grasp
him,--he prepared his colours and began to paint; but his strength was
broken, and all his endeavours were--as they had been formerly--only
the puny efforts of a senseless child. Whatever he painted was stiff
and inanimate, and even Angiola,--Angiola his ideal, became, when she
sat to him, and he tried to paint her, a mere wax image on the canvass,
staring at him with its glassy eyes. His soul became more and more the
prey of a despondency, that consumed all the happiness of his life. He
would not, nay, he could not, work any more; and thus he fell into a
state of poverty, which was the more crushing, because Angiola did not
utter a word of complaint.
“‘The grief that gnawed more and more into my soul, that grief that was
the offspring of a hope, invariably deceived, when I summoned powers
that were no longer mine, soon reduced me to a state that might be
compared to madness. My wife bore me a son,--that increased my misery,
and my long suppressed discontent broke out into open, burning hate.
She--she alone had been the cause of my unhappiness. She was _not_ the
ideal which had appeared to me, but had only assumed the form and face
of that heavenly woman. In wild despair I cursed her and her innocent
child. I wished them both dead, that I might be freed from the
insupportable pains that tortured me, like so many burning knives.
Thoughts of hell arose in my mind. In vain did I read in Angiola’s
corpse-like face, and in her tears, the madness and impiety of my
conduct. ‘Thou hast cheated me out of my life, cursed woman!’ I
thundered forth, and thrust her away with my foot, when she fell
fainting to the ground and clasped my knees.’
“Berthold’s mad, cruel conduct towards his wife and child excited the
attention of the neighbours, who informed the magistrates of the
circumstance. They wished to imprison him; but when the police entered
his dwelling, he had vanished with his wife and child, without leaving
so much as a trace behind. Soon afterwards he appeared at N----, in
Upper Silesia; he had got rid of his wife and child, and cheerfully
began to paint the picture which he had vainly attempted at M----.
However he could only finish the Virgin Mary, and the children--Christ
and John--for he fell into a dreadful illness, which brought him near
the death he desired. Every thing that belonged to him, including the
unfinished picture, was sold for his subsistence; and, after he had
recovered, in some measure, he departed, a sick, miserable beggar. He
afterwards gained a poor livelihood by a few jobs of wall-painting.”
* * * * *
“There is something terrible in the history of Berthold,” said I to the
professor. “Although so much is not plainly expressed, I believe that
he was the reckless murderer of his innocent wife and child.”
“He is a mad fool,” replied the professor, “to whom I do not give
credit for enough courage to perform such an act. On this point he
never speaks plainly; and the question is, whether it be not a mere
fancy that he took any part in the death of his wife and child. He now
returns to painting marble; and this very night he will finish the
altar. This puts him in a good-humour, and you may learn something
about this critical affair from his own mouth.”
I must confess that the thought of passing midnight in the church alone
with Berthold made me shudder a little, now I had read his history. I
thought that there might be a little of the devil in him in spite of
his good-humour and frank deportment; and I chose rather to be in his
company that very noon in the clear sunlight.
I found him upon the scaffold, reserved and in an ill-humour, painting
the veins of marble. Climbing up to him, I reached him the pots, while
he stared at me with amazement. “I am your helpmate,” said I softly,
and this drew a smile from him. Now I began to talk of his life, so as
to let him know that I was acquainted with all; and he seemed to
believe that he himself had, on that night, communicated every thing.
Very, very gently I came to the frightful catastrophe, and then said
suddenly--“Did you actually, in your unholy madness, murder your wife
and child?”
At this he let the paint-pot and the pencil fall; and, staring at me
with a hideous countenance, as he raised both his hands, cried out,
“No, these hands are unstained by the blood of my wife--of my son!
Another such word and I will dash myself down from the scaffolding with
you, so that both our heads shall be shattered on the stone floor of
the church.”
At this moment I felt my situation rather odd, and deemed it advisable
to change the subject. “Look here, dear Berthold,” said I, as quietly
and coolly as possible; “see how that ugly dark yellow is running on
the wall.”
He turned his eyes to the spot, and while he painted out the yellow, I
slipped gently down the scaffold, left the church, and went to the
professor, to have a hearty laugh at my well-chastised presumption.
My vehicle was repaired, and I left G----, after Professor Aloysius
Walter had solemnly promised that in case any thing happened to
Berthold, he would communicate it in writing immediately.
About half a year elapsed, when I actually received a letter from the
professor. He expressed himself in very prolix terms of praise about
our meeting at G----, and wrote as follows about Berthold:--“Soon after
your departure affairs took a singular turn with our whimsical painter.
He became suddenly quite cheerful, and finished, in the most splendid
style, the great altar-piece, which is now the wonder of every body.
He then vanished; and, as he took nothing with him, and a few days
afterwards we found a hat and stick lying near the O---- stream, we are
all of opinion that he met a voluntary death.”
J. O.
[1] These “Fantasie-Stücke” are a collection of tales, &c., by
Hoffmann, and purport to be leaves from the journal of a travelling
enthusiast. J. O.
THE SEVERED HAND.
BY WILHELM HAUFF.
[This story is related by a Greek merchant, in the collection called
“Die Karavane.”]
I was born at Constantinople, where my father was a dragoman to the
Sublime Porte, and carried on besides, a tolerably lucrative trade in
perfumes and silks. He gave me a good education, partly instructing me
himself, and partly engaging a priest of our religion for that purpose.
He originally intended me for his own business, but as I displayed
greater talents than he expected, he determined, by the advice of his
friends, to make me a physician, being of opinion that a physician, if
he has learned more than the common charlatans, could make his fortune
in Constantinople. Our house was frequented by many Franks, one of
whom urged my father to let me go to the city of Paris, in his native
country, where people might study such things gratis and in the best
manner, saying, he would take me with him for nothing when he returned
thither.
My father, who in his youth had also travelled, agreed, and the Frank
told me to be ready in three months. I was delighted beyond measure at
the prospect of seeing foreign lands, and could scarcely await the time
when we should embark. Having at length concluded all his business,
the Frank prepared for his voyage, and on the evening previous to our
departure my father took me to his lodgings. Here I saw beautiful
dresses and arms lying on the table; but what most attracted my eyes
was a large heap of gold, as I had never before seen so much together.
My father embraced me, saying, “Behold, my son, I have provided these
clothes for your voyage; those arms are yours, and they are the same
your grandfather gave me when I went forth to foreign countries. I
know you can wield them, but never use them excepting in self-defence,
and then fight bravely. My fortune is not large; but see, I have
divided it into three parts, of which one is yours, one shall be for my
support and wants, but the third shall be sacred property, and devoted
to the purpose of saving you in the hour of need.” Thus spoke my aged
father, and tears trembled in his eyes, perhaps from a certain
presentiment, for I never saw him again.
Our voyage was prosperous; we soon reached the land of the Franks, and
in six days’ journey, after landing, we came to the great city of
Paris. Here my Frankish friend hired a room and advised me to use
proper discretion in laying out my money, which in all was two thousand
thalers. I lived for three years in this city, and learned what every
skilful physician ought to know; but I should not speak the truth were
I to say that I liked the place, for the manners and customs of this
people did not suit me. Moreover, I had but few friends, though these
were indeed noble young men.
The desire of seeing my native country, at length, became strong; and
having all this time heard nothing of my father, I seized a favourable
opportunity to return home.
This opportunity was afforded me by an embassy from the land of the
Franks to the Sublime Porte. I engaged myself as surgeon in the suite
of the ambassador, and was fortunate enough to return to
Constantinople. There I found my father’s house closed, and the
neighbours were astonished when they saw me, and told me that my father
had died two months since. The priest who had instructed me in my
youth brought me the keys of the now desolate house, which I entered
alone and forsaken. I found every thing as my father had left it, only
the money he had promised to bequeath me was not there. I inquired of
the priest about it, who, with a bow, told me that my father had died
as a holy man, since he had bequeathed all his money to the church.
The latter circumstance has ever since been inexplicable to me. Yet
what could I do? I had no witnesses against the priest, and could not
but consider myself fortunate that he had not also claimed as a legacy
the house and goods of my father. This was the first calamity that
befel me, but from that time misfortunes succeeded each other. My
reputation as a physician spread but slowly, because I was ashamed to
play the quack, and I wanted everywhere the recommendation of my
father, who would have introduced me to the wealthiest and noblest
persons, who now no longer thought of poor Zaleukos. Neither could I
find customers for my father’s goods, for all had gone elsewhere after
his death, and new ones come but slowly. Once sadly reflecting on my
situation it occurred to me that I had often seen in France men of my
native land, who travelled through the country, exposing their goods in
the market-places of the towns; I remembered that they easily found
customers because they came from a foreign country, and that by such
traffic one might profit a hundred-fold. My resolution was soon taken.
I sold my father’s house, gave part of the money I received for it to a
tried friend to keep for me, and with the rest I purchased such things
as are seldom seen in the west--viz: shawls, silks, ointments, and
perfumes. Having engaged a berth in a ship, I thus set out on my
second voyage to France. As soon as I had turned my back on the
castles of the Dardanelles it seemed as if fortune would again smile on
me. Our passage was short and prosperous.
I travelled through large and small towns, and found everywhere ready
purchasers of my goods. My friend in Constantinople supplied me
constantly with fresh goods, and I daily became more wealthy.
When at length I thought I had saved enough to risk a greater
enterprise, I went to Italy. But I must here mention that I derived no
small additional profit from the healing art. Whenever I entered a
town, I announced, by bills, that a Greek physician had arrived, who
had already cured many; and truly my balsams and medicines brought me
in many a zechino. I now reached the city of Florence, in Italy, where
I purposed remaining for some time, as I liked it much, and wished to
recover from the fatigues of my travels. I hired a shop in the quarter
called Santa Croce, and in an inn not far from thence two beautiful
rooms which led to a balcony. Having made these arrangements, I had my
bills placarded about, announcing myself as a physician and merchant.
I had no sooner opened my shop than I had crowds of customers, and
though my prices were rather high, I sold more than others, because I
was civil and obliging to my customers. When I had thus pleasantly
spent four days in Florence, I was one evening about closing my shop,
and only had to examine my stock of boxes of ointments, as was my
custom, when I found in a small jar a piece of paper which I did not
recollect to have put there. On opening it I discovered that it was an
invitation for me to appear that night at twelve o’clock precisely on
the bridge called Ponte Vecchio. I conjectured a long time who it
could possibly be that invited me thither, but, not knowing a soul in
Florence, I thought some one wished, perhaps, to take me secretly to
some sick person, which was not uncommon, and I therefore determined to
go. However, I took the precaution to buckle on the sword my father
had given me.
When it was near midnight I set out on my way, and soon arrived at the
Ponte Vecchio. I found the bridge forsaken and lonely, and determined
to await the person who had appointed to meet me.
It was a cold night, the moon shone brightly, and I looked down on the
waves of the Arno, glistening in the moonlight. The church clocks now
struck the midnight hour, I looked up and saw before me a tall man,
enveloped in a red cloak, a corner of which he had drawn over his face.